The Dynamics of Intertextuality in Plutarch 9789004427860, 9004427864

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The Dynamics of Intertextuality in Plutarch

Brill’s Plutarch Studies Editors Lautaro Roig Lanzillotta (University of Groningen) Delfim F. Leão (University of Coimbra)

Editorial Board Lucia Athanassaki Mark Beck Ewen L. Bowie Timothy Duff Rainer Hirsch-Luipold Judith Mossman Anastasios G. Nikolaidis Christopher Pelling Aurelio Pérez Jiménez Luc van der Stockt Frances B. Titchener Paola Volpe Cacciatore

volume 5

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/bps

The Dynamics of Intertextuality in Plutarch Edited by

Thomas S. Schmidt Maria Vamvouri Rainer Hirsch-Luipold

With the assistance of

Didier Clerc

LEIDEN | BOSTON

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Schmidt, Thomas S., editor. | Vamvouri Ruffy, Maria, editor. | Hirsch-Luipold, Rainer, 1967- editor. Title: The dynamics of intertextuality in Plutarch / edited by Thomas S. Schmidt, Maria Vamvouri, Rainer Hirsch-Luipold ; with the assistance of Didier Clerc. Other titles: Brill's Plutarch studies ; 5. Description: Boston : Brill, 2020. | Series: Brill's Plutarch studies, 24518328 ; 5 | Includes bibliographical references and index. | English, Spanish or Italian. Identifiers: LCCN 2020009918 (print) | LCCN 2020009919 (ebook) | ISBN 9789004421707 (hardback) | ISBN 9789004427860 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Plutarch–Criticism and interpretation. | Intertextuality. Classification: LCC PA4389 .D96 2020 (print) | LCC PA4389 (ebook) | DDC 888.01–dc23 LC record available at https//lccn.loc.gov/2020009918 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020009919

Typeface for the Latin, Greek, and Cyrillic scripts: “Brill”. See and download: brill.com/brill‑typeface. ISSN 2451-8328 ISBN 978-90-04-42170-7 (hardback) ISBN 978-90-04-42786-0 (e-book) Copyright 2020 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner. Copyright 2020 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Hes & De Graaf, Brill Nijhoff, Brill Rodopi, Brill Sense, Hotei Publishing, mentis Verlag, Verlag Ferdinand Schöningh and Wilhelm Fink Verlag. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill NV provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

Contents Preface xi List of Figures and Tables xiii Abbreviations of Plutarch’s Works

xiv

Introduction: Plutarch and the Academic Reader Maria Vamvouri

1

Part 1 Defining Intertextuality in Plutarch 1

Intertextuality in Plutarch: What’s the Point? Christopher Pelling

11

2

Hearing Voices: φωνή and Intertextual Orality in Plutarch Alexei V. Zadorojnyi

3

Forms and Functions of Intratextuality in Plutarch’s Corpus Gennaro D’Ippolito

28

45

Part 2 Intertextuality at Work 4

Voices from the Past: Quotations and Intertextuality in Plutarch’s The Oracles at Delphi 61 Frederick E. Brenk

5

Homer as a Model for Plutarchan Advice on Good Governance José-Antonio Fernández-Delgado

6

Pericles and Athens: An Intertextual Reading of Plutarch and Thucydides 98 Mark Beck

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7

Plutarch’s and Xenophon’s Sparta: Intra- and Intertextual Relations in the Spartan Lives 111 Olivier Gengler

8

The Mechanics of Intertextuality in Plutarch Timothy E. Duff

9

Shrieking Volumes: Plutarch’s Use of the Ath.Pol. as Intertextual Bridge between Athens and Rome 148 Andrew Worley

10

How to Do Things with Hellenistic Historiography: Plutarch’s Intertextual Use(s) of Polybius 161 Eran Almagor

11

“Let Us Make the Most of What They Offer Us”: Different Layers of Intertextuality in Plutarch’s Non posse suaviter vivi secundum Epicurum 173 Geert Roskam

12

The Encounter between Roman Virtue and Platonism in Plutarch’s Cato the Elder 189 Michael Nerdahl

13

Plutarch’s Theseus-Romulus and the Murder of Remus Bradley Buszard

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201

Part 3 Intratextuality and the Plutarchan Corpus 14

Heroes Imitating Heroes: Ethical and Pragmatic Intratextuality in the Parallel Lives 215 Susan Jacobs

15

Ejemplos de responsio gramatical en el Teseo-Rómulo de Plutarco Aurelio Pérez Jiménez

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16

Reading Plutarch through Plutarch (?): De sera numinis vindicta and the Commentary on Hesiod’s Erga 252 Stefano Amendola

17

Demetrius of Phalerum in Plutarch: A Multimodal Expression of Intertextuality and Intratextuality 267 Delfim F. Leão

18

“As Each Came to Mind”: Intertextualizing Plutarch’s Mentality of Intricacy in the Table Talk and Questions 283 Michiel Meeusen

19

Un ‘galateo’ intertestuale del simposio: le raccomandazioni di Plutarco personaggio dei Moralia 297 Paola Volpe Cacciatore

Part 4 Through the Lens of Interdiscursivity 20

Sympotic Intertextuality in Plutarch’s Maxime cum principibus philosopho esse disserendum 307 Craig Cooper

21

Aesopic Wisdom in Plutarch Philip A. Stadter

22

Plutarch’s Proverbial Intertexts in the Lives Alessio Ruta

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Who Is the Best Prophet? The ‘Manifold’ Character of a Quotation in Plutarch 349 Elsa Giovanna Simonetti

24

Aspetti e funzioni dell’intertestualità nei De tuenda sanitate praecepta di Plutarco 362 Fabio Tanga

324

335

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Medical Allusions and Intertext of Physis in Plutarch’s Comp. Cim. et Luc. 2.7 376 Eleni Plati

Part 5 Intergenericity: Plutarch’s Works at the Crossroads 26

Generic and Intertextual Enrichment: Plutarch’s Alexander 30 Chrysanthos S. Chrysanthou

27

Intertextuality across Paired Lives: Plutarch’s Nicias-Crassus Lucy E. Fletcher

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Plutarch’s Less Tragic Heroes: Drama and Epic in the Pelopidas Anna Lefteratou

29

From Inter-textuality to Inter-mediality: Plutarch’s Lyric Quotations from Greek Tragedy 440 Argyri G. Karanasiou

30

Love in Many Dimensions: Hesiod and Empedocles in Plutarch’s Amatorius 459 Katarzyna Jazdzewska

31

Las Vitae de Plutarco y el epigrama Francisca Pordomingo

32

Defining Rhetoric While Playing with Pre-texts: Some Aspects of Intertextuality in Plutarch’s Praecepta gerendae reipublicae 801C–D 495 Theofanis Tsiampokalos

405

475

Part 6 Beyond Text: Plutarch and Intermateriality 33

391

Plutarch’s Sparta: Intertextual and Experiential Philip Davies

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421

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34

ὕλη θεολογίας: Religious Lore as Inter‘text’ in Plutarch’s Moralia Rainer Hirsch-Luipold

35

The Power of Bones: An Intertextual and Intermaterial Reading of the Retrieval of Theseus’ Bones in Plutarch’s Life of Cimon 539 Chandra Giroux

36

Plutarch’s Intertextual References to Tattoos and Brands Christina Harker Bibliography 567 General Index 625 Index Locorum 639

551

525

Preface This volume contains a selection of 36 papers presented at the XIth Congress of the International Plutarch Society (IPS), which was held at the University of Fribourg (Switzerland) on 10–13 May 2017 under the title “The Dynamics of Intertextuality in Plutarch” and which perpetuates the tradition of the triennial international IPS conferences after the venues in Athens (1987), Oxford (1989), Pontignano (1993), Leuven (1996), Malaga (1999), Nijmegen (2002), Rethymnon (2005), Coimbra (2008), Ravello (2011) and Delphi (2014). It is our pleasure to thank all the people and institutions that made this conference possible, above all the International Plutarch Society and its Secretary, Frances Titchener (Utah State University), as well as the members of the scientific committee: Mark Beck (South Carolina), †Françoise Frazier (Paris X— Nanterre), Aristoula Georgiadou (Patras), Delfim F. Leão (Coimbra), Christopher Pelling (Oxford), Aurelio Pérez Jiménez (Malaga), Geert Roskam (Leuven) and Paola Volpe Cacciatore (Salerno). For their generous financial support we thank the Swiss National Science Foundation, the Swiss Academy of Humanities and Social Sciences, the Swiss Society for Classical Studies, the Swiss Society of General and Comparative Literature, the Rectorate and the Faculty of Arts and Humanities of the University of Fribourg as well as its Institute of Antiquity and Byzantium, and the City and the State of Fribourg. Special thanks are due to Lautaro Roig Lanzillotta and Delfim F. Leão for welcoming this volume in the new series of Brill’s Plutarch Studies, and to Didier Clerc for his invaluable help during the editing process, as well as to Barbara Hirsch for the index locorum. The volume is divided into six sections meant to illustrate the various aspects and functions of intertextuality in Plutarch’s works, as explained by Maria Vamvouri in the introduction (see below). Part 1 sets the general framework of intertextuality in Plutarch, Part 2 discusses intertextual links between Plutarch’s works and specific authors (such as Homer, Thucydides, Xenophon, Plato, Aristotle, Polybius, and Epicurus), whereas the other sections focus on further types of intertextuality such as intratextuality (Part 3), interdiscursivity (Part 4), intergenericity (Part 5) and intermateriality (Part 6). It is our hope that this volume will contribute to a better understanding of the dynamics of intertextuality in Plutarch and thus enrich our knowledge of this incomparable author. We dedicate this volume to the loving memory of Françoise Frazier, dearest colleague and distinguished Plutarch scholar, who passed away on 14 Decem-

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ber 2016 at the age of 57, just months before this conference in which she was so eager to take part. We still miss her! T.S. / M.V. / R.H-L.

Figures and Tables Figures 7.1 11.1 11.2 11.3 11.4 11.5 11.6 11.7 11.8 11.9

The dynamic of intertextuality in the Spartan Lives (design: O. Gengler) The first intertextual triangle as point of departure 176 Plutarch enters the scene 179 Intertextuality meets intratextuality 179 Theon and Aristodemus take over 181 Internal criticism of the Epicurean position 183 Theon and Aristodemus versus Colotes 183 Theon’s and Aristodemus’ Platonic reception of Epicureanism 185 The four main actors 186 Plutarch as fifth actor 187

Tables 14.1 14.2 14.3 31.1

Heroes name heroes (who are subjects of other Lives) 220 Contemporaries name heroes (who are subjects of other Lives) Plutarch names heroes (who are subjects of other pairs) 226 Epigramas citados, fuentes antiguas, corpora modernos 487

224

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Abbreviations of Plutarch’s Works 1

Moralia

Ad princ. iner. Adv. Col. Am. narr. Amatorius An seni An virt. doc. An vitiositas Animine an corp. Apophth. Lac. Aqua an ignis Bellone an pace Comp. Ar. et Men. Con. praec. Cons. ad Apoll. Cons. ad ux. De ad. et am. De Al. Magn. fort. De am. mult. De am. prol. De an. procr. De aud. De aud. poet. De cap. ex inim. De coh. ira De comm. not. De cup. div. De cur. De def. or. De E De esu De exilio

Ad principem ineruditum Adversus Colotem Amatoriae narrationes Amatorius An seni respublica gerenda sit An virtus doceri possit An vitiositas ad infelicitatem sufficiat Animine an corporis affectiones sint peiores Apophthegmata Laconica—Instituta Laconica—Lacaenarum apophthegmata Aqua an ignis utilior sit Bellone an pace clariores fuerint Athenienses (De gloria Atheniensium) Comparationis Aristophanis et Menandri epitome Coniugalia praecepta Consolatio ad Apollonium Consolatio ad uxorem De adulatore et amico (Quomodo adulator ab amico internoscatur) De Alexandri Magni fortuna aut virtute De amicorum multitudine De amore prolis De animae procreatione in Timaeo De audiendo (De recta ratione audiendi) De audiendis poetis (Quomodo adulescens poetas audire debeat) De capienda ex inimicis utilitate De cohibenda ira De communibus notitiis adversus Stoicos De cupiditate divitiarum De curiositate De defectu oraculorum De E Delphico (De E apud Delphos) De esu carnium De exilio

abbreviations of plutarch’s works De facie De fato De fort. Rom. De fortuna De frat. am. De gar. De genio Socr. De Her. mal. De inv. et od. De Is. et Os. De lat. viv.

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De facie quae in orbe lunae apparet De fato De fortuna Romanorum De fortuna De fraterno amore De garrulitate De genio Socratis (De Socratis daemonio) De Herodoti malignitate De invidia et odio De Iside et Osiride De latenter vivendo (An recte dicendum sit latenter esse vivendum) De lib. educ. De liberis educandis De mus. De musica De prim. frig. De primo frigido De prof. in virt. De profectibus in virtute (Quomodo quis suos in virtute sentiat profectus) De Pyth. or. De Pythiae oraculis De se ipsum laud. De se ipsum citra invidiam laudando (De laude ipsius) De sera num. De sera numinis vindicta De soll. an. De sollertia animalium (Terrestriane an aquatilia animalia sint callidiora) De Stoic. rep. De Stoicorum repugnantiis De sup. De superstitione De tranq. an. De tranquillitate animi De tuenda De tuenda sanitate praecepta De unius De unius in republica dominatione, populari statu, et paucorum imperio De virt. et vit. De virtute et vitio De virt. mor. De virtute morali De vit. aer. De vitando aere alieno De vit. pud. De vitioso pudore Dec. or. vit. Decem oratorum vitae fr. Fragmenta Gryllus Gryllus (Bruta animalia ratione uti) Maxime cum principibus Maxime cum principibus philosopho esse disserendum (Maxime cum principibus philosophandum esse) Mul. virt. Mulierum virtutes Non posse Non posse suaviter vivi secundum Epicurum Parall. graec. et rom. Parallela Graeca et Romana

xvi

abbreviations of plutarch’s works

Plac. philos. Praec. ger. reip. Quaest. conv. Quaest. graec. Quaest. nat. Quaest. Plat. Quaest. rom. Reg. et imp. apophth. Sept. sap. conv. Stoic. absurd. poet.

2

Placita philosophorum Praecepta gerendae reipublicae Quaestiones convivales Quaestiones Graecae Quaestiones naturales Quaestiones Platonicae Quaestiones Romanae Regum et imperatorum apophthegmata Septem sapientium convivium Stoicos absurdiora poetis dicere

Parallel Lives

Aem. Ages. Agis Alc. Alex. Ant. Arat. Arist. Art. Brut. Ca. Ma. Ca. Mi. Caes. Cam. CG Cic. Cim. Cleom. Comp. Ag., Cleom. et Gracch. Comp. Ages. et Pomp. Comp. Alc. et Cor. Comp. Arist. et Ca. Ma. Comp. Cim. et Luc. Comp. Dem. et Cic. Comp. Demetr. et Ant.

Aemilius Paulus Agesilaus Agis Alcibiades Alexander Antonius Aratus Aristides Artaxerxes Brutus Cato Maior Cato Minor Caesar Camillus Caius Gracchus Cicero Cimon Cleomenes Comparatio Agidis et Cleomenis cum Tiberio et Caio Graccho Comparatio Agesilai et Pompeii Comparatio Alcibiadis et Marcii Coriolani Comparatio Aristidis et Catonis Comparatio Cimonis et Luculli Comparatio Demosthenis et Ciceronis Comparatio Demetrii et Antonii

abbreviations of plutarch’s works Comp. Dion. et Brut. Comp. Lyc. et Num. Comp. Lys. et Sull. Comp. Nic. et Crass. Comp. Pel. et Marc. Comp. Per. et Fab. Comp. Phil. et Flam. Comp. Sert. et Eum. Comp. Sol. et Publ. Comp. Thes. et Rom. Comp. Tim. et Aem. Cor. Crass. Dem. Demetr. Dion Eum. Fab. Flam. Galba Luc. Lyc. Lys. Mar. Marc. Nic. Num. Oth. Pel. Per. Phil. Phoc. Pomp. Publ. Pyrrh. Rom. Sert. Sol. Sull. TG

Comparatio Dionis et Bruti Comparatio Lycurgi et Numae Comparatio Lysandri et Sullae Comparatio Niciae et Crassi Comparatio Pelopidae et Marcelli Comparatio Periclis et Fabii Maximi Comparatio Philopoemenis et Titi Flaminini Comparatio Sertorii et Eumenis Comparatio Solonis et Publicolae Comparatio Thesei et Romuli Comparatio Timoleontis et Aemilii Pauli Marcius Coriolanus Crassus Demosthenes Demetrius Dion Eumenes Fabius Maximus Titus Flamininus Galba Lucullus Lycurgus Lysander Caius Marius Marcellus Nicias Numa Otho Pelopidas Pericles Philopoemen Phocion Pompeius Publicola Pyrrhus Romulus Sertorius Solon Sulla Tiberius Gracchus

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xviii Them. Thes. Tim.

abbreviations of plutarch’s works Themistocles Theseus Timoleon

introduction

Plutarch and the Academic Reader Maria Vamvouri

It is widely recognised that Plutarch’s works aim to invite his readers to reflect upon and thus improve their own existence and way of life.1 It is also well known that this educational goal is brought about by a descriptive and exploratory moralism that relies on references or allusions to philosophers, to historical and mythical figures, to authors and traditions that Plutarch invites the reader to (re)discover. Insofar as they integrate this rich historical, literary, philosophical, religious, medical and more broadly scientific heritage, Plutarch’s works are a mine of knowledge about the past. For this reason, intertextuality is an indispensable part of the study of his works. Proof of this may be found in the numerous publications that have focused on the intertextual links between specific Plutarchan works and those of other authors or even some of his own works. Furthermore, several of the previous editions of the IPS conference and other collective volumes have periodically tackled some of the many aspects of intertextuality in Plutarch.2 The special contribution of this volume, and of the conference that inspired it, lies in its systematic and theoretically informed exploration of intertextuality in Plutarch, in terms of its many aspects and functions. Epistemological precision justifies the emphasis placed on terminology in this volume. The meaning 1 C.B.R. Pelling, Plutarch: Life of Antony (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988) 10– 18; id., Plutarch and History: Eighteen Studies (London: Duckworth, 2002) 237–251. T.E. Duff, Plutarch’s Lives: Exploring Virtue and Vice (Oxford-New York: Oxford University Press, 1999) 54–65; id., “Plutarch’s Lives and the Critical Reader,” in G. Roskam & L. Van der Stockt (eds.), Virtues for the People: Aspects of Plutarchan Ethics (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2011) 58– 82. 2 See, for example, A.G. Nikolaidis (ed.), The Unity of Plutarch’s Work. Moralia Themes in the Lives, Features of the Lives in the Moralia (Berlin-New York: De Gruyter, 2008); G. Pace & P. Volpe Cacciatore (eds.), Plutarch’s Writings: Transmission, Translation, Reception, Commentary. Proceedings of the IX International Conference of the International Plutarch Society (Naples: Calata Trinità Maggiore, 2013); M. Sanz Morales, R. González Delgado, M. Librán Moreno & J. Ureña Bracero (eds.), La (inter)textualidad en Plutarco. Actas del XII Simposio Internacional de la Sociedad Española de Plutarquistas, Cáceres, 8–10 de Octubre de 2015 (Cáceres-Coimbra: Universidad de Extremadura, 2017); J. Opsomer, G. Roskam & F.B. Titchener (eds.), A Versatile Gentleman: Consistency in Plutarch’s Writing. Studies Offered to Luc Van der Stockt on the Occasion of his Retirement (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2016).

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004427860_002

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of the term intertextuality here is twofold.3 The term as used in the title of the volume is inclusive and refers to a constellation of different types of links that a text creates with other texts, discourses, genres, social traditions or materials. It refers to a linguistic and literary phenomenon that leads to two types of encounters: first, to an encounter, or a ‘dialogue’ in the Bakhtinian sense, between two or more intersecting texts, written or oral discourses or genres; second, to an encounter between the text and the reader well acquainted with Greek literature, who identifies and distinguishes the text’s intertextual layers and patterns by means of his or her personal ‘library’/memory and interprets it accordingly. Intertextuality in this broad sense includes intratextuality, interdiscursivity, intergenericity, and intermateriality but also intertextuality understood in a narrower sense and referring to the ways an utterance or part of an oral or written text is embedded, transformed or re-written by another text. The term intratextuality refers to a particular form of auctorial rewriting and relates to the genesis of a specific text that is enriched by references, quotations or allusions to other texts of the Plutarchan corpus. This kind of intratextual link is a useful heuristic tool that improves our comprehension of anecdotes, exempla, arguments, episodes, or terminology in Plutarch’s works.4 The study 3 For a summary of previous scholarly approaches to intertextuality, see M. Angenot, “L’intertextualité: enquête sur l’ émergence et la diffusion d’ un champ notionnel,” Revue des sciences humaines 189 (1983) 121–135; T. Samoyault, L’ intertextualité, mémoire de la littérature (Paris: Nathan, 2001); S. Rabau, L’ intertextualité (Paris: GF-Flammarion, 2002); A.-C. Gignoux, “De l’intertextualité à l’ écriture,” Cahiers de narratologie [En ligne] 13 (2006): http://journals .openedition.org/narratologie/329. N. Limat-Letellier, “Historique du concept d’intertextualité,” in N. Limat-Letellier & M. Miguet-Ollagnier (eds.), L’intertextualité (Besançon: Annales littéraires, 1998) 17–64. 4 On the evaluation of the literary works Plutarch consulted, see L. Van der Stockt, “Plutarch’s Use of Literature: Sources and citations in the Quaestiones Romanae,” AncSoc 18 (1987) 281– 292. On the clustering of quotations in Plutarch, see id., “A Plutarchan Hypomnema on SelfLove,” AJPh 120 (1999) 575–599; id., “Three Aristotles equal but one Plato. On a cluster of quotations in Plutarch,” in A. Pérez Jiménez, J. García López & R.M. Aguilar (eds.), Plutarco, Platón y Aristóteles. Actas del V Congreso Internacional de la I.P.S. (Madrid-Cuenca, 4–7 de mayo de 1999) (Madrid: Ediciones Clásicas) 127–140; id., “Compositional Methods in the Lives,” in M. Beck (ed.), A Companion to Plutarch (Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2014) 321–332; A. Nikolaidis, “Plutarch’s Methods: His Cross-references and the Sequences of the Parallel Lives,” in A. Pérez Jiménez & F. Titchener (eds.), Historical and Biographical Values of Plutarch’s Works. Studies Devoted to Prof. Philip A. Stadter by the International Plutarch Society (Malaga-Logan: Universidad de Málaga-Utah State University, 2005) 283–323. See also G. D’Ippolito, “Plutarco e la retorica della intertestualità,” in L. Van der Stockt (ed.), Rhetorical Theory and Praxis in Plutarch. Acta of the IVth International Congress of the International Plutarch Society, Leuven, July 3–6, 1996 (Leuven: Peeters, 2000) 543–562. On Plutarch’s hypomnemata, see L. Van der Stockt, “Plutarch in Plutarch: the problem of the hypomnemata,” in I. Gallo (ed.), La biblioteca di Plutarco. Atti del IX Convegno plutarcheo. Pavia, 13–15 giugno 2002 (Naples: D’Auria, 2004)

plutarch and the academic reader

3

of intratextuality allows a better understanding of compositional techniques and the ways in which auctorial authority functions within the intertextual material, of the topics this authority considers meaningful and of the context in which these topics are deployed.5 It may also enable the reader to resolve textual problems by searching for answers within the very works of the Plutarchan corpus. In some places, Plutarch’s texts neither refer nor allude to a specific text or author but imply different identifiable discourses. In such cases, it is preferable to speak of interdiscursivity, a term that refers to certain types of discourses (medical, religious, judicial, political, etc.) which infuse his texts.6 These discourses reveal themselves in the use of specific lexical fields, metaphors, comparisons and other literary devices. Moreover, Plutarch’s works make use of or refer to different literary genres that enrich these very works. The notion of intergenericity that we use in the present volume refers to the multiple generic aspects of a text and to the multiple discourses included in it. Intergenericity, in other words, does not imply genre determination (structure, topics, audience, purposes, etc.) of a given text. It rather implies examination of generic directions and coloring in the form and content of a text and, in our case, a close look at the ways in which Plutarch’s texts integrate, manipulate or subvert features attributed to different literary genres. The notions of genericity and intergenericity are more flexible than the traditional concept of ‘genre’, as they enable us to be released from essentialist conceptions of literary texts which focus on typologies and taxonomies.7

331–340, and M.A. Beck, “Plutarch’s hypomnemata,” in M. Horster & C. Reitz (eds.), Condensing Texts—Condensed Texts (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2010) 349–367. 5 The term ‘auctorial authority’ refers to the mask(s) the biographical author constructs through language and within the text. On the definition of the term, see J. Meizoz, “Ethos et posture d’ auteur (Rousseau, Céline, Ajar, Houellebecq),” in J.-M. Adam & U. Heidmann (eds.), Sciences du texte et analyse de discours. Enjeux d’une interdisciplinarité (Genève: Slatkine, 2005) 181–195; C. Calame, Masks of Authority. Fiction and Pragmatics in Ancient Greek Poetics. Translated from the French by P.M. Burk (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2005). On Plutarch’s personae, see F. Klotz, “Imagining the Past: Plutarch’s Play with Time,” F. Klotz & K. Oikonomopoulou (eds.), The Philosopher’s Banquet. Plutarch’s Table Talk in the Intellectual Culture of the Roman Empire (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011) 160–178; F.E. Brenk, “Plutarch’s Flawed Characters: the Personae of the Dialogues,” in J. Opsomer, G. Roskam & F.B. Titchener (eds.), A Versatile Gentleman: Consistency in Plutarch’s Writing. Studies Offered to Luc Van der Stockt on the Occasion of his Retirement (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2016) 89–100. 6 See L. Hébert & L. Guillemette (eds.), Intertextualité, interdiscursivité et intermédialité (Québec: Les Presses de l’ Université Laval, 2009). 7 R. Dion, R. Fortier & E. Hagueraert (eds.), Enjeux des genres dans les écritures contemporaines

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As far as the term intermateriality is concerned, it refers to interactions of Plutarch’s texts with the cosmos of material and social realities, historical and cultural remains that make up the texture of his thoughts and argumentations.8 The special contribution of this volume also consists in the focus placed on intertextuality as something that produces, rather than on intertextuality as something that is. This is the reason why the title of the volume uses the term ‘dynamics’ borrowed from the field of physics, where it originally refers to the branch of mechanics concerned with the effects of forces on the motion of a body or system of bodies. The term dynamics is used here in a literary context to indicate the effects or functions of different aspects of intertextuality and the meaning that they produce. Some of the contributors look for references, quotations from or allusions to specific texts, discourses or genres that allow us to better understand Plutarchan thought or that contribute to Plutarch’s educational programme and argumentation. Used in this way, intertextual material not only constructs an image of the Plutarchan Self—as a person, an author, a priest, a philosopher and so forth—but also creates a certain vision of the intellectual and social community of the Imperial period. Further, as a result of the above, Plutarch’s allusiveness may create an impression of the ideal reader that the real reader may feel flattered by or be inspired to emulate. Some contributors are interested in the ways intertextuality engages with the delight of the readers or confuses them and invites them to evaluate conflicting intertextual evidence. Others tackle intertextuality as an interpretative tool able to resolve critical problems concerning the textual transmission of the text of Plutarch’s works. The term dynamics is also used in the volume to shed light on the dynamic, two-way and meaningful relationship between the text and the academic reader who reads it in relation to other texts. The aim of the volume is not only to highlight the scope of quotations, allusions and connotations of a controlling and conscious auctorial authority (either biographical or constructed within the text), or to identify the ways in which texts, discourses and genres are interwoven and transformed in Plutarch’s works, but also to take into account the dynamics of the reading process itself. Intertextuality is seen as dialogical, given that the contributors to this volume both explore the explicit intertextual ref-

(Québec: Editions Nota bene 2001); J.-M. Adam & U. Heidmann, “Des genres à la généricité. L’ exemple des contes (Perrault et les Grimm),”Langages 153 (2004) 62–72. See also J.-M. Adam & U. Heidmann, Le texte littéraire: pour une approche interdisciplinaire (Louvain-la-Neuve: Academia Bruylant, 2009) 13–14; J.-M. Adam, Les textes: types et prototypes (Paris: Armand Colin, 1992) 17. 8 On this definition, see R. Hirsch-Luipold in this volume, pp. 527–528.

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erences of the auctorial authority and themselves participate in the creation of the intertextual network of Plutarch’s works through their assumptions about the intertextual links they recognize. The term intertextuality was coined by Julia Kristeva in her 1966 essay “Word, Dialogue and Novel,” which was grounded on Mikhail Bakhtin’s work and on the concept of dialogism that Valentin N. Voloshinov was probably the first to theorize.9 Since then, research has focused on the literary relations, on the intersecting texts and voices within a text as well as on transtextuality, rather than on source criticism and the influence of biographical authors on other authors.10 Roland Barthes’ thought-provoking essay “La mort de l’ auteur” epitomized the tendency to shift attention from the author to the reader, while Michael Riffaterre’s works have shown the ways in which a hint or a sign noticed by the reader may shed light on the structure of a given text.11 According to Riffaterre, the intertextual link may become perceptible through an agrammaticalité, that is to say, a semantic, syntactic or stylistic ambivalence or anomaly that invites the reader to engage in further investigation.12

9

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Her essay was also published in French as J. Kristeva, “Bakhtine. Le mot, le dialogue et le roman,” Critique 239 (1967) 438–465, and was reprinted in Σημειωτικὴ. Recherches pour une sémanalyse (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1969) 143–173. On the authorship of the concept of dialogism and Bakhtin’s extensive use of the works of Voloshinov, see the recent discussion of J.-P. Bronckart & C. Bota, Bakhtine démasqué (Genève: Droz, 2011). L. Jenny, “La stratégie de la forme,” Poétique 27 (1976) 257–281, proposed a text-based analysis of intertextuality. G. Genette, Palimpsestes. La littérature au second degré (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1982) 7, classified intertextuality into different types and used the term transtextuality, which he defined as “tout ce qui met un texte en relation, manifeste ou secrète, avec un autre texte”. For a sharp critique of the taxonomy of intertextuality, see A. Compagnon, Le démon de la théorie (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1998) 120. J. Kristeva, La Révolution du langage poétique. L’avant-garde à la fin du XIXe siècle: Lautréamont et Mallarmé (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1974) 59–60, deplores the fact that the term inter-textuality is often understood in the sense of source criticism and suggests replacing it with the term transposition. R. Barthes, “La mort de l’ auteur,” Manteia 5 (1968) 61–67. M. Riffaterre, “L’Intertexte inconnu,”Littérature 41 (1981) 4–7. Cf. id., “Enonciation et intertexte,” in W. De Mulder et al. (eds.), Enonciation et parti pris (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1992); id., “Sémiotique intertextuelle: l’ interprétant,” Revue d’Esthétique 1–2 (1979) 128–150; id., “La syllepse intertextuelle,”Poétique 40 (1979) 496–501. On agrammaticalities in Plutarch’s Table Talk in relation to interdiscursivity, see M. Vamvouri Ruffy, Les Vertus thérapeutiques du banquet: Médecine et idéologie dans les Propos de Table de Plutarque (Paris: Belles Lettres, 2012) 13–15, and J.-M. Adam, Souvent textes varient. Génétique, intertextualité, édition et traduction (Paris: Classiques Garnier, 2018) 21–65. See also C.B.R. Pelling in this volume, pp. 12–13. On allusion and intertextuality, see S. Hinds, Allusion and Intertext. Dynamics of appropriation in Roman Poetry (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998).

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Intertextuality has been increasingly perceived as a phenomenon of reception and a reading process, not only because the auctorial authority is himself/herself a reader who incorporates in various ways his/her hearings/readings into his/her writings, but also because the intertextual links between texts, discourses or genres need the reader in order to be identified and deciphered. In effect, in cases where these links are not explicit but latent, the readers, based both on textual clues and on their own library and literary recollections, read a text in relation to other texts and make assumptions seeking to unravel not necessarily the ‘true’ intertextual connections, but those that are likely and appear convincing.13 Such assumptions are sometimes the only way to engage with ancient intertextuality since a significant number of oral and written texts and traditions interwoven in ancient literary works are either not preserved or only known in fragments.14 In this respect, the interpretation of intertextuality is part of an on-going process that goes beyond any attempt to standardize and unify the meaning of a given text. The present volume does not deny the importance of source criticism, given that Plutarch was an erudite author who, as many other authors of the so-called Second Sophistic, constantly quotes other authors and anchors his works in specific literary and philosophical traditions.15 In this regard, some contributors try to identify Plutarch’s sources and examine the ways these sources are integrated and re-used in the Plutarchan texts. They also make assumptions as to the meaning and the impact of such intertextual links. But this volume also addresses intertextuality that is less explicit and more difficult to unravel. It looks at the different voices involved in the act of writing or in the act of reading a given Plutarchan text. In such cases, the need for efficient tools to unravel 13

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On latent intertexts and their dissemination within a text, see J. Bellemin-Noël, “Interlecture versus intertexte,” in Plaisirs de vampire (Paris: PUF, 2001) 11–37; A. Trouvé, “Sur les traces de l’ intertexte latent,” La lecture littéraire 9 (2007) 163–177; M.-M. Gladieu, J.M. Pottier & A. Trouvé, L’ arrière-texte. Pour repenser le littéraire (Brussels: Peter Lang, 2013); A. Trouvé, “L’ arrière texte: de l’ auteur au lecteur,” Poétique 164 (2010) 495–509. M. Bauks, W. Horowitz & A. Lange (eds.), Between text and text: the hermeneutics of intertextuality in ancient cultures and their afterlife in medieval and modern times (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2013) 10–11. Cf. G. Anderson, The Second Sophistic. A Cultural Phenomenon in the Roman Empire (London-New York: Routledge, 1993); E.L. Bowie, “Hellenes and Hellenism in Writers of the Early Second Sophistic,” in S. Saïd (ed.), ΕΛΛΗΝΙΣΜΟΣ. Quelques jalons pour une histoire de l’ identité grecque. Actes du Colloque de Strasbourg 25–27 octobre 1989 (Leiden: Brill, 1991) 183–204. On the term Second Sophistic, see T. Whitmarsh, The Second Sophistic (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005) 3–22. Cf. also T.S. Schmidt & P. Fleury (eds.), Perceptions of the Second Sophistic and its Times. Regards sur la Seconde Sophistique et son époque (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2011) 105–119.

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intertextuality that is not explicit but concealed may be described by a meaningful image that comes to us from Plutarch and is known as Plutarch’s stick, or simply skytale. According to Plutarch’s Life of Lysander (19), the Spartans used a dispatch-scroll whenever they wished to send a secret message. They made a scroll of parchment, long and narrow, and wound it around their skytale. They then wrote whatever message they wished on the parchment, removed the parchment and sent it to the addressee without the piece of wood. Unless the addressee possessed his own skytale and wound the strip of parchment around it, he was unable to read the hidden message. The skytale with which the academic readers are equipped is their own library, erudition and methodology, which enables them to unravel the multilayered intertextuality in Plutarch’s works, to make assumptions about the compositional process of a specific work, to attempt to get in touch with the auctorial authority, and to slip into the very library that infuses a Plutarchan text and thus to better understand the lexical, syntactic, discursive, structural or other intertextual transformations. Contrary to the Laconic skytalae which were uniform, the tools of the academic readers vary, and so the message each reader will read is dependent on his/her own (different) equipment. As academic readers, armed with their own library and ideological commitments, the contributors to the volume dismantle and interpret the texts and their palimpsests, positioning themselves at the meeting point where the authorial creation ends and the reader’s interpretation begins. Creativity is thus shared by both the auctorial authority and the reader. This sharing of the palimpsest was brilliantly described in 1822 by Thomas De Quincey, who equates the palimpsest with the human brain: What else than a natural and mighty palimpsest is the human brain? Such a palimpsest is my brain; such a palimpsest, oh reader! is yours. Everlasting layers of ideas, images, feelings, have fallen upon your brain softly as light. Each succession has seemed to bury all that went before. And yet, in reality, not one has been extinguished … Yes, reader, countless are the mysterious hand-writings of grief or joy which have inscribed themselves successively upon the palimpsest of your brain.16 Intertextuality is undoubtedly a matter of memory, everlasting recollections and erudition, to which Plutarch’s works bear witness. Indeed, the intertextual links with other texts that are quoted in Plutarch’s works are often presented as

16

T. De Quincey, Confessions of an English Opium Eater, 1822.

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the outcome of recollections and are introduced by the verb μνησθῆναι, together with its compounds and synonyms.17 In an analogous way, it is on our own library and memory that the (re)discovery of Plutarch’s intertextuality relies. 17

See, for example, “it occurs to my mind” (De coh. ira 453B: τῷ λογισμῷ ἐπέρχεται) and “recall to us” (Am. narr. 763A: ἀνάμνησον ἡμᾶς). Cf. Quaest. conv. 639C. Cf. C. Bréchet, “Vers une philosophie de la citation poétique: écrit, oral et mémoire chez Plutarque,” Hermathena 182 (2007) 101–134. See also A. Zadorojnyi in this volume, pp. 31–32.

part 1 Defining Intertextuality in Plutarch

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chapter 1

Intertextuality in Plutarch: What’s the Point? Christopher Pelling

Abstract There may be an element of ‘author theatre’ in Plutarchan intertextuality, as the author demonstrates his cultural confidence and competence, but there are many other aspects too. There can be ‘reader theatre’, constructing an ideal reader who bonds with the author; that ideal reader may be better-read and more insightful than real readers, but the exercise both flatters real readers and sets a model to which they can aspire. Different real-life readers may respond at different levels and with trains of thought that the author cannot control, but those differences generally affect the intensity of the reading experience rather than leading in contradictory directions. Intertextuality can also affect the reader’s response to the subject-matter, sometimes adding plausibility by suggesting parallels to well-authenticated events in the past, sometimes suggesting an idiom for interpretation; most interesting are those cases where a canonical model does not quite fit, provoking readerly thoughts about why that should be. There are also cases where characters in the text try to impose their own intertextual patterning on their actions or lives, and the narrative plots how far they succeed. Test-cases are taken to illustrate these points, especially cases where the intertextual models are Plato, Thucydides, and tragedy, and the chapter ends with an extended discussion of the Platonic elements in Plutarch’s Amatorius.

1

Readers, Authors, and Themes

One thing is clear. Plutarchan intertextuality comes in all sorts of different forms, and has not just one ‘point’ but many. Sometimes we talk as if the richness of intertextuality is a ‘point’ in itself, the richer the better, and the more we can find the more it redounds to the author’s credit. Yet when Julia Kristeva coined the term in 1966, it was at least as much about readers as about authors.1 The role of the reader duly figured more in the early stages as the idea was taken up, with the insistence that what 1 J. Kristeva, “Word, Dialogue, and Novel,” written in 1966 but most accessible in T. Moi, The Kristeva Reader (Oxford: Blackwell, 1986) 34–61.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004427860_003

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we remember from other books will always affect the way we read whatever we have open in front of us. That was the setting for David Lodge’s young scholar Persse McCarrigle telling a pompous senior scholar at a conference that his thesis was about “the influence of T.S. Eliot on Shakespeare”:2 “Well, what I try to show,” said Persse, “is that we can’t avoid reading Shakespeare through the lens of T.S. Eliot’s poetry. I mean, who can read Hamlet today without thinking of ‘Prufrock’? Who can hear the speeches of Ferdinand in The Tempest without being reminded of ‘The Fire Sermon’ section of The Waste Land?” “I say, that sounds rather interesting,” said Skinner. “Philip, old chap, do you think I might possibly have another one of these?” Depositing his empty glass in Philip Swallow’s hand, Felix Skinner took Persse aside. “If you haven’t already made arrangements to publish your thesis, I’d be very interested to see it,” he said. (…) Persse squeezed his way through the crush to Angelica. “You told me your thesis was about the influence of Shakespeare on T.S. Eliot,” she said. “So it is,” he replied. “I turned it round on the spur of the moment, just to take that Dempsey down a peg or two.” “Well, it’s a more interesting idea, actually.” “I seem to have let myself in for the job of writing it up, now,” said Persse. “I like your dress, Angelica.” Lodge, literary theorist as he was in his everyday job, knew exactly what he was doing, and so this is itself intertextuality (with Kristeva)—about intertextuality! Still, getting rid of the author from literary criticism has always proved more difficult than it might seem. ‘Intertextuality’ was soon being used in a way not far different from old-fashioned ‘allusion,’ though with more of a nod towards the role of the reader. Stephen Hinds, in his very thoughtful book,3 had to work quite hard to reintroduce the notion of ‘allusion’ as carrying a nuance not necessarily present in ‘intertextuality,’ one where the reader’s role is partly to identify intentionality on the part of the author—an “I see what you did there” response, it was that particular passage or model that you, Mr. or Ms. Author, had in your mind. 2 D. Lodge, Small World: an Academic Romance (London: Secker & Warburg, 1984) 51–52, 54. 3 S. Hinds, Allusion and Intertext. Dynamics of appropriation in Roman Poetry (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998).

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So this is a game for two, one involving both author and reader. One aspect is indeed generating a bond between author and reader: a signal is sent out and is picked up that they are sharing a joint culture, intimating that the reader is the sort of person that the author has in mind—one of several ways in which Plutarch creates such bonds.4 There will also be an element here of what Luke Pitcher calls ‘author theatre,’ building up a more authoritative persona.5 Plutarch can project himself as someone who knows his material, not just the stories he is narrating but their intellectual background: this may project an easy familiarity with Plato and Aristotle, for instance. But that too is a sort of bonding, even a sort of ‘reader theatre’ as well, constructing a reader who at least can recognize that sort of suggestion. This process can be quite complicated and needs more theorizing: there can be cases where a reader senses that something is going on—after all, often enough there are pointers, perhaps even an “as Plato says” or a snatch of tragic or comic verse—and some readers can pin it down more precisely and some cannot. This ‘constructed reader’ can therefore be a point or so higher on the cultural scale than the ‘real reader,’ or at least most real readers; but the real reader can still feel flattered to be included as classmates of that more ideal constructed reader, and there may even be an educational perspective as well, generating an aspiration to become ever more cultured until, eventually, one might even be in the same league as Plutarch himself. Of course, there may also be a danger of ‘the cross-grained reader’6 getting seriously irritated, rather more “I didn’t quite see what you did there, but I know you’re trying to be clever and I find it pretentious and annoying”; but there are other ways in which Plutarch projects a personality likable enough to defuse and deflect too unfriendly a reaction. So far I have concentrated on this author-reader dynamic, a two-way thing: I shall go on to suggest that it can be a good deal more complicated, three-way, four-way, and perhaps more. But before we leave this initial two-way dynamic, I have one last, doubtless obvious point. It is all very well to talk about ‘the’ reader, real, constructed, ideal, or in-the-text, but all readers are different. Even 4 I discussed other ways of establishing such bonds in “ ‘You for me and me for you’: narrator and narratee in Plutarch’s Lives,” in id., Plutarch and History: Eighteen Studies (London: Duckworth, 2002) 267–282 (= “Plutarch,” in I.J.F. De Jong, R. Nünlist & A. Bowie (eds.), Narrators, Narratees, and Narratives in Ancient Greek Literature: Studies in Ancient Greek Narrative, Volume 1 (Leiden: Brill, 2004) 403–421). 5 L. Pitcher, Writing Ancient History (London-New York: I.B. Tauris, 2009) esp. 34–39. 6 For the ‘cross-grained reader,’ see Pelling, Plutarch and History 272 and 276. D. Cohn, Transparent Minds: Narrative Modes for presenting Consciousness in Fiction (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1978) 26–33, puts it in terms of “consonant” and “dissonant” narratees.

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if two readers find the same passage thought-provoking we cannot be sure that the same thoughts will be provoked, or that they will be pursued to the same distance. Each one of us, after all, knows that we are sometimes more readerly alert than others: there are times when we just want to wallow and let a text wash over us like a hot bath, and times when the brains are much more actively in gear. Let us look at one fairly inconspicuous example from the Antony, partly so that I can take apart something I wrote over thirty years ago. The Actium campaign is looming: Plutarch is writing movingly about the sufferings of Greece as it struggled to feed both the warring sides (Ant. 62.1): Antony had become so much of an appendage to Cleopatra that, although he was far stronger than Octavian on land, he was determined that his victory should be gained by his fleet. He insisted on this merely to please the queen, even though he could see that he was so short of seamen that his captains were impressing travellers, mule-drivers, reapers, and boys not yet of military age from Greece, that country that had “endured so much” (ἐκ τῆς “πολλὰ δὴ τλάσης” Ἑλλάδος). This is not the most resonant or obvious of allusions, though the reader will probably pick up from the δή that it is a quotation of some sort (otherwise the particle’s position in the sentence would be very awkward). But it is a good example for just that reason. Some readers will pick up just that—the quotation-alert. A fair number of those might infer from the poetic ring of τλάσης that it is from a tragedy, and that is enough to be going on with: the sufferings of Greece are indeed piteous. Some, however, will catch more, as it is from Euripides’ Heracles, a work that Plutarch quotes again elsewhere (De sup. 167C). In the play the words are spoken by Theseus, chiding Heracles when, in despair, he has decided to kill himself (E. HF 1250): ὁ πολλὰ δὴ τλὰς Ἡρακλῆς λέγει τάδε; In my 1988 commentary I wrote as follows (60.5, cf. 4.2 nn.): As usual (24.3n.) the quotation marks an important theme, here the agony of Greece (23.2, 69.6–9nn.); and, as often (25.2, 29.1, 36.2 nn.), the original context is suggestive. A.’s resolve, too, is unworthy of his heroic past; and A. too has played Heracles, as P. has just reminded us.7 7 Plutarch: Life of Antony (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988) 270. I apologize for

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The commentator’s lot is not a happy one, especially when pressed for space, and at least I did not say that every member of the audience will or should go through all those steps, just that it was ‘suggestive.’ Some of those listeners or readers may remember that it is Heracles that is in point, and that is especially relevant to Antony, the man who in the days of his greatness would go out in dress that was chosen to mimic Heracles (or so Plutarch tells us, ch. 4); some may remember the precise Euripidean context, and make that further comparison of the two figures who are “unworthy of their heroic past.” Some others, I didn’t then say, might also think of the Stoicised Heracles who was envisaged as taking on all those labors to ease the lot of suffering humanity—the very opposite of the effect of Antony’s actions here. Nobody can prescribe how far the thoughts provoked by a thought-provoking passage can go. It is not dissimilar to the way that paratragedy works in comedy: some will simply notice that a line or an actor ‘sounds tragic,’ doubtless helped by the delivery and stance (just as Plutarch’s listening audience would be fed a clue by the way he spoke the words in any reading); some will be able to place an original more precisely. But it is not a question of the litterati having a wholly different experience from the ‘groundlings,’ who are just waiting for a bit of slapstick in Aristophanes. It is just a matter of a greater intensity and intellectual energy in musing on the same point: the gravity of the suffering. So all alike could at least agree on the first part of that note—the importance of the moment and the theme. That is so often the way that such commentary on intertextuality should be taken: as an elaborate ‘for instance’ of the ideas that intertextuality can prompt, not as a prescription that these and only these thoughts should be had by everyone. Is that ‘allusion’ or ‘intertextuality’? It is both. The ‘allusion’ element is the prompt: this is provided by Plutarch and, in those terms suggested by Stephen Hinds, the reader recognizes the author at work, starting the train of thought. But the train of thought itself is then up to the reader, and there he or she is on their own, out of the author’s control. I hope Plutarch would not have been too horrified or surprised by any of the steps I suggested in that commentary note, but of course there is no way I can possibly be sure. There is still some sort of ‘bonding’ there, but we should put it in terms of an author’s expectation that a reader will play the game, allowing such prompts to let associations come to mind and enrich their reading; and, on the reader’s side, at least when the mind and literary memory are fully engaged, a willing acceptance of that contract.

taking several examples in this chapter from my own earlier work, but this allows some economy of presentation, passing over details treated more fully in those discussions and focusing on the general implications.

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So far, then, we have a two-way thing, a line linking author and reader. But there is more to it, and at the very least we need to think in terms of a triangle—author, reader, and whatever it is that the text is talking about. Let us move to that third point in the triangle, and to that further line linking theme with reader: how does, how might, the theme come over differently because of those intertextual suggestions? One extra dimension is added because a lot of the texts we are talking about—not all, but a lot—are historical narratives; and in the last few years, there has been a vigorous debate on the question whether historiographic intertextuality works in a different way from other forms. I have had my own say on that elsewhere, though without particular reference to Plutarch and my own answer was “no, or not much.”8 I will not revisit that ground here. But one point made on the other side there does have some force: if there is an echo of Thucydides, is that more a point about ‘Thucydides’ or about ‘the Peloponnesian War,’ about the text or about the events described? Particularly after centuries had passed, it becomes more and more difficult to distinguish the two: for Plutarch and his audience, and (sometimes to the irritation of ancient historians) often for us too, the ‘Peloponnesian War’ pretty much was ‘Thucydides’ Peloponnesian War.’ Still, it is true that sometimes the emphasis falls more on the one and sometimes on the other. When Plutarch’s account of the battle of Actium has a non-coincidental similarity to Herodotus’ Salamis or to Thucydides’ Syracuse or when Antony’s retreat from Parthia echoes aspects of Xenophon’s Ten Thousand, it is the events themselves that are in point rather than the particular authors’ take on them.9 But it may be different when there is Thucydides in the air at the outbreak of the Roman civil war, as there it is the Thucydidean texture that is in point—a dystopic Thucydidean world, not just the particular events of 431 BC: more on that in a moment. What, then, is this intertextuality doing? What is the value-added to the description of the events? Two rather basic points are worth making first, one about plausibility and one about immediacy, and the two interrelate. Plausibility (or πιθανότης, “persuasiveness”), because—as Aristotle so trenchantly put it—what has happened once is evidently possible, for otherwise it would not have happened (Poetics 1451b17–19). If Salamis was like that, so might Actium have been; if Xenophon’s Ten Thousand faced hardships like that and overcame them with such resilience, there is no reason to doubt that Antony and his men could have done the same. One can extend that to echoes of other gen-

8 “Intertextuality, plausibility, and interpretation,” Histos 7 (2013) 1–20. 9 Pelling, Plutarch: Life of Antony, 282–283 (Salamis and Syracuse); 221,229, 235, 239 (Parthia).

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res. If Achilles could storm off and let his fellow-soldiers die, then so might Coriolanus; if Sappho could get so excited by the sight of the beloved, then so could Seleucus’ son Antiochus, Demetrius 38 (and so, perhaps less plausibly, could young men when first exposed to the delights of philosophy, De prof. in virt. 81D). There are modern parallels here in the court-room: juries are much more likely to believe a story if it fits into a narrative pattern that they recognize, though these days that recognition is more likely to come from cop shows or films, perhaps even, rather as with young Antiochus, from love stories.10 That familiarity with classic descriptions also helps the immediacy or vividness (ἐνάργεια) of a narrative. Plutarch’s canvass is rarely as big as that allowed in the earlier accounts that he echoes, but we can fill in a good deal more of how awful the sufferings of Antony’s men had been if we remember the Anabasis; we can re-create something of Coriolanus’ mindset by recalling Achilles’ feeling of outrage that his feats in battle have not won the recognition and recompense that they deserved. It is a snappy and evocative way of recalling all those effects that the great classic passages had generated, and doing so, often, in just a few words.

2

Interpretation

Let us go on to pointers, not just to what happened, but how to interpret what happened. What sort of story is this going to be? Hayden White discussed in his Metahistory the ‘modes’ in which a historian might choose to ‘emplot’ the narrative; he presented four: romance, comedy, tragedy, and satire.11 Reservations might be felt about the schematism there, but they can be taken as further ‘for instances,’ the sorts of plot-pattern that can point the reader to the way a story should be taken and give some familiar grounding to make sense of it all. There are some cases where this seems to work particularly well, including, yet again, Demetrius and Antony. “Now that the Macedonian drama is complete,” says Plutarch at the end of Demetrius, “it is time to bring on the Roman one” (Demetr. 53.10). Then the last words of the pair are Antony “took himself off,” ἑαυτὸν ἐξήγαγεν (Comp. Demetr. et Ant. 93[6].4); there is plenty of other theatrical imagery as well.12 Another case comes at the end of Pompey, when Pharsalus 10

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A. Dershowitz, “Life is Not a Dramatic Narrative,” in P. Brooks & P. Gewirtz (eds.), Law’s Stories: Narrative and Rhetoric in the Law (New Haven-London: Yale University Press, 1996) 99–105. H. White, Metahistory (Middletown: Wesleyan University Press, 1973). P.H. De Lacy, “Biography and tragedy in Plutarch,” AJPh 73 (1952) esp. 168–171; Pelling,

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is the “stadium and theatre,” the armies take up their places ‘like a chorus’ and some observers, notably including “some Greeks that were present,” reflect chorus-like on the plight to which greed and ambition have brought the empire (Comp. Ages. et Pomp. 4.6, Pomp. 68.7, 70). Does that not cast it as ‘tragedy’? Yes, probably it does—though there is still room to discuss exactly what we mean by that,13 and if we stick with White’s own terms we will want to inject an element of romance as well into Antony, and surely some comedy too.14 The idea of ‘generic enrichment’ can certainly get some purchase here.15 Still, with an author as subtle as Plutarch there is going to be more to it than “this is how to read it—just take it as a tragedy,” or if we go back to specific authors “it is going to be just like Thucydides.” In particular, it is the things that do not fit an intertextual or intergeneric model that are often more interesting than the ones that do: ‘emplotting’ is most telling when it fails—or at least when it is unstraightforward. Coriolanus may be cast as a Homeric figure,16 but how will he cope in this new, more modern world? How, in particular, will he cope with the more ‘Odyssean’ crises that will be posed when he has to face up to formidable women? That turns out to be anything but straightforward. And it may be others who have a try at emplotting, and that too can misfire. Pericles, for instance, is full of cases where the comic poets tried to turn the man into a comic character with their lampoons; there was also the historian Duris, who so sensationalized the sufferings of his native Samos that Plutarch describes him

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Plutarch: Life of Antony, 21–22; T.E. Duff, “Plato, tragedy, the ideal reader and Plutarch’s Demetrius and Antony,” Hermes 132 (2004) 283–285; J. Mossman, “Dressed for success? Clothing in Plutarch’s Demetrius,” in R. Ash, J. Mossman & F.B. Titchener (eds.), Fame & Infamy. Essays for Christopher Pelling on Characterization in Greek and Roman Biography and Historiography (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015) 149–160, esp. 150 n. 4. I made some suggestions in “Tragic colouring in Plutarch,” in J. Opsomer, G. Roskam & F.B. Titchener (eds.), A Versatile Gentleman: Consistency in Plutarch’s Writings. Studies Offered to Luc Van der Stockt on the Occasion of his Retirement (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2016) 113–133. Comedy: esp. Ant. 29.4, “Antony reserves his tragic mask for Rome and uses his comic one here in Alexandria”. There is also something of the miles gloriosus in his behaviour at Ant. 4: Pelling, Plutarch: Life of Antony, 124–125. “Generic enrichment”: thus S.J. Harrison, Generic Enrichment in Vergil and Horace (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007). The approach owes a lot to G.B. Conte, The Rhetoric of Imitation: Genre and Poetic Memory in Virgil and other Latin Poetry (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1986), and in many ways goes back to the idea of generic Kreuzung developed by W. Kroll, Studien zum Verständnis der römischen Literatur (Stuttgart: J.B. Metzler, 1924). In particular at Cor. 22.4, echoing Hom. Od. 4.246, ἀνδρῶν δυσμενέων κατέδυ πόλιν (“he slunk into the city of men who were his enemies”): then, remarkably, Plutarch devotes a whole chapter to issues of Homeric psychology and divine inspiration at ch. 32.

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as “tragedizing” them, ἐπιτραγῳδεῖ.17 Plutarch brings out that neither of these hits the mark, though the comedians got one thing right in ways that they did not intend. When they called Pericles “Olympian,” Plutarch ends by saying, they got it spot-on, but as a reality and not just as a tease (Per. 39). Let us go back to that Thucydidean example from the Caesar (33.3):18 Rome itself was filled by a torrent of flights and migrations from the nearby towns, and it was no easy matter for any leader to control the city by persuasion or to restrain it by words. It was a swirling maelstrom; Rome all but destroyed herself. Contending passions and violent impulses dominated everywhere (πάθη γὰρ ἀντίπαλα καὶ βίαια κατεῖχε κινήματα πάντα τόπον). Some were pleased, but even their jubilation had no quiet: in a great city it clashed time and again with fear and pain, and its brash confidence about the future gave rise to violence and quarrels (οὔτε γὰρ τὸ χαῖρον ἡσυχίαν ἦγεν, ἀλλὰ τῷ δεδοικότι καὶ λυπουμένῳ κατὰ πολλὰ συμπῖπτον ἐν μεγάλῃ πόλει καὶ θρασυνόμενον ὑπὲρ τοῦ μέλλοντος δι’ ἐρίδων ἦν). There it is partly a matter of evoking a particular Thucydidean moment, the flooding of people from the Attic demes into the city in 431 (Th. 2.14–17). But it is the Thucydidean manner too: those highly Thucydidean words and concepts πάθη … ἀντίπαλα καὶ βίαια … κινήματα, and that stylistically very Thucydidean use of neuter abstracts, τὸ χαῖρον, τὸ δεδοικὸς καὶ λυπούμενον. This is a pointer not just to the events themselves but to the distinctive Thucydidean take on them, the mordant analysis of the clash of emotions that come into play with particular force in a civil war. And who, after all, was the greater resident expert on civil war in any well-stocked literary mind than Thucydides, with those Corcyrean chapters tracking how civil war becomes a story of bloodshed and brutality, faithlessness to allies, old scores being settled, morality collapsing, and the little people in the middle suffering worst (3.82–83)? Yet straight after this, Caesar is extraordinarily moderate, sparing his enemies, respecting the choices of those who wish to remain neutral: he can still be very rude to a tribune who gets in his way, but he still does not fit the Thucydidean template. So an intertext can allow a narrative to belie expectations and point not to recurrence but to

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Quotations from comic poets at Per. 3.5–7, 4.4, 7.8, 8.4, 13.8, 13.10, 13.15, 16.1–2, 24.9–10, 26.4, 30.4, 33.8. Duris of Samos misleadingly ἐπιτραγῳδεῖ: Per. 28.2. More on this in my commentary, Plutarch: Caesar (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011) 319–323, and in “ ‘Learning from that violent schoolmaster’: Thucydidean intertextuality and some Greek views of Roman civil war,” in C. Damon, A. Rossi & B. Breed (eds.), Citizens of Discord: Rome and its Civil Wars (Oxford: Oxford University Press 2010) 111–112.

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singularity. Yet that is not going to be the end of it. The bloodshed and the brutality will come back after all, together with the unexpected knife in the back, or the front, on the Ides of March. Perhaps Thucydides was not wrong after all; perhaps the horrid pattern is eventually inescapable, even though “the precise onset of circumstances” can be tellingly different (3.82.2). These days we often say, perhaps pretentiously, that a text is ‘in dialogue’ with its intertextual model; usually one cannot help feeling that it is the later text that is doing most of the talking. Here, though, there may be at least a metaphorical sense in which Thucydides is allowed the last word. I have argued something similar for the very end of the Caesar, though there it is Plato’s Republic that is in focus.19 Caesar’s dictatorship, says Plutarch, was by then an “acknowledged tyranny: he already enjoyed a monarch’s unaccountability, and now he had a monarch’s permanence as well” (57.1). There is a strong gesture towards Plato’s cycle of constitutions with that phrase “acknowledged tyranny” (ὁμολογουμένη τυραννίς, from the resonant conclusion of Book 8, Republic 569b). Plato had developed the picture of the tyrant emerging out of democracy once an effective demagogue created his power base, and in one way that suits Caesar well enough: that is exactly what he has done. What is different, though, is the way that Caesar behaves now that he is in power. The Platonic tyrant gets rid of people who are threats: Caesar practices clemency. Plato’s tyrant fears for his life and has an ostentatious bodyguard; Caesar refuses one, saying that it is better to die once than to spend one’s whole life in fear. Plato’s tyrant puts on a show of benignity and mildness; for Caesar this is not just show, and he, unlike the Platonic prototype, knows that the best way to cement power is genuine popular goodwill. Yet it does not work: the constitutional cycle continues to turn, and Caesar too must fall. Ironically, it is that very mildness that does him down: those enemies whom he so graciously pardoned, Cassius and Brutus, reach for their knives; and there is no bodyguard there to protect him. So, if this fits the Platonic template, it does so in a remarkable way, and once again it is the singularity, not the uniformity, that is the more thought-provoking aspect. Perhaps this is because Plato is ultimately right, and the cycle will assert itself no matter how firmly or deftly one tries to resist; or perhaps it is just that it is too late—this is what I suggested in my commentary—, and Caesar is trapped by his own past, now vulnerable to the political forces that his own behavior has unleashed. Very likely it is both.

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Pelling, Plutarch: Caesar, 421–422.

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This could be taken much further, with other cases where an intertextual or intergeneric echo sets an agenda, and the interesting thing is to see how far the particular events map on to it. It would be interesting to discuss what the Platonic echoing adds to Lycurgus, for instance, with all the echoes there of the Republic on themes such as marriage and eugenics.20 It is not simply giving a Plutarchan nod of approval, that’s for sure.

3

Author-Intertextuality and Character-Intertextuality

Let us move on to a different point, and that is the way that intertextuality is not confined to the authorial voice or to onlookers in the narrative. Central characters do it too, as they cast their own actions or aspirations into a mold set up by past texts. So that ‘triangle’ of author, reader, and theme can become a quadrilateral, with a character, usually a major one, setting up a parallel for himself to emulate; the reader is then left to evaluate how well the achievement matches up. An obvious example is Alexander sacrificing at Troy (Alex. 15.7) and always having his copy of the Iliad under his pillow at night (Alex. 8.2). Nor is it just any Homeric character that Alexander takes as his model: it is Achilles’ tomb that he venerates and Achilles’ lyre, not Paris’, that he wants to see (15.7–9). So we could there see Alexander in the text carrying through what Hayden White described authors as doing, ‘emplotting’ the story into a particular mode, in his case epic: he is writing his own script, and we would probably decide that he matched up to it pretty well. (We might, though, also spare a thought for the way that it was the loss of his Patroclus-figure, Hephaestion, that eventually sped him on the way to his premature death: the parallel has its darker side too.)21 And, for Plutarch of all people, there is nothing wrong 20

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For recent discussions, see H. Liebert, Plutarch’s Politics: Between City and Empire (Cambridge-New York: Cambridge University Press 2016) ch. 5, and especially M. Lane, “Platonizing the Spartan politeia in Plutarch’s Lycurgus,” in V. Harte & M. Lane (eds.), Politeia in Greek and Roman Philosophy (Cambridge-New York: Cambridge University Press, 2013) 57–77. Lane sees Plutarch as out-Platonizing Plato by insisting on Lycurgus’ rejection of written laws (ctr. Phaedrus 258b10–c5, Laws 858e3–4): “Plutarch’s Lycurgus can be understood to be pursuing a deeply Platonic path in respect of the debate over writing, law and virtue, by constructing an ideal polity in a form which Plato himself stopped short of doing” (60). That interpretation has something in common with the reading of Amatorius offered below. On intertextuality in the Lycurgus, see the chapters by O. Gengler (pp. 111– 128), S. Jacobs (pp. 215–231) and P. Davies (pp. 513–524) in this volume. That darker side is often cast in such a way as to evoke tragedy rather than, or as well as, epic: J. Mossman, “Tragedy and epic in Plutarch’s Alexander,” JHS 108 (1988) 83–93 [reprinted in B. Scardigli (ed.), Essays on Plutarch’s Lives (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995)

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with drawing inspiration from past heroes. He speaks of his own project in the Parallel Lives in similar terms. Yet one’s own script can go badly wrong. Alexander’s sacrifice at Troy worked well enough, but he had a precursor several generations earlier in Agesilaus.22 Warned by a dream, he sacrifices at Aulis, though he is humane enough to do so with an animal rather than human victim; but the Boeotians come running to forbid this irregular procedure and tear the offerings from the altar (Ages. 6.6–10). That is bad for the campaign and bad for Agesilaus too, as his hatred for the Thebans is going to be a major theme, one not at all to his credit. Still, he launches on the campaign, and once established in Asia Minor he is about to begin the march (Ages. 15.2–4): But at this moment Epicydidas the Spartiate arrived, announcing that a great Greek war [note the phrasing] was besetting Sparta, and so the ephors were summoning him and commanding him to help the people at home. “You Greeks! You are the inventers of barbarian evils”. For what else could one call that jealousy and that combination and array of Greek forces against themselves? Fortune was on an upward surge, yet they laid hold upon her; they turned upon one another the arms that were levelled against barbarians and the war that they had driven out of Greece … And Plutarch moves on to a favorite Greek theme: that Greek malaise that led them so often to fight one another rather than combining gloriously as they had done in 480 BC. Agesilaus has to leave. That too is marked by an Agamemnon echo, for he is sailing home ἀτελευτήτῳ ἐπὶ ἔργῳ (“with the business unfinished,” Ages. 15.7), an echo of Agamemnon’s melancholic vision of the prospect if Menelaus were to die and the expedition were to fail (Il. 4.175). That was not to be Agamemnon’s fate, but it turned out to be all too apposite for Agesilaus. Here, the interaction of character-perception and authorial voice is particularly interesting. Take that line of verse, “You Greeks! You are the inventers of barbarian evils.” This is a further case where the reader is free to pursue the implications according to choice. In the original (E. Tr. 764), it is uttered by Andromache and refers to the evils that the conquering Greeks have imposed

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209–228]. Here too, then, we may again talk of ‘generic enrichment’ (p. 18 and n. 15) of a particularly elaborate form. On the importance of Agamemnon in Agesilaus, see S. Nevin, “Negative comparison: Agamemnon and Alexander in Plutarch’s Agesilaus-Pompey,” GRBS 54 (2014) 45–68. She argues that Agamemnon plays a role in Agesilaus comparable to that of Alexander in Pompey, providing a model to which the protagonist aspires to match but then falls short.

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on her ‘barbarian’ countrymen and women. It is not difficult to find some point in its transposition to evils that Greeks are now inflicting on one another: that is a theme that will come back at the end of the pair, with those reflections at the end of Pompey on all the crazed violence that the Romans are bringing on themselves instead of taking on an eastern foe (Pomp. 70). But its contribution to characterizing Agesilaus himself is also complex. He too, like Alexander, has been writing his own epic script: that is what Aulis was all about. The drift at that quotation into the authorial voice could make it easy to believe that the man himself would have shared the author’s frustrated indignation. Perhaps he did, internally, but the narrative goes on to stress the mildness with which he bore it, meekly going home. Such commendable Spartan discipline is very different from that discreditable, lingering animosity against Thebes. He will therefore play his own part in those Greek-against-Greek evils to which the transposition of the quotation gestured.

4

Amatorius

Let me end by turning to one of the most elaborate cases of intertextuality in order to round up some of the themes. Plutarch’s Amatorius is, as Richard Hunter puts it, “a work drenched in Plato.”23 Explicit Platonic echoes are plentiful enough, especially when ‘Plutarch’ himself is speaking, for (as often in the Table Talk) he is one of the contributors within the dialogue: indeed, ‘Plutarch’s’ long first speech (756A–763F) can be seen as his own “encomium to Love” supplementing and echoing those offered in the Symposium to fill the gap in the hymnal repertoire identified by Phaedrus (Smp. 177a).24 The signals, though, have started much earlier. The proem waves away any locus amoenus scenesetting (749A) in a clear allusion to the Phaedrus (229a, 230c), and one that already signals some distancing as well as tribute;25 meanwhile, the structure

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R. Hunter, Plato and the Traditions of Ancient Literature: the Silent Stream (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012) 185–222 at 185 (cf. 212–213). The drenching goes beyond Plato, see K. Jazdzewska in this volume, esp. 465–473 on the hints of Empedocles. Given that the character of Eryximachus in Plato’s Symposium himself carries many echoes of Empedocles, the two intertextualities go closely together. Thus H. Görgemanns, “Eros als Gott in Plutarchs ‘Amatorius’,” in R. Hirsch-Luipold (ed.), Gott und die Götter bei Plutarch: Götterbilder, Gottesbilder, Weltbilder (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2005) 173; D.A. Russell, “Plutarch, Amatorius 13–18,” in J. Mossman (ed.), Plutarch and his Intellectual World (London: Duckworth, 1997) 99–111 showed how readily the speech responds to analysis in technical rhetorical terms. “Ambiguously dismissive”, J.M. Rist, “Plutarch’s Amatorius: A Commentary on Plato’s The-

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recalls the Symposium, as it starts in dramatized dialogue form as one speaker presses the other to recall a memorable conversation held many years ago. That remembrancer, Plutarch’s son Autobulus, only knows of it at second hand, as the conversation was one that took place when Plutarch and his wife were newlyweds. In Plutarch, as in Plato, that elaborate mise-en-scène intimates that this was a conversation like few other conversations, one worth racking the memory for and recounting over a generation later. It also indicates that this is the level on which what follows is to be read and understood, a discussion on a Platonic theme—ἔρως—and in some sense, indeed, ‘in dialogue with Plato.’ As the Amatorius is going to treat a comparison between the merits of heterosexual and of pederastic love, we are also likely to remember which of those alternatives figures more in the Symposium. If we were in doubt, the lively narrative that bursts into the festival setting, a sort of equivalent of the late arrival of Alcibiades in Symposium, concerns the story of the older woman Ismenodora and young Bacchon: it tells a tale of a love between two people despite their age gap, but here it is a heterosexual couple rather than the same-sex love of Socrates and Alcibiades. That same-sex love too was unusual in the form it took, but in a different way. It helps if Plutarch’s audience know their Plato pretty well. Such momentary allusions as παυσαμένου δὲ τοῦ Πρωτογένους (753B, echoing Smp. 185c, Παυσανίου δὲ παυσαμένου)26 and cutting eggs with a hair (770B, echoing Smp. 190e) certainly add something. In the one case that is because Protogenes has been the strongest advocate of homosexual love, the variety that figured so much in Pausanias’ speech in Symposium; in the other because Zeus’ cutting eggs in Aristophanes’ Symposium speech was to create very much the sort of loving couple as figures in Plutarch’s context here.27 Still, in neither case will a reader who does not catch the reference be left floundering, and that too is typical of his intertextuality. It deepens suggestions that are there anyway rather than being their sole carrier.

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ories of Love?” CQ n.s. 51.2 (2001) 559; similarly A. Billault, “Le dialogue sur l’amour de Plutarque et les dialogues de Platon sur l’ amour,” in A. Pérez Jiménez, J. García López & R.M. Aguilar (eds.), Plutarco, Platón y Aristóteles. Actas del V Congreso Internacional de la I.P.S. (Madrid-Cuenca, 4–7 de Mayo de 1999) (Madrid: Ediciones Clásicas, 1999) 205. Cf. M.B. Trapp, “Plato’s Phaedrus in Second-Century Greek Literature,” in D.A. Russell (ed.), Antonine Literature (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990) 158–159; Trapp goes on (159– 161) to discuss the many other echoes of Phaedrus. Rist, “Plutarch’s Amatorius,” 562 n. 15; Hunter, Plato and the Traditions of Ancient Literature, 208–219. I am unconvinced by Görgemanns’ suggestion that the witticism relates to the growth of hair in puberty (in H. Görgemanns et al., Plutarch: Dialog über die Liebe [Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011] 194 n. 430), frequently though that theme features in pederastic poems. Pubic or early facial hair would in fact (one presumes) be most unsuitable for cutting eggs.

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A further feature is, once again, the nodding towards other genres, even the momentary danger of generic takeover. There has been some interesting discussion here about the relation of the essay to the novel:28 is there ‘dialogue’ between the two genres? In any case the indignant Peisias splutters about the dangers, if Ismenodora is allowed to get away with this, of the women taking over everything—why, let’s go and hand over the gymnasium and the bouleutêrion too … (755C). Many a reader will think there about Ecclesiazusae and Lysistrata, and a swift extra allusion to Aristophanes follows—αὐτοὶ γάρ ἐσμεν, as Dicaeopolis put it at Acharnians 504. In Dicaeopolis’ case it was because the festival was the Lenaea rather than the Dionysia, and a pun on “Lenaea” and “Lemnian” female outrages may be thrown in here (νεανικὸν μὲν καὶ Λήμνιον ὡς ἀληθῶς). The fact that Aristophanes is himself a character in Plato does not harm that allusion, and the story of Bacchon has itself been initially told in “the tone of comedy.”29 Still, the discussion is soon calmed down now that the noisy pederasty supporters have stormed off (a sort of boisterous Alcibiades entry in reverse), and the discussion resumes a more theoretical level. What eventually comes out of this ‘dialogue with Plato’? It is not just selfaggrandizement on Plutarch’s part, a pretension to out-Plato even Plato himself; or at least the out-Platoing is a matter of substantial engagement, not just literary grandiosity. Plutarch is playing Platonic tunes, but he eventually provides a view of ἔρως that, if not quite anti-Platonic in its paean on heterosexual love, is still a redirection of Plato’s emphasis in Phaedrus and Symposium.30

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Esp. S. Goldhill, Foucault’s Virginity: Ancient Erotic Fiction and the History of Sexuality (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1966) 144–161: “Plutarch provides the theory, as it were, to the practice of the novel,” 144. Cf. also Billault, “Le dialogue sur l’amour,” 211, Hunter, Plato and the Traditions of Ancient Literature, 186–187. Russell, “Plutarch, Amatorius 13–18,” 99: cf. G. Zanetto, “Plutarch’s Dialogues as Comic Dramas,” in L. Van der Stockt (ed.), Rhetorical Theory and Praxis in Plutarch. Acta of the IVth International Congress of the International Plutarch Society, Leuven, July 3–6, 1996 (Leuven: Peeters, 2000) 535–538; H. Görgemanns in Görgemanns et al., Plutarch: Dialog über die Liebe, 18–19. Though less so in the case of the Laws, which had more to say and commend about marriage (esp. 8. 838e–842a) and rejects physical pederasty: cf. Rist, “Plutarch’s Amatorius,” 560, 568. Hence Rist argued that the essay should be seen as a ‘commentary’ on Platonic love, welding together elements from different dialogues to present “a more or less single and systematic Platonic thesis” (558), one that could be seen as “bring[ing] the Platonic position up to date” and explaining “what he really meant, or would have meant if pressed” (561). It may indeed be true that Plutarch would have hoped that Plato himself would have been able to accept the broadening, if that is what it is; but I would still side with F.E. Brenk in thinking of Plutarch seeking to “outstrip the master” (“Plutarch’s Erotikos: The Drag Down Pulled Up,”ICS 13 (1988) 457–471 at 464; contra, Rist 574 n. 45). Similarly M. Lucchesi,

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“Plutarch schreibt Platonisches in unplatonischer Weise und Unplatonisches in platonischer Manier.”31 I would agree with the way that Hunter puts it, in terms of “a broadening of the Platonic vision,”32 especially in its convictions about the potential for female ἀρετή and the immense value of heterosexual marriage. Plato was right (Plutarch might say) about so much about ἔρως, and certainly did not exclude heterosexual love, but might he not have said more about marriage, especially when he was so keen in Symposium on (usually metaphorical) pregnancy? Plato had, after all, made a great deal of the difference made to Socrates by his meeting with Diotima: might there not be room for a different, more everyday type of productive interaction of loving male and loving female? Might not this, too, aid the ascent towards knowledge of the Beautiful? And, of course, the speaker is the son of that new marriage of Plutarch and Timoxena. His very existence is the seal on those glories of married love. None of this is to say that the issues are easy. Even the question of the wisdom of Ismenodora and Bacchon may not be easy. I myself belong to the “yes, go for it, Ismenodora and Bacchon: why not?” faction. Frederick Brenk has expressed more caution: would any marriage counsellor confidently predict success, he asks.33 Might we even see Plutarch as characterizing ‘Plutarch’— his own younger, newly-wed self—as just a little carried away by the freshness of his own marital love?34 But certainly, as with Caesar and its Platonism, inter-

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“Love theory and political practice in Plutarch: the Amatorius and the Lives of Coriolanus and Alcibiades,” in E. Sanders, C. Thumiger, C. Carey & N.J. Lowe (eds.), Erôs in Ancient Greece (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013) 214: “The emulation of the great master implies the possibility of improving or correcting some of his views, without Plutarch’s credibility being undermined.” B. Feichtinger in Görgemanns et al., Plutarch: Dialog über die Liebe, 265. Hunter, Plato and the Traditions of Ancient Literature, 185, “a broadening of the Platonic vision in changed social circumstances and under the pressure of Plutarch’s own (Platonising) convictions”; he makes similar remarks at 212–213. Brenk reaches a conclusion along similar lines in “Plutarch’s Erotikos,” Lucchesi, like Rist (see previous n.), speaks rather of “updating,” “Love theory and political practice in Plutarch,” 213–214. F.E. Brenk, “Plutarch’s Flawed Characters: the Personae of the Dialogues,” in J. Opsomer, G. Roskam & F.B. Titchener (eds.), A Versatile Gentleman: Consistency in Plutarch’s Writing. Studies Offered to Luc Van der Stockt on the Occasion of his Retirement (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2016) 89–100 at 92. In “All for love: the rhetoric of exaggeration in Plutarch’s Erotikos,” in L. Van der Stockt (ed.), Rhetorical Theory and Praxis in Plutarch. Acta of the IVth International Congress of the International Plutarch Society, Leuven, July 3–6, 1996 (Leuven: Peeters, 2000) 45–60 Brenk had similarly argued that the use of exaggerated arguments, e.g. the choice of Semiramis as an exemplum (753D–E), might make uneasy even readers sympathetic to the case for female virtue and married love. Thus Görgemanns, “Eros als Gott,” 188–191, and in Görgemanns et al., Plutarch: Dialog über die Liebe, 19.

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textuality does add depth, it sets the agenda, and is itself, in a way, part of the discussion. It is indeed a dialogue with Plato, allowing him his say. This time Plato is not given a chance, even metaphorically, to answer back; but the essay still leaves us intrigued to wonder what his response might have been.

chapter 2

Hearing Voices: φωνή and Intertextual Orality in Plutarch Alexei V. Zadorojnyi

Abstract The chapter explores Plutarch’s intertextual policy by tracing references he tags as ‘voice’ (φωνή) or ‘voices.’ The range of such references comprises apophthegms and literary and philosophical texts. Yet the use of φωνή does not simply mean Plutarch’s predilection for orality as the counterpart of ‘writtenness.’ By framing intertextual material in terms of vocality, Plutarch attempts to create the effect of a live paideutic environment, where intertextually sourced values are effectively treated as performative acts. Especially dear to Plutarch is the idea of philosophical (notably, Plato’s) ‘voice,’ which is highly transferable into descriptions of and commentary on the discursive practices within Plutarch’s sociocultural milieu.

The notion of voice has become pivotal in recent readings of ancient literature from the intertextual and narratological perspectives. ‘Voice’ proves to be a wonderfully versatile interpretative tool for dealing with a) traceable intertexts, b) the stance adopted by the narrator or internal focalizers, as well as c) the oral and aural functions of speech and sound in the narrative itself.1 The aim of this chapter is to explore the role of voice as a factor of Plutarch’s intertextual practice—putting it bluntly, I propose to look at the idea of voice when it is literally (the oxymoron seems unavoidable here) mobilized in order to frame explicit references to an author or text2 that Plutarch is pointing towards. 1 See stimulating contributions e.g. in V. Rimell (ed.), Seeing Tongues, Hearing Scripts: Orality and Representation in the Ancient Novel (Groningen: Barkhuis, 2007); D. Van Mal-Maeder, A. Burnier & L. Núñez (eds.), Jeux de voix. Enonciation, intertextualité et intentionnalité dans la littérature antique (Bern: Lang, 2009); E. Raymond (ed.), Vox poetae: manifestations auctoriales dans l’ épopée gréco-latine (Lyon-Paris: de Boccard, 2011); A. Marmodoro & J. Hill (eds.), The Author’s Voice in Classical and Late Antiquity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013); N.W. Slater (ed.), Voice and Voices in Antiquity (Leiden-Boston: Brill, 2017). The thesis about the pervasive ‘textual vocality’ of Greco-Roman texts is pursued elegantly and provocatively by S. Butler, The Ancient Phonograph (New York: Zone Books, 2015). 2 On the explicit flagging of intertextual elements, see J. Helbig, Intertextualität und Markie-

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My inquiry concentrates on explicit onomastic references. It is self-evident that onomastic referencing, whether followed by a verbatim quotation or not, is a forceful invitation to think about the pre-text (‘hypotext’) and its significance for the Plutarchan host-text.3 Furthermore, the vocabulary used to frame the reference (or citation) may articulate, or at least imply, an evaluative attitude towards the pre-text; thus, Christophe Bréchet draws out Plutarch’s strategies and formulae (such as “to have at hand,” πρόχειρον ἔχειν) for converting poetic quotations into units of ethical discourse.4 There is no mistake that Plutarch is often busy promoting readerly reactions at the micro-level of the very words (verbs and participles, for the most part) which are deployed to frame references. For instance, the Stoic Chrysippus’ aggressive and nit-picking philosophical polemics are described as “nasty biting” (De Stoic. rep. 1038E πικρῶς … δάκνοντος); the rare compound verb ἐπιτραγῳδεῖ, with which Plutarch sums up Duris’ account of the sack of Samos (Per. 28.2), amalgamates suspicions about sensationalism with deep-seated awareness of suffering.5 Examples could go on. My main interest, however, are intertextual frames that can be mapped onto the axis between orality and literacy and, therefore, reflect the complex currents and transfigurations within the ancient literary culture. The oral/aural dimension of the text, which in antiquity is presupposed and sought almost ‘teleologically,’6 has to co-exist with the no-less consequential proneness for negotiating the text as script. References to Homer and other early Greek poetry show how intertextual signaling alternates between ‘oral’ and ‘written’ options. On the one hand, there is the tendency, from the

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rung. Untersuchungen zur Systematik und Funktion der Signalisierung von Intertextualität (Heidelberg: Winter, 1996) esp. 115–117 and 135–138. For useful critical overview of the terminology, see Helbig, Intertextualität und Markierung, 75–78. C. Bréchet, “Vers une philosophie de la citation poétique: écrit, oral et mémoire chez Plutarque,” Hermathena 182 (2007) 101–134. On the ancient lexical and stylistic habits of framing quotations, see J. Svenbro, “Façons grecques de dire ‘citer’,” in C. Darbo-Peschanski (ed.), La citation dans l’ Antiquité (Grenoble: J. Millon, 2004) 265–279, as well as other studies in the same volume; further, C. Nicolas (ed.), Hôs ephat’, dixerit quispiam, comme disait l’autre … Mécanismes de la citation et de la mention dans les langues de l’Antiquité (Grenoble: Université Stendhal-Grenoble 3, 2006). See C.B.R. Pelling, “Tragic Colouring in Plutarch,” in J. Opsomer, G. Roskam & F.B. Titchener (eds.), A Versatile Gentleman: Consistency in Plutarch’s Writing. Studies Offered to Luc Van der Stockt on the Occasion of his Retirement (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2016) 118: “the criticism is not just that the treatments are tastelessly sensational but that they are false ⟨…⟩ It remains true, though, that the sort of extravagance has something distinctively ‘tragic’, not just theatrical: these cases all concern suffering on the grand scale, even if in reality (and this is Plutarch’s point) it was not as great as the historians have claimed.” Cf. Butler, The Ancient Phonograph, 36–38.

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Hellenistic age onwards, to inject terminology of ‘writtenness’ into mentions of the Homeric poems, the Muses, and so forth;7 Plutarch is not immune to this trend (Quaest. conv. 668C–D; De am. prol. 496D).8 Yet this is not a oneway trend. According to Anne Gangloff, Dio of Prusa’s quotations from poetry favor ‘oral’ vocabulary that is by default more germane to Dio’s own sophistic performance;9 Nicole Loraux identifies dynamic tug-of-war between orality and writing in the ancient references to Solon’s poetry, notably in Plutarch’s Life.10 Philosophical intertextuality is another area where the host-text’s choice between ‘oral’ or ‘written’ mounting for a reference could be potentially meaningful.11 This chapter aspires to add to the debate by examining, first, the range of intertextual references Plutarch overtly tags with the term ‘voice’ (φωνή). Plutarch’s apparent readiness to ‘oralize’ the pre-text will then be foregrounded in his overall program of cultivating paideutic values (and, specifically, Platonic orientation) through the interface of texts and language.12

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See G. Nagy, “L’ aède épique en auteur: la tradition des Vies d’Homère,” in C. Calame & R. Chartier (eds.), Identités d’auteur dans l’ Antiquité et la tradition européenne (Grenoble: J. Millon, 2004) 44 with n. 8; generally P. Bing, The Well-Read Muse: Present and Past in Callimachus and the Hellenistic Poets, revised edition (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan, 2008) 15–35. A comprehensive inventory of vocabulary that frames Homeric quotations and references in Plutarch is provided by J.M. Díaz Lavado, Las citas de Homero en Plutarco (Zaragoza: Libros Pórtico, 2010) 108–117. A. Gangloff, “Mentions et citations de poètes chez Dion Chrysostome. Manipulation et statut de la parole mythico-poétique dans le discours sophistique,” in C. Nicolas (ed.), Hôs ephat’, dixerit quispiam, comme disait l’ autre … Mécanismes de la citation et de la mention dans les langues de l’ Antiquité (Grenoble: Université Stendhal-Grenoble 3, 2006) 101–122, esp. 111. N. Loraux, “Solon et la voix de l’ écrit,” in M. Detienne (ed.), Les savoirs de l’écriture. En Grèce ancienne (Lille: Presses Universitaires de Lille, 1988) 95–108. See A.V. Zadorojnyi, “Transcribing Plato’s voice: the Platonic intertext between writtenness and orality,” in L. Van der Stockt, F. Titchener, H.G. Ingenkamp & A. Pérez Jiménez (eds.), Gods, Daimones, Rituals, Myths and History of Religions in Plutarch’s Works. Studies Devoted to Professor Frederick E. Brenk by the International Plutarch Society (LoganMalaga: Utah State University-Universitad de Málaga, 2010) 369–390. While the problem of Platonic writtenness is not directly addressed by T. Tieleman, “Onomastic reference in Seneca: the case of Plato and the Platonists,” in M. Bonazzi & C. Helmig (eds.), Platonic Stoicism—Stoic Platonism. The Dialogue between Platonism and Stoicism in Antiquity (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2007) 133–148, his argument that nominatim references advertize philosophical authority in a personalized, near-biographical format is extremely important. Cf. A.V. Zadorojnyi, “Kratein onomatôn: language and value in Plutarch,” in M. Beck (ed.), A Companion to Plutarch (Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2014) 304–320.

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Quotable Voices

Plutarch makes use of φωνή, both in the singular and the plural form, when framing apophthegmatic sayings by famous individuals. Luc. 27.9: He replied with the memorable phrase (ἀπεκρίνατο τὴν μνημονευομένην φωνήν) … Sol. 14.4: And it is reported that a remark of his was spread around (λέγεται δὲ καὶ φωνή τις αὐτοῦ περιφερομένη) … Dem. 26.5: He bore his exile without fortitude … so that his utterances which are preserved are neither sensible nor consistent with his bold political conduct (φωνὰς οὐκ εὐγνώμονας οὐδ’ ὁμολογουμένας τοῖς ἐν τῇ πολιτείᾳ νεανιεύμασιν ἀπομνημονεύεσθαι). An seni 785F: And shall we not be deterred by what Pompey the Great said (τῇ τοῦ Πομπηίου Μάγνου φωνῇ) to Lucullus … De Al. Magn. fort. 330E: … let’s examine his sayings (τὰς φωνὰς ἴδωμεν), since it is especially through their sayings that the souls of other kings and rulers project their characters (τὰ … ἤθη … ταῖς φωναῖς αἱ ψυχαὶ προβάλλουσιν). In the last passage, the second occurrence of ‘voices’ (ταῖς φωναῖς) designates dicta by persons whom Plutarch profiles together on the grounds of political status (“kings and rulers”). A similarly an open-ended assortment of ‘voices’ may turn on the criterion of ethnicity and/or moral stature. Lyc. 25.5: So their [scil. the Spartans’] mindset can be observed in certain dicta of theirs too (ὡς ἔστι καὶ φωναῖς τισιν αὐτῶν ἀποθεωρῆσαι τὴν διάνοιαν). Con. praec. 145E: I urge you, Eurydice, to consort with the sayings (ἀποφθέγμασιν ὁμιλεῖν) of the wise and good, and always to have at your tongue’s end those utterances (διὰ στόματος ἀεὶ τὰς φωνάς ἔχειν ἐκείνας). It is clear that the fabric of the anecdotal tradition, which Plutarch actively taps into, is acknowledged as oral/aural.13 Quite apart from the original setting of 13

Cf. S. Goldhill, “The anecdote. Exploring the boundaries between oral and literature per-

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the speech act, the apophthegms are geared towards live, script-free recall (Luc. 2.4): … he [Lucullus] restored Cyrene to order and fixed its constitution, reminding the city of a certain phrase of Plato (Πλατωνικῆς τινος φωνῆς ἀναμνήσας τὴν πόλιν), which he had prophetically delivered (ἀπεθέσπισε) to them.14 The normative contents of the sayings ought to be absorbed into the emphatically oral discursive routine of Plutarch’s trainee (Con. praec. 145E διὰ στόματος ἀεὶ τὰς φωνάς ἔχειν ἐκείνας).15 At the same time, the apophthegmatic voices are endowed with a certain ontological tangibility via texts: they can be, quite literally, scrutinized (De Al. magn. fort. 330E τὰς φωνὰς ἴδωμεν, Lyc. 25.5 φωναῖς … ἀποθεωρῆσαι),16 one can keep company with them (Con. praec. 145E ἀποφθέγμασιν ὁμιλεῖν). The implicit textual permanence of the apophthegmatic φωναί underpins their efficacy as material for ethico-political analysis (De Al. Magn. fort. 330E, Dem. 26.5),17 which could entail an intrusive construal of the transmitted sayings along with a collation between corpora, as it were, of great voices (De Al. magn. fort. 330F–331A): If you subtract from Alexander’s dicta (τῶν δ’ Ἀλεξάνδρου φωνῶν ἂν ἀφέλῃς) the crown, Ammon, and noble birth—they will appear (φανοῦνται) to you to be by Socrates or Plato or Pythagoras. Even so, Plutarch’s consciousness of the apophthegms’ orality does not altogether surprise.18 More striking are his references to literary texts stricto sensu,

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formance in the Second Sophistic,” in W.A. Johnson & H.N. Parker (eds.), Ancient Literacies. The Culture of Reading in Greece and Rome (New York: Oxford University Press, 2009) 96–113. For the story of Plato’s refusal to legislate for Cyrene, see A.S. Riginos, Platonica. The Anecdotes Concerning the Life and Writings of Plato (Leiden: Brill, 1976) 191–193. See more below. For incisive critique of the ‘videocentric’ intellectual bias of Plato and the ensuing philosophical tradition, see A. Cavarero, For More Than One Voice. Towards a Philosophy of Vocal Expression, transl. P.A. Kottman (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2005) 36–37, 82 and passim. But also makes deliberate suppression possible: Herodotus is accused by Plutarch of being wont to “omit (προΐεσθαι) noble actions and noble sayings (καλὰς δὲ φωνάς) not due to carelessness” (De Her. mal. 866D). Any apophthegmatic scenario hinges, after all, upon retention and recycling of an oral

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which are nonetheless framed through the idiom of voice. The variety of poetic and prose texts summoned in this way is appreciable. Sol. 31.7, with Sol. frs. 18 and 26 West2: Since the fact that he had plenty of free time is evinced by these words (μηνύουσιν αἱ τοιαῦται φωναί) … Per. 8.4: The comedians … were making many comments about him (ἀφεικότων φωνὰς εἰς αὐτόν) in earnest and in jest.19 Arat. 38.11: Yet Aratus says everything he can (πᾶσαν … ἀφίησι φωνὴν) to explain how he was under pressure … Tim. 15.10: When these words [of the ousted Dionysius II] I compare (παραβάλλοντι τούτοις) with the noise Philistus makes when lamenting (τὰς Φιλίστου φωνάς, ἃς ἀφίησι … ὀλοφυρόμενος) the daughters of Leptines … De def. or. 416A, referring back to the quotation of Hesiod, fr. 304 Merkelbach-West in 415C: [CLEOMBROTUS] … the words (τῶν φωνῶν) about the crow and the stag … If one must speculate about the unifying premise behind Plutarch’s choice of φωνή/φωναί as an intertextual marker across these passages, the likeliest criterion would be the perceived (by Plutarch, that is) quasi-performative selfdramatization on behalf of the pre-text. The specific reasons for a pointedly ‘vocal’ performative posture might have to do not only with the text’s misguided emotionalism (Tim. 15.10) and apologetic agenda (Arat. 38.11), but also with the fact that is was once broadcast on stage (Per. 8.4);20 Solon’s verses

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utterance. Cf. e.g. the story about the incautious conspirator’s words (τὴν φωνὴν τἀνθρώπου) being passed on to Nero (Plu. De gar. 505D), or the philosopher’s recall of the retort which the crowd at the Panathenaic games shouted in unison (Luc. Nigr. 14 φωνῆς τινος, ἣν ἀκοῦσαι πάντων … κοινῇ προεμένων … ἀναβοῆσαι μιᾷ φωνῇ πάντας). See further S. Xenophontos, “Comedy in Plutarch’s Parallel Lives,” GRBS 52 (2012) 616– 621. Cf. the comment about the clout of Athenian drama in Thes. 16.3: “it is difficult for a man to be hated by a city that has a voice and poetic talent (φωνὴν … καὶ μοῦσαν)”. For the latent Platonic allusion here, see R. Renehan, “Poet or Plato in Plutarch?” CPh 74 (1979) 244–245. In Quaest. conv. 622D, “song-like and metrical voices” (τὰς ἐπῳδοὺς καὶ ἐμμέτρους … φωνάς)

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have a performative side, too, as an energetic display of the authorial self (Sol. 31.7).21 By tagging a reference ‘voice,’ Plutarch is promoting the intertext in question as a performative act.22

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Intertextual Orality: between Epiphenomenal and Strategic

Taken at face value, the above claim is bound to appear rather drastic. Plutarch may have a penchant for framing references through the lens of φωνή,23 but this hardly allows to say that he is beholden to some sort of sustained fantasy about oral intertexts. Perhaps all those ‘voices’ are just a stylistic protocol? Let us not forget how fond the Greek literary tradition is of probing and, indeed, breaking down the polarity between the scripted word and the oral, vocally energized word. Vocality is attributable to writing in the classical texts that were on Plutarch’s reading list. In Nicias 9.7, he cites a verse that happens to be from Euripides’ passage (fr. 369 Kannicht-Snell) containing the phrase “I would unfold the speech of the tablets” (lines 6–7 δέλτων τ’ ἀναπτύσσοιμι γῆρυν). In imperial prose, too, ‘voice’ and written text are tightly interlocked. ‘Voice’ in the sense of rhetorical style is what qualifies an intellectual for a top bureaucratic post (Philostr. VA 1.12.2); the reader is “falling upon” the vocal domain of the author (Max. Tyr. 11.1 ἐς τὰς Πλάτωνος φωνὰς ἐμπεσὼν, 26.1 εἰς τὰς Ὁμήρου φωνὰς ἐμπεσὼν), and the sheer materiality of books cannot help losing out to “the writers’ speech and thought” (Luc. Ind. 28 ἐκ τῆς φωνῆς καὶ τῆς γνώ-

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serve as a deliberately broad definition of poetry, although Aeschylus is mentioned in the next sentence (622E). The sense of vocal performativity is less immediately clear for Hesiod’s lines labelled τῶν φωνῶν in De def. or. 416A. The verses are introduced in 415D by the verb λέγει, which is anything but remarkable as an intertextual frame. Maybe what matters is that the Hesiodic quotation occurs within the setting of a (narrated) dialogue. Cf. the voice of the performing citharode in Phil. 11.4. Plutarch may go so far as to ascribe appreciation of vocally performed speech-acts to the hypotext itself, cf. Ages. 29.2: “Xenophon is right when he says that there is some memorable value in the sayings and pastimes (φωνὰς καὶ διατριβὰς) of good men in their cups and at leisure”. In the passage referred to here (Xen. Symp. 1.1), there is no emphasis whatsoever on ‘voices’ or speech! Which in the repertoire of Greek intertextuality is not such a unique operation in itself: e.g. [Luc.] Am. 43 “to burst out with this spiel by Menander (τὴν Μενάνδρειον ἐκείνην ἀπορρήξας φωνήν) …”; Aristid. 36.18 “one might call it, in the language (φωνῇ) of Euripides …” In De gar. 510E Plutarch draws upon Plato’s Protagoras 342e and so might have remembered that shortly before in the Protagoras (341b7–c1) the queried expression of Simonides is called “voice” (τὴν Σιμωνίδου φωνήν).

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μης τῶν γεγραφότων).24 Plutarch is doing nothing unorthodox, then, when he categorizes a phrase located in an expressly written document as φωνή (Cic. 24.6): Yet some who try to imitate Demosthenes seize upon a remark (ἐπιφύονται φωνῇ) which Cicero has put in a letter (ἔθηκεν ἐν ἐπιστολῇ γράψας) to one of his friends … Likewise, the notion of vowels as “letters that emit a voice of their own” (De E 386A τὰ φωνὴν ἰδίαν ἀφιέντα τῶν γραμμάτων) is thoroughly traditional.25 One could doubt, at the end of the day, whether Plutarch feels strongly about the conceptual and cultural distinctiveness of orality at all. His teacher Ammonius points out in De def. or. 431C that the voice has no monopoly over human communication—writing and non-verbal signals are equally valid modes of information exchange: [AMMONIUS] … we signify a great deal to each other about the past and the future not only by voice but also by means of letters (οὐ πάντα διὰ φωνῆς ἀλλὰ καὶ γράμμασι) and touch or a glance … But it would be an even greater folly to over-trivialize Plutarch’s outlook on orality. The opposition between orality and writtenness is on Plutarch’s radar, given that a number of his works are palpably suffused with long-standing Greek concerns about political (ab)use of writing and the effectiveness of writing as a medium for spreading philosophical virtue and wisdom.26 The references to

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On this Lucianic essay, see W.A. Johnson, Readers and Reading Culture: A Study of Elite Reading Communities (New York: Oxford University Press, 2010) 158–170, esp. 163. The juxtaposition of φωνή with γνώμη tends to reduce ‘voice’ to ‘diction’, ‘wordage’: e.g. Luc. Hist.Conscr. 43–44; Max. Tyr. 32.2, cf. 26.3; further, D.Chr. 36.27, 37.25. But φωνή on its own can also be shorthand for the author’s strong, bona fide presence behind the text, e.g. Philostr. VA 4.19: “the book (βιβλίῳ) by Apollonius … in which he teaches this lore in his own words (τῇ ἑαυτοῦ φωνῇ ἐκδιδάσκει)”; cf. n. 34 below. E.g. Pl. Tht. 203b6–7, Cra. 393d9–e1, Phlb. 18b3–c5; Arist. Po. 1456b25–27; D.H. Comp. 14, Dem. 4, 38; Philo Alex. De plant. 10; Plu. Quaest. conv. 613E; Luc. Jud.Voc. 1–2, 5, 10. See G. Lachenaud, Les Routes de la voix. L’Antiquité grecque et le mystère de la voix (Paris: Belles Lettres, 2013) 48–49. See esp. A.V. Zadorojnyi, “ ‘Stabbed with large pens’: trajectories of literacy in Plutarch’s Lives,” in L. De Blois, J.A.E. Bons, T. Kessels & D.M. Schenkeveld (eds.), The Statesman in Plutarch’s Works, vol. ii (Leiden-Boston: Brill 2005) 113–137; idem, “Cato’s suicide in

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which Plutarch attaches the label φωνή do not necessarily indicate the urge to priorize orality over script. Having said that, these references can unlock the deep, structural relevance of orality per se within the Plutarchan macrotext. The climate of intertextual vocality, which they cumulatively generate, suits Plutarch in more than one way. The tactic of presenting intertexts as ‘voices’ bears on the importance of pitching Plutarch’s own text as a ‘live,’ immediate and intimate readerly experience. Literary artistry is no doubt a factor,27 yet more fundamentally the phenomenon of ‘intertextorality’ in Plutarch fits in with his overarching and multi-faceted endeavor to promulgate normative moral and intellectual values. ‘Vocalized’ intertexts are conducive to immersing the reader in the flow of ‘live,’ pedagogical discourse, where the values are dramatized and rehearsed outloud, as it were.28 When treated as ‘voices,’ the intertextually configured values are enlivened, because the intrinsic dynamism of the oral word rubs off on them. To Plutarch and his narratees (both external and internal) this means truly priceless opportunities for taking ownership of these values in terms of exegesis and learning. It is a great advantage to be able to talk the talk, rather than merely to quote. Consider how frequently Plutarch resorts to φωνή when offering in-yourface examples of ethical qualities and attitudes.29 Goodness and flaws alike are acted out by way of mini-recital of intertextually obtained ‘voices’: Non posse 1099A, with adesp. trag. frs. 410–410A Kannicht-Snell: Such men never get tired or give up helping others, but this is the language we hear from them (τοιαύτας αὐτῶν ἀκούομεν φωνάς): “father sired you as a gain to mortals,” and “let’s not cease from benefitting humanity.”

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Plutarch,” CQ 57 (2007) 216–230; idem, “The ethico-politics of writing in Plutarch’s Life of Dion,” JHS 131 (2011) 147–163; M. Lane, “Platonizing the Spartan politeia in Plutarch’s Lycurgus,” in V. Harte & M. Lane (eds.), Politeia in Greek and Roman Philosophy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013) 57–77. In §40 of Arnaud Zucker’s electronic article “Les citations dans le Dialogue sur l’amour (Eroticos logos) de Plutarque,” Rursus 4 (2009) the Plutarchan manner of concatenating quotations in a dialogue is interestingly likened to rhapsodic performance (“… une version savante et rénovée de la rhapsodie archaïque, et un prolongement sur le mode oral et écrit de la composition poétique”). Cf. Bréchet, “Vers une philosophie de la citation poétique,” 104–105 and 111; also n. 42 below. Performativity of quotations in Plutarch cannot be simply a spinoff from the ancient custom of reading aloud, although it is naturally enhanced by it. Ethopoeic declamation is perhaps more apropos. For the link between opinion (δόξα) and enunciation (φωνή), cf. De sup. 170D.

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De tranq. an. 471C, with Hom. Il. 2.111/9.18 and Eur. IA 16–18: The voices of aggravations, from within, testify against (αἱ δὲ τῶν παθῶν φωναὶ … ἔνδοθεν ἀντιμαρτυροῦσιν) this hollow fame … De virt. mor. 445F, with Mimn. fr. 1.1–2 West2 and Alexis fr. 273.4–5 KasselAustin: For these are the voices of the intemperate (ἀκολάστων … αἵδε φωναί) … An seni 793C, with E. HF 268–269: … nor to force our old age … to retreat to phrases like these (ἐπὶ τοιαύτας φωνὰς καταφέρεσθαι) … De aud. poet. 17C–D, with Hom. Od. 11.72, Il. 16.856–857 = 22.362–363, and Eur. IA 1218–1219: Those who bemoan and fear death as woeful, or lack of burial as shocking, have come up with very many exclamations (φωνὰς ἐξενηνόχασι) such as the following: ⟨…⟩ This is language (αὗται, scil. φωναί) of those who are affected and controlled by opinion and delusion. At the level of value-statements, the difference between literary characters and real-life moral agents seems to be minimal, if existent at all. Plutarch’s focus is on the human ethical and social self caught in the intertextual mise en voix of values (An seni 791D, with adesp. trag. frs. 410–410A Kannicht-Snell):30 For nature … dictates these words (ταύτας ὑπαγορεύει τὰς φωνάς) to those who are not entirely ruined by idleness and degeneracy … In ancient philosophy it is a standard procedure to invoke ‘nature’ as the indispensable cognitive and ethical matrix;31 here, Plutarch makes ‘nature’ into an intertextually savvy instructor! More typically, however, Plutarch would leave the prerogative of switching on the intertextual φωνή to the moral agents themselves and, of course, to the astute and well-read audience of ethical scenarios: De coh. ira 463E: [FUNDANUS] … any one of us, when angry and inflicting punishment, puts on the tone of Aristides and Cato (Ἀριστείδου φωνάς ἐπιφέρει καὶ Κάτωνος). 30

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Again, the rhetorical algorithm of triangulating quotation with moral message and ‘voice’ should not be regarded as exclusively Plutarchan know-how; e.g. in Max. Tyr. 12.8 the lightly rephrased sentence from Plato’s Apology 30c is acclaimed as “the very voice of justice” (αὕτη φωνὴ δίκης). See B. Holmes, “Greco-Roman ethics and the naturalistic fantasy,” Isis 105 (2014) 569–578.

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Amat. 769D, with adesp. com. fr. 736 Kassel-Austin: [PLUTARCH]: … lest the husband … is forced to utter the phrase from the comedy (ἀναγκάζηται τὰς ἐκ τῆς κωμῳδίας λέγειν φωνάς): “What a wretch I am, wronging such a wife!” De am. prol. 497B, with Aristoph. Eq. 50–51: But you hear the words of strangers around the childless man, like those famous comic ones (ἀλλοτρίων … φωνὰς ἀκούεις ταῖς κωμικαῖς ἐκείναις ὁμοίας) … Several of these texts provide insight into the workshop of Plutarchan composition; citational clusters (De virt. mor. 445F, De tranq. an. 471C, De aud. poet. 17C), some of which are recurrent (An seni 791D ~ Non posse 1099A), strongly suggest the use of hupomnêmata, where Plutarch kept his pool of thematized excerpts.32 But this, in turn, throws into relief Plutarch’s decision to re-vocalize the quotations, creating the aura of intertextual (re)performance; although quotations from drama are prominent,33 φωνή also helps the readers tune in to the Homeric epic (De aud. poet. 17C, De tranq. an. 471C), lyric (De virt. mor. 445F), and the biographical tradition (De coh. ira 463E).

3

Oral-Aural Framing of Philosophical Intertexts

Plutarch’s use of φωνή as a frame for onomastic references to philosophers is all the more revealing of his commitment to ‘intertextorality.’ The idea of the philosophical ‘voice’ straddles and, conceivably, transcends the dichotomy between the oral and the written. A philosopher’s pronouncement (φωνή) is part of his intellectual legacy even when it is recalled as a dictum (Luc. 2.4

32

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Seminal work on Plutarch’s quotations as clues towards his hypomnemata has been done by L. Van der Stockt, see e.g. “Plutarch in Plutarch: the problem of the hypomnemata,” in I. Gallo (ed.), La biblioteca di Plutarco. Atti del IX Convegno plutarcheo. Pavia, 13–15 giugno 2002 (Naples: D’Auria, 2004) 331–340; for fresh re-assessment, see M. Beck, “Plutarch’s hypomnemata,” in M. Horster & C. Reitz (eds.), Condensing Texts—Condensed Texts (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2010) 349–367; S. Xenophontos, “Plutarch’s compositional technique in the An seni respublica gerenda sit,” AJPh 133 (2012) 61–91. Cf. Quaest. conv. 673D “the playacting of those emotions and the imitation of the voices and moods [of people in distress]” (οἱ δ’ ὑποκρινόμενοι ταῦτα τὰ πάθη καὶ μιμούμενοι τὰς φωνὰς αὐτῶν καὶ τὰς διαθέσεις); Max. Tyr. 1.1 “When actors are playing in Dionysus’ theatre (τὰ δράματα ὑποκρινόμενοι), speaking now with the voice of Agamemnon (τὰς τοῦ Ἀγαμέμνονος ἱέντες φωνάς), next with that of Achilles …” (transl. M. Trapp, modified).

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Πλατωνικῆς τινος φωνῆς, De aud. 44B τὴν Πυθαγόρου φωνὴν), or is ostensibly differentiated from the texts authored by the philosopher (Non posse 1097A–B): … what expressions Epicurus let out and what letters he sent (οἵας φωνὰς ἀφῆκεν Ἐπίκουρος, οἷα δὲ γράμματα … ἔπεμψεν) to his friends, celebrating and magnifying Metrodorus … Yet the orality of Epicurus’ ‘voices’ here could be a red herring. Plutarch has no qualms about applying φωνή to philosophical textuality that is envisaged, explicitly or implicitly, as written. Non posse 1086D: … to show those who would correct others, that every argument and the books (τὰ γράμματα) one examines must be looked into not perfunctorily, that one should not wrest words from different contexts (φωνὰς ἀλλαχόθεν ἄλλας ἀποσπῶντα) … De Stoic. rep. 1049E: … just as we are now bringing up his [Chrysippus’] phrases and notions (αὐτοῦ φωνὰς καὶ ὑπολήψεις παρατιθεμένων) that are contradictory to one another.34 Philosophy is a special genre for Plutarch,35 and so a philosopher’s φωνή is a special kind of voice. Behind Plutarch’s business-as-usual acceptance of φωνή in philosophical texts, there lies a vision of philosophy as a totalizing, discursive practice-cum-presence, which is above writtenness36 and above orality in the banal sense. Philosophers are entitled to speech that is semantically superior37 and, by the same token, super-oral at the level of cultural relevance and deliverability, so to speak; text and sayings from the oral/biographical tradition38 34 35 36

37 38

Compare Aristid. 2.304 for use of verbatim yet quasi-oral (“in his own voice,” τῇ ἑαυτοῦ φωνῇ) quotation from Plato (Lg. 829a) as an argumentative weapon against Plato. A.V. Zadorojnyi, “The unbearable lightness of philosophia,” in T.E. Duff & C.S. Chrysanthou (eds.), Generic Enrichment in Plutarch (London: Routledge, forthcoming). Plato’s reservations about writing mean that to Plutarch as a Platonist the written word is philosophically suspect: e.g. Num. 22.2–4. In the Dion, Plutarch’s reception of Plato is haunted by the problem of writtenness: see Zadorojnyi, “The ethico-politics of writing”. Cf. Phoc. 5.4; An seni 796D–E; De Is. et Os. 379C. Consider the ready approximation, by the enthusiastic Platonist and Plutarch’s friend Tyndares, of Plato’s oral and written comments (Quaest. conv. 718C–D: “what he himself often said and wrote (αὐτὸς εἴρηκε καὶ γέγραφεν πολλάκις) in celebration of geometry …”). The authority of Plato’s dicta is on a par with the authority of his writing. A good handful of Plato’s sayings is reported by Plutarch; the oral framing of the references qua speech acts is predictable yet still noteworthy: εἰώθει λέγειν (Mar. 2.3, De cap. ex inim. 88D–E, cf.

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are, therefore, subsumed under the heading ‘voice.’ Such an attitude cannot be ruled out even for Plutarch’s negative reference to the “empty phrases” of the Epicureans (Non posse 1089F–1090A κεναῖς φωναῖς), but it is certainly central to his remarkable appraisal of Numa Pompilius (Num. 20.8–10): But whether it was fear of the gods, who appeared to take care of the man, or respect for his virtue, or supernatural good fortune … that made [Numa] a manifest illustration and confirmation of Plato’s voice which, very much later, he ventured to discharge about government (ἐναργὲς ἐξήνεγκε παράδειγμα καὶ τεκμήριον τῆς Πλατωνικῆς φωνῆς, ἣν ὕστερον ἐκεῖνος οὐκ ὀλίγοις χρόνοις γενόμενος ἐτόλμησεν ἀφεῖναι περὶ πολιτείας), namely, that human ills would only then cease and disappear when, by some divine chance, the power of a king should be united in one person with the insight of a philosopher, thereby establishing virtue in control and mastery over vice. “Blessed,” indeed, is such a wise man “in himself, and blessed, too, are those who hear the words of wisdom issuing from his lips (οἱ συνήκοοι τῶν ἐκ τοῦ σωφρονοῦντος στόματος ἰόντων λόγων).” Numa’s political destiny, or his biography, turns him into an intertext for Plato, with the anachronism proudly foregrounded (ὕστερον … οὐκ ὀλίγοις χρόνοις). Plato is framed not as Plato the author, but rather as the “Platonic voice.” The theory of philosophical kingship,39 which is credited to the “Platonic voice,” is a creatively condensed paraphrase of several passages in the Republic (487e, 499b, 501e), followed by a verbatim yet unflagged citation from the Laws (711e– 712a); the reader is assumed to recognize Plato’s language. Thus, the passage is a splendid specimen of Plutarch’s Platonic intertextuality, showcasing simultaneously the propensity for unpedantic paraphrase and montage of Plato’s arguments40 and the expectations about the readers’ knowledge of Plato. Also,

39

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De tuenda 135D), ὕμνει (Mar. 46.1, cf. Quaest. conv. 718D), εἰπὼν (Adv. Col. 1108A), παρεμυθεῖτο … φάμενος (Lys. 18.9), παρεκελεύετο (Con. praec. 141F), ἠγανάκτησε καὶ διετείνετο (Marc. 14.11), ἐμέμψατο (Quaest. conv. 718E). Here construed as borderline transgressive proclamation (φωνῆς, ἣν … ἐτόλμησεν ἀφεῖναι), whereas elsewhere in Plutarch it is inscribed with prophetic holiness (Comp. Dem. et Cic. 3.4 Πλάτωνι μαντευομένῳ). On Plutarch’s interest in the topic of philosophical kingship, see generally B. Boulet, “The philosopher-king,” in M. Beck (ed.), A Companion to Plutarch (Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2014) 449–462. The most salient Plutarchan outlines, that do not yield any identifiable quotations, of Plato’s philosophical message are Galba 1.3, Nic. 23.5 and Dion 10.2–11.1. I cannot bring myself to follow the interpretative direction of the otherwise insightful and balanced study of X. Brouillette & A. Giavatto, “Les dialogues platoniciens chez Plutarque. Une

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in the context of the Life, it is poignant that the inclusion of Plato’s voice culminates with a praise of the aural/oral actualization of wisdom (“who hear the words … issuing from his lips”), since Numa’s limitations as educator of the Roman people are going to be exposed by the fact that his religious books were buried with him and eventually destroyed (22.2, 6–8).41 It cannot be overlooked that the vocality of literary, and especially philosophical, intertexts is embedded in the ‘live’ and oral discursive practice of the Plutarchan milieu.42 The newlywed Eurydice is advised to rehearse the apophthegmatic sayings (Con. praec. 145E); an anti-Epicurean polemic takes place in the wake of aurally experienced recapitulation (Non posse 1097A ἠκούομεν τού-

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introduction,” in iidem (eds.), Les dialogues platoniciens chez Plutarque. Stratégies et méthodes exégétiques (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2010) 1–25, who see Plutarch’s uninhibited approach to rephrasing and re-contextualizing Platonic passages as a problem that leads to (at 24) “loss of the author” (perte de l’ auteur): “Platon lui-même peut être victime de procès de simplification et disparaître lorsque l’un de ses textes s’insère dans les Moralia …”. In my interpretation, Plutarch’s creatively transformative engagement with Plato’s texts is proof that he is doing his best to keep the Platonic textuality alive and available for experimentation—he has to be a keen and proactive stakeholder in Platonic authorship (cf. Quaest. conv. 615F–616A and De soll. an. 964D) for the sake of propagating Plato’s authority. On Plutarch’s Numa vis-à-vis the Platonic paradigm, see B. Boulet, “Is Numa the genuine philosopher king?” in L. De Blois, J.A.E. Bons, T. Kessels & D.M. Schenkeveld (eds.), The Statesman in Plutarch’s Works, vol. ii (Leiden-Boston: Brill 2005) 245–256. For Plutarch’s quotations as exercise in genteel and playful erudition displayed by elite pepaideumenoi in an oral (sympotic) setting, see J. Dillon, “Plutarch’s use of unidentified quotations,” in M. Jufresa, F. Mestre, P. Gómez & P. Gilabert (eds.), Plutarc a la seva època: Paideia i societat. Actas del VIII Simposio Español sobre Plutarco (Barcelona, 6–8 de Noviembre de 2003) (Barcelona: Universitat de Barcelona, 2005) 273–281; J. König, “Conversational and citational brevity in Plutarch’s Sympotic Questions,” in M. Horster & Chr. Reitz (eds.), Condensing Texts—Condensed Texts (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2010) 321–348; idem, “Self-promotion and self-effacement in Plutarch’s Table Talk,” in F. Klotz & K. Oikonomopoulou (eds.), The Philosopher’s Banquet. Plutarch’s Table Talk in the Intellectual Culture of the Roman Empire (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011) 195–202 ~ cf. idem, Saints and Symposiasts. The Literature of Food and the Symposium in Greco-Roman and Early Christian Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012) 75–81. This approach is not incompatible with the view that Plutarch’s Table Talk is fairly straightforward reportage on the parties he attended, as argued recently by A. Casanova, “Quaestiones convivales: composizione e fonti, tradizione e riprese,” in M. Sanz Morales, R. González Delgado, M. Librán Moreno & J. Ureña Bracero (eds.), La (inter)textualidad en Plutarco. Actas del XII Simposio Internacional de la Sociedad Española de Plutarquistas (Cáceres, 8–10 de Octubre de 2015) (Cáceres-Coimbra: Universidad de Extremadura, 2017) 321–343. For the image of elite group organised around a specialized genus of orality, see J. Kenty, “Cicero’s representation of an oral community in De oratore,” in N.W. Slater (ed.), Voice and Voices in Antiquity (Leiden-Boston: Brill, 2017) 351–376.

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του λέγοντος) of Epicurus’ esteem for his student Metrodorus; a misconstrual of Pythagoras’ ‘voice’ is, literally, “out of tune” (De aud. 44B παρὰ μέλος). Philosophical utterances can be spelled out (another oxymoron!) as exemplary and transferable directly into one’s conduct or intellectual activity: De gar. 512B: Often we ask people questions not to get an answer, but just to elicit a word (φωνὴν δέ τινα) of amicability and to draw them towards conversation, as Socrates did with Theaetetus and Charmides. De def. or. 420C: [AMMONIUS] I think that Theophrastus has stated it rightly (ὀρθῶς … ἀποφήνασθαι). What is there to prevent endorsement of a phrase that is majestic and supremely philosophical (φωνὴν δέξασθαι σεμνὴν καὶ φιλοσοφωτάτην)? Note how, in the last passage, Theophrastus’ comment (which seamlessly merges with Ammonius’ speech)43 mirrors itself—both to the internal audience and the readers, it must sound just like an excellent philosophical φωνή. Plato gets the lion’s share of philosophical intertextual vocality performed in Plutarch’s paideutic lifeworld.44 Plutarch recommends reciting Plato’s dictum as an element of ethical training (De coh. ira 463E): [FUNDANUS] If one would keep repeating to oneself that Platonic phrase (ἂν δὲ κἀκεῖνό τις ἐπιφθεγγόμενος ἀεὶ τὸ τοῦ Πλάτωνος), “Am I not like that?” … References to Plato’s texts are also dramatized as a vocal and audible presence:45 De E 389F, with Pl. Ti. 31a: [PLUTARCH] I shall produce Plato who says (τὸν Πλάτωνα προσάξομαι λέγοντα) that …

43

44

45

Cf. König, “Conversational and citational brevity,” 340: “The words of the quoted text become almost a part of the voice of the speaker, internalised and organically reproduced and adapted as required …”. Of course, Plutarch also casts himself as expert and aesthetically sensitive connoisseur of Plato’s writings: cf. Quaest. conv. 718C, Adv. Col. 1115C–D, Sol. 32.1. Conversely, oralization of Platonic references is not unusual in imperial Greek texts: e.g. Epict. Diss. 1.28.4, 4.1.172; Max. Tyr. 13.7; Aristid. 2.438; Philostr. VA 6.11.8. See further König, “Self-promotion and self-effacement,” 198–199 = idem, Saints and Symposiasts, 78–79.

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Quaes. conv. 718A: [TYNDARES] I am reassured when I hear Plato himself … calling … (αὐτοῦ Πλάτωνος ἀκούων … ὀνομάζοντος) The idiom of orality helps to ratify the claim that a classic text by Plato is well known among Plutarch’s intellectual community (De an. procr. 1016A): Now, almost everyone has at the tip of their tongue the discourse in the Phaedrus (ἡ μὲν οὖν ἐν Φαίδρῳ διάλεκτος ὀλίγου δεῖν ἅπασι διὰ στόματός ἐστι) … Supporters of the Platonic doctrine are invited to confirm their allegiance by reciting a phrase from the Timaeus (De an. procr. 1014A–B, with Pl. Ti. 29a5–6): It is better, then, to be persuaded by Plato and to say and chant (βέλτιον οὖν Πλάτωνι πειθομένους … λέγειν καὶ ᾄδειν): “For it is the fairest of things that have come to be and he [god] the best of causes” In short, Plutarch has plenty of reasons to oralize the Platonic intertext, and plenty of stylistic stratagems for doing so. Plato’s voice is a major ingredient in the Plutarchan discursive universe. However, Plutarch is aware that readerly encounters with Plato’s voice have their pitfalls (Quaes. Pl. 1009F):46 But let’s take care not to mishear Plato (ἔπειτα σκόπει μὴ παρακούωμεν τοῦ Πλάτωνος) … The ‘divine’ Plato is no easy listening. To illustrate the challenges of engaging with Plato in earnest, Plutarch uses a witty parable by Antiphanes (probably the fourth-century comic playwright), which, in turn, overflows with orality (De prof. virt. 79A): What happens is Antiphanes’ story, which somebody recounted (εἶπεν) about Plato’s associates.47 Antiphanes used to tell a joke (ἔλεγε παίζων) about a city where, as soon as anyone spoke, the words (τὰς φωνὰς) were frozen solid as soon as they were uttered (εὐθὺς λεγομένας), and then later, when they thawed out, people heard in the the summer what had been 46

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The tyrant Dionysius II in the Dion (18.3) exemplifies the consequences of “deploying badly what he had misheard from Plato” (τοῖς Πλάτωνος παρακούσμασι κακῶς χρῆσθαι). The Plutarchan phrase is styled after [Pl.] Ep. 7.338d1–4. The Greek text is uncertain; maybe “which one of Plato’s associates recounted”.

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said in the winter (ἀκούειν … ἃ … διελέχθησαν). Likewise, the man said (ἔφη), what Plato told (τῶν ὑπὸ Πλάτωνος … λεχθέντων) young people got through to them only much later, when they were old. But then old age is the best time for doing philosophy—if, like Plutarch, you are willing to take Plato’s word for it.48

4

Conclusion

Plutarch’s use of φωνή as an intertextual marker is both extensive and farreaching. The range of references Plutarch chooses to label in this way attests to the pervasive proclivity for phonic, audible experiences of the text in Greek culture.49 The inherent oralization of poetic as well as prosaic and anecdotal intertexts is driven by the entrenched habit of aligning textuality with performance—quotations from drama are only the tip of the iceberg. It is also worth pondering the elasticity of φωνή/φωναί for the purposes of intertextual calibration: as shown above, ‘voice(s)’ may introduce a verbatim citation, but equally a more or less broad-brush summary (e.g. Arat. 38.11, Tim. 15.10; Numa 20.8–10). Ultimately, the ‘voice’ of the pre-text is shaped by the aesthetic, intellectual, and societal policies of the host-text. In Plutarch’s case, vocal intertextuality becomes an ally of an erudite moralism and the ‘live,’ day-to-day appreciation of Plato.

Acknowledgements I am grateful to the audiences in Fribourg and Liverpool for their perceptive comments; special thanks are due to Christopher Pelling and Ben Cartlidge. 48

49

See B. Demulder, “The old man and the soul. Plato’s Laws 10 in Plutarch’s De animae procreatione,” in M. Sanz Morales, R. González Delgado, M. Librán Moreno & J. Ureña Bracero (eds.), La (inter)textualidad en Plutarco. Actas del XII Simposio Internacional de la Sociedad Española de Plutarquistas (Cáceres, 8–10 de Octubre de 2015) (Cáceres-Coimbra: Universidad de Extremadura, 2017) 141–142, 148–151. It goes without saying that Plutarch’s attention to intertextual vocality has numerous parallels in the extant Greek literature: see n. 23–24, n. 30, n. 34, n. 44 above.

chapter 3

Forms and Functions of Intratextuality in Plutarch’s Corpus Gennaro D’Ippolito

Abstract Taking up some earlier studies of mine on Plutarch’s corpus, I analyze forms and functions of a particular aspect of intertextuality called intratextuality (or autotextuality), understood as relationships within one or more texts by the same author. Two levels of intratextuality are distinguished: the horizontal (or syntagmatic) one, concerning organization of content or expression (respectively ‘hylomorphic’ and ‘leximorphic’ levels), and the vertical (or paradigmatic) one, concerning recurrence of themes or expressions. The main cases of horizontal intratextuality are the binary form of the synkrisis, open shape in problem solving, dramatic composition, and the binary hylomorphic structure in representing πάθη, as well as, in a verbal context, the use of synonymic patterns. As regards vertical intratextuality, it refers to recurrence of themes, characters, and exempla (literary, as quotations, and historical, as anecdotes). Speaking of themes, Plutarch shows an extraordinary range of interests and a constant care both to observe man in all his manifestations and to entrust his principal message to ethics (‘ethic anthropology’). Other themes are poetry and its paideutic value; love and the innovative consideration of woman in the erotic, family, and social fields; religious interest, chiefly soteriological, and the connected theme of the crisis; interest in music, but contempt for contemporary music. The main function of intratextual analysis, besides of course that of allowing exegetical in-depth examination, is to highlight the corpus’ compactness and its quality as macrotext (the Lives appear the practical side of reflections contained in the Moralia). Sometimes, such an analysis resolves chronological issues or confirms authorship of discussed works.

This chapter is connected to my two lectures on Plutarch, which were presented at the 1989 Palermo Conference and at the 1994 Salamanca Symposium,1

1 G. D’Ippolito, “Il corpus plutarcheo come macrotesto di un progetto antropologico: modi e funzioni della autotestualità,” in G. D’Ippolito & I. Gallo (eds.), Strutture formali dei Moralia

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004427860_005

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where I expounded the idea that Moralia and Lives can be seen together as a macrotext realized according to a unitary anthropological project.2 In the meantime two important volumes have come out that in a way move in the direction of my perspective. In one of them, the title refers to the ‘Unity’ of the corpus,3 while the other maintains its ‘Consistency.’4 The condition for a corpus to be able to be configured as a unitary text is that homologous elements are present in it that point to a deep ideological motivation. Verification of this will involve analysis of forms and functions of dialogue among the various texts in the corpus, i.e. of internal intertextuality or, in a single word, of intratextuality (or autotextuality).5 Intratextual research contemplates two models, the horizontal (or syntagmatic) one, concerning formal aspects of structure of content or expression (respectively hylomorphic and leximorphic levels), and the vertical (or paradigmatic) one, concerning recurrence of themes, characters, exempla.

1

Horizontal Intratextuality

Among the cases of horizontal intratextuality, at the level of deep structure, there dominates the binary form of synkrisis, in the Aristotelian and diatribic

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3 4

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di Plutarco. Atti del III Convegno plutarcheo, Palermo, 3–5 maggio 1989 (Naples: D’Auria, 1991) 9–18; G. D’Ippolito, “Stilemi ilomorfici nel macrotesto plutarcheo,” in J.A. Fernández Delgado & F. Pordomingo Pardo (eds.), Estudios sobre Plutarco: Aspectos formales. Actas del IV Simposio Español sobre Plutarco, Salamanca, 26 a 28 de Mayo de 1994 (Salamanca: Universidad de Salamanca, 1996) 17–29. Actually, I expressed this idea in a talk given on 2 December 1988 at the 9th International Congress of anthropological studies on the theme “Lo sguardo da lontano. Antropologia e Culture Classiche,” but the proceedings of that Congress have never been published and I only later returned to my essay, updated it and published it (G. D’Ippolito, “Plutarco e l’antropologia,” in M.C. Ruta [ed.], Le parole dei giorni. Scritti per Nino Buttitta [Palermo: Sellerio, 2005] [II] 890–899). A.G. Nikolaidis (ed.), The Unity of Plutarch’s Work. Moralia Themes in the Lives, Features of the Lives in the Moralia (Berlin-New York: De Gruyter, 2008). J. Opsomer, G. Roskam & F.B. Titchener (eds.), A Versatile Gentleman: Consistency in Plutarch’s Writing. Studies Offered to Luc Van der Stockt on the Occasion of his Retirement (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2016). Maria Corti (“Testi o macrotesto? I racconti di Marcovaldo di I. Calvino,” Strumenti Critici 9.27 [1975] 182–197 [revised and reprinted in M. Corti, Il viaggio testuale. Le ideologie e le strutture semiotiche (Turin: Einaudi, 1978) 185–200]) clearly theorizes the hermeneutic key to the macrotext as a semiotic unity superior to the individual texts pertaining to it.

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tradition, applied to the formulation of problems. Apart from the συγκρίσεις of the Lives, between two characters, in some of the Moralia the comparison emerges starting from the title, as in De adulatore et amico, De virtute et vitio, De Alexandri fortuna aut virtute, Bellone an pace clariores fuerint Athenienses, Animine an corporis affectiones sint peiores, De invidia et odio, De comparatione Aristophanis et Menandri, Aquane an ignis sit utilior, and De sollertia animalium (Terrestriane an aquatilia animalia sint callidiora). Elsewhere, synkrisis also determines the hylomorphic structure without appearing in the title: De fortuna Romanorum and An vitiositas ad infelicitatem sufficiat are based on the contrast between fortune and virtue, as do the two previously mentioned books on Alexander in which the comparison emerges from the title; De superstitione compares atheism and superstition, Bruta animalia ratione uti animals and man, Amatorius heterosexual and paederastic love, and De musica, which I consider to be by Plutarch,6 ancient and contemporary music. Another almost constant intratextual element at the level of deep structuring, in line with a Plutarchan form of antidogmatism, is the open shape in problem solving. One could speak of an ‘ethic of humility’ as awareness of the limitedness of the human soul, for which it is suitable to abstain from an absolute judgment, but it is also to be remembered that scepticism was born from the Academy, on whose school Plutarch was nurtured. And one can also consider this ἐπέχειν a tragic form, which enriches the dramatic quality of the composition or is even related to the crisis typical of the climate in which the writer lived. Clarity (σαφήνεια) and pleasantness (ἡδονή), as objectives of his method of writing, account for Plutarch’s predilection for dramatic composition, represented in the first place by dialogues, direct or reported. Dedications are an instrument of formal dramatic quality.7 There are also those who, with good reasons, see in the structure of some dialogues, like Amatorius or De genio Socratis, a particular form of art, the ‘dramatic dialogue,’ where the story is divided into phases, like episodes of a drama, and the speeches act as a com-

6 Cf. G. D’Ippolito, “Il De musica nel corpus plutarcheo: una paternità recuperabile,” QUCC n.s. 99 (2011) 207–225; R. Rocha, “Plutarco, Sobre a Música,” in C. Soares & R. Rocha (eds.), Plutarco, Obras Morais: Sobre o Afecto aos Filhos, Sobre a Música, Tradução do grego, introdução e notas (Coimbra: Universidade de Coimbra, Centro de Estudios Clássicos e Humanísticos, 2010) 63– 243, esp. 76–96. 7 Present only in 4 diegematic dialogues (in the direct ones it was impossible to include them), we find them in no fewer than 24 other works, also including the Lives, not dialogic, which in this way take on the form of monologues addressed to a silent character.

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mentary, like choral songs.8 Then there are explicit references to the theater: metaphors, quotations, and allusions. A binary hylomorphic structure is a common element of texts devoted to πάθη, from envy to anger, from greed to meddlesomeness, from talkativeness to bashfulness: at first they are described with diagnostic precision, and then a psychotherapeutic treatment is indicated through suitable ἄσκησις. At the verbal level I will only mention the use of synonymic patterns, an expressive structure of Plutarch’s ideology.9 Actually the iterations appear in the various isocolic forms, not only the dicolic one, which is the most common, but there are also tricolic ones, and even tetracolic and pentacolic ones.10

2

Vertical Intratextuality

As regards vertical intratextuality, it is appropriate to distinguish the reprising of themes and those of characters and exempla, the latter either literary, as quotations, or historical, as anecdotes. Speaking of themes, Plutarch shows an extraordinary range of interests, and constant care to observe man in all his manifestations and to entrust the principal message to ethics. For example, in the works devoted to politics—Maxime cum principibus philosopho esse disserendum, Ad principem ineruditum, An seni respublica gerenda sit, and Praecepta gerendae reipublicae—the attention is concentrated not so much on evaluation of forms of government as on moral evaluation of rulers. Hence in Plutarch’s case the macrotextual idea can be considered traditional, considering that, beginning from the edition by Maximus Planudes (late 13th century), for other works than Lives the general title Ἠθικά (Moralia) was used. It is true that this title is generally judged inadequate,11 8

9

10

11

A. Barigazzi, “Plutarco e il ‘dialogo drammatico’,” Prometheus 14 (1988) 141–163 [reprinted in Barigazzi, A., “Una forma d’arte matura: il dialogo ‘drammatico’,” in id., Studi su Plutarco (Florence: Università degli Studi di Firenze, Dipartimento di Scienze dell’Antichità “Giorgio Pasquali,” 1994) 183–211]. The quotation is on 150 and 194. This Plutarchan styleme, already identified in L. Castiglioni, “Osservazioni critiche agli scritti morali di Plutarco,” RIL 64 (1931) 879–909, esp. 885, was studied above all by R. Ambrosini, “Funzione espressiva della sintassi nella lingua di Plutarco,” in G. D’Ippolito & I. Gallo (eds.), Strutture formali dei Moralia di Plutarco. Atti del III Convegno plutarcheo, Palermo, 3–5 maggio 1989 (Naples: D’Auria, 1991) 19–34. Cf. G. D’Ippolito, “Norma e variazione nella scrittura plutarchea,” in G. Zanetto & S. Martinelli Tempesta (eds.), Plutarco. Lingua e testo. Atti dell’XI Convegno plutarcheo della International Plutarch Society—Sezione Italiana, Milano, 18–20 giugno 2009 (Milan: Cisalpino, 2010) 85–111, esp. 101–103. I will limit myself to mentioning the judgment by R. Flacelière, “Plutarque dans ses

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but I believe that precisely starting from this title a first sign of the Moralia’s unity can be perceived, at the deep level. Plutarch always impresses the unmistakable mark of his deep ideology in it, characterized by loving attention to man and a constant propensity to improve him—an “antropologia etica,” as I have elsewhere defined it,12 which is substantiated in a παιδεία nurtured on φιλανθρωπία. To limit the scope of my chapter, I will only dwell on some themes linked by a rich intratextual dialogue. The first theme is religion and eschatology, the second poetry and its relationship with religion, education, philosophy, and politics, then love and the woman, and finally music. (1) The theme of religion is linked to different, specific works, but it runs through the whole corpus. Plutarch shows a religious sensibility that is confirmed by his priestly activities practiced at Delphi for at least the last twenty years of his life. On the basis of ample philosophical training, he tried to reconcile two types of religion: philosophical and traditional-popular.13 In these matters, the pars destruens consists in the polemic against irreligion—that is to say against positions hostile to religion or only erroneous. He reproaches the Epicureans, in Non posse suaviter vivi secundum Epicurum (1100E–1107C), for denying Providence and thus becoming similar to atheists, since, for him, denying the intervention of the gods in human life would be equivalent to invalidating their existence. He reproaches popular religion, especially in De superstitione, for δεισιδαιμονία, superstitious fear of the gods. He reproaches the Stoics, who also express a religious idea, in a triad of texts (De Stoicorum repugnantiis, De communibus notitiis adversus Stoicos, and Stoicos absurdiora poetis dicere) for negating divine transcendence: believing in an immanent divinity would expose them to the risk of atheism and superstition. Alongside the polemics, in a pars construens, Plutarch works out his own conception of the divine. God is one. His nature differs radically from human nature. It is transcendent, ungenerated, and immortal. But this unitary conception clashes with traditional polytheism. As a phenomenon rooted in popular belief, Plutarch cannot neglect it; and therefore—alongside the idea

12 13

“Œuvres morales”,” in R. Flacelière (ed.), Plutarque. Œuvres morales. Tome I (Paris: Belles Lettres, 1987) VII–CCXXVI: “ce terme même d’ Œuvres morales, par lequel on désigne tous les ouvrages conservés de Plutarque autres que les Vies, est très impropre: c’est Œuvres diverses qu’ il faudrait dire” (VII); and also “C’est de manière abusive et trompeuse que tous les ouvrages conservés de Plutarque en dehors des Vies ont été appelés Œuvres morales” (LXXXVIII). D’Ippolito, “Plutarco e l’antropologia,” 898–899. A lucid examination of Plutarch’s religion, which I substantially agree with, is the one by J. Beaujeu, “La religion de Plutarque,” IL 11 (1959) 207–213 and 12 (1960) 18–23.

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of a Supreme Being an abstract principle and at once a divine person—, names of gods survive that are substantially denominations marking different aspects of one Providence.14 But Plutarch’s religious interest is above all soteriological.15 The gods that emerge in his world are Apollo, as seems natural, and Dionysus.16 The two divinities are complementary or, rather, two faces of a single god. Indeed, in De E Delphico (388E), Plutarch affirms that “Dionysus’ share in Delphi is no less than that of Apollo,”17 and even, in Consolatio ad uxorem (611D), reveals his affiliation to the Dionysiac mysteries. It is Plutarch that provides the first literary testimony of those renewed mysteries, which substantiates the archaeological source provided by the sarcophagus of Villa Medici with a scene of Bacchic initiation:18 he appears to be the first to see a precise soteriological interest in the Dionysiac mysteries and to explicitly link them to the hope of an afterlife. The writer mentions the dismemberment (διαμελισμός) of Dionysus by the Titans (De esu carnium 996C), but adds that this myth has to do with rebirth (παλιγγενεσία), and this, as Festugière notices,19 is the first appearance of a moral exegesis of this myth.20 Here Dionysus has lost the terrible face portrayed by 14

15

16

17

18

19 20

Cf. De Is. et Os. 377F–378A: “religions and the ways of calling the divinities, differing from one another depending on the traditions, are always an expression of a single rationality, which has put order in this world, and of a single Providence, which directs it.” On Plutarch and death, see J. Boulogne, “Plutarque et la mort,” in Mission Académique à la Formation Permanente de Dijon (ed.), La vie et la mort dans l’Antiquité. Actes du Colloque organisé en janvier 1990 par l’ Association Guillaume Budé (Dijon: Association Guillaume Budé, 1990) 17–28. On the great importance of Dionysus too in Plutarch’s religious sentiment, cf. Y. Vernière, Symboles et mythes dans la pensée de Plutarque. Essai d’interprétation philosophique et religieuse des Moralia (Paris: Belles Lettres, 1977) 220–225, G. D’Ippolito, “Il Dioniso di Plutarco,” in J.M. Candau Morón, F.J. González Ponce & A.L. Chávez Reino (eds.), Plutarco transmisor. Actas del X Simposio Internacional de la Societad Española de Plutarquistas, Sevilla, 12–14 de noviembre de 2009 (Sevilla: Universidad de Sevilla, 2011) 327–336. On Dionysus at Delphi and the close link with Apollo, cf. R. Flacelière, “Le délire de la Pythie est-il une légende?” REA 52 (1950) 306–324, esp. 313–315, and H. Jeanmaire, Dionysos. Histoire du culte de Bacchus (Paris: Payot, 1951), transl. by G. Glaesser, Dioniso. Religione e cultura in Grecia. Appendix and bibliographic update by F. Jesi (Turin: Einaudi, 1972) 187–198. We are now talking about Bacchanalia that are assagies, that is to say have “settled down”: practiced already at the Alexandrian court of Ptolemy Philopator, by now almost not linked in any way to the ancient orgies (Vernière, Symboles et mythes dans la pensée de Plutarque, 220). A.J. Festugière, “Les Mystères de Dionysos,” in Festugière, Études de religion grecque et hellénistique (Paris: Vrin, 1972) 13–63, esp. 45. It seems to me that the use of a hapax like διαμελισμός, instead of the traditional Euripidean term σπαραγμός, can denote a certain desire for detachment and renewal.

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Euripides. Through Greek-oriental syncretism with Osiris and twinning with Apollo in the cult of Delphi, Dionysus transforms from being a god of orgiastic mania into a precise soteriological function, on which the influence of Platonic eschatology is discernible. In particular, through the cult of Dionysus, Plutarch confirms his Master’s faith in the immortality of the individual soul, which, once it is freed from the imprisonment of the body, can aspire to eternal beatitude in the celestial homeland. For Plutarch, as for Orphism, Apollo symbolizes the soul exiled from the sky, and this is clearly expressed in the quotation from Aeschylus, Supplices 214, which appears twice in Plutarch’s writings, in De defectu oraculorum 417E and De exilio 607C: “Holy Apollo, god exiled from heaven” (ἁγνόν τ’ Ἀπόλλω, φυγάδ’ ἀπ’ οὐρανοῦ θεόν). The conclusion is that all men are exiled from the celestial homeland. Cosmopolitism, of sophistic-cynicstoic derivation, which became topical in texts on the exile, is thus resolved into the Pythagoric-Platonic common, celestial home to which men tend.21 But I cannot conclude my brief considerations on religion without mentioning the theme of the crisis that afflicted the last years of Plutarch’s priesthood and above all permeates De defectu oraculorum. If science and philosophy are not sufficient to free us from anguish, religion too is subject to historical becoming. In Plutarch’s time, many oracles were abandoned, while others, like Delphi, were on the decline; the insistent apology of the latter in the two other Delphic dialogues, De E Delphico and De Pythiae oraculis, reveals this state of decline and makes it dramatic. The subsequent De Iside et Osiride expresses the voice of nostalgia for a past that enjoyed greater certainties and is the sign of unavowed disquietude about the present. (2) The second theme, poetry, apart from the constant use of quotations and poeticisms, which according to rhetorical doctrine confer γλυκύτης on writing,22 is the basic theme of De audiendis poetis, but it also concerns many

21

22

On Plutarch’s polyethnism cf. G. D’Ippolito, “Filantropia, ellenocentrismo e polietnismo in Plutarco,” in A. Pérez Jiménez & F. Titchener (eds.), Historical and Biographical Values of Plutarch’s Works. Studies Devoted to Prof. Philip A. Stadter by The International Plutarch Society (Malaga-Logan: Universidad de Málaga-Utah State University, 2005) 179–196, esp. 186– 194. Cf. M. Cannatà Fera, “Plutarco e la parola dei poeti,” in J.A. Fernández Delgado & F. Pordomingo Pardo (eds.), Estudios sobre Plutarco: Aspectos formales. Actas del IV Simposio Español sobre Plutarco, Salamanca, 26 a 28 de Mayo de 1994 (Salamanca: Universidad de Salamanca, 1996) 415–428; G. D’Ippolito, “Plutarco e la retorica della intertestualità,” in L. Van der Stockt (ed.), Rhetorical Theory and Praxis in Plutarch. Acta of the IVth International Congress of the International Plutarch Society, Leuven, July 3–6, 1996 (Leuven: Peeters, 2000) 543–562.

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of Plutarch’s works, according to the features that connect it to religion, education, philosophy, and politics. There are numerous points at which the religious nature of poetry is mentioned and accepted, and there is a dense network of intertextual relations with Plato, sometimes expressly declared (De virtute morali 452B). As for his Master, for Plutarch too, divine inspiration is a fundamental element of the nature of poetry.23 Plutarch rescues the presence of poetry in society and restores it to a pedagogic function of preparation for philosophy. Its value for politics and paedeutics emerges above all in the Lives, with the force of historical example: in particular the value of the Homeric poems is underlined in Lycurgus 4.4–6 or Philopoemen 4.7; the union of poetry, philosophy and politics in Solon 3.4–5 and in Cicero 2.3–4; its celebratory and stimulatory value for rulers in Lysander 18.5; and its psychagogic value in Pelopidas 29.9–10. On the relationship between Homer and Plato, Plutarch did not approve of the latter’s condemnation of poetry, which, in the tradition, had already become a scandalous condemnation radicalized in a petty, censorious perspective; however, Plutarch kept it in mind, to the point of making it a central problem on the subject of education, shifting the now anachronistic Platonic idea of state control on poetry to that of individual control, in accordance with the different political climate.24 (3) The third theme, love, closely connected to the theme of women, is mainly dealt with in Amatorius, but it is not neglected in the Lives, and is addressed at the theoretical-moral level, at least in Coniugalia praecepta and De liberis educandis. On an innovative plane compared to his Master Plato, Plutarch addresses the theme of women, now making the historical exemplum prevail, as in the Lives or in Mulierum virtutes, and now privileging the form of theoretical discourse, as in Coniugalia praecepta, Consolatio ad uxorem or Amatorius. The ideas that emerge at a macrotextual level concern at least three fields: (1) in the erotic field, the idea of the woman’s autonomous suitability to love and of the excellence of heterosexual love compared to paederastic love, which lacks reciprocity and stability; (2) in the family field, the idea of marriage as 23 24

See G. D’Ippolito, “Il fondamento mistico della estetica plutarchea,”Lexis n. 20 (2002) 143– 151. G. D’Ippolito, “Politica e poetica in Plutarco,” in I. Gallo & B. Scardigli (eds.), Teoria e prassi politica nelle opere di Plutarco. Atti del V Convegno plutarcheo, Certosa di Pontignano, 7–9 giugno 1993 (Naples: D’Auria, 1995) 123–134.

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a communion of souls, where the union is cemented not by procreation but by “respect and kindness and mutual affection and loyalty” (Amatorius 769A); (3) in the social field, the idea of an education of women that is not dissimilar from men’s education, such that it allows women to elevate themselves spiritually and to reach a sort of parity, freeing them from a state of marginalization from social life, though maintaining devotion to the husband as the supreme virtue.25 De liberis educandis affords a clear example of how intratextual analysis can help to ascertain authorship. After the minute examination by Wyttenbach, the text has been deemed spurious by modern publishers, above all because, precisely in the erotic field, it is felt that it upholds ideas contrary to those present in other works by Plutarch.26 In particular, the most striking discrepancy concerns the purported positive evaluation of paederasty (11C–12A). But his position is not at all one of unconditional acceptance. This can be seen in

25

26

Con. praec. 140E: “it is a lovely thing for the woman to sympathize with her man’s concerns and the man with the woman’s, so that, as ropes, by being intertwined, get strength from each other, thus, each giving his tenderness in copartnership, they together secure their union”. Here I will not repeat all the arguments with which, refuting D. Wyttenbach (Animadversiones in Plutarchi Opera moralia, ad editionem Oxoniensem emendatius expressae, I [Leipzig: Kühn, 1820] 1–30; but cf. also 31–106, true Animadversiones in libellum De puerorum educatione), I have elsewhere maintained (G. D’Ippolito, “Plutarco pseudepigrafo,” in I. Gallo [ed.], L’eredità culturale di Plutarco dall’Antichità al Rinascimento. Atti del VII Convegno plutarcheo, Milano-Gargnano, 28–30 maggio 1997 [Naples: D’Auria, 1998] 29–54, esp. 48–51) the thesis that the work belongs, if not to Plutarch, at least to his spiritual world. I will only say that what I myself defined a ‘treatise of pedagogy,’ in agreement with common opinion (G. D’Ippolito, “Generi letterari e problemi pseudepigrafici nel corpus plutarcheo,” in I. Gallo & C. Moreschini [eds.], I generi letterari in Plutarco. Atti dell’VIII Convegno plutarcheo, Pisa, 2–4 giugno 1999 [Naples: D’Auria, 2000] 335–344, esp. 341–342; G. D’Ippolito, “Omosessualità e pederastia in Plutarco,” in J.M. Nieto Ibañez & R. López López [eds.], El amor en Plutarco. IX Simposio International de la Societad Española de Plutarquistas, 28–30 septiembre 2006 [León: Universidad de León, 2007] 467–476, esp. 470– 472), subsequently I deemed it more obvious to assign to the lecture genre—essays in the form of ‘spoken—phonetically written,’ that is transcripts and/or reworkings of lectures. I have come to consider 34 of them in Moralia, that is to say, far more than a third: D’Ippolito “Norma e variazione nella scrittura plutarchea,” 94–97; M. La Matina (“La conferenza in Plutarco,” in I. Gallo & C. Moreschini [eds.], I generi letterari in Plutarco. Atti dell’VIII Convegno plutarcheo, Pisa, 2–4 giugno 1999 [Naples: D’Auria, 2000] 177–216 [reprinted with few changes in M. La Matina, Il problema del significante. Testi greci fra semiotica e filosofia del linguaggio (Rome: Carocci, 2001) 139–190]) considers 12 of them, but does not exclude a higher number (205 and 171). This explains why Wyttenbach was negatively struck by the unusual brevity of the sentences, the abundant rhetorical frills, and the apparently defective hylomorphic structure, all characteristics that are not strange in a lecture.

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Amatorius and more precisely in De liberis educandis. Here (11D), a question is formulated with a peremptory alternative: Should boys’ lovers be allowed to associate and pass their time with them, or is it not better, instead, to exclude them and drive them out of their company? On one side, he thinks about those fathers that look on lovers as an “intolerable outrage to their children,” and, on the other, he thinks about the many eminent Greeks—he names Socrates, Plato, Xenophon, Aeschines, and Cebes—that approved this kind of love and “constituted for young people an intellectual, political, and ethical guide” (11E). Plutarch declares that he wants to imitate them and concludes (11F): So we ought indeed to drive away those whose desire is for mere outward beauty, but to admit without reserve those who are lovers of the soul. Hence, he does not “refuse to make a real choice,” as Eyben thinks.27 Plutarch fully returns to Plato: not being able to contradict his Master by combating every form of paederasty, he empties it of the sexual element and sees it as a relationship of souls. This is confirmed in the Lives: dealing with concrete actions of individuals, they allow us, as Stadter has observed,28 to integrate the reading of Plutarch’s way of seeing sexual behavior. Plutarch remains the main 27

28

E. Eyben, “Children in Plutarch,” in L. Van der Stockt (ed.), Plutarchea Lovaniensia. A Miscellany of Essays on Plutarch (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1996) 79–112 (esp. 106–110: “Lovers”), 108. P.A. Stadter, “ ‘Subject to the Erotic’: Male Sexual Behaviour in Plutarch,” in D. Innes, H. Hine & C.B.R. Pelling (eds.), Ethics and Rhetoric. Classical Essays for Donald Russell on his Seventy-Fifth Birthday (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995) 221–236. According to the classification by F. Frazier, Histoire et morale dans les Vies parallèles de Plutarque (Paris: Belles Lettres, 1996) 173–273, based on observation of the Lives, Plutarch organizes the set of human qualities around the four principal virtues of which Plato speaks in the Republic and that Christian thought was to call ‘cardinal’: courage (ἀνδρεία), intelligence or prudence (φρόνησις), justice (δικαιοσύνη), and self-control or temperance (σωφροσύνη). Of these four virtues the basic norm of the cultured man is self-control (that this conviction of Plutarch’s shows Aristotelian derivation was clearly pointed out by J.C. Capriglione, “L’amore è un dardo. Le ragioni dell’omosessualità in Aristotele e Plutarco,” in A. Pérez Jiménez, J. García López & R.M. Aguilar [eds.], Plutarco, Platón y Aristóteles. Actas del V Congreso Internacional de la I.P.S., Madrid-Cuenca, 4–7 de Mayo de 1999 [Madrid: Ediciones Clásicas, 1999] 567–582), which regulates masculine sexual behaviour as it emerges from the concrete examples of the Lives. If it is absent or defective, there explodes the negative case of sexual excess.

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pagan reference point of a sexual ethic that still prevails today in the Christian world, the ethic that throws every form of ἀφροδίσια out of the nuptial bed and already expresses the hope, ahead of the times, of symmetrical fidelity between wife and husband. (4) The fourth theme, music is among Plutarch’s greatest interests. As I have shown elsewhere,29 there is no reason to deny him the authorship of the work devoted to the theme, De musica. Burette, in addition to noticing the analogy between its anecdotal incipit and those of works like De audiendis poetis or De adulatore et amico, already found agreements between the musical notions expounded in De musica and the intratexts in other works by Plutarch.30 I will add an intratextual aspect found in the epilogue of De musica (1142C–D): just as for poetry at the end of De audiendis poetis (37A–B), here Plutarch, faithful to Plato, does not forego the guiding role of philosophy for music too. In my opinion, however, the most markedly Plutarchan feature is the use of Aristoxenus as his source.31 A reviver of the biographical genre, where he introduced moral characterization and a taste for anecdotes,32 Aristoxenus was a model for Plutarch the biographer, who quotes him as his source four times (Lycurgus 31.7, Timoleon 15.5, Aristides 27.3, and Alexander 4.4). Now, Aristoxenus the biographer was ideologically similar to Plutarch also as a musicologist. On two major points Plutarch agrees with Aristoxenus’ thought: first, on faith in the moral and pedagogic mission of music and, secondly, on the devaluation of contemporary music, seen as having foregone that mission.33

29 30

31

32 33

D’Ippolito, “Il De musica nel corpus plutarcheo”. M. Burette, Dialogue de Plutarque sur la Musique, traduit en françois avec des remarques (Paris: Imprimerie Royale, 1735 [repr. Geneva: Minkoff, 1973]), quoted and approved by Reinach (H. Weil & T. Reinach, Plutarque, De la musique [Paris: Leroux, 1900] xxvii–xxvii). Whose presence in De musica, according to calculations by A. Meriani (“Tracce aristosseniche nel De musica pseudoplutarcheo,” in A. Meriani, Sulla musica greca antica. Studi e ricerche [Naples: Guida, 2003] 49–81, esp. 52), oscillates between 45.49% and 49.64 %. Therefore I disagree with the judgment by J.P.H.M. Smits, Plutarchus en de Griekse Muziek. De mentaliteit van de intellectueel in de tweede eeuw na Christus (Bilthoven: Creighton, 1970), who collects what refers to music in the Moralia and the Lives but leaves out De musica with the absurd motivation that in this work there is not the love for music that Plutarch shows in the other works and above all that the influence of Aristoxenus is almost totally absent elsewhere. Cf. A. Momigliano, Lo sviluppo della biografia greca (Turin: Einaudi 1974, 2nd ed.) 77–80, 109, 120–129. Even if “l’esemplarità della musica antica rispetto alla decadenza di quella contemporanea è un topos antico almeno quanto Aristofane” (A. Meriani, “Appunti sul De musica di

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The true leitmotiv of De musica is based precisely on the contrast between the severe greatness of ancient music and the negative evaluation of contemporary music, unbearable because of its thirst for novelty and its search for effect. This view is in line with what Plutarch expresses in various works (De audiendis poetis 19F–20A; Septem sapientium convivium 160E; De superstitione 166B– C; Apophtegmata Laconica 237A–238D; and Quaestiones convivales 704C–706E and 748C–D). A passage in the speech of Sotericus is indicative: “But in our own day the decadent kind has made such progress that there is no talk or notion of an educational use of music” (1140E). Here, it seems clear to me, in addition to reflecting Plato’s criticisms, Plutarch takes a stand against his bitter adversaries, the Epicureans.34 Thus, the Plutarch that emerges from De musica is no different from the one that we know from other works,35 namely a cultured Plutarch who wants to have his say in every field, but who is also reluctant to quote contemporary authors and is substantially a laudator temporis acti.

34

35

Plutarco tradotto in latino da Carlo Valgulio,” in R.M. Aguilar & J.R. Alfageme [eds.], Ecos de Plutarco en Europa. De Fortuna Plutarchi Studia Selecta. VI Encuentro de la Red Temática de Plutarco, Universidad Complutense, Madrid 21–24 de septiembre de 2005 [Madrid: Sociedad Española de Plutarquistas, Universidad Complutense, 2006] 147–168, esp. 161 = A. Meriani, “Osservazioni sulla prima traduzione in latino del De musica di Plutarco [Carlo Valgulio, Brescia 1507],” in D. Castaldo, D. Restani & C. Tassi [eds.], Il sapere musicale e i suoi contesti. Da Teofrasto a Claudio Tolemeo [Ravenna: A. Longo, 2009] 185–205, esp. 189) certainly “quello della contrapposizione della musica ‘degenerata’ rispetto ai fasti della musica del passato è un tema caro ad Aristosseno” (Meriani, “Tracce aristosseniche nel De musica,” 77). The only point of divergence from Aristoxenus is the accusation of ignorance he addresses to Plato. The author of De musica, which no one at this point represents better than Plutarch, defends his Master all out, producing important proofs of his profound competence in the musical field (cf. above all 1136E–F). There appears to be a particularly direct bond between De musica and the treatise De animae procreatione in Timaeo, above all when there is recalled (1138C) the passage on the “generation of the soul” with the same term ψυχογονία, which appears for the first time in the title of Plutarch’s commentary and in De def. or. 415E, again with reference to Timaeus. Though without having attained full certainty yet, we feel we have clarified that nothing precludes considering De musica as being by Plutarch. The marked misoneistic quality of the work and the ample study that is subtended in it suggest attributing it to an elderly Plutarch, who well succeeded in working out above all its frames—prologue and epilogue—but did not give the finishing touches to the big central part. On the other hand, even if we attributed the work to an anonymous author who, at least in the frames, perfectly imitated Plutarch, we should always imagine it as not finished. And then why deny Plutarch its authorship?

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I will pass over the intratexts of characters36 and historical exempla.37 However, I cannot entirely ignore the literary exempla expressed in the form of quotations. In Plutarch’s corpus ‘the word of others’ is a constant presence, and it performs a function that, far from being marginal, has a double aim: by Plutarch’s own admission,38 a testimonial function and, above all for poets, also an ornamental one. A poetic quotation can itself constitute an intratext; four times, Plutarch gets to use the same quotation in five different contexts.39 But what I notice most in Plutarch’s work—and this too helps to confirm the idea that we can view Moralia and Lives as a macrotext—is his care in bringing together, making them his own and revitalizing them, the voices of those great spirits, mostly poets—above all Homer, the poet par excellence, and Euripides—but also great thinkers like Plato, who in distant times held the destiny of Greece

36

37 38

39

I will limit myself to quoting, among the many, the example of Soclarus, one of Plutarch’s best friends, who appears in Amatorius (749B) and often in Quaest. conv., and speaks in De soll. an. The historical exemplum is regularly used by Plutarch in the form of anecdotes. Its use is as a function of perspicuitas (σαφήνεια) but also of ornatus (κόσμος). Quaest. conv. 736E “he (Ammonius) began to discourse on appropriate use of verses, saying that a well-timed quotation was often not only pleasant but also very useful.” And in De prof. in virt. 79C the author distinguishes between those who read poetry to find pleasure and distraction in it and those who, as the bee does with flowers, draw profit from it. An extreme case of adaptation of contents is the tragic trimeter (fr. adesp. 361 KannichtSnell) κινοῦσα χορδὰς τὰς ἀκινήτους φρενῶν “moving the unshakeable strings of the mind,” used with appropriate morphological adaptations in five different contexts: various upheavals, from anger to attacks of superstition, to big clashes with one’s family or the insane passion of love (De aud. 43D), anger (De coh. ira 456C), illnesses (Animine an corp. 501A), talkativeness (De gar. 502D), and inebriation (Quaest. conv. 657C–D). Two verses at the beginning of Sophocles’ OT (4–5: Πόλις δ’ ὁμοῦ μὲν θυμιαμάτων γέμει / ὁμοῦ δὲ παιάνων τε καὶ στεναγμάτων) describe the visual-olfactory and sonorous sensations that invade Thebes in the grip of a plague: the fumes of incense, propitiatory paeans, and funeral lamentations. Plutarch uses them to depict as many as five different conditions: having many friends (De am. mult. 95C), the superstitious person (De sup. 169D), the person who knows how to control himself (De virt. mor. 445D), the person in love (Quaest. conv. 623C–D), and even Asia, which offers Anthony riches and entertainments of every kind (Ant. 24, 3). A frequent case in Plutarch is the quotation of a poetic fragment that appears several times but not always with the same length or form: publishers often tend to adjust such quotations, thinking of errors by the copyists or by the author, caused by the habit of quoting by heart. However, often these are authorial choices, adaptations (παρῳδίαι) that the rhetorical doctrine itself suggested, and as such to be respected. An evident case is fr. 663 Kannicht from Euripides’ Stheneboea quoted in De Pyth. or. 405E–F, Quaest. conv. 622C, and Amatorius 762B.

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high. In bringing together those voices, Plutarch perhaps imagined he could stop a process of cultural transformation inexorably felt as the decline of an era.40 In conclusion, if we sum up the functions of intratextual criticism, we must regard the exegetic function as essential: the identification and elucidation of structural features and key ideas highlight the compactness of the textual corpus. Moreover, it helps us to determine a chronology which if not absolute is at least relative (for example, comparison between De adulatore et amico 59D and Phocion 2.3 demonstrates the priority of the first text),41 or to confirm Plutarch’s authorship of discussed works (here we have mentioned two of them, De liberis educandis and De musica, but others could be added, like De fato, Consolatio ad Apollonium or De Homero).42 This intratextual investigation, which I only carried out in its broad outlines here, in the end substantiates the macrotextual unity of the Plutarch’s work, the Lives only appearing to be the practical expression of the anthropological theory expounded in the Moralia. 40 41 42

D’Ippolito, “Plutarco e la retorica della intertestualità,” 562. K. Ziegler, Plutarco. Edizione italiana a cura di B. Zucchelli (Brescia: Paideia, 1965) 104. Cf. D’Ippolito, “Plutarco pseudepigrafo,” 40–54; id., “Generi letterari e problemi pseudepigrafici nel corpus plutarcheo,” 341–344.

part 2 Intertextuality at Work

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chapter 4

Voices from the Past: Quotations and Intertextuality in Plutarch’s The Oracles at Delphi Frederick E. Brenk

Abstract In his dialogues Plutarch allows the great authors of the past to stimulate or especially to support an argument. All the quotations in the Pythian Dialogues come from the great authors of the past, none from contemporary ones. We find 28 authors cited from 52 works, resulting in 66 quotes, along with 45 indirect quotes or references: altogether, 111 quotes, indirect quotes, or references. In The Oracles at Delphi, with the exceptions of Homer, Hesiod, Epicurus and the Stoics, virtually all the authors are from the Classical Age. In the essay 29 authors and 35 works are cited or referred to, while, amazingly, only 8 of the quotes appear elsewhere in Plutarch’s vast extant works. For direct quotes, outside of Plato, the most popular are the Delphic Oracles (5, with 1 each mentioned in Herodotus and Thucydides), Homer (4), Euripides (3), Pindar (3 sure and 1 probable), and Simonides (2). One cannot speak of ‘clusters’ of quotations, and intertextuality is mostly absent or complicated. A special case is a puzzling quotation from Euripides’ Phoenissae 958. Above all, the voices recreate the cultural and social memory of the Greek and Delphic past. Most often the voice supports the speaker’s position or emphasizes the principal theme. Yet, the principal speaker, Theon, surprisingly rejects the Delphic and Greek past—the world of the citations—for the present age. Plutarch dazzles with his erudition and wit, while using the citations to explore profound questions of society, life, and death.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004427860_006

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… Quelques années de fréquentation m’ont du moins convaincu d’ un fait qui ne m’était nullement évident a priori, et qui est la grande conscience professionnelle que les écrivains mettent à l’ exécution de leur tâche— certains diraient de leur corvée—paratextuelle. Several years of frequenting the paratext have at least convinced me of one thing that was not at all obvious to me a priori, and that is the great conscientiousness with which writers perform their paratextual duty (some would call it their paratextual drudgery). Gérard Genette, Seuils1

∵ 1

Importance of Quotations

It seems de rigueur to begin this chapter about The Oracles at Delphi (or more exactly, Why the Pythia No Longer Speaks in Verse) with a quotation. It is embarrassing, however, to treat one of the lowest forms of anything, especially in literature and citation, as something only slightly above plagiarism in Genette’s classification.2 Perhaps some scholars would not think of quotations as intertextuality, and books on the subject usually give little space to it. An exception is the volume edited by Plett, in which his opening article is dedicated to quotations.3 Plett suggests that too much of our studies on intertextuality are based on poetry.4 Among some of his criteria are the quality of the quotation, that is, how accurate it is. Judging by Plutarch’s transmission of the Herodotus quotation on Battus (408A), Plutarch’s quotes are of high quality. The lines run in Herodotus (4.157):

1 G. Genette, Seuils (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1987) 376 and G. Genette, Paratexts: Thresholds of Interpretation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997) 409. 2 G. Genette, Palimpsests. Literature in the Second Degree (Lincoln-London: University of Nebraska Press, 1997) 2. 3 H.F. Plett, “Intertextualities,” in H.F. Plett (ed.), Intertextuality (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1991) 3–29 (8–17). 4 Plett, “Intertextualities,” 3.

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αἰ τὺ ἐμεῦ Λιβύαν μαλοτρόφον οἶδας ἄρειον, μὴ ἐλθὼν ἐλθόντος, ἄγαν ἄγαμαι σοφίην σευ. If without going you know far better than I, who have gone there, Africa, mother of flocks, then I greatly admire your wisdom. In Plutarch we find: αἰ τὺ ἐμεῦ Λιβύαν μαλοτρόφον οἶσθας ἄρειον, μὴ ἐλθὼν ἐλθόντος, ἄγαν ἄγαμαι σοφίην σευ. The different reading in Plutarch has been italicized. The variants in both Herodotus and Plutarch are similar, but we have to take into consideration that both ancient and later editors and copyists could check against Herodotus when editing Plutarch, and against Plutarch when editing Herodotus. In any case Plutarch’s quotation seems to be of very high quality for accuracy.

2

Surface and Deep Structure

Plett also speaks of surface structure and deep structure transformations. For example one might leave out a word or words, such as in Ezra Pound, where we find: Died some, pro patria, non “dulce” non et “decor”,5 … This splits up and rearranges Horace’s well-known lines: Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori (Carmina 3.2.12).6 Plutarch does something similar to Pound’s transformation, but quite different at 408D. Slightly adapting a line of Homer, he writes αὐτῷ γάρ οἱ πρῶτον ἀνιηρότερον ἔσται (408D) (“since for himself first of all, it will prove to be more 5 E. Pound, Hugh Selwyn Mauberley [Part 1]: E.P. Ode pour l’élection de son sépulchre (London: Ovid Press) 69–71; https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44915/hugh‑selwyn‑mauberle y‑part‑i. 6 Plett, “Intertextualities,” 10.

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grievous”) for Homer’s αὐτῷ μέν οἱ πρῶτον ἀνιηρέστερον ἔσται (“for him first of all, it shall be the more grievous …” [Od. 2.190]).7 While Plutarch’s changes are mainly grammatical, the original context, in which Zeus will punish the speaker (a suitor) and not the person threatened, is lost. Just as reversals of the dulce et decorum of Horace had become a commonplace in Pound’s time, so the Homeric quotation might have become simply a proverbial statement by Plutarch’s time, a victim of ‘stagnation’ with loss of the original context. If the textual transmission is correct, Plutarch employs the Pound type of intertextuality at 407D, where he cites Euripides’ Phoenissae 958–959: Φοῖβον ἀνθρώποις μόνον / χρῆν θεσπιῳδεῖν (“Phoebus alone to men / should prophesy”). As is usual, he gives us the author’s name, but not the tragedy. He then leaves out the end of the verse: ὃς δέδοικεν οὐδένα (“who fears no one”). Naming the play and maintaining the last part of the line would have made the quotation much more intelligible. The omission, however, does not hurt Plutarch’s argument, in the sense that Pound utterly changes the sentiment found in Horace (unless, perhaps, one belongs to the ‘Harvard School’). Nor does he change a word, as Pound does in writing “decor” instead of decorum, though the word in Horace would have been pronounced decor in decorum est, the way Pound would have learned it in school. It is not above Plutarch, in other dialogues, to change a word in a quotation for humor’s sake or to fit an argument.

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Proper and Improper Readings

The intertextual deep structure, however, may also be affected through an ‘improper’ reading, that is, where the author of the secondary text misunderstands or deliberately changes the quotation’s meaning. The result is, according to Plett, that every quotation can be seen as a dual sign, something that is especially complicated in a poetic text. Plett gives the example of the title of Bernard Shaw’s play Arms and the Man, which refers both to elements in the

7 See S. Schröder, Plutarchs Schrift De Pythiae Oraculis: Text, Einleitung und Kommentar (Stuttgart: Teubner, 1990) 426, for variants in the text of Homer and Plutarch and for Plutarch possibly being tempted to improve the text. The normal ἀνιηρότερον cannot be used in a hexameter. Plutarch may have understood the comparative as a comparative with superlative meaning. In Homer, this is a true comparative, while the μέν refers to Telemachus and the δέ to the prophet Halitherses, in the suitor Eurymachus’ threats against them. In Theon’s speech, anyone who speaks badly about the present Delphic oracle is threatened. Thus, no need for the comparative meaning of the adjective, or μέν … δέ.

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play and to Vergil’s Aeneid.8 In these cases, the interrelationship has to be made by the receiver/reader. Another element is the frequency of the quotations. If quotes are primarily from one author, such as Plato, the stronger the impact. For example, Plutarch’s Dialogue on Love and On the E at Delphi have constant quotations, references, or allusions to Plato. The Oracles at Delphi offers a great contrast especially with the Dialogue on Love, which opens with a reference to Plato’s Phaedrus and builds constantly upon this and other Platonic dialogues. Some even consider the Dialogue on Love as a reply to the Phaedrus. As such, it represents a very good example of Genette’s ‘transformative’ intertextuality.9 That is not the case with The Oracles at Delphi, which is not even mentioned by Hunter.10 The impact of the primary texts on the Dialogue on Love is huge. Where a large number of quotations occur from different sources, however, as in The Oracles at Delphi, the primary text does not have much impact. Another feature of every quotation is that they create a conflict between the quotation and its new context, something Plett calls ‘interference’ and ‘quotation thresholds.’ The quotations create seams between the quotation and its new context, which endanger the homogeneity of the literary structure and the unity of perception. The reader is diverted by something alien and unexpected, which requires integration. One can see this in the Galaxion poem at the end of our work, where it is somewhat surprising. Plett also speaks of the ‘authoritative’ quotation, which is used to seal an argument, such as a speaker today using a quote from the Bible to seal his argument. Plutarch employs these in the present work, but sometimes one of his speakers refutes it. For example at 398A, Aristotle is quoted as saying only Homer used words possessing movement, a statement which no one objects to.11 On the other hand, we have Aristotle’s comments on the formation of rust on iron, which the speakers believe is refuted by what happens to the patina on the bronze at Delphi. The group is asked to work out a parallel theory, using Aristotle’s comments and method, for a solution to the formation of the patina on the bronze statues of the Spartan ship captains. The situation is complicated by the fact that

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Y. Baraz & C.S. Van den Berg, “Intertextuality,” AJPh 134 (2013) 1–8, at 3, suggest that too much of intertextual studies has been based on poetry. So J.M. Rist, “Plutarch’s Amatorius: A Commentary on Plato’s Theories of Love?” CQ n.s. 51.2 (2001) 557–575. See also R. Hunter, Plato and the Traditions of Ancient Literature: The Silent Stream (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012) 185–222 on Plutarch’s Amatorius. Hunter, Plato and the Traditions of Ancient Literature. Arist. Rh. 1411b, cf. fr. 130 Rose.

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the Greek word ἰός is used both for rust and patina. To make the new argument work, they have to get around most of Aristotle’s comments (395F–397A).12 Another factor is what Plett calls ‘perception modes’ and ‘memory depositories.’ Today we have printed and electronic texts, but in Plutarch’s day much depended on personal memory rather than a written, let alone a digital, source. Our critical texts set quotations off with initial capital letters, quotation marks, bold type, or spacing, but the quotation might be less obvious in a papyrus text. Plett also notes that the reader may not be aware that the quotation is a quotation; he mentions authors like James Joyce who actually conceal quotations. This does not seem to be the practice of Plutarch. He usually likes to make the quotation ‘explicit’ in Genette’s terminology, though sometimes a speaker just mentions “a comic poet” or the like. Plett also refers to ‘stagnation’ in which the quotation is employed so often that it loses the significance of the original context.13 This probably is the case of πρὶν Θέογνιν γεγονέναι (“All this I knew [or something similar] before Theognis’ time,” 395D—something like “I knew this before you were born”), which Theon remarks when speaking about the principles involved when patina forms on the bronze statues.14 It may also occur where there is no explicit attribution or where speakers have made the wrong attribution. That the quotations in The Oracles at Delphi are used so rarely in another Plutarchan work, even in the other Pythian Dialogues, may be a sign that Plutarch was very concerned with the intertextual significance of the primary texts and avoided making them stale.

4

Layering and Social Memory

The Oracles at Delphi, like most of Plutarch’s works, has a large number of quotations, but it is rare that Plutarch uses intertextuality like Callimachus, Ovid, or James Joyce. In this dialogue he rarely borrows and transforms a prior text or forces the reader to reference one text, which is not supplied, in reading another. Overall though, these quotations, these ‘voices from the past,’ speak to those in the present and give meaning and depth to the dialogue.15 In this

12 13 14 15

Unnoticed by Rose, it does not appear among the fragments of Aristotle. See Schröder, Plutarchs Schrift, 126. Plett, “Intertextualities,” 16–17. The beginning of the text has to be reconstructed. See Schröder, Plutarchs Schrift, ad. loc. at 82. The translation of the Greek title is not very exact. Περὶ τοῦ μὴ χρᾶν ἔμμετρα νῦν τὴν Πυθίαν literally means, “On That the Pythian Priestess No Longer Utters Oracles in Verse.” The

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sense the dialogue is very rich in what intertextuality studies call ‘layering,’ that is, the piling up of quotes from different times and places. Rarely is a citation used as proof of something. However, Plutarch was not satisfied with only using the ‘layering’ aspect of intertextuality.16 He evidently used authors and their statements to preserve a very selective social and cultural memory of Greece.17 For example, the period of Alexander the Great and the victory of the Aetolians over the Galatians, celebrated in the Soteria festival at Delphi, are not mentioned.18 Moreover, Plutarch’s main and final speaker, Theon, has a radical thesis, that Greece is better off now under Roman rule than in the supposedly great ages of the past, which were characterized by internecine strife that brought ruin to Greece. Theon’s view deals more with politics than literature, but Plutarch’s intertextual use of literary citations from the Classical period somewhat undercuts Theon’s view that the present is the best age of Greece. Plutarch was an extraordinary pepaideumenos (‘an educated person’ or ‘one of the educated elite’), who impressed his contemporaries with his erudition and wit. We see this, for example, in what appear to be misattributions of quotations which he puts in the mouth of Theon, or perhaps in the Homeric quotation which is used to justify the new theory on the patina. At the same time he

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focus of the dialogue is not on the shrine as such nor Apollo’s predictions and advice, but on the form and veracity of the oracles. For intertextuality in general, see Plett, “Intertextualities”; G. Allen, Intertextuality (London-New York: Routledge, 2000) (mostly about the historical and scholarly background which created the discipline); Baraz & Van den Berg, “Intertextuality”; N. Nicholson, “Cultural Studies, Oral Tradition, and the Promise of Intertextuality,” AJPh 134 (2013) 9–21; Anonymous, “Intertextuality: Bibliography,” AJPh 134 (2013) 133–148; for intertextuality in Plutarch’s Lives, see C.B.R. Pelling, “Intertextuality, plausibility, and interpretation,” Histos 7 (2013) 1–20. Some authors have suggested more precision and moving away from “philological fundamentalism.” See Baraz & Van den Berg, “Intertextuality,” 2. For cultural memory in the Imperial Period, see e.g. J.P. Small, Wax Tablets of the Mind: Cognitive Studies of Memory and Literacy in the Ancient World (London: Routledge, 1997); and T. Whitmarsh, “The Mnemology of Empire and Resistance: Memory, Oblivion, and Periegesis in Imperial Greek Culture,” in K. Galinsky & K. Lapatin (eds.), Cultural Memories in the Roman Empire (Los Angeles: J. Paul Getty Museum, 2015) 49–65. See also P. Payen, “Plutarch the Antiquarian,” in M. Beck (ed.), A Companion to Plutarch (Chichester: WileyBlackwell, 2014) 235–248. Whitmarsh points out how Pausanias ignores Hadrian’s Arch in Athens and how he raises questions about the intrusive role of Hadrian and his assimilation to Zeus (esp. 53–56). M. Arnush, “Pilgrimage to the Oracle of Apollo at Delphi: Patterns of Public and Private Consultation,” in J. Elsner & I. Rutherford (eds.), Pilgrimage in Graeco-Roman and Early Christian Antiquity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005) 97–110, notes that in The Oracles at Delphi, Plutarch completely skips the period of Alexander the Great (105–108) and the Aetolians with their victory over the Galatians in 279BC, even though the festival of the Soteria commemorated it (108–110).

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explored serious questions about society, life, and death, as when he questions the glory that the monuments at Delphi sought to proclaim.19 We would have expected his erudition and wit to appear in his quotations. It is remarkable how many fragments of Greek tragedy appear only in his works, many from dramas unknown or barely known to us. They must have seemed recherché even to his contemporaries. In general, though, the citations are from the great authors of the past, representatives of their age, who in this way can interact with the characters in his dialogues and the reader. They can stimulate, obligating a reaction in the characters and the reader, even if at times they are refuted. In this sense much of Plutarch’s writing is an interaction between a primary text (that of the original author) and his own (the secondary text). The quotations, then, had and have a very serious intellectual, educational, and cultural purpose, for readers of the Second Sophistic as they have for ourselves.20 If one believes that a text can interact with material objects,21 then Plutarch’s text and quotations are constantly interacting with the scene before them—the shrine at Delphi.

5

Preference for Classical Authors

In terms of intertextuality, then, why the extraordinary number of direct quotations, which are mostly ‘explicit’ in Genette’s terminology?22 One possible solution is that, though writing a piece of fiction, Plutarch considered himself to be a reliable historian, philosopher, and scientific thinker who desired to get back to the original sources. Today, almost any scholarly writer would employ explicit, direct quotations, convinced that his readers wanted to know the exact 19

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For a general discussion of the dialogues, see F. Frazier, “Review of F. Ildefonse, Plutarque, Dialogues Pythiques. L’E de Delphes. Pourquoi la Pythie ne rend plus ses oracles en vers. La disparition des oracles: Présentation et traduction (Paris: GF Flammarion, 2006),” Ploutarchos n.s. 5 (2007/2008) 114–121. See also Schröder, Plutarchs Schrift, 60–61, who takes the date as uncertain. For comparable questions in the Lives, see P.A. Stadter, “Antony: Introduction,” in R. Waterfield, Roman Lives: A Selection of Eight Roman Lives (Oxford: Oxford University Press) 360–364 (360). For Plutarch and the Second Sophistic, see T.A. Schmitz, “Plutarch and the Second Sophistic,” in M. Beck (ed.), A Companion to Plutarch (Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2014) 32–41, and F.E. Brenk, “Plutarch: Philosophy, Religion, and Ethics,” in D.S. Richter & W.A. Johnson (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of the Second Sophistic (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017) 291–309. See Part 6 of this volume. By ‘explicit’ Genette means cases where the quotation is faithfully reproduced and the source is revealed to the reader. The most “explicit and literal form is the traditional practice of quoting with quotation marks” (Genette, Palimpsests, 2).

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words of the primary source. In cases where the primary text is in a foreign language, scholars like to quote the original language, sometimes without giving a translation (especially if it is in difficult German). Plutarch employs this authoritative or scholarly approach to intertextuality especially in his philosophical commentaries, as one would expect. In The Oracles at Delphi, this style is effective, for example, in describing the fountain of the Muses at Delphi near the shrine of Earth (Ge or Gaia) (402C–D). Plutarch’s speaker, Boëthus, does not reproduce enough of Simonides to determine whether the poet was talking about the shrine at Delphi, but we have to take him at his word. Boëthus then uses the Simonides quotation to refute Eudoxus, who declared that it was the water of the Styx, not the water of the Muses that issued from the spring near the shrine of Gaia.23 All Plutarch’s quotations in the Pythian Dialogues come from authors of the past, none from contemporary ones, with the exception of a verse oracle of the Pythia in Plutarch’s day (404A). As mentioned, some of the quotes represent our only fragment of a work. We find 28 authors cited from 52 works, resulting in 66 quotes, along with 45 indirect quotes or references: altogether, 111 quotes, indirect quotes, or references, in what is only 25 pages in a modern book page size, such as Schröder’s text.24 Overall, the most popular authors are: Euripides (10 quotes), Homer (9), the Delphic Oracle (also mentioned in Herodotus 4 and in Thucydides 1), Pindar (6), Plato (5), Heraclitus (4), Hesiod (4), Sophocles (4), Empedocles (3), Simonides (3), and Adespota lyric and tragedy (7).25 With the exceptions of Homer, Hesiod, Epicurus and the Stoics,

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The verses (PMG 577) are very corrupt and appear nowhere else. See Schröder, Plutarchs Schrift, 313. The counts have to be approximate, since they are somewhat arbitrary. For Plutarch’s citations in general, see E.L. Bowie, “Plutarch’s Habits of Citation: Aspects of Difference,” in A.G. Nikolaidis (ed.), The Unity of Plutarch’s Work. Moralia Themes in the Lives, Features of the Lives in the Moralia (Berlin-New York: De Gruyter, 2008) 143–157. There are also verses associated with the shrine of Gaia (Earth) mentioned simply as “in heroic verse” (402D–E). For his Simonides citations, see E.L. Bowie, “Plutarch’s Simonides: A Versatile Gentleman?” in J. Opsomer, G. Roskam & F.B. Titchener (eds.), A Versatile Gentleman: Consistency in Plutarch’s Writing. Studies Offered to Luc Van der Stockt on the Occasion of his Retirement (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2016) 71–87. For ‘clusters’ (of quotations) in Plutarch’s Moralia, see L. Van der Stockt, “A Plutarchan Hypomnema on SelfLove,” AJPh 120 (1999) 575–579; id., “Compositional Methods in the Lives,” in M. Beck (ed.), A Companion to Plutarch (Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2014) 321–332; Bowie, “Plutarch’s Habits of Citation,” 148–149, 151–153 and id., “Plutarch’s Simonides,” 76. Bowie notes how citations bolster the argument or offer proof for a factual matter (152–153), that they are much denser in the Moralia than in the Lives (156), and that sometimes Plutarch opens a work with a citation (154). Bowie also lists authors cited in both the Moralia

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virtually all the authors are from the Classical age. While 29 authors and 35 works are cited or referred to in the essay, amazingly only 8 of these citations appear elsewhere in Plutarch’s extant works. For direct quotes, outside of Plato, the most popular are the Delphic oracles (5), including 1 from Herodotus and 1 from Thucydides), Homer (4), Euripides (3), Pindar (certainly 3 and probably 4), and Simonides (2). However, Plato is quoted, indirectly quoted, or referred to 8 times. Since the great age of the Oracle was the period of Herodotus and Thucydides, we might expect that citations from these authors might be more prominent. Evidently Plutarch does not mention the author of the citations from Herodotus and Thucydides, probably because they were well-known, but also because he regards the Oracle at Delphi as the author, not the historians. Genette’s ‘hypertextuality,’ in the sense of the relationship of a secondary text like the Aeneid to a primary one like the Odyssey or Iliad, is absent. A vague intertextuality, however, exists in which the Delphic oracles and their accuracy, against the charges of critics, are always in the background. Perhaps surprisingly, though citing oracles that are found in Herodotus, Plutarch omits his name. In On Isis and Osiris, astoundingly, Herodotus is never mentioned, though much of the work is a refutation of Herodotus’ derivation of Greek culture from the Egyptian. In many respects Herodotus on Egypt is the primary text, On Isis and Osiris the secondary and, in Genette’s terms, an example of ‘transformative intertextuality’—a transformation (and refutation) of the primary text.26 Contrasting with On Isis and Osiris, in The Oracles at Delphi, Herodotus is not only quoted directly, but he is also cited as a source for the Pythia producing many verse oracles in the Classical period (403E–F).

6

Rare Re-use of Quotations

What is most astounding is that using The Oracles at Delphi as a sample, rarely, that is, in less than 25 percent of the cases, does the citation appear again in the

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and Lives, only in the Moralia, and only in the Lives (145–151). According to the definition of a cluster having more than three citations, there is none in De Pyth. or., but three citations appear at 405F–406B. For a complete list of Plutarch’s citations, see W.C. Helmbold & E.N. O’Neil, Plutarch’s Quotations (Baltimore: American Philological Association, 1959). On Plutarch’s refutation of Herodotus (whom he never mentions) in De Is. et Os., see D.S. Richter, “Plutarch on Isis and Osiris: Text, Cult, and Cultural Appropriation,” TAPhA 131 (2001) 191–216, and Cosmopolis: Imagining Community in Late Classical Athens and the Early Roman Empire (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011) 226–229.

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vast extant corpus of Plutarch, and some of these cases are simply a line from Homer, or maxims such as “Know yourself” and “Nothing to excess,” which are sometimes attributed to the Seven Sages.27 One cannot speak of ‘clusters’ of quotations in The Oracles at Delphi, much less speak of clusters used in other dialogues or in the Lives. This is even more astounding when we note that Plutarch wrote three Pythian dialogues on somewhat similar subjects. One reason is that the structure and goal of each dialogue affect the choice of authors cited.28 Thus, the very long On the E at Delphi, rejecting less profound interpretations and listening to Plato, enunciates the concept of a Middle-Platonic supreme God equated with Being and the One.29 Naturally, reference to the philosophers and Plato would be prominent. There may be only five references

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There are by my count 27 citations in the dialogue. Of these, 8 appear elsewhere, one of which appears twice (Hom. Od. 7.107 [396B] also in Alex. 36); and another which appears 3 times, the oracle regarding Agesilaus (399B–C) in Ages. 3 and Lys. 22. Regarding internal grounds, in De E Plutarch is young, about to begin his philosophical studies. He does not appear in the other Pythian dialogues. In De Pyth. or., apparently set during Trajan’s reign, Plutarch does not appear but may have been a priest at Delphi at the time. For this, see P.A. Stadter, “Plutarch and Apollo of Delphi,” in P.A. Stadter, Plutarch and his Roman Readers (Oxford: Oxford University Press) 82–97 (e.g. 82) [original in R. HirschLuipold (ed.), Gott und die Götter bei Plutarch: Götterbilder, Gottesbilder, Weltbilder (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2005) 197–214]; and A.G. Nikolaidis, “What did Apollo Mean to Plutarch?” in L. Athanassaki, R.P. Martin & J.F. Miller (eds.), Apolline Politics and Poetics: International Symposium (Athens: European Cultural Centre of Delphi, 2009) 569–586 (e.g. 569). A major section of De def. or. (414F–415B), that on daimones and dualism, reappears in similar form in De Is. et Os. (369D–370C) but is absent from De Pyth. or. The relationship between Apollo and the Sun is only mentioned briefly in both De def. or. (433D–E) and De E (386B). In the former a promise of discussion in another dialogue appears (438E). In De E it receives some prominence (393D–F). The identification, however, is surpassed in the grand disquisition by Plutarch’s teacher Ammonius on the nature of his supreme Middle-Platonic God. As for the oracular inspiration, two theories are elaborated in De def. or., that the inspiration comes from daimones, who either move away or die (421B–438D), or by an exhalation from the ground (pneuma) which gives out (433B–D). In De Pyth. or. (402B), the pneuma probably means “the divine inspiration,” related to “the divine power” (τὸ θεῖον) mentioned just before. See H. Obsieger, Plutarch: De E apud Delphos: Über das Epsilon am Apolltempel in Delphi (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2013) 404, for Plutarch’s citations or allusions to Plato in De E. For the tendency of Imperial writers to ignore the oral aspect of Homeric poems and Plato’s teaching, see A. Zadorojnyi, “Transcribing Plato’s voice: the Platonic intertext between writtenness and orality,” in L. Van der Stockt, F. Titchener, H.G. Ingenkamp & A. Pérez Jiménez (eds.), Gods, Daimones, Rituals, Myths and History of Religions in Plutarch’s Works. Studies Devoted to Professor Frederick E. Brenk by the International Plutarch Society (Logan-Malaga: Utah State University-Universidad de Málaga, 2010) 467–492 (467–468).

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to Plato in The Oracles at Delphi.30 Tobias Thum has shown that On the E at Delphi has an intricate network of allusions to various works of Plato.31 In the index locorum to his book, he has 166 entries for Plato’s works, most of them from the Timaeus (66) and the Theaetetus (22), but including 11 other works.32 In The Oracles at Delphi, as we have seen, the quotations recreate the cultural and social memory of the Delphic past. Thus, the majority of the citations are from the Delphic oracles, Herodotus and the tragedians, even if the last do not usually refer to Delphi. The Boeotian poet, Pindar, may be quoted largely for patriotic reasons. In The Obsolescence of Oracles, the quotations about daimones usually support the speaker’s position or emphasize the principal theme. The Obsolescence of Oracles, somewhat like Table Talk, mostly rejects competing voices of the past like Empedocles and Xenocrates to settle on the voice of Aristotle, while On the E at Delphi ends with an exalted description of a (Middle) Platonic God. Ammonius’ discourse on God, which depends heavily on Plato and Middle-Platonic sources, would be what Genette calls ‘hypertextuality,’ which is when text B (the ‘hypertext’) or secondary text interacts with text A, in the way that Vergil’s Aeneid or James Joyce’s Ulysses interacts with the Iliad or the Odyssey.33 This is not the usual case for The Oracles at Delphi. The intertextuality of The Oracles at Delphi is in accord with the Second Sophistic and in contrast with the political views of the main speaker, Theon, who regards the present, not the Classical period, as the greatest age of Greece, and who is very uncritical of the Roman presence in Greece.34 No laudator temporis acti (to use an implicit quotation in Genette’s terminology), he envisions the present age as one of peace, stability, reconstruction, at least as far as the Oracle at Delphi is concerned, but even more, about to surpass its former glory (408F–409C).35 30

31 32 33 34

35

There are at least 5 references to Plato: Alc. I at 128c–129a (Schröder, Plutarchs Schrift, 39), Ion at 534a and 534c–d (Schröder, Plutarchs Schrift, 71 and 42), Phd. at 79c (Schröder, Plutarchs Schrift, 39), and Phdr. at 244a (Schröder, Plutarchs Schrift, 71). T. Thum, Plutarchs Dialog De E apud Delphos: Eine Studie (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013). Thum, Plutarchs Dialog, 385–387. Genette, Palimpsests, 5–7. See e.g. S.E. Alcock, “The Reconfiguration of Memory in the Eastern Roman Empire,” in S.E. Alcock, T.N. D’Altroy, K.D. Morrison & C.M. Sinopoli (eds.), Empires: Perspectives from Archaeology and History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001) 323–350 (esp. 326 and 344). For counter-narratives, see 346, citing Plutarch, Praec. ger. reip. 814A– C: “Marathon, Eurymedon, and Plataea and all other examples make many swell and snort with false pride. These we leave in the schools of the Sophists.” For the difficulty of ascertaining Plutarch’s own views, see F.E. Brenk, “‘In Learned Conversation’: Plutarch’s Symposiac Literature and the Elusive Authorial Voice,” in J. Ribeiro Ferreira, D. Leão, M. Tröster, & P. Barata Dias (eds.), Symposion and Philanthropia in Plutarch

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A number of the quotations in The Oracles at Delphi, though seemingly proverbial or decorative, form part of the ‘layering’ effect of intertextuality by recalling the great age of literature of the past, its gnomic poetry, and in some sense interacting with Plutarch’s ‘present’ or ‘secondary’ text. For instance, the apparently proverbial citation, “All this I knew before Theognis’ day” (395D), seems rather insignificant, but it brings Theognis’ poetry to the reader’s mind.36 At 395F, though, we find something different. As in Table Talk, the primary text is that of a philosopher and scientist, Aristotle. The text is called in as support for an explanation about the mysterious patina on the statues of the naval generals who fought on the side of Sparta at Aegospotami, the first monumental artifacts a visitor to the shrine would see.37 The main speaker, Theon, builds on Aristotle’s theory about the density of moisture in the air. Aristotle’s theory really seems directed toward the appearance of rust, not the patina on bronze. Thus, for the theory to work, the air at Delphi should be heavy and moist, but the speakers regard the air at Delphi as having a thin density, an obstacle to the theory. However, Theon is able to cite Homer (Odyssey 7.107) regarding oil densely flowing off fine cloth, to prove that something can be “both tenuous and dense” (396B–C), one of several quotations used to prove a point.38 Thus, a primary text is introduced, faced with an objection, and then the objection is overcome by another primary text, that is, from Homer. It is unusual for Plutarch to employ a citation from Homer as the final solution to a scientific problem rather than just as an introduction. Here we have the texts of Aristotle and Homer, with which the secondary text interacts. Since the whole thing seems to be nonsense, Plutarch may have reworked the texts of Aristotle and

36 37

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(Coimbra: Classica Digitalia, 2009) 51–61, and F.E. Brenk, “Plutarch’s Flawed Characters: the Personae of the Dialogues,” in J. Opsomer, G. Roskam & F.B. Titchener (eds.), A Versatile Gentleman: Consistency in Plutarch’s Writing. Studies Offered to Luc Van der Stockt on the Occasion of his Retirement (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2016) 89–100. For the ‘renaissance’ and ‘final glory’ of the Oracle in the Roman period, see M. Scott, Delphi: A History of the Center of the Ancient World (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2013) 223–244. Kock CAF no. 461 Adespota; repeated at Maxime cum principibus 777B. The text is very uncertain. See Schröder, Plutarchs Schrift, 123–124. For the patina, see J. Pouilloux, “L’air de Delphes et la patine du bronze,” REA 73 (1971) 376–381 [reprinted in id., D’ Archiloque à Plutarque: Littérature et réalité: Choix d’articles de Jean Pouilloux (Lyon: Maison de l’ Orient, 1986) 286–293] and J. Jouanna, “Plutarque et la patine des statues à Delphes (Sur les oracles de la Pythie 395B–396C),” RPh (1975) 67–71. Pouilloux, “L’air de Delphes,” argues that the apparently trivial question involves a confrontation between Epicurean and Stoic thought. He believes Theon may have transferred Plato’s explanation for the “penetrating” or “corrosive” character of fire (Ti. 57a) to the quality of the air at Delphi.

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Homer into a parody, another form of intertextuality.39 Certainly prophecy is very important in both the Iliad and the Odyssey. Plutarch does not employ these passages as his primary texts, possibly because they might be regarded as fiction, not history, while he wanted to base the authenticity and veracity of the Delphic oracles on historical and scientific fact.

7

Primary and Secondary Texts

After someone recites an ancient oracle (396C), only the content of which is related by the speaker, the interlocutors return to a more serious problem: if the voice is Apollo’s, why are most oracular verses so atrocious? One of the speakers, Sarapion, a poet, defends the utterances of prophetesses such as the Sibyl, whose verse is miserable yet whose words remain forever (397A), citing Heraclitus, fr. 92: Σίβυλλα δὲ μαινομένῳ στόματι’ καθ’ Ἡράκλειτον ἀγέλαστα καὶ ἀκαλλώπιστα καὶ ἀμύριστα φθεγγομένη χιλίων ἐτῶν ἐξικνεῖται τῇ φωνῇ διὰ τὸν θεόν (“But the Sibyl with frenzied mouth, according to Heraclitus, uttering words mirthless, unembellished, and unperfumed, yet reaches to a thousand years with her voice, because of the god”).40 He backs up this assertion with a quote from Pindar that “‘Cadmus heard the god revealing correct music,’ not sweet, nor voluptuous, nor with suddenly changing melody” (397B).41 Theon defends the accuracy of the prophecies but not the verse. His central thesis is that the god is not responsible for the verses but only the inspiration. In other words, Apollo is not a bad poet. He just inspires: “The voice, the utterance, the diction, the meter are not of the god, but of the priestess” (397B–C). But, at this point, Theon offers no ancient authority for his proposition. In Genette’s terms we have an interesting species of intertextuality. The primary text, if it can be called a text at all, which results in the answer or prediction of Apollo, is pure thought. The secondary text is the utterance of the Pythia, perhaps in horrible verse, while in many cases a tertiary text is the elaboration of the secondary text into elegant, metrical Greek, possibly by the priests or others at the shrine. But the only Delphic oracles we actually have are those recorded by literary authors, who may have altered the text, or inscribed in stone, which may have been altered from a literary text or oral source (a fourth text).

39 40 41

See Genette, Palimpsests, 5–55, who devotes quite a bit of space to parody. Heraclit. 22 B 92 Diels-Kranz; Schröder, Plutarchs Schrift, 145–146. Pi. fr. 104B; Schröder, Plutarchs Schrift, 443–444.

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Theon also rejects the claim of another speaker, the Epicurean Boëthus, that due to the vagueness of the utterances, given enough time, πάντα τῆς ἀπειρίας φερούσης (“since infinity brings all things to pass”) some prophecies will come about by chance (399A).42 At this point, Boëthus cites a ‘proverb’ which the speaker in The Oracles at Delphi (and modern scholars) attributes to Euripides: ὁ μὲν “εἰκάζων καλῶς,” ὃν “ἄριστον μάντιν” ἀνηγόρευκεν ἡ παροιμία (“ ‘the best guesser is the best prophet,’ as the proverb says,” 399A).43 The primary text used by Euripides may have been a proverb, perhaps metrically altered by Euripides to fit his secondary text. Plutarch himself evidently knew that the quotation was from Euripides and wanted to have a little fun with his friend, Boëthus.44 The quotation also seems to be a case of ‘stagnation.’ The quote has become so common that people assume it is simply a proverb. Theon must refute the quotation through examples of true utterances, further primary texts, which are offered at great length. In fact, many of these oracles may have been fictitious. Thus in place of Apollo’s thoughts, the primary text would be the words of the forger. To refute Boëthus’ voice, ultimately the implicit one of Epicurus, Theon offers “explicit, clear prophecies” that have come true: an island appearing near Thera, the defeat of Hannibal and Philip of Macedon by the Romans, and the great slave revolt in Italy led by Spartacus (399C–D). Such prophecies are anything but “explicit, clear” prophecies to a modern reader, and may not have been to Plutarch. Is he having fun at the expense of his friend, Theon, and ‘pulling the leg’ of the reader?45 The last part of the oracle seems much too vague to support Theon’s proposition: “… and men who are weaker / shall by the might of their arms be able to vanquish the stronger.” Theon interprets it as “… war with all the nations of the world at once, the war with their [the Romans’] slaves who had rebelled,” something predicted five-hundred years before the event.

42

43 44

45

For a modern explanation, with a discussion of the various philosophers, philosophical schools, and in particular Iamblichus, see P.T. Struck, Divination and Human Nature: A Cognitive History of Intuition in Classical Antiquity (Princeton-Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2016). He largely equates ancient divination with the modern ‘intuition.’ E. fr. 973 Nauck2. Plutarch also cites the full verse in De def. or. 432C, where he names Euripides as the author. See Schröder, Plutarchs Schrift, 239–240. For quotations as irony in oral situations, see H. Kotthoff, “Irony, Quotation, and Other Forms of Staged Intertextuality: Double or Contrastive Perspectivation in Conversation,” Interaction and Linguistic Studies 5 (Constance: Constance University, 1998): http://nbn ‑resolving.de/urn:nbn:de:bsz:352‑opus‑4715. For Plutarch’s personages and the speeches in De E, see Thum, Plutarchs Dialog, 44–46, 125–129, 229–232, 362, and F.E. Brenk, “Review of T. Thum, Plutarchs Dialog De E apud Delphos: Eine Studie (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013),” Gnomon 88 (2016) 69–71.

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Parody?

Taking Theon’s words as a commentary, we have another category of Genette’s intertextuality. As is usual in the dialogue, the source of the citation is given, ‘explicitly’ in Genette’s terminology.46 However, if we can take Plutarch as writing this ‘tongue in cheek,’ we can consider it a parody, another of Genette’s categories. Would Plutarch himself regard a Sibyl’s oracle around 600 BC as predicting the Romans’ suppressing a slave revolt? Whatever the oracle was meant to do, in the hands of Plutarch it appears to take on the transformative effect of parody. In this case, a serious primary text is presented in a context that makes it somewhat questionable or ridiculous.47 Other discussions might also leave a modern reader skeptical. Often the citations do not appear very helpful. Against Sarapion, another speaker, Philinus (400A), cites Homer to claim that the sun is created by exhalation from water: “Swiftly away moved the Sun, forsaking the beautiful waters” (Od. 3.1). Since Homer can hardly be considered a scientific authority on the subject, Empedocles is then cited by Theon. The method seems to be a literary flourish, moving from a familiar poetic citation to a more scientific quotation. This is a way of presenting the primary texts in historical and scientific order. This tactic resembles the use of citations in the section regarding the patina on the statues of the ship captains, toward the beginning of the dialogue, though in that case, the scientific citation came first. According to Empedocles, the sun is created by the reflection of celestial light around the Earth (400B– C).48 The quotation serves as a bridge to the theological perspective of the dialogue. Philinus uses the introduction of the sun/Sun to dispute the idea that the Sun and Apollo are the same god (400D), one of the major topics in On the E at Delphi. We thus have a case of both intertextuality (Empedocles and the present text) and intratextuality (The Oracles at Delphi and On the E at Delphi), though we do not know the chronological order of these dialogues. The citation points back to the Presocratics in one direction and ahead to On the E at Delphi in another. In terms of Plutarch’s intertextual methodology, we find an excellent example of ‘layering,’ moving from a Presocratic philosopher of the fifth century, to Scythinus of Teos, a poet of the fifth or fourth century.

46 47 48

In Genette, Paratexts, 140–160, quotations, oddly, appear under ‘epigraphs.’ For the background of this oracle, which also appears in Heraclides and Pausanias, see Schröder, Plutarchs Schrift, 209. 31 B 44 Diels-Kranz; Schröder, Plutarchs Schrift, 282–283.

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To support his view, Philinus introduces a seemingly decorative quote from Scythinus mentioning Apollo, who employs the “bright rays of the sun” for his plectrum (402A–B). Such citations are hardly convincing, but they accomplish what scholars of intertextuality call the ‘layering’ effect, making the text much richer, and even challenging for the reader, who might try to look at the text in its original context. Plutarch, with his vast knowledge of Greek literature, often introduces, as here, a not very well-known poet. Nor does the citation seem very apt, but apparently its raison d’être is to offer a poetic representation of a scientific idea.49 Someone like Plutarch might be expected to cite obscure poets, not so much to avoid ‘stagnation,’ or to convince, as to add a certain literary and cultural richness to the text (‘layering’). He might also have wished to transmit as exactly as possible the opinion or sentiment of the text at the time of composition, a question of ‘getting back to the sources.’ One can think of the citation of Simonides, an elegiac poet of the sixth and fifth centuries, about the fountain of the Muses near the shrine of Gaia (402C–D).50 Here the advantage of the direct, explicit quotation comes to the fore. Nothing like the quotation can convey an exact transmission of the primary text to the secondary text. The method contrasts with the commentary of the guides, who are ridiculed at the opening of the dialogue.

9

Use of Authorities

Very important, in a different way, is the testimony of the historians Herodotus, Philochorus, and Ister for a central argument in the dialogue, which claims that not all oracles in the past were in verse (403E–F).51 If this proposition is true, then the argument for the inferiority of the present age is greatly weakened and a boost is given to the continuity of tradition at the Delphic Oracle. Theon and his contemporaries did not, like some modern scholars, hold or suspect that many or most of the famous Delphic oracles found in Herodotus, Thucydides,

49 50

51

For all of Plutarch’s citations, see Helmbold & O’Neil, Plutarch’s Quotations. D.L. Page, Poetae Melici Graeci (Oxford: Oxford University Press 1962) 577; Schröder, Plutarchs Schrift, 313–314. On Simonides, see Bowie “Plutarch’s Habit of Citation;” and R. Rawles, Simonides the Poet: Intertextuality and Reception (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018). Plutarch cites Simonides ca. 56 times in his extant works, but only repeats a citation from him ca. 7 times (see Helmbold & O’Neil, Plutarch’s Quotations, 65–66). Philochorus: FGrHist 328 T 6; Schröder, Plutarchs Schrift, 329–330; Ister: FGrHist 334 T 5; Schröder, Plutarchs Schrift, 329; Theopompus: FGrHist 115 F 336; Schröder, Plutarchs Schrift, 329–330.

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and other authors were forgeries, fictions created post eventum.52 Rather, Theon accepts them as genuine, but argues that the famous oracles were not the only ones uttered.53 Here his authorities are not poets, but highly respected historians, who collected “countless oracles not in verse.” Supposedly Theopompus, described as the supreme authority on the oracles, at first rebuked those skeptical of the Pythia using verse, but when he tried to collect evidence for verse oracles himself, he found only a tiny number (403E–F). Being that these references are mentioned but not given as direct quotations somewhat weakens the argument and demonstrates again the value of the direct quotation for intertextuality. Theon can also cite a contemporary oracle of the Pythia in verse, the only contemporary quotation in the essay (404A). This type of quotation as essential for the argument, like the mention of Theopompus, however, is not typical of the essay. Usually the citations are less direct, at best vaguely 52

53

See J. Fontenrose, The Delphic Oracle: Its Responses and Operations, with a Catalogue of Responses (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978) 56–57, 233–235. For all the oracles cited, paraphrased, or alluded to in this dialogue, see the index locorum, 456. Cited or mentioned in Fontenrose are 399B–C (Agesilaus) Q163, p. 322; 399C (island at Thera and the Romans) Q238, p. 340; 408A (Battus) Q49, pp. 284–285; 408A (Lysander) Q199, p. 332. For a refutation of Fontenrose, see S.I. Johnston, “Delphi and the Dead,” in S.I. Johnston & P.T. Struck (eds.), Mantiké: Studies in Ancient Divination (Leiden: Brill, 2005) 283– 306 (285–287), and S.I. Johnston, Ancient Greek Divination (Oxford-Malden, MA: Wiley Blackwell, 2008) 39–44. Johnston agrees with Fontenrose on the impossibility of some oracles existing, but claims that Fontenrose’s arguments are often circular, his categories are useless for distinguishing the oracles, some oracles might have been related in different forms, not inscribed or recorded, and that one cannot trust his category of ‘topics.’ For a recent history of the Delphic Oracle, see Scott, Delphi; on its functioning L. Maurizio, “Anthropology and Spirit Possession: A Reconsideration of the Pythia’s Role at Delphi,” JHS 115 (1995) 69–86 and id., “The Voice at the Centre of the World: The Pythia’s Ambiguity and Authority,” in A. Lardinois & L. McClure (eds.), Making Silence Speak: Women’s Voices in Greek Literature and Society (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001) 38– 54. See also Arnush “Pilgrimage,” and M. Vamvouri Ruffy, “Apollo, Athena and Athens at Delphi,” in L. Athanassaki, R.P. Martin & J.F. Miller (eds.), Apolline Politics and Poetics: International Symposium (Athens: European Cultural Centre of Delphi, 2009) 521– 546. See also Johnston, Ancient Greek Divination, 33, for the nature of the Pythia, the ancient functioning of the Oracle, and ancient popular perception, along with the modern explanation (33–60). See also F. Graf, “Apollo, Possession, and Prophecy,” in L. Athanassaki, R.P. Martin & J.F. Miller (eds.), Apolline Politics and Poetics: International Symposium (Athens: European Cultural Centre of Delphi, 2009) 587–605; and J. Kindt, Revisiting Delphi: Religion and Storytelling in Ancient Greece (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016). For fluidity in handing down the Delphic oracles, see M. Giangiulio, “Constructing the Past: Colonial Traditions and the Writing of History. The Case of Cyrene,” in N. Luraghi (ed.), The Historian’s Craft in the Age of Herodotus (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007) 116–137, esp. 125–127, 129–131.

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supportive of the argument, or even enigmatic. For example, he offers an indirect quotation of Heraclitus that “the lord (anax) whose shrine is at Delphi neither tells, nor conceals, but indicates” (404D–E).54 The author of the primary text is a contemporary of the great age of the Oracle. The proposition is offered in the context of the prophetess being the instrument of the god and shaping the response. As Theon paraphrases it: “He makes known and reveals his own thoughts, but he reveals them as mixed through a mortal body and soul.” This soul “is unable to keep quiet, or, as it yields itself to the one that moves it, to remain unmoved and tranquil, but as though tossed in the surf and enmeshed in the stirrings and emotions within itself, it makes itself more disturbed” (405E).55

10

Hypertextuality

In terms of intertextuality, Heraclitus’ words create a puzzle. Heraclitus himself does not state here that the words are not those of the god. In fact, he seems to say the contrary. Is this another instance of Plutarch writing in a ‘tongue in cheek’ manner? One might say here that Theon uses his secondary text to misrepresent the primary text, or in Genette’s terms, to ‘transform’ it. In his later Palimpsests he calls this transformative intertextuality, the creation of a ‘hypertext.’ In this formulation, which he calls ‘provisional,’ the secondary text (which he now calls ‘text B’) is the ‘hypertext,’ which is grafted onto ‘text A,’ the primary text, in a manner that is not a commentary. In this case, text B does not speak of text A at all, but is unable to exist without A, from which it exists through a process which Genette ‘provisionally’ calls ‘hypertextuality.’ As examples, he offers Vergil’s Aeneid and James Joyce’s Ulysses. In Ulysses, Genette sees what he calls ‘simple’ or ‘direct’ transformation, that is, the action is transferred to Dublin of the twentieth century, whereas in the Aeneid the transformation is less direct, since Vergil tells an entirely different story, the adventures of Aeneas, not of Ulysses.56 Again, this is not the type of intertextuality that we find in The Oracles at Delphi. Some examples of the intertextuality in the essay can be offered here. At 405B, to support his argument for the instrumentality of the Pythia shaping the utterance, Theon alludes to Iliad 2.169 for Athena using Odysseus, a convincing 54 55 56

22 B 93 Diels-Kranz, F. 14 Marcovich. The quotation was perhaps used one more time (fr. 202 Sandbach). See Schröder, Plutarchs Schrift, 351–353. On the Pythia’s trance, see Maurizio, “Anthropology and Spirit Possession.” Genette, Palimpsests, 5–6. He goes on to distinguish ‘transformation’ from imitation.

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speaker, when she wishes to persuade the Achaeans, but using Pandarus (4.86) when she wishes to nullify the oaths, and later Diomedes when she wishes to rout the Trojans (15.1). This might be a very ingenious new use of primary Homeric texts to explain the verse form of the Delphic oracles, thus, in a sense, ‘transformative intertextuality.’ Here Theon contrasts Homer with Pindar “if it really was Pindar who wrote: θεοῦ θελόντος, κἂν ἐπὶ ῥιπὸς πλέοις (“God willing you could even sail on a mat”).” The verse, though, is actually from Euripides’ Thyestes.57 This looks again like Plutarch having fun with one of his personages, and perhaps the reader, though the misattribution does suggest a conversational style, in which people often make the wrong ‘explicit’ attribution. Also, perhaps to avoid having himself accused of ignorance, the character adds “if it really was Pindar.” Euripides is quoted again at 405E–F for love (Eros the god or eros the passion) turning a person who had never produced verse into a poet: Ἔρως ποιητὴν διδάσκει, κἂν ἄμουσος ᾖ τὸ πρίν (“Eros [or eros] teaches the poet, even if he knew nothing of the Muses before”).58 The statement sounds dubious on the face of it, but Theon qualifies it, arguing that Euripides was not speaking about Eros/eros implanting the poetic faculty, but, rather, stimulating a faculty which was already present. Plutarch quotes the verse again in Table Talk 6 (622C) and in the Dialogue on Love 762B. In the first, after the verse is quoted, the poet Philoxenus, a predecessor of Theocritus, is cited: “the Cyclops cured his love with fair-voiced Muses (μούσαις εὐφόνοις).” Here it is suggested that the Cyclops actually composed good, artistic lyrics, which is against the usual literary tradition of an inept Cyclops. Plutarch, who would have been acquainted with the whole of the Stheneboea, has himself, as a young newlywed in the Dialogue on Love, interpret Euripides in the same way: Love makes a “stupid person intelligent, a coward brave, a miserly person generous, a mean person kind.” Presumably this was Euripides’ own meaning. Agathon, in his speech on Eros in Plato’s Symposium, after citing the verses from the Stheneboea, even alleges that “the

57

58

E. fr. 397 Nauck2, suppl. by B. Snell, Supplementum ad “A. Nauck, Tragicorum Graecorum fragmenta” continens nova fragmenta Euripidea et adespota apud scriptores veteres reperta (Hildesheim: Olms, 1964); Schröder, Plutarchs Schrift, 359–360. See also C. Collard & M. Cropp, Euripides, Volume VII. Fragments: Aegeus-Meleager (Cambridge, MALondon: Harvard University Press, 2008) 436–437: “If God willed it, you could sail even on a straw.” From Euripides’ Stheneboea: E. fr. 663 Nauck2; C. Collard & M. Cropp, Euripides, Volume VIII. Fragments: Oedipus-Chrysippus. Other Fragments (Cambridge, MA-London: Harvard University Press, 2008) 134–135. See Schröder, Plutarchs Schrift, 374–375. The original fragment of Euripides seems to have read: Ἔρως ποιητὴν / διδάσκει, κἂν ἄμουσος ᾖ τὸ πρίν.

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god is a composer so accomplished that he is a cause of others being able to compose poetry.”59 Thus all our other witnesses testify to Euripides meaning that, as the verse explicitly says, “he teaches”, not that he inspires or stimulates. If so, Theon ‘improperly’ interprets the quotation, giving it a transformative value. A similar pair of verses is cited from Pindar, Isthmian 2.3.60 Less enigmatic is the citation (406B) from Chaeremon, used to support Theon’s thesis: ὁ μὲν γὰρ οἶνος τοῖς τρόποις κεράννυται τῶν πινόντων (“For wine mixes with the manner of each one drinking”).61 This seems again like an ingenious form of ‘transformative intertextuality,’ since Charemon was hardly thinking of prophecy when he composed the verse. The opposite is seen in the citation of Pindar, to the effect that once upon a time verse was appreciated and came naturally, that shepherds, ploughmen, and fowlers were delighted by his poetry (406C).62 Here the meaning of the citation fits the argument very closely.

11

Wrapped in an Enigma

Another citation (406F) from Sophocles about Apollo is rather puzzling: σοφοῖς μὲν αἰνικτῆρα θεσφάτων ἀεί, / σκαιοῖς δὲ φαῦλον κἀν βραχεῖ διδάσκαλον (“For wise men [the Oracle is] always an enigmatic author of divine edicts. / For dull men a poor teacher even if concise”).63 Schröder interprets Sophocles to say that educated people understood that there existed a deeper message and would look deeper for the truth, while simple folk thought they immediately understood the oracle.64 This, however, seems contradicted by the Oracle being enigmatic “always,” though he may be correct about the second part of the oracle. From what follows, Theon apparently holds that before the introduction of clear prose oracles, even educated, intelligent persons had trouble understanding the verse oracles, while, though the oracles were concise, simple persons could

59

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The verse was borrowed by Ar. V 1074, by Pl. Smp. 196e, by Theocritus’ friend in Id. 10, and by other authors. See P.A. Clement & H.B. Hoffleit, Plutarch. Moralia, Volume VIII (LondonCambridge, MA: Heinemann-Harvard University Press, 1986) 62–63, note a. Schröder, Plutarchs Schrift, 375. Chaeremon F 16 Snell-Kannicht, from an unknown tragedy. The verse appears elsewhere at 437D–E; see Schröder, Plutarchs Schrift, 378. Isthmian Odes 1.68, repeated at 473A. S. fr. 771 Radt; cited elsewhere only by Clem.Al. Strom. 5.24.3, vol. II, 341. See Schröder, Plutarchs Schrift, 389–390. It is the only quotation of Sophocles in De Pyth. or. Schröder, Plutarchs Schrift, 390.

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not understand them.65 Whether the primary text of Sophocles made a distinction between prose or verse is not clear, probably not. At 407D Theon, however, defends some of the enigmatic and double entendre oracles of the past by refuting a sentiment of Euripides (Phoenissae 958): Φοῖβον ἀνθρώποις μόνον / χρῆν θεσπιῳδεῖν (“Phoebus alone to men / should prophesy”). Here we find a complicated intertextuality. The reader needs to know the context to understand the quote, but Plutarch, or the textual transmission, omitted the second half of the line, ὃς δέδοικεν οὐδένα (“who fears no one”). Thus, the reader receives little or no help. The quote is, however, very fitting for this essay. The speaker, Teiresias (whom Theon does not mention) is a prophet, while the chorus of Phoenician maidens have come from Tyre to be consecrated to Apollo of Delphi and serve at his shrine (also not mentioned by Plutarch). Moreover, the Delphic Oracle is intimately connected with the Theban cycle, since the origin of evils stems from Laius disobeying the Delphic Apollo, who had warned him not to have children. The quote is from Teiresias’ speech to Creon after telling the king he must either sacrifice his son or lose Thebes to the Argives. Teiresias then laments that if he predicts evil for the inquirer, he will be hated, whereas if he lies, he sins against the gods. Therefore, only Apollo should prophesize, since he fears no one. Theon argues that Euripides is wrong, since Apollo does not leave his mortal instruments unprotected. By itself the quote is unintelligible, since the last part of the sentence has been omitted: ὁς δέδοικεν οὐδένα (“who fears no one”). This would clarify Theon’s next words, that through the use of ambiguity the Pythian priestesses could save themselves. Plutarch, or better, Theon, offers none of this information. Thus, the primary text, Apollo being afraid of no one, in contrast to the Pythian priestesses’ fear, receives a counter argument. The Pythia can receive the wordless primary text (Apollo’s thoughts), and employ a secondary text shrouded in ambiguity (her oracle), to protect herself. None of this appears in Teiresias’ (and thus Euripides’) words. The primary text is quoted ‘explicitly,’ that is, cited as by Euripides, and the tragedy seems to have been quite popular, but even so would the ordinary reader have recalled the verses. Theon’s interpretation is quite different, so we have another case of ‘transformative intertextuality.’ His remarks in a sense are a ‘commentary’ on the quotation, but if so ‘improper,’ that is, not giving a true interpretation of Teiresias’ words, but that was not Theon’s inten65

See Schröder, Plutarchs Schrift, 389–390. For a defense of ambiguity in the early period, see Maurizio, “Making Silence Speak,” 40–46. Maurizio, who seems to accept the oracles in Herodotus as genuine, claims that ambiguity allowed the Pythian priestesses to negotiate social expectations, their own understanding of their role as mediums, the supposed relationship of themselves to Apollo, and to accommodate their male clients (54).

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tion as he creates his ‘hypertext.’ Theon has argued that in the great age of the oracles at Delphi, the exotic vocabulary of verse, doubles entendres, and the like concealed the god’s words, thus protecting the prophetess from retaliation by the powerful. Only by reading or remembering the primary text in context (Euripides) does the quote truly become intelligible. Thus, the interpretation of the secondary text and Theon’s argument depends somewhat upon the reader not knowing or remembering the original meaning or intent of the primary text.

12

Ending with a Crescendo

The last quote (409B) is a kind of crescendo ending the flow of numerous citations coursing through the work.66 Pindar would be an appropriate choice, since Theon, who perhaps is the friend most mentioned in the Moralia, was a native of either Boeotia or Phocis and evidently spent a good part of his life at Chaeronea ‘dans l’ombre’ of Plutarch.67 Thus, the quotation is totally appropriate for Theon. Pindar, the greatest poet of Boeotia, or a Boeotian poet unknown to us, would also be an appropriate choice for Plutarch, a native of Boeotia. However, there is good reason to believe that Page was right—that the poem is not by Pindar. Plutarch usually indicates whom the citation is from, especially if from a famous author. In every other case of a citation from Pindar in The Oracles at Delphi, he is explicitly mentioned. So why not here? Boeotia is explicitly mentioned as the location of Galaxion, an otherwise unknown town, but Theon does indicate that the poet was Boeotian. Judging by Theon’s previous misattributions of citations, he might have thought it was by Pindar, or Plutarch’s readers would have inferred this. Whoever the author, Theon (and Plutarch) needed some verses that involved agricultural abundance, and were not much concerned with the identity of the poet. The five lines of verse describe the abundance of milk at Galaxion, considered a sign of the presence “of the god” (409B):

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104b Snell-Maehler (fr. 104). As seen above, Page, who thought the verses unworthy of Pindar, listed them as PMG 997. See Schröder, Plutarchs Schrift, 443–444. F.C. Babbitt, Plutarch. Moralia, Volume V (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1936) ad loc., does not mention Pindar here, but in E.N O’Neil, Plutarch. Moralia, Volume XVI. Index (Cambridge, MA-London) 447, it is attributed to Pindar. B. Puech, “Prosopographie des amis de Plutarque,” in ANRW II.33.6 (Berlin-New York: De Gruyter, 1992) 4831–4893 (4886), bases the identification on the name of Theon’s son, Caphisias (Quaest. conv. 8.4 [724D–F]).

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προβάτων γὰρ ἐκ πάντων κελάρυξεν, ὡς ἀπὸ κρηνᾶν φέρτατον ὕδωρ, θηλᾶν γάλα· τοὶ δ’ ἐπίμπλαν ἐσσύμενοι πίθους· ἀσκὸς δ’ οὐδέ τις ἀμφορεὺς ἐλίνυεν δόμοις, πέλλαι γὰρ ξύλιναι πίθοι ⟨τε⟩ πλῆσθεν ἅπαντες. In Russell’s translation we find: From all the sheep it bubbled, milk from their udders like water from the springs; they ran to fill their jars: no wine-skin, no storage-vat stood empty; their wooden pails and pots were brimming full.68 So, too, the present “affluence, splendor, and honor” is “the most clear, strong, and plain evidence” of the presence of Apollo at Delphi.69 The text is something of a mystery, though there could always be problems caused by the transmission. Galaxion is mentioned nowhere else in extant Greek literature, and, hence, we have no knowledge of a shrine of Apollo there.70 According to Schröder, every modern scholar except Page, who does it on the grounds of “unworthiness,” attributes the verses to Pindar.71 The primary text itself describes the abundance of milk at Galaxion, but nowhere does the text or Theon explain why this should be associated with Apollo. It is not impossible that Plutarch’s sense of humor or irony is at work here, that Theon, by mistake, cites a poem not by Pindar, or that he cites it so badly that one of the outstanding Greek scholars of our time finds it “unworthy of Pindar.” But there is something transformative here too. One aspect of intertextuality is certainly the motive of an author for importing a quotation. The present

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D.A. Russell, Plutarch: Selected Essays and Dialogues (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993) 81. On the passage, see Schröder, Plutarchs Schrift, 444–446. P.A. Stadter treats Plutarch’s relationship to Rome in “Plutarch: Diplomat for Delphi,” in P.A. Stadter, Plutarch and his Roman Readers (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015) 70–81 [original in L. De Blois et al. (eds.), The Statesman in Plutarch’s Works, vol. i (Leiden-Boston: Brill, 2004) 19–31]; in the same volume, “Plutarch and Apollo of Delphi,” 82–197; and in “Plutarch and Rome,” in M. Beck (ed.), A Companion to Plutarch (Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2014) 13–31. Nicholson, “The Promise of Intertextuality,” argues that to understand the intertextuality of Pindar, we need to know the oral tradition. Evidently, if the poem is by Pindar, the oral tradition completely let us down. Schröder, Plutarchs Schrift, 443–445.

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quotation presents the question of a change of motive or intention, something not infrequent in Plutarch. In Ezra Pound’s use of the famous citation from Horace, verses on the nobility of dying for one’s country are negated and used for the utter horror and ignobility of dying for one’s country. In the Galaxion case, the original author meant to exalt the bounty of Apollo at Galaxion. The choice of this text in Theon’s speech depends on its subject matter, prosperity, and a shrine of Apollo. Theon cites the verses to demonstrate the total inferiority of this type of prosperity to Apollo’s benefactions at Delphi under Roman rule. The abundance of milk at Galaxion long ago in a more primitive society is ridiculous compared to the present and coming glory of the shrine at Delphi in a more sophisticated age. As for Theon’s enthusiasm for Roman rule, in both the Lives and the Moralia, Plutarch’s readers sometimes turn over dark pages about Roman rule and the difficulty of living under it. Even if Delphi thrived under Rome in the early Imperial period, Plutarch found it more difficult than Theon’s eulogy suggests. We, thus, in a sense have three texts: the original text by a possibly unknown poet (the quotation), the primary text (Theon’s citation of it in Plutarch’s essay, the secondary text) and a third voice, Plutarch’s own thoughts, which we can suspect were neither totally the same as Theon’s nor totally different. Both would have been cognizant of atrocities and difficulties under Roman rule. In conclusion, then, Plutarch’s citations demonstrate a skillful use of most forms of intertextuality studied by modern scholars, especially in the sense of ‘layering’ and ‘transformative intertextuality.’ His quotations are of high quality and rarely repeated, perhaps in an attempt to avoid ‘stagnation.’ Few of them are repeated in another dialogue, not even in another Pythian dialogue. They carefully suggest the richness and greatness of the literary, intellectual, and cultural history of a selective view of the Greek past, while exhibiting the great conscientiousness with which Plutarch performed his ‘paratextual’ duty, for him probably more a labor of love, than as Genette suggests it might be for others a “corvée paratextuelle.”

chapter 5

Homer as a Model for Plutarchan Advice on Good Governance José-Antonio Fernández-Delgado

Abstract From the known quotations with ornamental, erudite, logical or authoritative functions that the Homeric text provides for the stylistic configuration of Plutarch’s works dedicated to political advise (Maxime cum principibus, Ad princ. iner., An seni, Praec ger. reip.), a very high proportion play also a role in the generic configuration of these works. They offer, to greater and lesser extents, an action model of good governance, promoted by Plutarch’s various exhortations. Additionally, these quotations provide the model function shown by certain heroes characteristic of the epos or by certain similes, and they allow readers to observe the inclination for certain Homeric expressions, some of which manage to adopt a programmatic function, that appear across Plutarch’s texts. This is the kind of intertextuality that my chapter aims to approach, in the frame of the reception of Homer by Plutarch as the school model par excellence.

1

Homeric Quotations and Intertextuality in Plutarch’s Political Works

A well-known type of study in the copious literature on Plutarch involves tracing quotations, as is only to be expected of an author who makes such an abundant use of this rhetorical device, as shown in the useful, albeit not wholly comprehensive repertoire of Helmbold-O’Neil.1 The author most-often quoted by Plutarch is, by far, Homer, and the Iliad is much more quoted than the Odyssey. As regards the technique of the quotations by Plutarch, particularly his use of Homer, of which we now have a broad overall study following a number of partial ones,2 we have highly detailed analyses that provide a veritable taxonomic

1 W.C. Helmbold & E.N. O’Neil, Plutarch’s Quotations (Baltimore: American Philological Association, 1959). 2 J.M. Díaz Lavado, Las Citas de Homero en Plutarco (Zaragoza: Libros Pórtico, 2010).

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classification of the quotations from different points of view.3 We understand, nevertheless, that over and above the diverse effects in the Plutarchan text, as well as the treatment of the actual Homeric text, a functional analysis of the quotations should prove enlightening. Studying these Homeric quotations may provide a more profound view of the work in which they are embedded and of the true role they play in its composition, especially when these kinds of intertextual relationships—a methodology hardly practiced on Plutarch until now—are considered from the perspective of the subject to which they refer. That is at least what one may infer, as we shall see, from studying Homeric quotations in the four pieces of the Moralia that Plutarch dedicated to the subject of political instruction, the content of which is generally well defined by the Latin titles they have been given—namely, Praecepta gerendae reipublicae (“Precepts of Statecraft”), An seni respublica gerenda sit (“Whether an Old Man Should Engage in Public Affairs”), Maxime cum principibus philosopho esse disserendum (“That a Philosopher Ought to Converse Especially with Men in Power”) and Ad principem ineruditum (“To an Uneducated Ruler”). The latter two do not exactly provide political instruction, but supplement it, with Ad princ. iner. generally considered to do so in a fragmentary manner.4 It may be that such an incisive use of the Homeric intertext by Plutarch can be attributed to the fact that they are works from his mature years or even old age; in other words, they arise from Plutarch’s long, personal experience.5 To all accounts, we should also remember that apart from being recited in numerous popular festivals Homer was by far the most widely studied author in Greek 3 Cf. J.M. Díaz Lavado, “Tipología y función de las citas homéricas en el De audiendis poetis de Plutarco,” in M. García Valdés (ed.), Estudios sobre Plutarco: ideas religiosas (Madrid: Ediciones Clásicas, 1994) 681–696; G. D’Ippolito, “Plutarco e la retorica della intertestualità,” in L. Van der Stockt (ed.), Rhetorical Theory and Praxis in Plutarch. Acta of the IVth International Congress of the International Plutarch Society, Leuven, July 3–6, 1996 (Leuven: Peeters, 2000) 543–562. 4 Cf. K. Mittelhaus, De Plutarchi praeceptis gerendae reipublicae (Diss. Berlin, 1911); G.J.D. Aalders, Plutarch’s Political Thought (Amsterdam-Oxford-New York: North-Holland Publishing Company, 1982); M. Cuvigny, Plutarque. Oeuvres Morales. Tome XI, 1e partie (Paris: Belles Lettres, 1984); J.C. Carrière, Plutarque. Oeuvres Morales. Tome XI, 2e partie (Paris: Belles Lettres, 1984); A. Caiazza, Plutarco. Precetti politici (Naples: D’Auria, 1993); M. Valverde Sánchez, H. Rodríguez Somolinos & C. Alcalde Martín, Plutarco. Obras morales y de costumbres X (Madrid: Gredos, 2003); M.B. Trapp, “Statesmanship in a Minor Key? The An seni and the Praecepta gerendae reipublicae,” in L. De Blois, J. Bons, T. Kessels & D.M. Schenkeveld (eds.), The Statesman in Plutarch’s Works, vol. i (Leiden-Boston: Brill, 2004) 189–200; G. Roskam, Plutarch’s Maxime cum principibus philosopho esse disserendum (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2009); C.B.R. Pelling, “Political Philosophy,” in M. Beck (ed.), A Companion to Plutarch (Chichester: Blackwell, 2014) 149–162. 5 Cf. bibliography cited in the preceding footnote.

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schools.6 By citing Homer, Plutarch’s prestige will be bound up with his texts for listeners/readers, pepaideumenoi like him, who had received the same type of instruction.7 A study of these Homeric intertexts reveals a sliding scale in the intensity of the approach to the expression of the political subject matter: it may take the form of isolated Homeric terms and brief statements—whose function is mainly logical, decorative or erudite and more or less independent of the one performed in the original hypotext—, phrases and similes that are not much longer than a single verse, and finally a series of verses in small blocks. When these quotations are read within their Homeric context, it is clear that their use coincides with the model proposed by the Plutarchan precept; thereby, they contribute to the contents and the definition of each respective essay by means of intertextuality. I will analyze the totality of Homeric quotations in the aforementioned Moralia texts and will refer to them, whether they are explicit, hidden, or even allusive,8 following the order in which these works are generally accepted to have been written.

2

Isolated Homeric Terms, Statements and Allusions

These quotations may be individual Homeric terms. This strategy is often used by Plutarch as an illustration of his own brilliance by referring to special concepts coined by Homer, and thus gaining the stamp of his authority, as in the 6 Cf. Díaz Lavado, Las Citas de Homero en Plutarco, 65–71. On the importance of Homeric epic in education, see W.J. Verdenius, Homer, the Educator of the Greeks (Amsterdam-London: NorthHolland Publishing Company, 1970); H.-I. Marrou, Historia de la educación en la antigüedad (Buenos Aires: EUDEBA, 1970) 198–199; K. Robb, Literacy and Paideia in Ancient Greece (New York: Oxford University Press, 1994) 159–182. On Homer’s presence in school papyri, cf. J.A. Davison, “The Study of Homer in Graeco-Roman Egypt,” Mitteilungen aus der Papyrussammlung der Österreichischen Nationalbibliothek n.s. 5 (1956) 51–58; F. Pordomingo, “Homero en los papiros escolares de época helenística,” in A. Casanova & G. Bastianini (eds.), I papiri omerici. Atti del Convegno internazionale di studi. Firenze, 9–10 giugno 2011, Studi e Testi di Papirologia N.S. 14 (Florence: Istituto Papirologico G. Vitelli, 2012) 243–271. On Homer’s presence in school exercises, cf. R. Cribiore, “Gli esercizi scolastici dell’Egitto greco-romano: cultura letteraria e cultura popolare nella scuola,” in O. Pecere & A. Stramaglia (eds.), La letteratura di consumo nel mondo greco-latino (Cassino: Università degli studi di Cassino, 1996) 511– 512; R. Cribiore, “Literary School Exercises,”ZPE 116 (1997) 57–58; T. Morgan, Literate Education in the Hellenistic and Roman Worlds (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998) 105–115. 7 Cf. J.A. Fernández Delgado, “El arte de la retórica en Plutarco,” in G. Santana Henríquez (ed.), Plutarco y las artes. Acta of the 11th International Congress of the Spanish Society of Plutarchists, Univ. Las Palmas de Gran Canaria 2012 (Madrid: Ediciones Clásicas, 2013) 13–44. 8 Cf. Díaz Lavado, “Tipología y función de las citas homéricas en el De audiendis poetis”; D’Ippolito, “Plutarco e la retorica della intertestualità.”

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case of Maxime cum principibus 777D: “the works and gifts of the Muses are more conducive to friendship than are those of Aphrodite,”9 with the term τὰ φιλοτήσια taken from Od. 11.246,10 or in Ad princ. iner. 781C: “therefore kings are called reverend (αἰδοίους), for it is fitting that those be most revered who have least to fear.” They also might involve Homeric expressions or phrases, likewise used for decorative purposes, authoritative value, and occasionally ironic purposes. Examples of such uses are Praec. ger. reip. 819E: “And since the orator’s platform is a sanctuary … do you strip off all love of wealth and of money … cast them straightway … and turning your back depart from them (αὐτὸς δ’ ἀπονόσφι τραπέσθαι, Od. 5.350) … believing that a man who makes money out of public funds is stealing from sanctuaries”; An seni 788C: “(old men) do not, borne along sometimes because of past failures and sometimes as the result of vain opinion, dash headlong upon public affairs, dragging the mob along with them in confusion like the storm-tossed sea,” a comparison that reappears in 789D and involves a topos11 that could be entrusted to Homer’s authority (Il. 2.144–149, 394–397); in 788D: “states when they are in difficulties … often they have brought from his field some aged man … and have pushed aside generals and politicians who were able to shout loud … and to plant their feet firmly (διαβάντας εὖ), to fight bravely against the enemy” (cf. Il. 12.458);12 Maxime cum principibus 776E: “for surely, if he were skilled in discovering water … he would not delight in digging … in a most distant spot by the Crow’s Rock (πάρ Κόρακος πέτρῃ)”, a proverbial statement from Od. 13.408;13 also 779B: “… a clever shipbuilder would take greater pleasure in making a tiller if he knew that it was to steer the Argo, the concern of all (πᾶσι μέλουσαν)”, a famous expression from Od. 12.70. Plutarch’s intertextual use of Homer might also involve allusive quotations, with an indirect mention of the Homeric passage,14 and with a comparative and exemplary function in the following double case: in Praec. ger. reip. 819C, Plutarch urges the statesman, for an action for which he has less ability than others, to choose men that are more capable, as Diomedes chose a prudent 9 10 11 12 13

14

Plutarch’s translations and those of the respective Homeric quotations come from H.N. Fowler, Plutarch. Moralia, Volume X (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1936). Once again present in Quaest. conv. 654C. Also present in D. 19.136 and in D.Chr. 3.49. Cf. Tyrt. 7.31. The expression also appears in Od. 14.532. Corax was the son of Arethusa and died when he fell off a cliff while hunting; his mother hanged herself and was transformed into a fountain: schol. in Hom. Od. 13.408. Regarding the classification of Plutarch’s Homeric quotations, cf. Díaz Lavado, “Tipología y función de las citas homéricas en el De audiendis poetis.”

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man (Odysseus) to accompany him on his foray into the Trojan camp, and dismissed the braver ones (cf. Il. 10.241–247, referred to below); in Praec. ger. reip. 821A, regarding how a statesman should not eschew true honors, Plutarch compares these to the love that animals show to their masters, and alludes to how, according to the poet, Achilles’ horses manifested their love to Patroclus (cf. Il. 19.409–412).

3

Phrases of a Verse’s Length

Some Homeric phrases are more or less of the same length as a semantically relocated and grammatically adapted verse. These phrases pervade the corresponding Plutarchan texts and their political instruction with greater depth and meaning when seen in the light of the Homeric hypotext. Thus, in Praec. ger. reip. 805A, οἷος πέπνυται, τοὶ δὲ σκιαὶ αἴσσουσιν (“he and he only has sense, the rest are mere flickering shadows,” Od. 10.495)—a verse uttered by Circe to refer to Tiresias’ situation in the underworld—is slightly adapted and applied by Plutarch to Cornelius Scipio, elected consul by virtue of his exploits in Iberia and Carthage, as an example of the safer of the two routes into public life. In 817C, Plutarch uses the words spoken by Diomedes in Il. 4.115 (τούτῳ μὲν γὰρ κῦδος ἅμ’ ἕψεται, “for unto him will accrue mighty glory”) to bolster his own narration against bearing the wrath of the magistrates as another public service. In 788E, with ἅμα πρόσω καὶ ὀπίσω (“that which is before and behind”), we find a phrase that, slightly adapted, describes how a general should act without anyone distracting him from the way he believes is best for proceeding, in contrast to what Agamemnon does according to Achilles’ version, which appears in Il. 1.343.15 In An seni 793F, νέῳ … ἐπέοικε … πάντα (“to a young man everything is becoming”)—used by Priam in Il. 22.71 to decry his aged state in his speech to Hector to dissuade him from fighting against Achilles—is applied by Plutarch to juxtapose the political position of a young man, whose people see him do many things, and the deplorable position of the old man given menial duties in public life.16 In Maxime cum principibus 777A, ἀνθρώπων ὕβριν τε καὶ εὐνομίην ἐφορώμενον (“to view the violence and lawfulness of men,” Od. 17.487)17—words spoken, upon the arrival of Odysseus disguised as a beggar, by one of the suitors referring to the attitude of the gods that sometimes pretend to be foreigners— 15 16 17

The phrase is also to be found in Quaest. rom. 279C. Idea contained in Plin. Ep. 3.1.2. The Homeric text reads ἐφορῶντες. According to Reg. et imp. apophth. 200E Clitomachus is the one that applied this verse by Homer to Scipio.

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is slightly adapted by Plutarch to the example of Scipio when he summoned Panaetius, whom according to Posidonius the senate had dispatched on the mission described in the Homeric version, as an illustration of how a philosopher’s teaching to a layman has no effects on other people, the opposite of what happens when he teaches a statesman. Lastly, in Ad princ. iner. 782C, Αὐτίκ’ ἔπειτά γε μῦθος ἔην, τετέλεστο δὲ ἔργον (“straightway then was the word, and the deed was forthwith accomplished”)—a proverbial phrase applied in Il. 19.242 to the gathering of the sundry gifts tendered by Agamemnon to Achilles for their reconciliation—is used by Plutarch to argue how power fuels the fulfilment of unhealthy passions. Another illustration of the exhortation to instruct a leading figure rather than teach a common person, which is one of the guide principles of Maxime cum principibus,18 appears in 776E, wherein a certain Homeric intertext, both in the form of the quotation and the place it occupies (final paragraph of the first of the work’s four chapters), may be considered representative of the exemplary function that the figure of Homer often acquires in Plutarch’s doctrine. Odysseus says to Penelope about the King of Knossos: “so we hear Homer calling Minos the great god’s oaristes” (Διὸς μεγάλου ὀαριστήν, Od. 19.179), which, according to Plato, means “familiar friend and pupil of Zeus,”19 and Plutarch continues by adapting it: “for they did not think that pupils of the gods should be plain citizens or stay-at-home or idles, but kings […].” A similar case occurs with another Homeric quotation in Ad princ. iner. 780F, which seeks to equate a prince’s behavior to that of the God, whereby, according to Plutarch, “just as in the heavens God has established as a most beautiful image of himself the sun and the moon, so in states a ruler … establishes, as his likeness and luminary,” ὅστε θεουδὴς / εὐδικίας ἀνέχησι (“who in God’s likeness / Righteous decisions upholds,” Od. 19.109–110, spoken by Odysseus to Penelope acknowledging her fame as a good queen).

4

Affective Similes

Some of Plutarch’s verse-phrases precisely involve the use of a Homeric simile, which is also characterized by a particular affective tone. One example is Praec. ger. reip. 821C, ὡς ὅτε μήτηρ / παιδὸς ἐέργει μυῖαν, ὅθ’ ἡδεῖ λέξεται ὕπνῳ 18 19

Cf. Roskam, Plutarch’s Maxime cum principibus. Pl. Min. 319b–e. It is, in fact, a common place in Greek literature and also present in Plu. Thes. 26.3; Num. 4.7; De sera num. 550AB and previously in Pl. Leg. 1.624 ab; cf. D.S. 5.78.3; Strab. 16.2.38; D.Chr. 1.37–38; Paus. 3.2.3; Max. Tyr. 12.7; 38.8 (Dübner).

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(“as when a mother / Wards off a fly from her child when he lieth asleep in sweet slumber”), wherein the simile of Il. 4.130–131 is applied to Athena shielding Menelaus’ chest from the deadly arrow fired by Pandarus; this is employed by Plutarch to the advantage of the populace’s good will toward the statesman, as a weapon of defense that shields against envy of wicked ones. Another example is An seni 792F, εἱανοῦ ἁπτομένη καί τ’ ἐσσύμενον κατερύκει (“grasping him fast by the cloak, and restrains him though hastening onward”), an affective simile that complements the previous one, used in Il. 16.9 by Achilles when lamenting Patroclus’ death and adapted by Plutarch to express how the nation’s consideration and assistance attracts the statesman to it. Finally, in Ad princ. iner. 781C, ὡς δὲ κύνες περὶ μῆλα, δυσωρήσονται ἐν αὐλῇ / θηρὸς ἀκούσαντες κρατερόφρονος (“just as the dogs keep their watch, toiling hard for the flocks in the sheepfold, / When they have heard a ferocious wild beast”), the simile applied in Il. 10.183– 184 to the sentries of the Greek troops awaiting the Trojan attack is used by Plutarch to show the fear that a prince should rightly feel if his subjects may come to some harm.

5

Long Phrases and Sequences of Verses

As we have seen, several of these Homeric phrases, whether similes or not, imbue Plutarch’s political instruction with greater depth, especially when seen in the light of the Homeric hypotext. This, in my view, must be undoubtedly more so for Plutarch’s listeners-readers, who were instructed through the school system to consider and cultivate Homer as the most exalted literary model.20 The hypotextual echo of the ‘Poet’ par excellence is much more important for the general definition of Plutarch’s political treatises in a broad array of passages in which a Homeric phrase, often longer that a single verse, or a sequence of phrases, precisely contains the thematic statement or the model of action proposed by the political precept in question. Thus, the unspecific quotation of Il. 9.55–56, Οὔτις τοι τὸν μῦθον ὀνόσσεται ὅσσοι Ἀχαιοί, / οὐδὲ πάλιν ἐρέει· ἀτὰρ οὐ τέλος ἵκεο μῦθων (“No one of all the Achaeans finds fault with the words thou hast uttered, / Nor will oppose them in speech; and yet thou hast reached no conclusion”), which is spoken by the elderly Nestor to Diomedes following his speech at the assembly, 20

Cf. Díaz Lavado, Las Citas de Homero en Plutarco. In regard to the important role played by Homeric texts in Greco-Roman education, cf. Verdenius, Homer, the Educator of the Greeks; Marrou, Historia de la educación en la antigüedad, 198–199; Robb, Literacy and Paideia in Ancient Greece, 159–182.

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begins the treatise Praec. ger. reip. 798A, and is applied to the case of those philosophers that give general advice but do not teach or propose anything specific.21 Following on from this, in the paragraph that counteracts the preceding one (798B), Plutarch resorts to the following verse from the same book, μύθων τε ῥητῆρ’ἔμεναι πρηκτῆρά τε ἔργων (“speaker of speeches to be, and also a doer of actions”, Il. 9.443)—which summarizes the teachings that Phoenix says he has come to deliver in his speech to Achilles—in order to describe the politician’s desire that Plutarch is going to satisfy with his ‘precepts.’ The same sequence of Homeric quotations, without the intervention of others inbetween, takes place near the end (chap. 22 and 24) in An seni, where the first quotation is extended with the following verse, Ἦ μὴν καὶ νέος ἐσσί, ἐμὸς δέ κε καὶ πάις εἴης (“Truly thou art a young man, and thou mightest e’en be my own offspring,” Il. 9.57) and applies the phrase spoken by the prudent Nestor to the comprehensive attitude that a venerable politician should adopt toward young people’s proposals (795B); Plutarch (795E) uses the second quotation (Il. 9.443) to summarize the valuable teachings that older politicians may instruct to young people with regard to public affairs, political struggles, and service to the nation. Not for nothing, this is the only case in which a sequence of Homeric quotations is repeated in their respective passages in Plutarch’s works on political instruction. These quotations occupy key positions in the text’s composition—at the beginning (Praec. ger. reip.) and at the end (An seni), respectively. This shows the poetic touch, the logical and authoritative reasoning, characterization, comparison, in short, the Homeric sound box, which other types of Homeric quotation give to Plutarch’s message. However, in this case, the Homeric hypotexts are much closer to Homer’s thinking; therefore, they directly impact the Plutarchan formulation, endorsing it with authority and coinciding, in fact, with Plutarch’s own didactic program. There is another sequence of Homeric quotations that have both thematic value and can be identified with Plutarch’s ideals. One of these coincides with the one in the prior sequence, and overall, has a subject that is not very different either, namely a politician’s power of eloquence—not the instigator of persuasion but instead its supporter. It is located in Praec. ger. reip. 801D–802B: according to Plutarch, great kings and, as Homer states, “Zeus-descended” (διογενεῖς),22 although they enslave the mob with their greatness, wished to be 21

22

For probable criticism implicit in the theoretical treatises or Protreptics, typical of the Stoics and other philosophers, cf. Carrière, Plutarque. Oeuvres Morales. Tome XI, 2e partie, 159, n. 3. Homeric epithet of kings.

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“speakers of words” (μύθων ῥητῆρες) without overlooking their charm “nor the assemblies in which men make themselves greatly distinguished” (οὐδ’ ἀγορέων ἵνα τ’ ἄνδρες ἀριπρεπέες τελέθουσιν, referencing Il. 9.441, pertaining to the aforementioned speech Phoenix made to Achilles reminding him of his ignorance in these arts when he was a child) (801D …). And then Plutarch continues: the mouthpiece of Athena, patron of the City, and of Themis, goddess of Justice— ἥ τ’ἀνδρῶν ἀγορὰς ἠμὲν λύει ἠδὲ καθίζει (“she who dismisses assemblies of men and who also convenes them,” 802B, referencing Od. 2.69, verse describing the goddess Themis, whom Telemachus implores in his speech reproaching the Ithacan assembly)—embellishes the city, using the word as her sole instrument.

6

Homeric Quotations Amplified in Their Heroic Echo or through the Figure of Gods

In several further sequences of Homeric quotations, and even in certain previous ones, the identification of the Plutarchan precept with the corresponding Homeric hypotexts is not only amplified in their heroic echo but also, as before in the case of the exemplary similes, through the figure of some gods (Zeus, Athena) or sundry, iconic heroes (Priam, Nestor, Phoenix, Diomedes, Telemachus, Odysseus, Glaucus, Hector, Agamemnon).23 Thus, in Praec. ger. reip. 808C, regarding the matter of whether or not friends should be kept when one accesses power, and if so, which ones, and exemplifying how a statesman may choose a friend as an assistant in an important public activity—because such a concession to friends honors the one doing so just as much as the one receiving it—, Plutarch quotes Diomedes’ attitude in Il. 10.242–243: Εἰ μὲν δὴ ἕταρόν γε κελεύετέ μ’ αὐτὸν ἑλέσθαι, / πῶς ἂν ἔπειτ’ Ὀδυσῆος ἐγὼ θείοιο λαθοίμην; (“so if you tell me myself to choose another as comrade, / How in that case could I e’er be forgetful of godlike Odysseus?”). This is how the Achaean hero responds to Agamemnon’s offer to choose a compan23

In Sept. sap. conv 164B–C, at the end of the work, someone asked the Sages what they meant to say with their famous maxims Know thyself, Nothing in excess and Committing oneself brings misfortune. Pittacus replies that there is no need to explain them, and Aesop says that Homer was their inventor by personifying in Hector, Ulysses and Zeus ways of behavior that illustrate each of them. Thus, the responses of Pittacus and Aesop, while apparently dodging an explanation of the maxims, are actually giving them value very subtly, through a rhetorical-scholarly and philological technique, by referring to the poetic personification of the maxims in the work of the poet par excellence and supreme master in schools, Homer, in an in extremis tribute to him.

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ion from among the many that were ready to accompany him on his hazardous mission among the Trojans; and subsequently, the appropriate return of the complement by Odysseus—Il. 10.558–560: Ἵπποι δ’ ⟨οἵδε⟩, γεραιέ, νεήλυδες, οὓς ἐρεείνεις, / Θρηίκιοι, τὸν δέ σφιν ἄνακτ’ ἀγαθὸς Διομήδης / ἔκτανε, πὰρ δ’ ἑτάρους δυοκαίδεκα πάντας ἀρίστους (“now these horses, old sir, these new ones, of which thou inquirest, / Thracian they are, but their master was slain by the brave Diomedes, / Slain and beside him his comrades, twelve comrades and all of the noblest”)—appears in response to Nestor’s question about the magnificent steeds they brought back with them on their return from the foray into the Trojan camp. In Praec. ger. reip. 809E–810A, as a warning that a statesman should never harshly criticize one that errs, but instead resort to moral reprimand, Plutarch cites three passages. First, Il. 17.171: Ὦ πέπον, ἦ τ’ ἐφάμην σε περὶ φρένας ἔμμεναι ἄλλων (“truly, my friend, I did think you surpassed other men in your wisdom”), which is spoken by Hector, not without irony, when he recriminates Sarpedon for his verbal attack; secondly, Il. 7.358: Οἶσθα καὶ ἄλλον μῦθον ἀμέιμονα τοῦδε νοῆσαι (“knowledge thou hast to devise other speech that is better than this was”), which is spoken by Paris to Antenor recriminating him for his proposal to return Helen to the Greeks; and thirdly, Plutarch uses a quote to remind audiences that certain men, when they conduct themselves wrongly, should be reminded of their noble parents: Il. 5.800 Ἦ ὀλίγον οἷ παῖδα ἐοικότα γείνατο Τυδεύς (“truly not much like his sir is the son who was gotten by Tydeus”), which is spoken by Athena to Diomedes reprimanding him for the weakness shown over Pandarus’ arrow. Praec. ger. reip. 815C–D, in its recommendation that politicians should pursue policies that guarantee security and avoid the frenzied turmoil of hollow glory, calls upon these politicians to show an elevated spirit and “courage full of daring, / Dauntless, and such as inspires all men who for weal of their country / Gainst men of hostile intent” (μένος πολυθαρσές … ἄτρομον, οἷον τ’ ἄνδρας ἐσέρχεται οἳ περὶ πάτρης / ἀνδράσι δυσμενέεσσι, referencing Il. 17.157, an exhortation made by Glaucus to the Trojans urging them on) and, when faced with difficult times and conditions, to show firm resistance until the last …; in those circumstances, the true statesman is described as follows: “then slumb’ring thou never wouldst see him” (Ἔνθ’ οὐκ ἂν βρίζοντα ἴδοις … οὐδὲ καταπτώσσοντα, referencing Il. 4.223–224, describing Agamemnon’s state of anxiety as he wishes to re-enter the fray). In An seni 789C–F, comparing warriors and counsellors, Plutarch says that the former should be young in order to make “war and war’s baneful practices” (πόλεμον πολέμοιό τε μέρμερα ἔργα, quoting Il. 8.453, i.e. the description Zeus gives to the conflict with the Trojans that Hera and Athena defuse), in

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which, even when an old man’s hair is covered by his helmet, “yet are his limbs by unseen weight oppressed” (ἀλλὰ τε λάθρη γυῖα βαρύνεται, Il. 19.165, quoting Odysseus’ words to the soldier fighting on an empty stomach); but the servers of Zeus—god of Council, of the agora and of the State—do not ask for actions with hands and feet, but instead counsel, foresight and words; for youth is made to obey, just as it befalls old age to govern (…, and much praise is heaped upon the verses “first he established a council of old men lofty in spirit / Hard by the vessel of Nestor”, Βουλὴν δὲ πρῶτον μεγαθύμων ἷζε γερόντων / Νεστορέῃ παρὰ νηί, Il. 2.53–54, referring to the first action undertaken by Agamemnon after convening the assembly of the Achaeans). Regarding the wisdom that nature produces in old age after many endeavors, Plutarch writes as follows (789F): when the king of kings Agamemnon entreated the gods, “would that I had ten such advisers among the Achaeans” (Τοιοῦτοι δέκα μοι συμφράδμονες εἶεν Ἀχαιῶν, referencing Il. 2.372, words spoken by Agamemnon to Nestor following his speech to the assembly),24 none of the “martial and might-breathing Achaeans” (ἀρήιων καὶ μένεα πνεόντων Ἀχαιῶν, Il. 2.536) had any complaint, but instead they all agreed that old age had much to say not only in politics but also in war.

7

Conclusion

Through this analysis, we can see how Plutarch incorporates Homer’s own themes into his political subject matter, progressively appropriating Homeric hypotexts,25 using isolated terms and expressions as well as verse-phrases, similes, allusions and blocks of verse-phrases that are often spoken by gods or iconic heroes from the Iliad and sometimes from the Odyssey. Thereby, Homer becomes a model of Plutarch’s own thinking and precepts. I contend that this working method—which goes beyond the taxonomic classification of the quotations and the role (decorative, logical, authoritative, erudite, etc.) that they play within the citing texts in allowing us to observe their impact on the thematic arrangement of the genre involved (political doctrine in this case)—can be usefully applied as an intertextual analysis for the very generic definition of other thematic blocks in the corpus of the Moralia (and even the Lives themselves). Nevertheless, no other intertext would be as profitable in that regard as

24 25

Agamemnon’s wish is also mentioned in D.Chr. 2.21 and in Ca. Ma. 31, one of Plutarch’s works with which this one bears many similarities. Cf. Pelling, “Political Philosophy.”

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the Homeric one, and in particular the one of the Iliad, which was Plutarch’s bedside reading during his long years of instruction, just as it would have been of his listeners and readers, and which is the maximum authority to which all his teachings should be referred.

chapter 6

Pericles and Athens: An Intertextual Reading of Plutarch and Thucydides Mark Beck

Abstract One location of supreme importance for several of Plutarch’s Greek Lives is of course Athens, a city in which Plutarch resided for some time as a pupil of the philosopher Ammonius. The Life of Pericles is one of several Greek Lives that deal with Athenian statesmen and is one of the most important for understanding Plutarch’s view of the educational role of biography and the importance of space. The prologue to the Lives of Pericles and Fabius Maximus (Per. 1–2) is allusive and complex. It presents Plutarch’s ideas about mimesis and emulation, and it is rife with words that denote the act of viewing or contemplation. Significantly for our topic, this prologue explains the powerful psychological effect that a certain type of analytical viewing and contemplation (theorein) of erga (e.g. buildings and other monuments) can have. This parallels and intertextually alludes to Thucydides’ references to analytical viewing (skopein) of erga. In Plutarch it conditions the reader for an enhanced appreciation of the Periclean constructions on the Acropolis presented later in the biography (Per. 12–13). Pericles’ adornment of the Acropolis is a chronotope, while in Thucydides it sharpens the reader’s attentiveness to historical detail and accuracy (to saphes). By adopting this rhetorical strategy in the prologue, Plutarch calls attention to erga arising from arête that elicit our admiration and emulation, and echoes parts of Pericles’ famous funeral oration (Epitaphios), transmitted to us by Thucydides (esp. 2.41–43), as well as elements of the extended prologue to his historical work (1.1–23). In this chapter I will analyze Plutarch’s use of intertextual referencing to arrive at a deeper understanding of one of his most important Lives.

Before the textual there was the physical. Throughout his life Plutarch remained keenly aware of the physical manifestations of the historical past. Plutarch grew up in the environs of one of Greece’s most notable battlefields whose soil had drunk the blood of the fallen. He relates in his biography of Alexander, written in his mature adulthood, that the oak tree (“Alexander’s oak”) under which Alexander pitched his tent stood near the Kephissos river

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not far from the Macedonian polyandreion (Alex. 9.3).1 This was confirmed by archeological investigation in modern times.2 He would have heard, as a boy, the traditional tales centered around the votive offerings at Delphi, likely before he even read the great histories of Herodotus and Thucydides. He thus grew up sensitized to the physical traces of historical events. I will argue that this sensitivity is partly responsible for one of the most complex examples of intertextuality in Plutarch’s works.3 This occurs in the Life of Pericles, one of Plutarch’s finest and most important biographies. The prologue to the Pericles, in its allusiveness and complexity, is one of the most intriguing, and it is this part of the Life that will receive our special attention. In one particularly important article for the topic at hand, Philip Stadter associates epideictic oratory with ancient biography in his analysis of the Pericles.4 Both epideictic oratory and ancient biography, he notes, share the common aim of conferring praise or blame on the subject, which is particularly apparent in the Life of Pericles. On the one hand, Stadter writes, Plutarch was at pains to defend Pericles against the negative tradition (e.g. Plato, various Comic Poets, etc.) that blamed Pericles inter alia for Athens’ decline; on the other hand, his intent was to render Pericles the object of admiration and imitation. He expresses the problem succinctly: “Persuasion is an essential element of the Life. Plutarch wished to present Pericles as an object of imitation, but there was a significant strand of the ancient tradition that was hostile to Pericles.”5 In Stadter’s opinion, Plutarch purposefully sets up his defense of Pericles early in the prologue to the Life and decides in favor of Thucydides’ image of the statesman.6 This is correct. Pericles ubiquitously maintains in Plutarch’s works an exemplary status.7 In this chapter, I will trace the influence of Thucydides’ image of Pericles on Plutarch’s biographical portrait, beginning with the prologue.

1 2 3 4

J. Buckler, “Plutarch and Autopsy,” in ANRW II.33.6 (Berlin-New York: De Gruyter, 1992) 4802. J. Ma, “Chaironeia 338: Topographies of Commemoration,” JHS 128 (2008) 73–78. See Part 6 in this volume. P.A. Stadter, “The Rhetoric of Plutarch’s Pericles,” AncSoc 18 (1987) 251–269. See also P.A. Stadter, A Commentary on Plutarch’s Pericles (Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press, 1989) xxxviii–xliv. 5 Stadter, Commentary, xxxviii. 6 Stadter, Commentary, xxxix. 7 For an analysis of the interrelationship between Pericles in Plutarch’s treatise Political Precepts and his biography of the statesman, see M.A. Beck, “Plutarch on the Statesman’s Independence of Action,” in L. De Blois, J. Bons, T. Kessels & D.M. Schenkeveld (eds.), The Statesman in Plutarch’s Works, vol. i (Leiden-Boston: Brill, 2004) 105–114. See also most recently S.G. Jacobs, Plutarch’s Pragmatic Biographies (Leiden-Boston: Brill, 2018) 72 and 128–179.

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The Prologue to the Life of Pericles

The great significance of the prologue to the Life of Pericles is not lost on Timothy Duff who calls it “the earliest surviving explicit discussion of the purpose of the Parallel Lives and of the way in which any moralizing programme might work.”8 As Duff perceives in his analysis, this prologue addresses the role of deeds (erga) and of mimesis in instilling the desire to behave virtuously. His analysis succeeds in bringing out the ways in which Plutarch exploits the ambiguity of the terms ergon, mimesis, historia, and ethopoiia, as he “links and merges the activity of the heroes of the past, of the writer and of the reader.”9 We will return to Duff’s elegant analysis momentarily. For now, it is important to note that he sees this prologue as a programmatic statement, broadly applicable to all of the Lives and revealing of Plutarch’s biographical technique in general.10 This I would not dispute. I would, however, allow that linguistic and thematic aspects of the prologue specifically allude to important apologetic elements of the Pericles on one level; and on another level, they evoke a strong intertextual relationship between the prologue of the Pericles, the extended prologue of Thucydides’ great historical work on the Peloponnesian War (1.1–23.3), and Pericles’ famous Epitaphios (in the second book). In what follows I will briefly set forth the main themes of the two prologues and comparatively evaluate them along with topoi encountered in the Epitaphios.

2

Thucydides’ Prologue to the Peloponnesian War: Regarding the Truth

In the extended prologue to the Peloponnesian War, Thucydides introduces his readers to central aspects of his historiographical analysis and method. In part, the point of his analysis is to demonstrate the greatness of this war as opposed to other great military endeavors undertaken by the Greeks, such as the Tro8

9 10

T.E. Duff, “The Prologue to the Lives of Pericles and Fabius (Per. 1–2),” in A. Pérez Jiménez & F.C. Bordoy (eds.), Estudios Sobre Plutarco: Misticismo y Religiones Mistéricas en la Obra de Plutarco. Actas del VII Simposio Español sobre Plutarco, Palma de Mallorca, 2–4 de noviembre de 2000 (Madrid-Malaga: Ediciones Clásicas, 2001) 353. Duff, “The Prologue,” 353. In addition to Duff, “The Prologue,” see T.E. Duff, Plutarch’s Lives: Exploring Virtue and Vice (Oxford-New York: Oxford University Press, 1999) 13–51 for an analysis of all of the programmatic passages in the Lives, including the Pericles-Fabius prologue (34–45), and most recently T.E. Duff, “The Prologues,” in M.A. Beck (ed.), A Companion to Plutarch (Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2014) 333–349, 335.

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jan War (1.9.1–1.12.4) and the Persian Wars (1.18.1–3; 1.23.1).11 He employs power and preparedness,12 two crucial evaluative criteria, in assessing the magnitude of military conflicts, but he cautions that the visual assessment of power may be deceptive. His primary examples of this are Mycenae for the Trojan War and contemporary Sparta for the current war (1.10.1–3). He recommends looking (skopein) not at the visual appearances (opseis) of cities but rather at their power (dunameis). As Egbert Bakker observes in his analysis of the prologue, the verb skopein “denotes a critical looking into matters that do not provide ready or obvious evidence” and in this latter instance it means “looking through what appears to be evidence, but is in reality only a misleading surface.”13 In assessing the magnitude of the war, erga (deeds/events) serve as the measure and the initial focus of investigation (1.21.2): And this war, even though men always judge the present war which they are waging as the greatest, as they cease to admire past events more, nevertheless will appear to have become the greatest of them all to those who critically look into it (skopousi) beginning with the events themselves.14 This application of critical analysis with a visual component that begins with erga may ultimately lead to a true perception of events, as we learn in the next chapter. There Thucydides employs the term to saphes (clear understanding/accurate account15) as the object of the verb skopein (1.22.4). This last section of the chapter stresses the potential didactic utility and predictive value of his history for future readers, which is predicated on a view of human nature that serves as a constant. In a slightly different way, Plutarch alludes to the didactic value of visual/intellectual cognition. 11 12 13 14 15

Thucydides strives to rhetorically amplify (auxesis) the topic at hand. See S. Hornblower, A Commentary on Thucydides, vol. I (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991) 59. See J. Allison, Power and Preparedness in Thucydides, AJPh Monographs in Classical Philology 5 (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1989). E. Bakker, “Contract and Design: Thucydides’ Writing,” in A. Rengakos & A. Tsakmakis (eds.), Brill’s Companion to Thucydides (Leiden-Boston: Brill, 2006) 117. My translation. Bakker’s (“Contract and Design,” 119) translation of to saphes as “evidence” is too neutral in my opinion and mistakes the source material for the finished product. Hammond’s (Thucydides. The Peloponnesian War: A new translation [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009]) “clear understanding” is better than the very optimistic Crawley/Strassler (R. Crawley & R.B. Strassler [eds.], The Landmark Thucydides: A Comprehensive Guide to the Peloponnesian War [New York: Free Press, 1996]) translation of to saphes as “exact knowledge” that conflicts with the methodology laid out in 1.22.1–3, in which Thucydides admits to not being able to provide exact knowledge of anything.

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Plutarch’s Prologue to the Pericles: Look and Learn

At the outset, the prologue of the Pericles emphasizes visual perception in conjunction with learning and proper action (i.e. behavior). Plutarch opens with an anecdote that records the reaction of Augustus when he saw (ἰδών) some foreigners lavishing affection on puppies and young monkeys (Per. 1.1). The sight prompted him to ask whether the women among them do not bear children. Plutarch’s interpretive comment expresses approval for Augustus’ qualities as a leader in criticizing the wasteful misdirection of affection upon animals when it is more properly owed to humans. Hereafter, Plutarch forcefully stresses the visual aspect of cognition by repeatedly employing the verb θεωρεῖν (view), the plural form of the noun θέαμα (sight/spectacle), and by employing a visual simile. This is not simple visual perception, but a type of active and engaged vision enhanced by the application of the intellect (ὁ νοῦς) to the perception of these “objects of contemplation in the deeds of virtue” (θεάματα ἐν τοῖς ἀπ’ ἀρετῆς ἔργοις) in a way that assists the individual in turning himself always and in easily adapting himself (τρέπειν ἑαυτὸν ἀεὶ καὶ μεταβάλλειν ῥᾷστα) to the pursuit of the best course. As in the case of skopein, the use of theorein involves seeing with the mind what may not be superficially evident. Philip Stadter has noted the Platonic elements in this passage, especially the use of vision “as a parallel for the activity of the mind.”16 Plutarch has elected to use a synonym of skopein in his choice of theorein, one that is more Platonic. In his discussion of Thucydides’ use of skopein, Bakker perceptively notes that “Thucydides allows us, in almost Platonic language, to see (skopein) through the surface of events of our own time on the basis of the essence of the events of Thucydides’ war.”17 As Plutarch makes clear, the appropriate objects of contemplation (θεάματα) that foster emulation and instill a desire leading to imitation in those who study them (ζῆλόν τινα καὶ προθυμίαν ἀγωγὸν εἰς μίμησιν ἐμποιεῖ τοῖς ἱστορήσασιν) are found in deeds arising from virtue (Per. 1.4).18 The meaning of ergon shifts subtly in this section of the prologue in that it refers to an action as well as the physical, tangible result of an action. Finally, the implication of the anecdote that represents Philip of Macedon castigating his son Alexander for playing the lyre is not just that he should become a spectator (θεατὴς), but that he should actively engage in the support of the arts, while letting others practice them 16 17 18

Stadter, Commentary, 55, ad loc. Bakker, “Contract and Design,” 119. Not all deeds, however, evoke our admiration stimulate the desire to act, as Plutarch explains in the second half of the prologue (Per. 1.4–2.2).

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(πολὺ νέμει ταῖς Μούσαις ἑτέρων ἀγωνιζομένων) (Per. 1.6). The import of this anecdote finds expression in Pericles’ support of the building project (Per. 12–13).19 It is worth noting that the references to the effective autocratic rulers, Augustus and Philip II, foreshadow Plutarch’s representation of Pericles’ monarchic rule that serves implicitly to vindicate the Athenian statesman against Plato’s attack by ironically almost idealizing him as a philosopher king (Per. 15–16).20 There is also an intertextual connection here with Thucydides who also represents this in his concentration on Pericles’ powerful political role, and especially in his eulogy of Pericles that firmly concludes with the famous assessment: “And so Athens, though in name a democracy, gradually became in fact a government ruled by its foremost citizen” (2.65.9).21 In the final section of the prologue, Plutarch articulates the notion that virtue represented through actions is the appropriate stimulus that leads talented individuals to experience admiration for certain deeds and prompts them to emulate men of action who perform them (ἥ γε ἀρετὴ ταῖς πράξεσιν εὐθὺς οὕτω διατίθησιν ὥστε ἅμα θαυμάζεσθαι τὰ ἔργα καὶ ζηλοῦσθαι τοὺς εἰργασμένους) (Per. 2.2). For anything noble actively attracts us to itself and instills in us an immediate urge to action; it does not build moral character in the spectators merely by means of representation, but by giving them purpose through an account of the deed (τὸ γὰρ καλὸν ἐφ’ αὑτὸ πρακτικῶς κινεῖ καὶ πρακτικὴν εὐθὺς ὁρμὴν ἐντίθησιν, ἠθοποιοῦν οὐ τῇ μιμήσει τὸν θεατήν, ἀλλὰ τῇ ἱστορίᾳ τοῦ ἔργου τὴν προαίρεσιν παρεχόμενον.) (Per. 2.4).22 Vivid representations of actions (such as the kind of erga represented by Thucydides in his history) will have a forceful psychological impact on the recipient (here observer) and induce not only imitation of this exemplary behavior, but a deeper understanding that affects how we lead our lives, through the active engagement of the intellect (ὁ νοῦς/ἡ διάνοια).23 Above I alluded to the ambiguity inherent in the Greek word ergon.24 On the one hand, it alludes to an action performed; on the other hand, it indicates 19 20 21

22 23 24

See below. See now C.B.R. Pelling, “Political Philosophy,” in M.A. Beck (ed.), A Companion to Plutarch (Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2014) 151–152. Translation by C.F. Smith (ed.), Thucydides, with an English translation, vol. I (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press-William Heinemann, 1928). For a recent assessment see D. Gribble, “Individuals in Thucydides,” in A. Rengakos & A. Tsakmakis (eds.), Brill’s Companion to Thucydides (Leiden-Boston: Brill, 2006) 455–458. Translation by R. Waterfield (ed.), Plutarch. Greek Lives. A Selection of Nine Greek Lives (Oxford-New York: Oxford University Press, 1998). Per. 1.2–3. See above. The double meaning of ergon in this prologue is noted by M.A. Beck, Plutarch’s Use of Anecdotes in the Lives (Diss. U. of N.C. at Chapel Hill, 1998) 90–99 and Duff, “The Prologue,” 353–355.

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the resulting physical object produced by the action itself, i.e. deeds and monuments. The conclusion to be drawn from this passage is that both deeds and monuments that commemorate deeds can exert an inspirational force upon those who view them, and that this force is capable of altering behavior, in a positive way, in those who are capable of being moved to informed and intelligent emulation and imitation (mimesis). But, as Duff observes, Plutarch subtly aligns “his own literary activity in writing the Lives with the deeds of virtue of his subjects.”25 If we restrict the scope of this observation to the Pericles, then Plutarch’s biography of him is, in a way, a commemorative monument erected to Pericles to magnify his greatness. In other words, the term ergon assumes a threefold meaning in the prologue: (1) a deed or action, (2) the physical work/monument produced by a deed (Per. 12–13), and (3) the literary representation of the deed. Plutarch’s lengthy discussion of the major buildings (Parthenon, Odeum, Propylaea) along with the architects and artists who were directly involved in various aspects of their planning, construction, and adornment unequivocally attributes this achievement to Pericles.

4

Plutarch’s Pericles and the Epitaphios

In this context a subtle intertextual relationship is detectable between Plutarch and Thucydides that lies behind the frequent references to erga and arête that inspire admiration and emulation/imitation in the prologue to the Life. Like Plutarch in his (apologetic) Life of Pericles, Pericles, in Thucydides’ representation of his Epitaphios, is charged with dispensing praise in honor of the deceased soldiers whose deeds of valor warrant commemoration.26 Theirs is a ‘rhetoric of persuasion’ that is laden with parainetic statements urging the emulation and adoption of virtuous conduct.27 The public ceremony28 (i.e. Pericles’ speech) convened to bestow these honors and the deed(s) of the soldiers are referred to with the same word, ergon (2.35.1): 25

26 27 28

Duff, “The Prologue,” 355–356 focuses on the possible ambiguous meaning of the term ἠθοποιοῦν that he thinks alludes to the term ἠθοποιία in ancient literary criticism which refers to character portrayal so that “the Lives mould the character of the reader (one sort of ἠθοποιία) by accurate character portrayal (another sort of ἠθοποιία)”. Stadter, Commentary, lx–lxi succinctly summarizes the account of Pericles in Thucydides and cites the relevant passages. This is Stadter’s term for the aim of the Pericles. See e.g. Stadter, “The Rhetoric of Plutarch’s Pericles” and Commentary, xxxviii–xliv. Thucydides gives a description of the preparations and other details of the ceremony in 2.34.

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ἐμοὶ δὲ ἀρκοῦν ἂν ἐδόκει εἶναι ἀνδρῶν ἀγαθῶν ἔργῳ γενομένων ἔργῳ καὶ δηλοῦσθαι τὰς τιμάς, οἷα καὶ νῦν περὶ τὸν τάφον τόνδε δημοσίᾳ παρασκευασθέντα ὁρᾶτε, καὶ μὴ ἐν ἑνὶ ἀνδρὶ πολλῶν ἀρετὰς κινδυνεύεσθαι εὖ τε καὶ χεῖρον εἰπόντι πιστευθῆναι.29 To me it would seem enough that men who showed their courage in actions should have their tribute too expressed in actions, as you can see we have done in the arrangements for this state funeral; but the valor of these many should not depend for credence on one man’s speech who may speak well or badly. transl. Hammond

In a clever praeteritio, Pericles mentions that the well-known, valiant deeds of past generations have secured the liberty of the Athenians against invaders (2.36.4): ὧν ἐγὼ τὰ μὲν κατὰ πολέμους ἔργα, οἷς ἕκαστα ἐκτήθη, ἢ εἴ τι αὐτοὶ ἢ οἱ πατέρες ἡμῶν βάρβαρον ἢ Ἕλληνα πολέμιον ἐπιόντα προθύμως ἠμυνάμεθα, μακρηγορεῖν ἐν εἰδόσιν οὐ βουλόμενος ἐάσω: ἀπὸ δὲ οἵας τε ἐπιτηδεύσεως ἤλθομεν ἐπ’ αὐτὰ καὶ μεθ’ οἵας πολιτείας καὶ τρόπων ἐξ οἵων μεγάλα ἐγένετο, ταῦτα δηλώσας πρῶτον εἶμι καὶ ἐπὶ τὸν τῶνδε ἔπαινον, νομίζων ἐπί τε τῷ παρόντι οὐκ ἂν ἀπρεπῆ λεχθῆναι αὐτὰ καὶ τὸν πάντα ὅμιλον καὶ ἀστῶν καὶ ξένων ξύμφορον εἶναι ἐπακοῦσαι αὐτῶν. I shall not mention our achievements in war, the campaigns which won us each addition to the empire, our own or our fathers’ spirited resistance to the attacks of Greek or barbarian enemies—I have no wish to delay you with a long story which you know already. But before I pass on to the praise of the dead, I shall describe first the principles of public life which set us on our way, and the political institutions and national character which took us on to greatness. I think this a suitable subject for the present occasion, and it could be of benefit for this whole gathering, foreigners as well as citizens, to hear this account. transl. Hammond

He then turns to Athens’ role as a paradigm for others, rather than being a civic body that emulates or imitates others (2.37.1):

29

See also 2.45.2.

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χρώμεθα γὰρ πολιτείᾳ οὐ ζηλούσῃ τοὺς τῶν πέλας νόμους, παράδειγμα δὲ μᾶλλον αὐτοὶ ὄντες τισὶν ἢ μιμούμενοι ἑτέρους. We have a form of government which does not emulate the practice of our neighbours; we are more an example to others than an imitation of them. transl. Hammond

He comments on the city’s openness to foreigners and on positive educational benefits to be derived from viewing it (2.39.1): διαφέρομεν δὲ καὶ ταῖς τῶν πολεμικῶν μελέταις τῶν ἐναντίων τοῖσδε. τήν τε γὰρ πόλιν κοινὴν παρέχομεν, καὶ οὐκ ἔστιν ὅτε ξενηλασίαις ἀπείργομέν τινα ἢ μαθήματος ἢ θεάματος, ὃ μὴ κρυφθὲν ἄν τις τῶν πολεμίων ἰδὼν ὠφεληθείη, πιστεύοντες οὐ ταῖς παρασκευαῖς τὸ πλέον καὶ ἀπάταις ἢ τῷ ἀφ’ ἡμῶν αὐτῶν ἐς τὰ ἔργα εὐψύχῳ: καὶ ἐν ταῖς παιδείαις οἱ μὲν ἐπιπόνῳ ἀσκήσει εὐθὺς νέοι ὄντες τὸ ἀνδρεῖον μετέρχονται, ἡμεῖς δὲ ἀνειμένως διαιτώμενοι οὐδὲν ἧσσον ἐπὶ τοὺς ἰσοπαλεῖς κινδύνους χωροῦμεν. We differ too from our enemies in our approach to military matters. The difference is this. We maintain an open city, and never expel foreigners or prevent anyone from finding out or observing what they will—we do not hide things when sight of them might benefit an enemy: our reliance is not so much on preparation and concealment as on our own innate spirit for courageous action. In education also they follow an arduous regime, training for manliness right from childhood, whereas we have a relaxed lifestyle but are still just as ready as they to go out and face our equivalent dangers. transl. Hammond

This coupling of learning and viewing (μαθήματος ἢ θεάματος) is echoed in the prologue of the Pericles (ἐπεὶ φιλομαθές τι κέκτηται καὶ φιλοθέαμον ἡμῶν ἡ ψυχὴ φύσει).30 Pericles continues that the city is worthy of admiration because of its citizens’ ability to face hardships boldly (2.39.4): καίτοι εἰ ῥᾳθυμίᾳ μᾶλλον ἢ πόνων μελέτῃ καὶ μὴ μετὰ νόμων τὸ πλέον ἢ τρόπων ἀνδρείας ἐθέλομεν κινδυνεύειν, περιγίγνεται ἡμῖν τοῖς τε μέλλουσιν ἀλγεινοῖς μὴ

30

Per. 1.2: “Since our soul by nature possesses some fondness for learning and viewing.”

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προκάμνειν, καὶ ἐς αὐτὰ ἐλθοῦσι μὴ ἀτολμοτέρους τῶν αἰεὶ μοχθούντων φαίνεσθαι, καὶ ἔν τε τούτοις τὴν πόλιν ἀξίαν εἶναι θαυμάζεσθαι καὶ ἔτι ἐν ἄλλοις. If then we choose to approach dangers in an easy frame of mind, not with constant practice in hardship, and to meet them with the courage which is born of character rather than compulsion, the result is that we do not have to suffer in advance the pain which we shall face later, and when we do face it we show ourselves just as courageous as those who have spent a lifetime of labour. This is one reason for the admiration of our city: and there are others too. transl. Hammond

In emphasizing the role of ergon again, Pericles states that even though they have a proclivity for intellectual development and the articulation of their thoughts, this tendency does not reduce them to mere loquacity or negatively impact their ability to take action at a moment’s notice (2.40.1–2): φιλοκαλοῦμέν τε γὰρ μετ’ εὐτελείας καὶ φιλοσοφοῦμεν ἄνευ μαλακίας: πλούτῳ τε ἔργου μᾶλλον καιρῷ ἢ λόγου κόμπῳ χρώμεθα, καὶ τὸ πένεσθαι οὐχ ὁμολογεῖν τινὶ αἰσχρόν, ἀλλὰ μὴ διαφεύγειν ἔργῳ αἴσχιον. ἔνι τε τοῖς αὐτοῖς οἰκείων ἅμα καὶ πολιτικῶν ἐπιμέλεια, καὶ ἑτέροις πρὸς ἔργα τετραμμένοις τὰ πολιτικὰ μὴ ἐνδεῶς γνῶναι: μόνοι γὰρ τόν τε μηδὲν τῶνδε μετέχοντα οὐκ ἀπράγμονα, ἀλλ’ ἀχρεῖον νομίζομεν, καὶ οἱ αὐτοὶ ἤτοι κρίνομέν γε ἢ ἐνθυμούμεθα ὀρθῶς τὰ πράγματα, οὐ τοὺς λόγους τοῖς ἔργοις βλάβην ἡγούμενοι, ἀλλὰ μὴ προδιδαχθῆναι μᾶλλον λόγῳ πρότερον ἢ ἐπὶ ἃ δεῖ ἔργῳ ἐλθεῖν. We cultivate beauty without extravagance, and intellect without loss of vigor; wealth is for us the gateway to action, not the subject of boastful talk, while there is no disgrace in the admission of poverty, the real disgrace lies in the failure to take active measures to escape it; our politicians can combine management of their domestic affairs with state business, and others who have their own work to attend to can nevertheless acquire a good knowledge of politics. We are unique in the way we regard anyone who takes no part in public affairs: we do not call that a quiet life, we call it a useless life. We are all involved in either the proper formulation or at least the proper review of policy, thinking that what cripples action is not talk, but rather the failure to talk through the policy before proceeding to the required action. transl. Hamilton

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Then Pericles stresses the importance of deeds (“the truth of the deeds”) over words in the development of the city’s power, in the elicitation of admiration, and in securing undying fame (2.41.2): καὶ ὡς οὐ λόγων ἐν τῷ παρόντι κόμπος τάδε μᾶλλον ἢ ἔργων ἐστὶν ἀλήθεια, αὐτὴ ἡ δύναμις τῆς πόλεως, ἣν ἀπὸ τῶνδε τῶν τρόπων ἐκτησάμεθα, σημαίνει. And that this is no mere boast brown out for the occasion, but plain matter of fact, is proved by the power of the state acquired by these habits. transl. Crawley & Strassler

and (2.41.4): μετὰ μεγάλων δὲ σημείων καὶ οὐ δή τοι ἀμάρτυρόν γε τὴν δύναμιν παρασχόμενοι τοῖς τε νῦν καὶ τοῖς ἔπειτα θαυμασθησόμεθα, καὶ οὐδὲν προσδεόμενοι οὔτε Ὁμήρου ἐπαινέτου οὔτε ὅστις ἔπεσι μὲν τὸ αὐτίκα τέρψει, τῶν δ’ ἔργων τὴν ὑπόνοιαν ἡ ἀλήθεια βλάψει, ἀλλὰ πᾶσαν μὲν θάλασσαν καὶ γῆν ἐσβατὸν τῇ ἡμετέρᾳ τόλμῃ καταναγκάσαντες γενέσθαι, πανταχοῦ δὲ μνημεῖα κακῶν τε κἀγαθῶν ἀίδια ξυγκατοικίσαντες. Our power most certainly does not lack witness: the proof is far and wide, and will make us the wonder of present and future generations. We have no need of a Homer to sing our praises, or of any encomiast whose poetic version may have immediate appeal but then fall foul of the actual truth. The fact is that we have forced every sea and every land to be open to our enterprise, and everywhere we have established permanent memorials of both failure and success. transl. Hammond

Pericles encourages his audience to gaze daily upon the power of the city to become lovers of it and to reflect that its greatness is owed to bold men possessed of arête who knew what needed to be done and did it: “Do not simply listen to people telling you at length of all the virtues inherent in resisting the enemy, when you know them just as well yourselves…” (2.43.1): ἀλλὰ μᾶλλον τὴν τῆς πόλεως δύναμιν καθ’ ἡμέραν ἔργῳ θεωμένους καὶ ἐραστὰς γιγνομένους αὐτῆς, καὶ ὅταν ὑμῖν μεγάλη δόξῃ εἶναι, ἐνθυμουμένους ὅτι τολμῶντες καὶ γιγνώσκοντες τὰ δέοντα καὶ ἐν τοῖς ἔργοις αἰσχυνόμενοι ἄνδρες αὐτὰ ἐκτήσαντο, καὶ ὁπότε καὶ πείρᾳ του σφαλεῖεν, οὐκ οὖν καὶ τὴν πόλιν γε τῆς σφετέρας ἀρετῆς ἀξιοῦντες στερίσκειν, κάλλιστον δὲ ἔρανον αὐτῇ προϊέμενοι.

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… but rather look day after day on the manifest power of our city, and become her lovers. And when you realize her greatness, reflect that it was men who made her great, by their daring, by their recognition of what they had to do, and by their pride in doing it. transl. Hammond

Pericles encourages the members of the audience to emulate those who died (2.43.4): οὓς νῦν ὑμεῖς ζηλώσαντες καὶ τὸ εὔδαιμον τὸ ἐλεύθερον, τὸ δ’ ἐλεύθερον τὸ εὔψυχον κρίναντες μὴ περιορᾶσθε τοὺς πολεμικοὺς κινδύνους. You should now seek to emulate these men. Realize that happiness is freedom, and freedom is courage, and do not be nervous of the dangers of war. transl. Hammond

5

The Intertextual Relationship of the Epitaphios with the Life of Pericles

Clearly Plutarch had been influenced by this eulogy when he set about composing the prologue to the Life of Pericles. In addition to the common themes of erga, arête, admiration, emulation, imitation, and visual contemplation (represented sometimes by ἐνθυμοῦμαι in the Eptitaphios), Plutarch includes what appears to be a clear reference to Thucydides at the end of the prologue (Per. 2.4): εἰ δ’ ὀρθῶς στοχαζόμεθα τοῦ δέοντος, ἔξεστι κρίνειν ἐκ τῶν γραφομένων. The reader will be able to judge from the following account whether or not this assessment of mine hits the mark. transl. Waterfield

The reference to τοῦ δέοντος recalls the description in Pericles’ Epitaphios of the men who died for their country, as “knowing what was required of them”: γιγνώσκοντες τὰ δέοντα (see above: 2.43.1).31 It also recalls Thucydides’ chapter

31

This same term was employed by Thucydides himself in the second prologue to his historical work to describe his aim and methodology when composing speeches (1.22.1).

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addressing his methodology in composing the speeches based in part on his conception of what each of the participants should have appropriately said (τὰ δέοντα) with regard to the situation at hand (1.22.1).32 This is another indication that Plutarch envisions his task as an ergon and aligns his literary activity with Thucydides and with those who achieve erga ap’ arêtes. The praise bestowed upon the exemplary erga of the fallen in the Epitaphios becomes the praise and defense of the exemplary erga of Pericles in the Life— both military and political. Athens and the men who made her great are presented in the Epitaphios as the model to be imitated by others, whereas Pericles, in the Life, serves as the exemplary model of statesmanship, whose actions can be mapped by the physical traces he left behind. Unlike the pathetic remains of Mycenae, Athens’ physical greatness lived on to reflect the true nature of Pericles’ achievement and the city’s former power. In echoing the Epitaphios, Plutarch recalls the greatness of Pericles as a statesman and Thucydides as a writer, exhorting his readers to imitate the one, while he himself subtly imitates the other. In the Epitaphios, Thucydides endorses Pericles’ actions by having him point out the greatness of Athens that he (Pericles) was directly involved in creating. Both authors intersect in focusing attention on the monumental, physical greatness of Athens as an effective way of indirectly praising Pericles that endured the test of time. Simultaneously, Plutarch recalls Thucydides with intertextual references that clearly reflect the admiration he felt for this inimitable historian of the Peloponnesian War. Centuries later, in much the same fashion, Abraham Lincoln would have recourse to the Epitaphios when composing his great Gettysburg Address, a speech infused with ideals shared in equal measure by the ancient Greeks and ourselves.33 32 33

See Hornblower, Commentary, 59–60 ad loc. See e.g. G. Will, Lincoln at Gettysburg: The Words that Remade America (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1992).

chapter 7

Plutarch’s and Xenophon’s Sparta: Intra- and Intertextual Relations in the Spartan Lives Olivier Gengler

Abstract The aim of this chapter is to explore the intratextual relations within Plutarch’s Spartan Lives, against the background of their intertextual links to Xenophon’s Agesilaus and Lacedaimonion Politeia. The continuous narrative made up of the Lives of Lycurgus, Lysander, Agesilaus, Agis and Cleomenes, illustrates the opinion exposed by Xenophon in his Lacedaimonion Politeia (chapt. 14): as long as the Spartans respected the laws of Lycurgus, their city was unrivaled, but the irruption of wealth after 404BC destroyed the system. Plutarch unfolds his argument within the Spartan Lives through a series of intratextual references and a constant intertextual dialogue with the works of Xenophon. Intratextuality as an open relationship between texts does not necessarily yield any clues as to the order in which the Spartan Lives were written, where the Life of Leonidas could have found its place. In conclusion, it appears that Plutarch’s Lives not only illustrate Xenophon’s pronouncement about Sparta, but also enlarge its scope. Intratextuality thus contributes to strengthening the coherence, the originality and the authority of Plutarch’s vision of Sparta’s destiny.

1

Introduction

The Spartan Lives of Plutarch—Lycurgus, Agesilaus, Lysander, Agis and Cleomenes1—are all connected with each other, with their respective parallel Lives, and with some treatises of the Moralia, through numerous intratextual references.2 At the same time, they entertain an intertextual dialogue with the works of other authors, especially Xenophon’s Agesilaus and Lacedaimonion politeia. 1 For the Life of Leonidas, see below, pp. 125–126. 2 I essentially follow the theoretical framework defined by G. Genette, Palimpsestes. La littérature au second degré (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1982). For intertextuality in classical authors, see also the most stimulating book of S. Hinds, Allusion and Intertext. Dynamics of appropriation in Roman poetry (Cambridge: Cambridge University press, 1998).

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004427860_009

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It is my aim in this chapter to explore the links established by Plutarch between his Spartan Lives against the background of their relationship to Xenophon’s works. Select examples will showcase the dynamics of these intra- and intertextual relations and the way they strengthen the unity of Plutarch’s discourse about Sparta and assert his authority. This is, of course, only one possible reading of the intertextuality in Plutarch’s writings about Sparta: it would also have been possible to focus on the Moralia or to consider the Spartan Lives in connection with other biographies and/or with the work of other authors. Furthermore, it is not my aim to discuss Xenophon as Plutarch’s source regarding Lycurgus and Agesilaus,3 but rather to show that Plutarch’s general views on Sparta in the Lives are rooted in constant references to Xenophon’s Agesilaus and Lacedaimonion politeia. In the following sections, I will consider the Spartan Lives in the chronological order of the narration, from Lycurgus to Cleomenes, focusing alternately on the intertextual relations with Xenophon’s works and on the intratextual relations within the Lives, so as to make explicit how interdependent these two kinds of relations are. I will then show that intratextuality as an open relationship between texts does not necessarily yield any clues as to the writing order, and conclude by proposing an interpretation of the role played by intertextuality in the shaping of Plutarch’s discourse on Sparta.

2

The Lycurgus, or Xenophon and Plutarch (I)

The tone of the Life of Lycurgus’ first chapter (1.1–4) differs from the following ones by having a strong presence of narrative instance; it discusses the writing frame of the Life itself.4 Concerning Lycurgus the lawgiver, in general, nothing can be said which is not disputed, since indeed there are different accounts of his birth, his travels, his death, and above all, of his work as lawmaker and statesman; and there is least agreement among historians as to the times in which the man lived. [Lycurgus’ time:] Some say that he flourished at the same

3 For this question, see M. Manfredini & L. Piccirilli, Plutarco. Vite parallele: Le Vite di Licurgo e di Numa (Rome: Fondazione Lorenzo Valla, 1995) and D.R. Shipley, A Commentary on Plutarch’s Life of Agesilaos: Response to Sources in the Presentation of Character (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997). 4 This is a common feature of the prologues: T.E. Duff, “The Prologues,” in M. Beck (ed.), A Companion to Plutarch (Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2014) 340–342.

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time with Iphitus, and in concert with him established the Olympic truce. Among these is Aristotle the philosopher, and he alleges as proof the discus at Olympia on which an inscription preserves the name of Lycurgus. 2 But those who compute the time by the successions of kings at Sparta, like Eratosthenes and Apollodorus, prove that Lycurgus was many years earlier than the first Olympiad. And Timaeus conjectures that there were two Lycurgus at Sparta, at different times, and that to one of them the achievements of both were ascribed, owing to his greater fame; he thinks also that the elder of the two lived not far from the times of Homer, and some assert that he actually met Homer face to face. 3 Xenophon, also, makes an impression of simplicity in the passage where he says that Lycurgus lived in the time of the Heracleidae. For in lineage, of course, the latest of the Spartan kings were also Heracleidae; but Xenophon apparently wishes to use the name Heracleidae of the first and more immediate descendants of Heracles, so famous in story. [Conclusion and transition:] However, although the history of these times is such a maze, I shall try, in presenting my narrative, to follow those authors who are least contradicted, or who have the most notable witnesses for what they have written about the man. 4 [Lycurgus’ ancestry:] For instance, Simonides the poet says that Lycurgus was not the son of Eunomus, but that both Lycurgus and Eunomus were sons of Prytanis; whereas most writers give a different genealogy, as follows: Aristodemus begat Procles, Procles begat Soüs, Soüs begat Eurypon, and he begat Prytanis, from whom sprang Eunomus, and from Eunomus Polydectes by a first wife, and Lycurgus, who was a younger son by a second wife, Dionassa, as Dieutychidas has written, making Lycurgus sixth from Procles, and eleventh from Heracles.5 As a first step, Plutarch discusses the chronology of Lycurgus’ life and summons a series of authorities, anonymous as well as named, defending an opinion on the subject: “some …” (among whom Aristotle), “But those …” (Eratosthenes and Apollodorus), “And Timaeus,” etc., thus making use of the standard historiographic rhetoric, which opposes differing opinions on controversial points.6 Interestingly enough, Plutarch did not state an explicit position concerning Lycurgus’ chronology. Rather, the variety of opinions on the subject induces 5 For a detailed commentary of this section, see Manfredini & Piccirilli, Le Vite di Licurgo e di Numa, 217–221 and 344. 6 J. Marincola, Authority and Tradition in Ancient Historiography (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997) 225–236 and 280–286.

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him to give a methodological statement: certainty is impossible, but he will follow the least contradicted or the most notable authority. Second, Plutarch deals with the ancestry of Lycurgus and distinguishes one opinion, that of Simonides, from the majority of the other authors, none of which he cites at first, but with which, in light of the following chapter devoted to the direct ancestors of Lycurgus (Lycurgus 2.3–3.1), he clearly agrees. By doing so, he immediately applies the methodological principle that he outlined as a conclusion to his discussion of Lycurgus’ chronology. But, by giving his assent to the usual genealogy which makes of Lycurgus an 11th generation offspring of Heracles and 6th of Procles, Plutarch shows that he favors the opinion of “those who compute the time by the successions of kings at Sparta” in the chronological debate. What is more, the insertion of Lycurgus into the Heraclid and especially Eurypontid genealogy, which tacitly challenges the testimony of Herodotus,7 also supplements the discussion of Xenophon’s opinion in the preceding section. There, Plutarch paraphrased a claim from the Lacedaimonion politeia (10.8) that Lycurgus was a contemporary of the Heraclids.8 As Plutarch remarked, it can only be meant that Lycurgus was a contemporary of the first Heraclids. To endorse the most common genealogy, according to which Lycurgus was actually in the 6th generation after Procles, implies an unspoken correction of Xenophon’s opinion.9 This reference to Xenophon opens up multiple perspectives. It is to some extent programmatic: two thirds of the Life of Lycurgus are less a biography than a description of the Spartan political system about which Xenophon wrote. Since Plutarch refers in his introduction to what is probably the only biographical information of the whole Lacedaimonion politeia, the naming of Xenophon in this context probably aims to introduce him as an authority.10 7

8

9

10

On the one hand, Herodotus presents Lycurgus as the uncle and tutor of the Agiad Leobotes (Hdt. 1.65), who belongs to the 8th generation after Heracles (Hdt. 7.204)—i.e. the 9th in the inclusive reckoning of Plutarch—and, on the other hand, he gives the succession Prytanis-Polydectes-Eunomus, in the 6th, 7th and 8th generation after Heracles respectively—i.e. 7th, 8th and 9th—in his Eurypontid genealogy (Hdt. 8.131). See P. Carlier, La royauté en Grèce avant Alexandre (Strasbourg: AECR, 1984) for a thorough discussion. Ἀλλὰ γὰρ ὅτι μὲν παλαιότατοι οὗτοι οἱ νόμοι εἰσί, σαφές· ὁ γὰρ Λυκοῦργος κατὰ τοὺς Ἡρακλείδας λέγεται γενέσθαι “Now that these laws are of high antiquity there can be no doubt: for Lycurgus is said to have lived in the days of the Heracleidae.” It seems difficult to consider that the genealogy accepted by Plutarch fits in with his interpretation of Xenophon’s assertion about the Heraclids, making them the “first and more immediate descendants of Heracles” (Lyc. 1.3 quoted above). It is at least notable that Plutarch chooses not to directly contradict Xenophon. Xenophon’s pamphlet is not the only work devoted to the institutions of Sparta. Plutarch himself cites also, besides Aristotle, Critias (Lyc. 9.5), Dicaearchus (Ages. 19.6) and Sphae-

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However, Plutarch does not present Xenophon as his main source, but rather criticizes him at first for his testimony concerning Lycurgus’ time, even though he somehow later comes to confirm its overall validity. The reference is ambiguously contradictory: explicitly polemical and implicitly approving. It is the constant intertextual links to the work of Xenophon—to the Lacedaimonion politeia in the Life of Lycurgus and, as we will see, the Agesilaus in the Life of Agesilaus—that progressively construct his significance as a hypotext. Indeed, the rest of Lycurgus’ biography shows that the Lacedaimonion politeia plays an essential role, not so much in terms of information— Plutarch has other sources, enriched by a tradition of philosophical discussion of Sparta’s institutions—than for the layout, which in both texts reviews the main areas of Spartan collective life with a heavy focus on education. Xenophon’s influence is especially perceptible in the last chapters of the Life. After having described the system created and implemented by Lycurgus, Plutarch comes to the end of the Life and to the death of the legislator: the Spartans had sworn to observe his laws until his return from Delphi, where he wanted to consult Apollo, but after having received the assurance of the god that Sparta will remain highly renowned as long as his laws remain in force, Lycurgus chooses to never come back and to die abroad (29.2–5). At this point Plutarch inserts a glimpse into the posterity of Lycurgus’ system: it remained unchanged for five hundred years11 until Agis, son of Archidamus, 14th king after Lycurgus (Lyc. 29.6); under Agis, gold flowed in because of Lysander, who caused corruption to reach the city, though he himself remained incorruptible (Lyc. 30.1). This section of the text is very important in the intratextual construction of the Spartan Lives. The mention of the 14 kings having reigned in Sparta between Lycurgus and Agis links back to the first chapter of the Life of Lycurgus that we have already read, but also forward to the following Spartan Lives, as we will soon see.12 What is more, the foreshadowing of the role of Lysander constitutes a narrative seed to be developed in his own Life. However, Plutarch’s thoughts on Sparta’s destiny also build a strong intertextual link to the Lacedaimonion

11 12

rus (Lyc. 5.8; cf. Cleom. 2.3; 10.4) See E.N. Tigerstedt, The Legend of Sparta in Classical Antiquity (Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1965–1974) I, 228–309 and II, 49–85, with a lot of information but an outdated discussion of the evidence. On the sources of Plutarch in the Lyc., see L. Piccirilli, “Cronologia relativa e fonti delle Vitae Lycurgi et Numae di Plutarco,” in M.J. Fontana, M.T. Piraino & F.P. Rizzo (eds.), φιλίας χάριν. Miscellanea di studi classici in onore di Eugenio Manni, V (Rome: Bretschneider, 1980) 1755–1757. Cf. Th. 1.18.1. My use of the words ‘back’, ‘forward’ and ‘following’ in this context should be understood within the context of dramatic time and not of writing time. See below, pp. 124–125.

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politeia by recasting the matter of the penultimate section of this work.13 Just like Xenophon, Plutarch did not conclude his narration at this point, but followed up the passage by a reflection on Lycurgus’ divine nature and death, a theme which may be connected to the last section of the Lacedaimonion politeia—discussing the honors rendered to the dead kings in Sparta. What is more, by presenting the lasting stability of the Spartan polity, Plutarch condenses into one passage elements that Xenophon dispatched at the beginning and at the end of his pamphlet, which are themselves bound by intratextual references:14 Lyc. 29.6–30.1: So long did his city have the first rank in Hellas (ἐπρώτευσεν ἡ πόλις τῆς Ἑλλάδος) for good government and reputation, observing as she did for five hundred years the laws of Lycurgus (τοῖς Λυκούργου χρησαμένη νόμοις), in which no one of the fourteen kings who followed him made any change (οὐδεὶς ἐκίνησεν), down to Agis the son of Archidamus. (…) But in the reign of Agis, gold and silver money first flowed into Sparta, and with money, greed and a desire for wealth prevailed through the agency of Lysander, who, though incorruptible himself, filled his country with the love of riches and with luxury (ἐνέπλησε τὴν πατρίδα φιλοπλουτίας καὶ τρυφῆς), by bringing home gold and silver from the war, and thus subverting the laws of Lycurgus (τοὺς Λυκούργου καταπολιτευσάμενος νόμους). X. Lac. 1.1–2: It occurred to me one day that Sparta, though among the most thinly populated of states, was evidently the most powerful and most celebrated city in Greece; and I fell to wondering how this could have happened. But when I considered the institutions of the Spartans, I wondered no longer. Lycurgus, who gave them the laws that they obey, and to which they owe their prosperity, I do regard with wonder … X. Lac. 14.1–3 and 7: Should anyone ask me whether I think that the laws of Lycurgus still remain unchanged (οἱ Λυκούργου νόμοι ἀκίνητοι διαμένειν) 13

14

Chapter 14 in our modern edition, which I consider to be perfectly in its place; for a summary of the discussion about this chapter, its authenticity and its position, see S. Rebenich, Xenophon. Die Verfassung der Spartaner (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1998) 25–35 with N. Humble, “The Author, Date and Purpose of Chapter 14 of the Lakedaimoniôn Politeia,” in Chr. Tuplin (ed.), Xenophon and his World (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2004) 215–228. In the following quotations, I have marked in bold the verbal echoes between Plutarch’s and Xenophon’s texts, in italic the echoes between the first and penultimate chapters of Xenophon’s Lac.

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at this day, I certainly could not say that with any confidence whatever. 2 For I know that formerly the Lacedaemonians preferred to live together at home with moderate fortunes rather than expose themselves to the corrupting influences of flattery as governors of dependent states. 3 And I know too that in former days they were afraid to be found in possession of gold; whereas nowadays there are some who even boast of their possessions. (…) 7 Yet we need not wonder (οὐδὲν μέντοι δεῖ θαυμάζειν) if these reproaches are levelled at them, since it is manifest that they obey neither their god nor the laws of Lycurgus (οὔτε τῷ θεῷ πειθόμενοι οὔτε τοῖς Λυκούργου νόμοις). As this comparison shows, Plutarch deliberately accepts Xenophon’s interpretation of Sparta’s decline: as long as the Spartans respected the laws of Lycurgus, their city was unrivaled; but the irruption of wealth after 404BC, which already violated Lycurgus’ precepts, destroyed the system. This passage from the end of the Lycurgus reveals the overall framework of the Plutarchan vision of Spartan history. In the Lacedaimonion politeia, the penultimate chapter echoes the opening lines and invites readers to reinterpret the whole pamphlet. In Plutarch’s Spartan Lives, intratextual references to the Lycurgus dictate the meaning to be given to the following Lives.15

3

Lysander and Agesilaus or the Beginning of the End

The Life of Lysander opens with the mention of a statue located in Delphi, a statue that many think is Brasidas, but that Plutarch knows to be a portrait of Lysander (Lys. 1.1). The link between the Life of Lycurgus and the Life of Lysander is established from the outset, by a remark on the long hair with which Lysander is portrayed, according to the old fashion (ἔθει τῷ παλαιῷ). Plutarch rejects two origins usually given to this custom and assigns its origin “also to Lycurgus” (ἀλλὰ καὶ τοῦτο Λυκούργειόν ἐστι). Here the καί makes it clear that Plutarch activates prior knowledge of Lycurgus’ system in the background of Lysander’s biography.16 The following sections proceed in the same direction. Plutarch begins his biography with an evocation of the familial origin of Lysander, whose father was an Heraclid, though not of royal lineage, his poverty, and the ambition and

15 16

Once again, the word ‘following’ is to be understood within the frame of the dramatic time. It does not necessarily imply that Lyc. was written before Lys.: see below, pp. 124–125.

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spirit of emulation that the young man acquired through his Spartan education (Lys. 2.1–2), the principles of which were already described in the Lycurgus.17 Besides (2.4) his unscrupulous ambition: what is most peculiar in him is that, though he bore poverty well, and though he was never mastered nor even corrupted by money, yet he filled his country full of wealth and the love of wealth (ἐμπλῆσαι τὴν πατρίδα πλούτου καὶ φιλοπλουτίας), and made her cease to be admired for not admiring wealth (καὶ παῦσαι θαυμαζομένην ἐπὶ τῷ μὴ θαυμάζειν πλοῦτον), importing as he did an abundance of gold and silver after the war with Athens, although he kept not a single drachma for himself. This passage clearly echoes the end of the Lycurgus and reactivates the narrative seed sown there. The two passages answer each other, but the first is thematically centered on the destruction of Lycurgus’ system and the second on the relation of Lysander to money.18 The recurrence of vocabulary shows that Plutarch indeed points intentionally to this passage from the Life of Lysander, but the Xenophontean hypotext is also present through the words “to be admired for not admiring wealth” (θαυμαζομένην ἐπὶ τῷ μὴ θαυμάζειν πλοῦτον).19 This is an example of what I would call ‘transitive intertextuality’: just as in mathematics, the intertextual relations work on multiple levels, a reference in text A to text B activating a reference in B to C.20 In this case, the intratextual relation between the passages in Lysander and in Lycurgus transitively activates the underlying reference of both passages to the Lacedaimonion Politeia. That is to say that the reference is not directly made to Xenophon, but to Xenophon re-read by Plutarch.21 The very beginning of Lysander’s Life also builds a very strong bond with two other Lives: the Sulla and the Agesilaus. The beginning of Sulla’s Life reproduces in chiasmus the opening themes of the Lysander, evoking in its first section the good birth but the poverty of Sulla (Sull. 1.1) and then his physical

17 18 19 20 21

Compare especially Lys. 2.2 and Lyc. 25.3. The theme recurs regularly in the biography and again in the comparison between Lysander and Sulla (3.6–8). Cf. X. Lac. 1.1. and 14.7, quoted above. In mathematics, for ex., equality is a transitive relation: if A = B and B = C, then A = C. It does not matter how one considers the intratextual relation between Lyc. and Lys. (from Lyc. to Lys. or Lys. to Lyc.): both passages, by referring to each other and to the Lacedaimonion Politeia, reinforce the presence of the latter and its Plutarchan reinterpretation.

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appearance, observed from statues that portrayed him (2.1).22 This pronounced parallelism between the biographies of Lysander and Sulla makes the occurrence of the same elements in the opening of the Agesilaus even more glaring: just as with Lysander, Agesilaus received the Spartan education, since he was never meant to ascend to the throne (Ages. 1.1); just like Lysander—and while he was Lysander’s eromenos—, he gained ambition and a spirit of emulation (2.1);23 the physical aspect of Agesilaus is also presented—since his deformity is of first importance for the episode of his accession to the throne and the interpretation of the famous oracle about the lame kingship24—but, says Plutarch, there was no portrait available of the king, who “even when he lay dying forbade the making of ‘either statue or picture’ of his person” (2.2: καὶ ἀποθνῄσκων ἀπεῖπε ‘μήτε πλαστὰν μήτε μιμηλάν’ τινα ποιήσασθαι τοῦ σώματος εἰκόνα).25 The way in which the Lives of Lysander and Agesilaus respond to each other item by item in the first sections demonstrates the intent of the author and highlights the central themes of the two texts: the philotimia.26 In particular, the statue of Lysander responds to the absence of any representation of Agesilaus and underlines the difference in their respective attitudes towards

22

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24 25

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More generally, Lys. and Sull. are extremely interrelated parallel lives. See in particular J.M. Candau, “Plutarch’s Lysander and Sulla: integrated characters in Roman historical perspective,” AJPh 121 (2000) 453–478 and T.E. Duff, “Moral ambiguity in Plutarch’s LysanderSulla,” in J. Mossman (ed.), Plutarch and his Intellectual World: Essays on Plutarch (London: Duckworth, 1997) 169–187, especially 170–173 for the statues. Compare also Ages. 5.3 and Lys. 4.1–4 before the background of Lyc. 25.3. For the parallel, see C. Bearzot, “Philotimia, tradizione e innovazione: Lisandro e Agesilao a confronto in Plutarco,” in A. Pérez Jiménez & F.B. Titchener (eds.), Historical and Biographical Values of Plutarch’s Works. Studies Devoted to Prof. Philip A. Stadter by the International Plutarch Society (Malaga-Logan: Universidad de Málaga-Utah State University, 2005) 31–49. Ages. 3.1–4.1. The episode has also a rich intra- and intertextual resonance: cf. Lys. 22.3–6, Alc. 23.7–8 and X., HG 3.3.1–4. The similarity of details in the opening of Sull., Lys., and Ages. is striking, but the similarity of topics is not, since ancestry, physical aspect, education, etc. are common elements of ancient biographical texts, and especially of Plutarchan Lives: L. Van der Stockt, “Compositional Methods in the Lives,” in M. Beck (ed.), A Companion to Plutarch (Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2014) 325. The importance of philotimia as a descriptive concept in Plutarch’s biographies has received much attention. See especially the fundamental work of F. Frazier, “À propos de philotimia dans les Vies. Quelques jalons dans l’ histoire d’une notion,” RPh 62 (1988) 109–127, her recent overview “The Perils of Ambition,” in M. Beck (ed.), A Companion to Plutarch (Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2014) 488–502, and the various articles in G. Roskam, M. De Pourcq & L. Van der Stockt (eds.), The Lash of Ambition: Plutarch, Imperial Greek Literature and the Dynamics of Philotimia (Namur-Leuven: Peeters, 2012). Philotimia in Lys. and Ages. is discussed by Bearzot, “Philotimia”.

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power.27 This element paradoxically underscores the importance of the physical aspect of Agesilaus. Additionally, in the Apophthegmata Laconica (215A), Plutarch gives a more detailed version of the refusal of Agesilaus to receive a statue, which has nothing to do with vanity: Agesilaus considered that his acts must be his monument (μνημεῖον): In his last hours he gave directions to those with him that they should not cause to be made any sculptured or imitative representation of his person (μήτε πλαστὰν μήτε μιμηλάν τοῦ σώματος εἰκόνα ποιήσασθαι). ‘For if I have done any goodly deed, that shall be my memorial (Εἰ γάρ τι καλὸν ἔργον πεποίηκα, τοῦτό μου μνημεῖον ἔσται·); but if not, then not all the statues in the world, the works of menial and worthless men, will avail.’ This is a subtly altered variation on a passage of Xenophon’s Agesilaus (11.7): He would not allow a statue of himself (τοῦ μὲν σώματος εἰκόνα) to be set up, though many wanted to give him one, but on memorials of his mind (ψυχῆς … μνημεῖα) he laboured unceasingly, thinking the one to be the sculptor’s work, the other his own (τὸ δὲ αὑτοῦ ἔργον εἶναι), the one appropriate to the rich, the other to the good. The acts or qualities of the soul could not be portrayed in stone and could have their monument for posterity only if they were celebrated, and this is precisely the role of praise, as Isocrates also points out in the Evagoras.28 By referring to the Xenophontean hypotext, Plutarch seems to assume, just like his predecessor, that his own work, by recounting the deeds of Agesilaus, was actually his deserved memorial.

4

The Agesilaus, or Xenophon and Plutarch (II)

Unsurprisingly, the references to Xenophon’s work are numerous in the Life of Agesilaus.29 Plutarch refers to the Xenophontean hypotext on several levels. As

27 28

29

Cf. Lys. 18.1–19.1. I am thankful to Phil Davies for having brought this point to my attention. Isoc. Or. 9.2–3 and 5.134 with O. Gengler, “epainos,” in C. Ampolo, U. Fantasia & L. Porciani (eds.), Lexicon historiographicum Graecum et Latinum, 3 (Pisa: Edizioni della Normale, 2015) 164 and id., “Praise and Honour,” in A. Heller & O.M. Van Nijf (eds.), The Politics of Honour in the Greek Cities of the Roman Empire (Leiden: Brill, 2017) 34–35 and n. 17. For an overview, see Shipley, A Commentary on Plutarch’s Life of Agesilaos, passim. For a

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in the opening of the Lycurgus, he quotes Xenophon to correct or, rather, to complete the latter’s information, as in 19.4–6 concerning the name of Agesilaus’ daughter.30 Here Plutarch has the authority of an eyewitness, since he found the name in some Laconian records himself, and he saw the spear of Agesilaus as well, which was no different from any other spear—a detail Plutarch takes to be proof of the sobriety of the king’s habit.31 In doing so, he also clearly challenges the position of Xenophon as a privileged source of information on Agesilaus. Indeed, Plutarch also considers Xenophon himself to be an important eyewitness, who has taken part in the events that he narrates. One example of this is the battle of Coroneia, where Xenophon fought at Agesilaus’ side.32 But the interlocking of the narrative and its object grows stronger in 9.2, where Plutarch evokes the desire of Agesilaus to achieve such great accomplishments as Xenophon’s success with the 10,000: For he had great expectations from his expedition, and he thought it would be a disgraceful thing if, whereas Xenophon and his Ten Thousand had penetrated to the sea, and vanquished the King just as often as they themselves desired, he, in command of the Lacedaemonians, who had the supremacy on sea and land, should perform no deed worthy of remembrance in the eyes of the Hellenes (μηδὲν ἔργον ἄξιον μνήμης φανῆναι πρὸς τοὺς Ἕλληνας). Just like his readers, Plutarch knows that the adventure of Xenophon—to which he has Agesilaus compare his own hopes of achievement—was transformed into a narrative, guaranteeing its fame for posterity. And just like his readers, Plutarch also knows that the same Xenophon wrote a praise of Age-

30

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32

more traditional, rather positivistic interpretation of the relation between Plutarch’s and Xenophon’s Ages., see C.D. Hamilton, “Plutarch and Xenophon on Agesilaus,” AncW 25 (1994) 205–212. A systematic comparison with Xenophon’s text (Ages. 8.6–7) shows that Plutarch actually rearranges its elements and that the actual quotation begins before the mention of Xenophon. This observation also takes up the counterpoint to the usual description of remarkable artefacts once owned by heroes, as for ex. in Paus. 3.8. About Plutarch’s autopsy, see J. Buckler, “Plutarch and Autopsy,” in ANRW II.33.6 (Berlin-New York: De Gruyter, 1992) 4788–4830, especially 4814–4815 for Sparta. According to Plutarch, Ages. 18.1 (with a direct ref. to X., Ages. 2.9); Xenophon himself, however, does not explicitly mention active participation in the battle (cf. An. 5.3.5–6). See J.W.I. Lee, “Xenophon and his Times,” in M.A. Flower (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Xenophon (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017) 29.

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silaus celebrating his deeds and thus elevating a memorial of words for his achievements. The Life of Agesilaus, without masking the faults of his character, perpetuates the memory of his erga and precisely fulfills the wish of Agesilaus to leave a mnemeion of his virtues, instead of statues. But ironically, it is for his disappointed hopes that Plutarch praises the king the most, because he chose to come back to defend Sparta against the Boiotians instead of staying in Asia: “Agesilaus, however, never performed a nobler or a greater deed than in returning home as he now did” (Ages. 15.4).33

5

The Lives of Agis and Cleomenes, or the Intratextual Dynasty

Heredity is a recurring theme in the Spartan Lives: whether for the insertion of Lycurgus in the Eurypontid genealogy, the Heraclid origin of Lysander or the challenge to Leotychides’ legitimacy as a king. In this case, it is mainly the genealogical discussion that opens the Life of Agis, which, by constructing a parallel with the Lycurgus, gives full importance to genealogy as a leading theme. The fact that dynastic questions are not absent from the Spartan Lives is not a surprise and actually activates a series of intertextual references, especially to Herodotus.34 The opening of the Agis reconnects with the previous elements. Agis 3.1–5 is the immediate sequel to Lyc. 29.6–30.1 and resumes, after the lives of Lysander and Agesilaus, the theme of the decadence of Spartan institutions: When once the love of silver and gold had crept into the city, closely followed by greed and parsimony in the acquisition of wealth and by luxury, effeminacy, and extravagance in the use and enjoyment of it, Sparta fell away from most of her noble traits, and continued in a low estate that was unworthy of her down to the times when Agis and Leonidas were kings. 2 Agis was of the Eurypontid royal house, a son of Eudamidas, and the sixth in descent from the Agesilaus who crossed into Asia and became the most powerful Greek of his time. For Agesilaus had a son Archidamus,

33

34

As an answer to Christopher Pelling’s open question in his keynote lecture (cf. above p. 22), I think that Ages. 9.2 seeks to suggest in the thoughts of Agesilaus in Ages. 15.2–4 the cry of the auctorial voice, quoting E. Tr. 764, “You Greeks! You are the inventors of barbarian evils.” But if the presentation of the Heraclid ancestors of Pausanias and Leonidas in Herodotus comes to mind, it was to other authors that Plutarch referred explicitly when he discussed the genealogy of Lycurgus. See above.

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who was slain by the Messapians at Mandurium in Italy; Archidamus had an elder son Agis, and a younger son Eudamidas, who, after Agis was slain by Antipater at Megalopolis leaving no issue, became king; Eudamidas was succeeded by Archidamus, Archidamus by another Eudamidas, and Eudamidas by Agis, the subject of this Life. 3 Leonidas, on the other hand, the son of Cleonymus, was of the other royal house, the Agiad, and was eighth in descent from the Pausanias who defeated Mardonius at Plataea. For Pausanias had a son Pleistoanax, and Pleistoanax a son Pausanias, upon whose exile and flight from Sparta to Tegea his elder son Agesipolis became king; Agesipolis, dying without issue, was succeeded by a younger brother Cleombrotus, 4 and Cleombrotus, in turn, had two sons, Agesipolis and Cleomenes, of whom Agesipolis reigned only a short time and left no sons, while Cleomenes, who became king after him, lived to lose his elder son Acrotatus, but left behind him a younger son Cleonymus; Cleonymus, however, did not come to the throne, but Areus, who was a grandson of Cleomenes and son of Acrotatus; Areus fell in battle at Corinth, and his son Acrotatus came to the throne; 5 Acrotatus also was defeated and slain at Megalopolis, by the tyrant Aristodemus, leaving his wife with child; and after she had given birth to a son, Leonidas the son of Cleonymus was made the child’s guardian. But the young king died before reaching manhood, and the kingship therefore devolved upon Leonidas, who was altogether unacceptable to the people. On the genealogical level, Agis 3.2 explicitly builds a link with Agesilaus, before filling the narrative gap of the four generations between them. Therefore, Plutarch focuses less on the lineage than on the intratextual link with the Agesilaus and, through reference, on the irruption of riches, with the Lysander and Lycurgus, and transitively on an intertextual link with the work of Xenophon. Afterwards, Agis 3.3–5 presents the genealogy of Leonidas, the king of the other house. It is surprising that this information does not immediately precede the presentation of Cleomenes, son of Leonidas, in the chapters of the Life devoted to him. Of course, Leonidas plays an important role in the aristocratic opposition to Agis’ reforms, but it could have sufficed to present him as the Agiad king contemporary to Agis. What is more, to give Cleomenes’ full genealogy at the moment he enters the narrative would have emphasized his dynastic legitimacy. I, however, see two reasons for this anticipation. Firstly, Cleomenes, through his marriage with Agis’ widow, was to build legitimacy apart from lineage (Cleom. 1.2): he inherited the wealth of Agis and received his children in his house; Leonidas wanted to capture the Eurypontid inheritance, but the opposite happened and Plutarch announced it already in the opening lines of the

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Lives of Agis and Cleomenes: unlike the Gracchi, Agis and Cleomenes were not brothers, but they do develop a fraternal policy (Agis 2.6). What is sometimes regarded as a weak justification for the artificial pairing of the Spartan kings and the Roman tribunes is actually one of the keys to understanding the Lives of Agis and Cleomenes. Secondly, Plutarch activates another intertextual reference here with the genealogy of Leonidas, to define his character and, dare I say, to compensate for the good impression that his name could leave. His lineage is traced back to Pausanias, the winner of Plataea. The reference to Herodotus, which was not clearly activated in previous genealogical discussions about Spartan Kings, seems unavoidable here, but places Leonidas under the patronage, not of his namesake, who is not a direct ancestor, but of the first Spartan to have let himself be bribed by the Eastern richness,35 as Leonidas was to do in turn (Agis 3.6). This last character trait enables Plutarch to refocus the narrative on Agis, who in everything is opposed to his co-regent Leonidas and identifies himself with Agesilaus, who is himself an anti-Leonidas:36 “Agis, on the contrary, far surpassed in native excellence and in loftiness of spirit not only Leonidas, but almost all the kings who had followed the great Agesilaus” (Agis 4.1). It is in the final comparison between Agis, Cleomenes and the Gracchi that the overall coherence of the Spartan Lives is once again stated: despite the corruption that surrounded them, Agis and Cleomenes succeeded in defending Spartan virtue and restoring the institutions of Lycurgus. By complying with the ancestral system guaranteed by Lycurgus through Apollo, Cleomenes led Sparta to success (Comp. Ag., Cleom. et Gracch. 2.4–5). The causality inspired by Xenophon is respected by Plutarch, but reoriented to explain later history.37

6

Dramatic Chronology and Composition

It is difficult not to succumb to the illusion that the writing chronology of the Spartan Lives corresponds to the dramatic chronology, from Lycurgus to Cleomenes. But actually, the intratextual references that we have underlined 35 36

37

An episode to which even Herodotus alludes to (5.32), although it does not fall within the scope of his narrative. Cf. Ages. 19.4–6 quoted above. Agis is also compared later to Agesilaus, Lysander and Leonidas “of old” for his ability to command: Agis 14.2, a comparison which underlined even more strongly the mediocrity of the other Leonidas. For an overall commentary of the Comp. Ag., Cleom. et Gracch., see the very good volumes of G. Marasco, Commento alle biografie plutarchee di Agide e di Cleomene (Rome: Edizioni dell’Ateneo, 1981).

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do not necessarily imply that Plutarch wrote the Spartan Lives in chronological order, even though this may have been the case.38 It was always possible for Plutarch to activate the potential narrative seeds present in previously written texts and unravel the thread of his argument in both directions through the narrated time. Additionally, for his audience, those narrative seeds also had the potential to activate multiple intra- and intertextual references. In the previously discussed passage of the Lysander which identifies long hair as a Lycurgean custom (Lys. 1.1), the implicit reference embedded in the καί (ἀλλὰ καὶ τοῦτο Λυκούργειόν ἐστι) may point—for the author or his audience, successively or simultaneously—to some general knowledge of Lycurgus’ system, to the Lacedaimonion Politeia of Xenophon, to any other work dealing with Lycurgus’ system, and/or to the Lycurgus. In this perspective, let us also consider the end of the Life of Agesilaus (40.3) in connection with Agis 3.2 quoted above: The kingdom devolved upon Archidamus his son, and remained in his family down to Agis, who was slain by Leonidas for attempting to restore the ancient constitution, being the fifth in descent from Agesilaus.39 It could be seen as reminiscence on as well as foreshadowing of the beginning of the Agis: intratextual links—just like extratextual ones—work in both directions. As a corollary, Ages. 40.3 becomes an intratextual reference only in connection with Agis 3.2, or vice versa. In this context, it is interesting to consider the case of the Life of Leonidas. Plutarch announced in his pamphlet De Herodoti malignitate (866B) his plan to write a Life of Leonidas, of which it is not known if it was ever written. It is, at the least, not preserved. Whether Plutarch ever wrote it or not is of little importance here, since it is only necessary to assess whether it could find its place within the framework I have just defined. And it does. There are enough

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Lyc. is quoted in Ages. 4.2 and 20.6 and Cleom. 12.3; Per. and Fab. are the 10th pair of parallel lives and Per. 22.4 refers to Lys.; Dio and Brut. are the 12th pair and Brut., Caes. and Pomp. (the parallel Life of Ages.) are connected by circular references (Brut. 9.9 to Caes.; Caes. 35.2 and 45.9 in the future tense to Pomp.; Pomp. 16.8 to Brut.) and were therefore written at the same time. The relative place of Agis and Cleom. is less clear and Lys. could have been written before Lyc. See C. Stoltz, Zur relativen Chronologie der Parallelbiographien Plutarchs (Lund: Ohlsson, 1929) with G. Delvaux, “Plutarque: chronologie des Vies parallèles,” LEC 63 (1995) 97–113, especially 101–102 for the interpretation of Lys. 17.4 and p. 105 for a tentative chronology (with, for the Spartan Lives, the relative sequence: Lys.Lyc.-Ages.-Agis and Cleom.). Plutarch counts here exclusively, and inclusively in Agis 3.2.

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elements in the existing Spartan Lives that could be linked to what we know about the planned content of the Life of Leonidas.40 Plutarch’s intention was to narrate “acts and sayings of the Spartans Herodotus has omitted”—that is, a very intertextual project—and he already supplies some elements useful for his argument: he narrates how the men preparing to go and fight at Thermopylae participated in their own funeral games in the presence of their fathers and mothers, as well as how Leonidas and the other fighters behaved bravely before and during the battle. Surely, such a Life could have found its place in Plutarch’s overall picture of Sparta as a demonstration of the efficiency of Lycurgus’ system before its decline.

7

Conclusion: The Dynamics of Intertextuality in the Spartan Lives

It appears then, at the conclusion of this inquiry, that Plutarch builds intratextual relations throughout his Spartan Lives on different levels: through explicit references to the other Lives, by mentioning Lycurgus, Lysander, Agesilaus, Agis and Cleomenes as characters, through the repetition of narrative patterns, sentences and words, through the repetition of leading themes, especially the bounds of genealogy, through Lycurgus’ educational system and through the ambiguous philotimia. The principal effect of these intratextual relations—of which only an overview could be given in this chapter—is to reinforce the overall cohesion of the narrative, of which every Life seems to be a coherent part. They also strengthen the theory that Sparta’s grandeur and the Spartans’ observance of Lycurgus’ system are intimately interrelated.41 The direct or indirect—transitive—intertextual connection with the works of Xenophon underpins the overall presentation of Sparta’s history in Plutarch’s Lives, since the theory developed by Plutarch actually reflects the contents of the penultimate chapter of the Lacedaimonion politeia. This borrowing is not explicitly aknowledged, but it is subtly and progressivly constructed throughout. However, Plutarch’s Spartan Lives seem not only to illustrate Xenophon’s pronouncement but also to enlarge its scope, since Plutarch also applies it to the subsequent history of Sparta, about which Xenophon naturally could know nothing. The originality of Plutarch’s political analysis is difficult to ascertain. He was probably himself dependent on other thinkers who paved the way,

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Agis 14.2 cited above is only one of numerous possibilities. A theory that arguably goes back to Hdt. 1.65–66.

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figure 7.1 The dynamic of intertextuality in the Spartan Lives Note: Lack of space did not allow us to demonstrate in this chapter every relation illustrated in the graph, especially the intratextual relations within the work of Xenophon, about which see for ex. P. Pontier, “L’Agésilas de Xénophon: comment on réécrit l’ histoire,” CEA 48 (2010) 359–383 and id., “Xénophon: la place de l’ éloge dans l’ écriture de l’ histoire, des Helléniques (VI–VII) à l’Agésilas,” in M.R. Guelfucci (ed.), Jeux et enjeux de la mise en forme de l’histoire. Recherches sur le genre historique en Grèce et à Rome, in memoriam François Hinard, II (Besançon: Presses Universitaires, 2010) 405–417. It is also possible to expand the graph, for ex. with Alc. or Art., as E. Almagor underlined in the discussion at the conference, or X. Cyr. (see Tigerstedt, The Legend of Sparta, I, 174). design: O. Gengler

from Xenophon to his time. However, in his writings he clearly builds links to Xenophon’s works directly, through the intra- and intertextual references that we have identified. By doing so, Plutarch places himself not only in line with Xenophon, but also reveals his intention to surpass him and therefore reinforces his own authority.

Acknowledgements My first thoughts on intertextuality in Plutarch’s Spartan Lives took shape as a lecture at the University of Vienna whose students I want to thank here. I also warmly thank the International Plutarch Society and the organizers of

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the XIth Congress for their invitation to take part in the event and my student research assistant Isaac Xenophon Smith for improving my English. The kind and accurate comments of Phil Davies helped me improve my paper into the current chapter form. Naturally, all remaining errors are my own. The translations of Plutarch’s and Xenophon’s works come from the respective volumes of the ‘Loeb Classical Library’ by B. Perrin, F.C. Babbitt, L. Pearson and E.R.C. Marchant (see bibliography). Plutarch’s citations are taken from the ‘Budé’ edition, Xenophon’s citations from the ‘Oxford Classical Text’ series, and the translations adapted accordingly if necessary.

chapter 8

The Mechanics of Intertextuality in Plutarch Timothy E. Duff

Abstract This paper proposes a model for how intertextuality may work in Greek texts: that is, how a reading of one text may be enriched by the reader’s knowledge of one or more other texts and by implicit invitations to the reader to have those texts in mind. This theory is applied to a close analysis of parts of Plutarch’s Life of Alcibiades, which, as I demonstrate, echo and implicitly allude to a series of Platonic texts. The Platonic texts considered here do not mention Alcibiades; they do not, therefore, function as ‘sources’ of information. Rather, as I shall argue, the Platonic texts function as ‘intertexts’ against which Plutarch’s Alcibiades is to be read; readers are invited to read in this way through a series of subtle clues within the Plutarchan text. In such cases of intertextuality, the ideal reader’s understanding of the Plutarchan text is, I argue, changed and enriched by recognition both of the original passages to which Plutarch alludes and, crucially, of the wider context of those passages within the texts from which they are drawn. Such intertextual invitations, or allusions, can be seen as a form a sort of ‘short-hand’, which the reader may flesh out from his or her knowledge of the original passage and its context. In the case of the Alcibiades, by alluding to a number of passages in which Plato describes Socrates’ encounters with other beautiful young men (Lysis, Charmides), or the ideal relationship of a mature man with a younger beloved (Phaedrus, Phaedrus’s speech in the Symposium), Plutarch provides a series of implicit models for how the reader should imagine Socrates’ attitude towards and relationship with Alcibiades, and Alcibiades’ own character and reaction.

Plutarch is a particularly ‘intertextual’ author. Explicit quotations from earlier authors, and references to their work, abound. By ‘explicit’ quotations or references, I mean those places where Plutarch names the author or text concerned, or otherwise makes clear that he is quoting or referring to a particular author or work: for example, in the Life of Themistocles he names twenty-eight earlier authors, and in the Caesar, eight authors.1 Even more frequent are implicit 1 J.L. Marr, Plutarch: Life of Themistocles (Warminster: Aris and Philips, 1998) 5–6; C.B.R. Pelling,

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004427860_010

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allusions and echoes: that is, where Plutarch quotes, or alludes to the phrasing or content of, earlier texts but without making clear that he is doing so. In some cases, the presence of poetic meter or archaic words or phrasing may suggest to an alert reader that something is being quoted. Similarly, formulae such as “it is said” (λέγεται) may signal that there is a reference to an earlier text or author without naming them explicitly; in the Themistocles, for example, Plutarch refers twenty times to unnamed sources, and three times to the text of inscriptions.2 In other cases, however, such as those with which this chapter will be concerned, recognizing the allusion depends entirely on the reader’s pre-existing knowledge of the original passage from which Plutarch is drawing. What does such intertextuality accomplish? What difference, in other words, does it make to a reader’s experience that any given text or passage cites explicitly, quotes from or echoes earlier texts? In some cases, explicit citations may serve what we might call a ‘source function’: that is, Plutarch names a source for a particular piece of information in order to bolster the credibility of his narrative3 or, conversely, to suggest reservations about that piece of information.4 But many citations or quotations of earlier texts, especially poetic or philosophical texts, do not serve any such source function. Earlier scholars have often described such quotations or allusions in terms of literary ‘embellishment.’ But, as I shall argue in this chapter, allusions to earlier texts, and the intertextuality they signal, play a further and much more profound role. I hope to demonstrate, through close reading of part of the Life of Alcibiades, that the reader’s understanding of the Plutarchan text is changed and enriched by recognition both of the original passage to which Plutarch alludes (in this case, passages of Plato) and, importantly, of the literary conPlutarch: Caesar (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011) 42–43. The difference in scale is characteristic of a general difference in level of citation between the Greek and Roman Lives: Pelling, Plutarch: Caesar, 54–55. Cf. P.A. Stadter, “Thucydidean Orators in Plutarch,” in id. (ed.), The Speeches in Thucydides (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1973) 109– 110: Plutarch explicitly cites specific passages of Thucydides 23 times in the Lives, 30 in the Moralia. 2 Marr, Plutarch: Life of Themistocles, 5–6. Inscriptions: Them. 5.5, 8.5. 10.4–5. Plutarch refers to inscriptions several other times in Them., but it is not clear whether he refers to their text or merely their existence. 3 E.g. Lys. 30.2: Lysander did not enrich himself, “as Theopompus records, whom one should trust more when he praises than when he blames, for he prefers blaming to praising.” 4 E.g. Alc. 3.1–2: Antiphon records several highly damaging stories about Alcibiades, “but perhaps it is not fitting to believe things which their author admits he told out of hostility to him.” Cf. A.G. Nikolaidis, “Plutarch’s criteria for judging his historical sources,” in C. Schrader, V. Ramón & J. Vela (eds.), Plutarco y la Historia. Actas del V Simposio Español sobre Plutarco, Zaragoza 20–22 de junio de 1996 (Zaragoza: Universidad de Zaragoza, 1997) 329–341.

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text of that passage within the text from which it is drawn; as I shall argue, these allusions form a sort of short-hand that the readers flesh out from their knowledge of the original passage and its context. Such allusions depend on the reader’s pre-existing knowledge (of texts, of individuals, of historical events), which is activated by recognition of the allusion. In the particular case of Plutarch’s Alcibiades, I will suggest that, by implicitly alluding to a number of passages in which Plato describes Socrates’ encounters with beautiful young men, or the ideal relationship of a mature man with a younger beloved, Plutarch activates a set of assumptions, and provides a series of models for how the reader should imagine Socrates’ attitude towards and relationship with Alcibiades, along with Alcibiades’ own character and reaction.

1

Cavafy and Plato’s Charmides

I start, however, not with Plutarch but with a poem by Cavafy, composed in 1916 with the title “Charmides” (Χαρμίδης) and printed in 19175 as “In a town of Osroene” (Ἐν πόλει τῆς Ὀσροηνῆς).6 It is set, as so many of Cavafy’s poems, at some unspecified time in the Hellenistic or Roman periods, out on the Eastern frontiers of the Hellenic world:7 Ἀπ’ τῆς ταβέρνας τὸν καυγᾶ μᾶς φέραν πληγωμένο τὸν φίλον Ῥέμωνα χθὲς περὶ τὰ μεσάνυχτα. Ἀπ’ τὰ παράθυρα ποὺ ἀφίσαμεν ὁλάνοιχτα,8 5 G.P. Savvidis, K. Π. Καβάφη Τα Ποιήματα, i (1897–1918) (Athens: Ikaros, 1991, 4th ed.) 159. On Cavafy’s method of distributing his poems, see G. Jusdanis, The poetics of Cavafy: textuality, eroticism, history (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1987) 58–63; Savvidis, K. Π. Καβάφη, 14–15. 6 The title of this poem may have been inspired by the phrase Βάτναι, πόλις τῆς Ὀσροηνῆς in Hdn. 3.1, p. 326 and 3.2, p. 872 Lentz, and in St. Byz. β 57 Billerbeck. 7 Osroene was an area in Northern Mesopotamia, including Edessa. It was a Roman province (Osrhoena) for at least parts of the late second and early third centuries AD and otherwise formed a buffer between the Roman Empire and Parthia. It was conquered by the Arabs in AD 638. See J. Wagner, “Provincia Osrohoenae: new archaeological finds illustrating the military organisation under the Severan dynasty,” in S. Mitchell (ed.), Armies and frontiers in Roman and Byzantine Anatolia: proceedings of a colloquium held at University College, Swansea in April 1981 (Oxford: British Archaeological Reports, 1983) 103–129. 8 ὁλάνυχτα (“all night,” a neologism) in Cavafy’s last two printings of the poem: see A. Hirst, “Correcting the courtroom cat: editorial assaults on Cavafy’s poetry,” in A. Georgakopoulou & M. Silk (eds.), Standard languages and language standards: Greek, past and present (Farnham:

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τ’ ὡραῖο του σῶμα στὸ κρεββάτι φώτιζε ἡ σελήνη. Εἴμεθα ἕνα κρᾶμα ἐδῶ· Σύροι, Γραικοί, Ἀρμένιοι, Μῆδοι. Τέτοιος κι ὁ Ῥέμων εἶναι. Ὅμως χθὲς σὰν φώτιζε τὸ ἐρωτικό του πρόσωπο ἡ σελήνη, ὁ νοῦς μας πῆγε στὸν πλατωνικὸ Χαρμίδη. From the brawl in the taverna, they brought us wounded our friend Remon, yesterday about midnight. Through the windows which we left wide-open his beautiful body was illuminated by the moon. We are a mixture here: Syrians, Greeks, Armenians, Medes. Such is Remon too. Last night, though, when his sensuous face was illuminated by the moon, our mind went to the Platonic Charmides. A beautiful young man, Remon, a friend of the speaker, is brought home, wounded, from a fight in a taverna and laid out on a bed. As the moonlight, shining through the open window, lit up his body and face, “our mind,” says the narrator, “went to the Platonic Charmides” (πῆγε στὸν πλατωνικὸ Χαρμίδη).9 Through this brief, explicit citation, the reader’s mind too goes to Plato’s Charmides—both the text of that name and the young man who appears in it—, and we bring to our image of Remon all the attributes which Charmides had in Plato: his beauty, and the fact that he was courted by many admirers; but also his shyness, his intelligence and his interest in matters philosophical. The allusion also suggests something about the narrator’s relationship with or attitude to Remon: fatherly, perhaps, if we see the narrator as playing the role of Socrates, but not immune to sexual desire at beautiful youths (Chrm.

Ashgate, 2009) 161. Hirst prints ὁλάνυχτα in the OUP edition (A. Hirst [ed.] & E. Sachperoglou [transl.], C.P. Cavafy: the collected poems [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007]) but the translation has “wide-open.” 9 The poem is discussed in R. Zamarou, Καβάφης καί Πλάτων: Πλατωνικά στοιχεῖα στήν καβαφική ποίηση (Athens: Kedros, 2005) 43–49; J. Phillipson, C.P. Cavafy: historical poems. A verse translation with commentaries (Bloomington: Authorhouse, 2013) 87–96; D. Papanikolaou, “Σαν κι εμένα καμωμένοι”: Ο ομοφυλόφιλος Καβάφης και η ποιητική της σεξουαλικότητας (Athens: Patakis, 2014) 273–291. It is possible that it inspired Napoleon Lapathiotis to use the pseudonym Πλάτων Χαρμίδης for his 11 parodic pieces ‘À la manière de …’, published together in 1938–1939 but begun much earlier, the first of which (1924) parodies Cavafy: A. Vogiatzoglou, “Ὁ Ναπολέων Λαπαθιώτης καί ἡ τέχνη τῆς παρωδίας,” Nea Estia 1841 (2011) 241.

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155d).10 It suggests too something about the society imagined in this poem: the mixed world of Syrians, Greeks, Armenians and Medes, out on the frontier, for whom Plato was still a living point of reference, where one’s mind did go to Plato’s Charmides when one thought of a beautiful young man’s body and face.11 The fact that Remon’s name is not Greek in origin, but Coptic (Egyptian Christian), makes Remon himself emblematic of the cultural mix brought out here, as the narrator stresses (“Such is Remon too”). Readers might think of all those other poems by Cavafy that dramatize a world where individuals or populations struggle to maintain or demonstrate their Greekness in their distant outposts.12 But the allusion to Plato’s Charmides also leaves us with a doubt. Was this young man really anything like the Charmides of Plato? He was, after all, wounded in a brawl in a taverna. But then was the historical Charmides really like Plato’s Charmides? Was he too seen in Plato, not through moonlight, but in an equally idealizing light? Readers of Plato would probably have been aware that the real Charmides, son of Glaucon, would go on to play a leading role in the oligarchic regime of 404–403 as one of the 10 men in charge of the Piraeus, and be killed in fighting with democratic forces in the Piraeus as that regime crumbled (X. HG 2.4.19).13 Perhaps the fight in which Remon was wounded was political too—or is the point that it was not, that political struggles do not happen, in that outpost beyond the Euphrates? That all these trains of thought

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See below, p. 140. Cf. Zamarou, Καβάφης καί Πλάτων, 47–48; R.S. Sturges, Dialogue and deviance: male-male desire in the dialogue genre (Plato to Aelred, Plato to Sade, Plato to the Postmodern) (New York-Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005) 1–2, 4. The movement from the face and body of a particular beautiful young man (Remon) to an idealized beauty is, of course, itself a Platonic feature, expressed e.g. in Diotima’s speech in the Smp. (esp. 210a–211e). E.g. Orophernes (Ὀροφέρνης), Philhellene (Φιλέλλην), Tomb of the Grammarian Lysias (Λυσίου Γραμματικοῦ Tάφος), That is the man (Οὗτος Ἐκεῖνος), For Ammones, who died aged 29, in 610 (Γιὰ τὸν Ἀμμόνη, που πέθανε 29 ἐτῶν, στὰ 610), Epitaph of Antiochus, King of Commagene (Ἐπιτύμβιον Ἀντιόχου, βασιλέως Κομμαγηνῆς); Posidonians (Ποσειδωνιᾶται); Going back home from Greece (Ἐπάνοδος ἀπὸ τὴν Ἑλλάδα). Cf. E. Keeley, Cavafy’s Alexandria (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1976) 103–131. J.K. Davies, Athenian Propertied Families (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1971) 330–331; D. Naills, The people of Plato: a prosopography of Plato and other Socratics (Indianapolis: Hackett, 2002) 90–94; cf. T. Tuozzo, Plato’s Charmides: positive elenchus in a ‘Socratic’ dialogue (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011) 53–55, 86–90. On the political content of the Charmides, see Tuozzo, Plato’s Charmides, 52–98; G. Danzig, “Plato’s Charmides as a political act: apologetics and the promotion of ideology,” GRBS 53 (2013) 486–519. For the evidence on Charmides, see also J.S. Traill, Persons of Ancient Athens (Toronto: Athenians, 1994–2012) vol. 18, nr. 987975. He was an uncle of Plato.

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can be activated by the brief mention of the Platonic original shows both its effectiveness and its extreme economy. I start with this poem because the model of allusion inherent in Cavafy’s poem, and in my analysis of it, is one I see operating in Plutarch’s texts too, as I hope to make clear in the rest of this chapter. The reader’s understanding of the poem is broadened and enriched by the knowledge of the Platonic text that he or she brings to it.14 Note that this is not just about recognizing the origin of a quotation or the source of a detail: the allusion activates the readers’ much broader knowledge of Plato’s Charmides, and perhaps of Charmides as a historical figure, which they then bring to their interpretation of Cavafy’s poem.15 As in Plutarch, such allusions form a sort of short-hand, which the reader, using his or her knowledge of the original Platonic text or passage and its context, fleshes out, filling in the gaps of what is not said but implied. Indeed, it would not be going too far, I think, to claim that Cavafy was influenced in this allusive technique by Plutarch, as he was steeped in and was a very sensitive reader of Plutarch.16

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For further discussion of this poem, see T.E. Duff, “The reception of Plato’s Charmides in Wilde, Cavafy and Plutarch,” in M. Fantuzzi, H. Morales & T. Whitmarsh (eds.), Greek literary reception in antiquity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, forthcoming). For references and allusions to Plato in Cavafy, see Zamarou, Καβάφης καί Πλάτων. Of course, many real readers of Cavafy may never have heard of, let alone read, Plato’s Charmides, and for them the effect of the (explicit) allusion is more limited, but still profound. See my comments at the end of this chapter. For Cavafy’s use of Plutarch, see e.g. B. Lavagnini, “In Plutarco, Vita Luculli 29, 16–20 la fonte di una poesia di Kavafis,” A&R n.s. 33 (1988) 144–146 [reprinted as id., “In Plutarco, Vita Luculli XXIX, 16–20 l’ispirazione di una poesia di Kavafis,” in Studi di filologia classica in onore di Giusto Monaco, IV (Palermo: Università di Palermo, 1991) 1805–1807]; G.W.M. Harrison, “Plutarch, Vita Antonii 75, 3–4: source for a poem by Kavafis,” A&R n.s. 37 (1992) 207– 209; M. González González, “Ecos de Plutarco en los versos de Cavafis,” in M. García Valdés (ed.), Estudios sobre Plutarco: ideas religiosas (Madrid: Ediciones Clásicas, 1994) 651–658; M. Paschalis, “Theoi and Theodotos: thematic collections and generation of meaning in Cavafy’s poetry,” Journal of Modern Greek Studies 17 (1999) 403–412; I. Papadopoulou, “Ἀπολείπειν ὁ θεὸς Ἀντώνιον: ὁ κλασικὸς χαρακτῆρας τῆς καβαφικῆς ποίησης,” Parnassos 43 (2001) 133–146; S. Voutsa, “Constantinos Cavafis lee a Plutarco: historia, ironía y drama,” in J.M. Candau Morón, F.J. González Ponce & A.L. Chávez Reino (eds.), Plutarco transmisor. Actas del X Simposio Internacional de la Sociedad Española de Plutarquistas (Sevilla, 12–14 de noviembre de 2009) (Sevilla: Universidad de Sevilla, 2011) 657–674. What remains of Cavafy’s personal library, now housed at the Center for Neo-Hellenic Studies (Σπουδαστήριο Νέου Ελληνισμού) in Athens, contains 4 volumes of Plutarch, including 2 volumes of Sintenis’ Teubner edition of the Parallel Lives; Michalis Peridis saw 8 when he inspected the library in Alexandria in 1941–1942. See M. Karampini-Iatrou, Η Βιβλιοθήκη Κ. Π. Καβάφη

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A further reason for starting with this poem is that Plato’s Charmides is also alluded to, as we shall see, in Plutarch’s Alcibiades—though in that case the allusion is less explicit (Charmides is not named) and relies much more on the reader’s pre-existing knowledge of the wording of the Platonic text. In fact, Charmides is not the only beautiful young man drawn from the Platonic texts to whom the Alcibiades alludes: as we shall see, Plato’s description of another youth in whom Socrates’ took an interest (in the Lysis) and his discussions of ideal erotic relationships (Phaedrus; Phaedrus’ speech in the Symposium) are important intertexts in Alc. 4–7 and enrich Plutarch’s description of Socrates’ relationship with Alcibiades. None of these texts or speeches mention Alcibiades, nor does he occur as a speaker in them; therefore, they do not function as sources of information. Rather, their function is different: readers who, responding to the cues in Plutarch’s text, recognize the allusions and remember the Platonic passages, along with their context in the Platonic originals, will bring to their reading of the Alcibiades their knowledge of those young men (their characters and looks), and of Socrates’ attitude to, treatment of and discussions with them; readers will therefore construct Alcibiades’ relationship with Socrates in terms of the idealized relationship depicted in those texts. In other words, recalling the Platonic originals serves to set Socrates’ relationship with Alcibiades in the context of his interest in other good-natured young men, and of idealizing Platonic love, and to suggest something of the character of their relationship. That model of allusion, in which the reader’s response to the present text is deepened by calling to mind the broader context of the passage being alluded to, is one which I see as having a more general validity for Plutarch and for the way he engages with other authors beyond Plato.17

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(Athens: Hermis, 2003); id., “Relics of a library: how C.P. Cavafy’s library survived through auction, sales, book loans, and relocations,” Journal of Modern Greek Studies 30 (2012) 282– 283. See also e.g. D.P. Fowler, “On the shoulders of giants: intertextuality and Classical Studies,” Materiali e discussioni per l’analisi dei testi classici 39 (1997) 13–34; C.B.R. Pelling, “Plutarch and Thucydides,” in P.A. Stadter (ed.), Plutarch and the Historical Tradition (London: Taylor & Francis, 1992) 10–40 [reprinted in C.B.R. Pelling, Plutarch and History: Eighteen Studies (London: Duckworth, 2002) 117–141]; id., “Synkrisis revisited,” in A. Pérez Jiménez & F.B. Titchener (eds.), Historical and Biographical Values of Plutarch’s Works. Studies Devoted to Prof. Philip A. Stadter by the International Plutarch Society (Malaga-Logan: Universidad de Málaga-Utah State University, 2005) 329–334; C.B.R. Pelling, “Intertextuality, plausibility, and interpretation,” Histos 7 (2013) 1–20; S. Hinds, Allusion and Intertext. Dynamics of appropriation in Roman poetry (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998).

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Platonic Intertexts in Plutarch’s Alcibiades

The importance of the Platonic texts and of Socrates’ relationship with Alcibiades is highlighted at the very start of the Alcibiades, when Plutarch claims that Alcibiades’ fame was owed partly to Socrates’ interest in him, and explicitly cites both Plato and the Socratic writer Antisthenes for details about Alcibiades’ upbringing (1.3).18 The mention of Plato so early in the text makes clear how important the Platonic treatment of Alcibiades is for understanding this Life, and encourages the reader to think of the Platonic texts.19 Plutarch deals with Socrates’ relationship with Alcibiades in chapters 4–7 of his Life. He draws heavily on two Platonic works in which Alcibiades plays a prominent role: the First Alcibiades20 and the Symposium.21 The First Alcib18 19

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Plato for the name of his paidagogos (Alc. I 122b), and Antisthenes for that of his nurse (V A 201 Giannantoni). As pointed out by D. Gribble, Alcibiades and Athens: a study in literary presentation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999) 272. For analysis of Alc. 1–3, see V. Wohl, Love Among The Ruins (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2002) 131–134; T.E. Duff, “Plutarch on the childhood of Alkibiades (Alk. 2–3),” PCPhS 49 (2003) 89–117; id., “How Lives begin,” in A.G. Nikolaidis (ed.), The Unity of Plutarch’s Work. Moralia Themes in the Lives, Features of the Lives in the Moralia (Berlin-New York: De Gruyter, 2008) 196–201. I take no position here on the question of the authenticity of the Alc. I (on which see e.g. N. Denyer, Plato: Alcibiades [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001] 14–26; Gribble, Alcibiades and Athens, 260–262; N.D. Smith, “Did Plato write the Alcibiades I?” Apeiron 37 [2004] 94–108). For present purposes it is enough that it was considered Platonic in Plutarch’s period. I have discussed the use of Plato in the Alc. in T.E. Duff, Plutarch’s Lives: Exploring Virtue and Vice (Oxford-New York: Oxford University Press, 1999) 224–227; id., “Plato’s Symposium and Plutarch’s Alcibiades,” in J. Ribeiro Ferreira, D. Leão, M. Tröster & P. Barata Dias (eds.), Symposion and Philanthropia in Plutarch (Coimbra: Classica Digitalia, 2009) 37–50; id., “Platonic allusion in Plutarch’s Alcibiades 4–7,” in P. Millett, S.P. Oakley & J.E. Thompson (eds.), Ratio et res ipsa: Classical essays presented by former pupils to James Diggle on his retirement (Cambridge: The Cambridge Philological Society, 2011) 27–43. Other discussions include D.A. Russell, “Plutarch, ‘Alcibiades’ 1–16,” PCPhS 192 (1966) 40– 41 [reprinted in B. Scardigli (ed.), Essays on Plutarch’s Lives (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995) 196–197]; id., Plutarch (London: Duckworth, 1973) 127; C.B.R. Pelling, “Prefazione,” in F. Albini (ed.), Plutarco. Vita di Coriolano. Vita di Alcibiade (Milan: Garzanti, 1996) xlvii–xlix; id., “Plutarch’s Socrates,” Hermathena 179 (2005) 116–125; Gribble, Alcibiades and Athens, 270–276, and, on the use made of both Plato and other Socratic writers, F. Alesse, “Fonti socratiche e stoiche nella Vita Alcibiadis,” in L. De Blois, J. Bons, T. Kessels & D.M. Schenkeveld (eds.), The Statesman in Plutarch’s Works, vol. ii (Leiden-Boston: Brill, 2005) 187–197. W.C. Helmbold & E.N. O’Neil, Plutarch’s Quotations (Baltimore: American Philological Association, 1959) note only the allusions at 1.3 (Alc. I 122a), 6.1 (Smp. 215e) and 7.3–5 (220f–221b). There is little on the Alc. in R.M. Jones, The Platonism of Plutarch (Menasha: Banta, 1916). S. Verdegem, Plutarch’s Life of Alcibiades: story, text and moralism

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iades is a dialogue between Socrates and the young Alcibiades; in it, Socrates notes Alcibiades’ rejection of other lovers, declares himself the only true lover of Alcibiades, and tries to convince him of how unprepared he is for public life. This provides the basic scenario that Plutarch assumes in Alc. 4–7, though in Plutarch, unlike in Plato, Alcibiades’ other lovers are still very much a presence, competing with Socrates for his affection. Also heavily exploited is Alcibiades’ speech about Socrates in the Symposium (215a–222b), where he declares his love for Socrates and describes his failed attempt to seduce him along with his shame and confusion in Socrates’ presence. In fact, while the First Alcibiades and the Symposium clearly function as sources here, to talk of them simply as sources is to understate their importance: numerous allusions are made to both texts and Plutarch’s readers are plainly meant to have in mind the relationship of Alcibiades and Socrates as detailed by Plato—along with the dangers provided by other admirers, also sketched by Plato.22 Another Platonic intertext of great importance for Plutarch’s Alcibiades 4– 7 is the Republic, especially Book 6 where Socrates describes the dangers that threaten the gifted (εὐφυής) young man of good natural qualities and philosophical soul, who will be drawn away from philosophy by a bad environment

22

(Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2010), in his discussion of Alc. 4–7, does not notice the allusions to Chrm., Ly., or Phaedrus’ speech from the Smp. On Plutarch’s use of the Symposium in Alc. 4–7, see Duff, Plutarch’s Lives 216–218 and esp. id., “Plato’s Symposium,” 37–50. Some of the material is repeated in Amatorius 762B–F, De aud. 46C–47B, and De ad. et am. 66A–B, all of which also draw heavily on the Smp. See Duff “Platonic allusion in Plutarch’s Alcibiades 4–7,” 28 n. 6. For analysis of how such clusters of similar elements in several different Plutarchan texts might be explained, see L. Van der Stockt, “Three Aristotles equal but one Plato. On a cluster of quotations in Plutarch,” in A. Pérez Jiménez, J. García López & R.M. Aguilar (eds.), Plutarco, Platón y Aristóteles. Actas del V Congreso Internacional de la I.P.S. (Madrid-Cuenca, 4–7 de mayo de 1999) (Madrid: Ediciones Clásicas) 127–140; id., “A Plutarchan Hypomnema on Self-Love,” AJPh 120 (1999) 575–599; id., “Καρπὸς ἐκ φιλίας ἡγεμονικῆς (Mor. 814C): Plutarch’s observations on the ‘oldboy network’,” in P.A. Stadter & L. Van der Stockt (eds.), Sage and Emperor: Plutarch, Greek Intellectuals, and Roman Power in the Time of Trajan (97–117AD) (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2002) 115–140; id., “ ‘With followeth justice always’ (Plato, Laws 716a). Plutarch on the divinity of rulers and laws,” in L. De Blois, J. Bons, T. Kessels & D.M. Schenkeveld (eds.), The Statesman in Plutarch’s works, vol. i (Leiden-Boston: Brill, 2004) 137–149; id., “Plutarch in Plutarch: the problem of the hypomnemata,” in I. Gallo (ed.), La biblioteca di Plutarco. Atti del IX Convegno plutarcheo. Pavia 13–15 Giugno 2002 (Naples: D’Auria, 2004) 331–340; B. Van Meirvenne, “Puzzling over Plutarch. Traces of a Plutarchean Plato-study concerning Lg. 729a–c in Adulat. 32 (Mor. 71b), Coniug. Praec. 46–47 (Mor. 144f) and Aet. Rom. 33 (Mor. 272c),” in J.G. Montes Cala, M., Sánchez Ortiz de Landaluce & R.J. Gallé Cejudo (eds.), Plutarco, Dioniso y el Vino. Actas del VI Simposio Español sobre Plutarco, 14–16 de mayo de 1998 (Madrid: Ediciones Clásicas, 1999) 527–540.

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and especially by the attentions of flatterers (491a–495b, esp. 494b–d). The talented young man is compared to a seed or plant (φυτόν), which, if properly tended, will turn out well, but if not, will grow badly (491d–492a).23 Alcibiades is not named here, but many of Plato’s readers may have seen this description as a thinly veiled reference to him.24 Plutarch alludes to this passage throughout Alc. 4 and 6 and, by exploiting the reader’s knowledge of it, he assimilates Alcibiades to the talented young man there depicted, with all the same gifts and subjected to the same temptations, and makes clear that the protection Socrates wanted to give him consisted primarily of education.25

3

Alc. 4.1: The Charmides

Let us now turn to Plutarch’s allusions to other Platonic young men or to other Platonic discussions of love, where Alcibiades is not named. We start with the Charmides, the text to which Cavafy alluded in the poem quoted earlier. Plutarch begins his analysis of Alcibiades’ relationship with Socrates by noting the stiff competition that raged for Alcibiades’ attention between Socrates and Alcibiades’ other, less high-minded admirers (Alc. 4.1): Ἤδη δὲ πολλῶν καὶ γενναίων ἀθροιζομένων καὶ περιεπόντων, οἱ μὲν ἄλλοι καταφανεῖς ἦσαν αὐτοῦ τὴν λαμπρότητα τῆς ὥρας ἐκπεπληγμένοι καὶ θεραπεύοντες, ὁ δὲ Σωκράτους ἔρως μέγα μαρτύριον ἦν τῆς πρὸς ἀρετὴν εὐφυΐας τοῦ παιδός, ἣν ἐμφαινομένην τῷ εἴδει καὶ διαλάμπουσαν ἐνορῶν …

23

24 25

The reader is already alert to this passage, as it had been paraphrased at the start of the Coriolanus-Alcibiades book, complete with agricultural language (Cor. 1.3); cf. the allusion to the R. and Ep. 4 in Cor. 15.4: Duff, Plutarch’s Lives, 206–214; id., “Plutarch, Plato and ‘Great Natures’,” in A. Pérez Jiménez, J. García López & R.M. Aguilar (eds.), Plutarco, Platón y Aristóteles. Actas del V Congreso Internacional de la I.P.S. (Madrid-Cuenca, 4–7 de mayo de 1999) (Madrid: Ediciones Clásicas, 1999) 313–332; C.B.R. Pelling, “Rhetoric, Paideia, and Psychology in Plutarch’s Lives,” in L. Van der Stockt (ed.), Rhetorical Theory and Praxis in Plutarch. Acta of the IVth International Congress of the International Plutarch Society, Leuven, July 3–6, 1996 (Leuven: Peeters, 2000) 337–339 [reprinted in C.B.R. Pelling, Plutarch and History: Eighteen Studies (London: Duckworth, 2002) 344–346]. See J. Adam, The Republic of Plato, 2 volumes (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1902) on R. 494c–495b; Gribble, Alcibiades and Athens, 219–220. For a detailed analysis of allusion to the R. in Alc. 4–7, see Duff, “Platonic allusion in Plutarch’s Alcibiades 4–7,” 32–37 and 39–40. Cf. the allusion in Alc. 34.7 to Grg. 492c, noted by Russell, Plutarch, 127; id., Greek Declamation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983) 124; Gribble, Alcibiades and Athens, 275; Duff, “Plutarch on the childhood of Alkibiades (Alk. 2–3),” 98–99.

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Already many noble men were gathering around and courting him. The others were clearly astounded by the radiance of his youthful beauty and cultivated him, but the love of Socrates was great testimony of the boy’s potential for virtue, which Socrates could discern hinted at in his appearance and shining through … We are plainly meant to have in mind here the start of the First Alcibiades, where Socrates comments on Alcibiades’ “other lovers” (οἱ μὲν ἄλλοι δι’ ὄχλου ἐγένοντό σοι διαλεγόμενοι … πολλῶν γὰρ γενομένων καὶ μεγαλοφρόνων); as he explains there, Alcibiades spurned them all (103a–b).26 But here, Plutarch states explicitly what is implicit there: that Socrates could discern Alcibiades’ εὐφυΐα; indeed, the fact that Socrates loved Alcibiades27 is used by Plutarch as evidence of Alcibiades’ potential for virtue, since Socrates was not, as Plato has him declare in Alc. I 131e, influenced by looks alone.28 In fact, however, the description of the crowd of Alcibiades’ admirers and their astonishment at his beauty also echoes the start of another text, which has at its center another handsome young boy—Plato’s Charmides. Socrates describes how, when the young Charmides entered a palaestra where Socrates and his friends were sitting, all seemed to be in love with him (οἱ δὲ δὴ ἄλλοι πάντες ἐρᾶν ἔμοιγε ἐδόκουν αὐτοῦ), as they were so struck by his beauty (ἐκπεπληγμένοι τε καὶ τεθορυβημένοι); many other lovers preceded and followed him as he walked (πολλοὶ δὲ δὴ ἄλλοι ἐρασταὶ καὶ ἐν τοῖς ὄπισθεν εἵποντο) (154c). Charmides’ admirers wax lyrical about the boy’s beautiful body, but Socrates wonders whether he is also well endowed by nature (εὖ πεφυκώς) in his soul (154e). Socrates then engages him in philosophical conversation, to which Charmides responds enthusiastically. The allusion suggests a parallel between Alcibiades and Charmides and reinforces the notion of Alcibiades’ youth and beauty, but also his good nature— though the accusations of Alcibiades’ promiscuity and violence as a boy, reported in Alc. 3.1–2, have already suggested that Alcibiades’ ‘potential for virtue’ 26 27

28

Gribble, Alcibiades and Athens, 272. But, as Pelling, “Plutarch’s Socrates,” 117–119, points out, while it is natural to take ὁ … Σωκράτους ἔρως as Socrates’ love for Alcibiades, readers who remember the role-reversal in the Smp. may think also of Alcibiades’ love for him too, which Plutarch discusses in 4.4 and which also demonstrates Alcibiades’ good nature; cf. Socrates’ complaint in Smp. 213c about ὁ τούτου ἔρως τοῦ ἀνθρώπου, which is similarly ambiguous. Cf. also Aeschin. Alc. fr. 11C Ditmar; X. Mem. 4.1.2; Smp. 8.1–42; Pl. Prt. 309c. In Plato’s Smp., Plato dramatises, by means of Alcibiades’ own story of his failed seduction of Socrates, the notion that Socrates’ love of Alcibiades had as its goal Alcibiades’ education rather than his body.

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is not fully realized. The crowd of admirers that surrounds Charmides and the discussion among Socrates’ friends of the beauty of his face and body provide a vivid template for how we might imagine the interest shown in Alcibiades by his lovers. The allusion also suggests something of the nature of Socrates’ love for Alcibiades: in the Charmides, Socrates himself admits his intense sexual desire for Charmides, when he sees inside his himation (155d), but makes clear at the same time that he is interested in his soul more than in his body (esp. 154e). Finally, the parallel suggests the kind of relationship that Socrates developed with Alcibiades. In the Charmides, while others focus on Charmides’ looks alone, Socrates addresses him in a kindly and serious way, helping him to take his first steps in philosophy, as he gets a taste of Socrates’ method of interrogation, and thus wins his devotion (176b). So, it is implied, did Socrates behave with Alcibiades and with such natural intellectual curiosity did Alcibiades respond. Indeed, we might note that in the Symposium Alcibiades himself cited Socrates’ treatment of Charmides as a parallel to his own treatment by him (Smp. 222b).29 But the parallel also points forward to Alcibiades’ later career. Readers of Plato and of Plutarch may have been aware that Charmides would also, as we have already mentioned, go on to play a leading role in the oligarchic coup of 404–403.30 The issue of Alcibiades’ attitude towards democracy is one raised later in the Life (e.g. 16.2–3; 16.7–9; 25.5; 26.1; 26.4; 34.7–35.1) and was indeed central to the tradition on Alcibiades (e.g. Th. 6.15.4), and is never resolved.31 The allusion to Charmides here raises that question early in the Life: will Alcibiades turn out the same way? There is also another reason to link the two men: both would be accused of involvement in the profanation of the Mysteries in 415. In fact, according to Andocides, it was in Charmides’ house that Alcibiades and others held their profanatory rites, and Charmides, like Alcibiades, went into exile as a result (On the mysteries 16); a passage from Xenophon’s Symposium (4.31) suggests that Charmides probably, like Alcibiades, had his property confiscated.32 For readers who recognise the allusion and who remember Charmides’ background, the intertext points forward to Alcibiades’ later condemnation for involvement in 29 30 31 32

Athenaeus too links the two men and criticises Plato for ridiculing both (Ath. 187C–F). See above, p. 133. See especially Gribble, Alcibiades and Athens; also R.J. Seager, “Alcibiades and the charge of aiming at tyranny,” Historia 16 (1967) 6–18. That the Charmides mentioned in And. 1.16 is Charmides son of Glaucon, and that the latter’s poverty in X. Smp. 4.31 is a result of the confiscation of his property for involvement in the Mysteries affair, is argued by R.W. Wallace, “Charmides, Agariste and Damon: Andokides 1.16,” CQ 42 (1992) 328–335.

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the Mysteries affair, narrated in Alc. 19–21, and reminds us that, for all Socrates’ attention and concern for him, Alcibiades, like Charmides, would go his own way.

4

Alc. 4.4: The Phaedrus

In a passage dense with allusions to the Republic, as well as to the First Alcibiades, Symposium, and Apology33 and including a quotation of a lost play by Phrynichus, Plutarch continues to describe Socrates’ love for Alcibiades, the dangers posed by his other lovers, and the way in which Alcibiades was humbled in Socrates’ presence (4.1–4). “He listened,” Plutarch says, “to the words of a lover who was not hunting unmanly pleasure (ἡδονὴν ἄνανδρον) nor begging for kisses and touches …” (4.3). The insistence that Socrates was not interested in Alcibiades’ body is probably meant to echo Socrates’ rebuffing of Alcibiades’ sexual advances in the Symposium. It may also allude to Socrates’ attack on love in his speech in Phaedrus 238e–241d.34 In fact, Plutarch goes on to say that Alcibiades himself fell in love with Socrates, a reversal of the expected behavior, as Alcibiades himself admits in the Symposium: “he acquired,” says Plutarch, “without realising it, an image of love, as Plato puts it, which reflects love” (ἐλάνθανεν εἴδωλον ἔρωτος, ὥς φησιν ὁ Πλάτων, ἀντέρωτα κτώμενος). This is the first explicit citation of Plato after 1.3 and is a quotation of Phaedrus 255d.35 In 253c–254e, Plato has been discussing the way the true lover will approach the boy he loves and the effect of his love on the latter. The lover, Plato says, reins in his passions, which are compared to an unruly horse, and approaches his beloved gently. The beloved, seeing that the lover really does love him, yields to him and, as their intimacy grows, is aston-

33

34

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E.g. 4.4, “He thought that Socrates’ activity (πρᾶγμα) was in reality a service of the gods directed towards the care and salvation of the young” (εἰς νέων ἐπιμέλειαν εἶναι καὶ σωτηρίαν) recalling Socrates’ own claim about himself in Ap. 30a: “I think that there has never been a greater good in the city than my own service to the god” (τὴν ἐμὴν τῷ θεῷ ὑπηρεσίαν). Socrates’ πρᾶγμα alludes to Pl. Alc. I 104d; Smp. 217c. See Duff, “Plato’s Symposium,” 40; id., “Platonic allusion in Plutarch’s Alcibiades 4–7,” 36–37. Esp. 239c–d: a conventional lover, Socrates says, will pursue someone used to “a soft and unmanly way of living” (ἁπαλῆς καὶ ἀνάνδρου διαίτης); cf. Amatorius 749F–750A. See Duff, “Plato’s Symposium,” 39. Plutarch uses the same quotation elsewhere, see C.B.R. Pelling, Plutarch: Life of Antony (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988) on Ant. 36.1; Duff, Plutarch’s Lives, 78–79. On its use in Alc. 4.4, cf. Pelling, “Plutarch’s Socrates,” 118–119. Plutarch’s Amatorius is also influenced by the Phdr. See also below, n. 49.

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ished at the lover’s friendship, and when he looks into the eyes of the lover sees his own beauty reflected. The beloved boy, Plato claims, also falls in love, and “sees himself in his lover as in a mirror, without being aware of it” (λέληθεν). He desires his lover, just as his lover desires him, thus “having an image of love in return for love” (εἴδωλον ἔρωτος ἀντέρωτα ἔχων) (255d)—εἴδωλον here signifying both the literal image of himself that the beloved sees in the lover’s eyes, and, metaphorically, the way the beloved now shares the ‘image’ that the lover has of him.36 The Phaedrus shares with the First Alcibiades and Symposium the same basic conceptions of ideal philosophical love, in which the lover exercises selfcontrol37 and the beloved loves him in return.38 The First Alcibiades and Symposium purport to give a record of how Socrates actually approached Alcibiades and how he responded. The Phaedrus, on the other hand, presents a more abstract or idealized blue-print.39 By invoking the Phaedrus passage here, Plutarch assimilates Socrates and Alcibiades’ relationship more directly to this idealized type of philosophical and pedagogical love.

5

Alc. 6.5: The Lysis

In 4.5–5.5, Plutarch leaves Alcibiades’ relationship with Socrates and narrates two anecdotes about Alcibiades’ imperious and disdainful behavior to his “other lovers.” The setting of one of these anecdotes, a dinner party to which Alcibiades arrives drunk, recalls Alcibiades’ arrival in the Symposium—though here his behavior is more outrageous and insulting (“hubristic” as other guests call it). Furthermore, the fact that the host of the party, who loves Alcibiades but whom Alcibiades humiliates, is one Anytus brings in a much darker tone:

36 37

38

39

On Plutarch’s use of this passage, see Duff, “Platonic allusion in Plutarch’s Alcibiades 4–7,” 38–39. Memory of the image of the unruly horse from Phdr. 253c–254e suggests not the struggle within Alcibiades’ soul (Pelling, “Prefazione,” xlviii) but that Socrates approached him as a philosopher should, that is, with self-control. On this aspect of the picture of love in the Phdr., see J. Dillon, “The Platonic sage in love,” Studia Humaniora Tartuensia 4.B.3 (2003) 1–8. In later Platonist discussions both of these elements were considered central to ‘good’ philosophical love: J. Dillon, “A Platonist Ars Amatoria?” CQ 44 (1994) [reprinted in id., The great tradition: further studies in the development of Platonism and early Christianity, sect. II. (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1997)] 388. Though, as Dillon, “A Platonist Ars Amatoria?” shows, it was the Alc. I that became the paradigmatic text for how a philosopher should love.

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Plutarch’s readers would know from the Apology that Anytus would later be one of Socrates’ accusers (Ap. 8b; 29b–c; 31a); the implication is that Alcibiades’ behavior may have contributed to Socrates’ execution.40 Chapter 6 deals again with Socrates’ relationship with Alcibiades and the struggle between him and his “other lovers” for Alcibiades’ attention. The situation is very much that envisaged in the First Alcibiades: Alcibiades is talented but prone to arrogance and will enter politics before he is ready; he is attracted to the other lovers more because they play on his ambition than because of the pleasures that they offer. Once more, there is a dense network of allusions not only to the First Alcibiades, but also to the Symposium and Republic.41 Plutarch concludes the chapter with a simile, in which the tough love allotted to Alcibiades by Socrates is compared to the effect of plunging iron heated by fire into cold water. “So,” says Plutarch, “just as iron when softened in the fire condenses again under the operation of cold and its atoms contract, in the same way, every time Socrates took him back, stuffed full of softness and puffed-up conceit (θρύψεως διάπλεων καὶ χαυνότητος),42 he would squeeze and crush him with reason and make him humble and hesitant” (πιέζων τῷ λόγῳ καὶ συστέλλων ταπεινὸν ἐποίει καὶ ἄτολμον, Alc. 6.5). This is an allusion to Plato’s Lysis.43 Plutarch’s readers may already have thought of this text at Alc. 3.1, where Alcibiades is said to have had a lover named Democrates, perhaps Lysis’ father of the same name.44 In the Lysis, Socrates advises Hippothales, the besotted lover of the beautiful, aristocratic teenager Lysis son of Democrates, on how he should deal with his favorite. He should not praise him too much, he says, as this will make failing to catch him all the harder to bear; besides (206a), handsome boys, when praised, are filled with arrogance and haughtiness (φρονήματος ἐμπίμπλανται καὶ μεγαλαυχίας). Socrates then engages Lysis in conversation, as his lover looks on. Through a series of questions, Socrates convinces Lysis of his ignorance, but also inspires him to self-examination. Half way through the conversation, Socrates can scarcely restrain himself (Plato, Lysis 210e):

40 41 42 43 44

Duff, “Plato’s Symposium and Plutarch’s Alcibiades,” 42. The same story is told in Amatorius 762C–D, where Anytus’ role in Socrates’ prosecution is mentioned. See Duff, “Platonic allusion in Plutarch’s Alcibiades 4–7,” 39–40. An allusion to Pl. R. 494d, σχηματισμοῦ καὶ φρονήματος κενοῦ ἄνευ νοῦ ἐμπιμπλάμενον, on the effect of flattery on the talented young man. For discussion of the Ly., see e.g. Sturges, Dialogue and deviance, 13–39. Ly. 205c. Cf. Davies, Athenian Propertied Families, 9574; Traill, Persons of Ancient Athens, vol. 5, nrs 316590–316595.

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Καὶ ἐγὼ ἀκούσας αὐτοῦ ἀπέβλεψα πρὸς τὸν Ἱπποθάλη, καὶ ὀλίγου ἐξήμαρτον· ἐπῆλθε γάρ μοι εἰπεῖν ὅτι Οὕτω χρή, ὦ Ἱππόθαλες, τοῖς παιδικοῖς διαλέγεσθαι, ταπεινοῦντα καὶ συστέλλοντα, ἀλλὰ μὴ ὥσπερ σὺ χαυνοῦντα καὶ διαθρύπτοντα. On hearing him answer this, I glanced at Hippothales, and nearly made a blunder, for it came into my mind to say: “That is the way you should speak to your paidika, Hippothales, humbling and crushing him, instead of puffing him up and softening him, as you do.” The parallel between Lysis and Alcibiades is neat: both young men have admirers attracted by their beauty; Hippothales sings the praises of Lysis’ looks, family, horse-breeding, and chariot victories, all attributes of Plutarch’s Alcibiades too (cf. Alc. 4.1, 10.3, 11.1–3). Both are in danger of being made arrogant by the praise of their lovers; indeed, Hippothales’ fear that Lysis might be angry with him if he sees him watching him (207b) suggests that the good-natured boy treated some of his lovers with the disdain with which we have seen Alcibiades treating his (4.4–5.5). With both young men, Socrates is more interested in their souls than in their bodies, and he challenges both intellectually. The Lysis, then, in addition to the Alc. I and the Charmides, provides for Plutarch a model for the sort of intellectual conversation that Alcibiades is imagined as having with Socrates. Lysis was so inspired by his conversation with Socrates that he even invites a young friend to join in (211a); Alcibiades, we are to imagine, was similarly inspired by Socrates. Thus, the allusion suggests not just the kind of searching questions that we are to imagine Socrates as putting to Alcibiades, but also how fascinated Alcibiades was with Socrates, and how well he responded to the intellectual and moral demands Socrates made of him.45 The experience may have been humbling, like being plunged into cold water, yet Alcibiades appreciated it and kept coming back for more— a testimony to his εὐφυΐα (4.1, 6.1).

45

Socrates, Plutarch concludes (6.5), made Alcibiades begin to understand “how much he lacked and how incomplete he was in virtue” (ἀτελὴς πρὸς ἀρετήν, cf. 4.1: Alcibiades’ “potential for virtue,” εὐφυΐα πρὸς ἀρετήν), alluding to both the start and end of Plato Alc. I (104a; 135e) and to Smp. 216a. Memory of these passages emphasises Socrates’ influence but also suggests the all-too-present hold which politics had on Alcibiades. Cf. also R. 491d: if a plant lacks the proper food and environment, the stronger it is the more it falls short of perfection (ἐνδεῖ τῶν πρεπόντων); so too with talented men deprived of philosophical education. Also Cor. 1.3 (itself alluding to the R. passage): a good nature which is lacking in education (παιδείας ἐνδεής) is unstable. See Russell, “Plutarch, ‘Alcibiades’ 1–16,” 40 [repr. 196]; Duff, “Plato’s Symposium and Plutarch’s Alcibiades,” 45.

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Alc. 7: Idealized Love in Phaedrus’ Speech in the Symposium

We have mentioned the fact that the Symposium is a presence throughout this section of the Life, and allusions and quotations are not hard to find. But Plutarch’s use of the Symposium is not limited to the sections where Alcibiades is actually present or speaks. In Alc. 7.3–5, Plutarch describes Socrates’ defense of the wounded Alcibiades on the field of battle at Potidaea. The crown for bravery, Plutarch remarks, should rightfully have gone to Socrates, but he urged the generals to give it to Alcibiades. This is all based on Alcibiades’ own description of the battle and its aftermath in Smp. 220d–221c. But Plutarch supplies Socrates with a motive for championing Alcibiades’ cause not mentioned in the Symposium: he “wanted his [Alcibiades’] ambition in fine things (τὸ φιλότιμον ἐν τοῖς καλοῖς αὐτοῦ) to grow” (7.4). This is taken from Phaedrus’ speech in Smp. 178c–179b, before Alcibiades’ entry. Phaedrus has been speaking of love as bringing the greatest blessing a man can have. What love provides, he says, cannot be obtained by “kinship, honours or wealth” (all advantages that Plutarch’s Alcibiades had);46 it instils in lovers “shame at shameful things, and ambition for fine things” (τὴν ἐπὶ μὲν τοῖς αἰσχροῖς αἰσχύνην, ἐπὶ δὲ τοῖς καλοῖς φιλοτιμίαν) (178d). As a result of this, Phaedrus argues, lovers defend and never desert each other on the battlefield. By alluding to this passage, Plutarch makes more explicit what is implicit in Alcibiades’ description of the Potidaea campaign in the Symposium: namely, that Socrates and Alcibiades on campaign are to be seen as an ideal pederastic couple, with the older exercising an educational and protective role over the younger, and inspiring him towards fine conduct.47 Plutarch alludes, then, to a part of the Symposium that does not concern Alcibiades, and by doing so he sets Alcibiades’ relationship with Socrates in a wider context of idealized pederastic relations—just as the allusion to some of the other Platonic passages had done.

7

Conclusion

We began this chapter with Cavafy’s explicit allusion to “the Platonic Charmides,” and I tried to demonstrate that Cavafy relied on, and exploited, the readers’ pre-existing knowledge of the Platonic text. I have also argued that

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Alc. 4.1–2; 10.3; Pl. Alc. I 104a–b. Cf. Lys. 14.18 and 14.38; Dem. 21.143; D.S. 12.84.1. See Duff, “Plato’s Symposium and Plutarch’s Alcibiades,” 45–49.

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Plutarch too, in the Alcibiades, exploits the reader’s pre-existing knowledge of Plato—though he does this in a less explicit way and in rather more detail than Cavafy does. As I have argued, these allusions to the Platonic texts form a short-hand that the readers can fill out from their knowledge of the original Platonic passages and their contexts. Thus, readers who recognise the allusions to the Charmides and Lysis (as well as, of course, to the First Alcibiades and Symposium) can imagine from there the kind of conversations that Plutarch’s Socrates might have had with Alcibiades, Socrates’ motivations, and Alcibiades’ responses, as well as the dangers provided by pleasure, flattery and Alcibiades’ own ambition which threaten his moral development. Furthermore, those who recognize the Phaedrus quotation, or the allusion to Phaedrus’ speech in the Symposium in Alc. 7, will see Socrates’ love for Alcibiades in terms of the idealized love that is depicted there. I finish with a question. Would all readers have known the Platonic texts well enough to appreciate the subtlety and depth of Plutarch’s engagement with them? Or, to put it slightly more negatively, is it not over-optimistic, and perhaps over-imaginative, to expect that Plutarch’s readers would have recognized the verbal similarities that I have mentioned? The answer to this question is, of course, that many ‘real’ readers may not have noticed any of the allusions, or grasped their full complexity. Some real readers may, in practice, have derived from the Platonic allusions in the Alcibiades only a vague sense that these sections somehow have a philosophical, or Platonic, tone. Similarly, when faced elsewhere in this Life, or in other Lives, with allusions to other authors, some real readers may only have vaguely sensed that the tone had become e.g. Homeric or tragic, without being able to identify which text was in view.48 But, I argue, given the interpretative payoff, and the closeness of the verbal echoes, it is reasonable to believe that Plutarch’s ‘ideal’ reader was expected to notice such allusions. This is all the more credible given that knowledge of Plato was evidently high among the educated elite of Plutarch’s time49 and given Plutarch’s own extensive discussions and engagement with the Platonic texts elsewhere in his writings. This is not to say that any mention by any author of a character in Plato, or any repetition of phrasing or themes, presupposes or would evoke the same

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For such evocations of other genres (i.e. beyond history or biography) in Plutarch’s Lives, see the articles in T.E. Duff & C.S. Chrysanthou, Generic enrichment in Plutarch’s Lives (London: Routledge, forthcoming). See e.g. M.B. Trapp, “Plato’s Phaedrus in Second-Century Greek Literature,” in D.A. Russell (ed.), Antonine Literature (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990) 141–173 on the popularity of the Phdr. in Plutarch’s period.

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level of engagement with the Platonic texts. As a contrast to what we find in Plutarch’s Alcibiades, and to a less extent in Cavafy’s poem, I would like to finish with the allusions to Charmides in another modern poet, Oscar Wilde. Wilde’s poem Charmides (published in Poems, 1881) describes how a “Grecian lad” travels to Athens and ravishes the statue of Athena in the Parthenon; later, the goddess causes him to drown at sea. A wood-nymph falls in love with his body, cast up on the shore, but she herself is slain by Athena. Finally, they are passionately united in Hades.50 Readers who know Plato’s Charmides, or who simply remember the reference in Plato’s Symposium to Charmides as a beautiful young man whom Socrates had once loved (Smp. 222b), will be alerted by the title to the fact that Wilde’s poem concerns a beautiful youth, and they will not be surprised that the tone is erotically charged. But the engagement with the Platonic text goes no further: there are no verbal similarities, no thematic parallels, and no further payoff or gain for the reader who knows the Platonic text. Wilde had similarly alluded to Charmides when, in a review of Spencer Stanhope’s painting “Love and the Maiden,” he commented, “His boyish beauty is of that peculiar type unknown in northern Europe, but common in the Greek islands, where boys can still be found as beautiful as the Charmides of Plato.”51 But there too the allusion seems limited only to Charmides’ beauty, youth and desirability.52 In contrast, Plutarch’s engagement with Plato’s texts goes, as we have seen, much further than this, and presupposes a reader both familiar with their exact wording and able to notice subtle echoes of it. 50

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On Wilde’s Charmides, see I. Ross, “Charmides and The Sphinx: Wilde’s engagement with Keats,” Victorian Poetry 46 (2008) 451–465 [reprinted with revisions in id., Oscar Wilde and ancient Greece (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012) 67–80]. O. Wilde, “The Grosvenor Gallery,” Dublin University Magazine 90 (issue 553, July 1877) 121 [reprinted in id., Miscellanies (London: Methuen, 1908) 12]. Wilde also mentions Charmides as a symbol of the beautiful, Greek youth in his essays of 1891 and 1921 ‘The Critic as Artist’ and ‘Portrait of Mr. W.H.’: R. Elleman (ed.), The artist as critic: critical writings of Oscar Wilde (London: W.H. Allen, 1970) 209 and 348; cf. also the Rev. St. John Tyrwhitt’s remark in 1877 on “Charmides and the divine youths whose beauties he [John Addington Symonds] appreciates so thoroughly.” See Ross, Oscar Wilde and ancient Greece, 136 and 35 respectively. For more on Wilde’s Charmides, see Duff, “The reception of Plato’s Charmides.”

chapter 9

Shrieking Volumes: Plutarch’s Use of the Ath.Pol. as Intertextual Bridge between Athens and Rome Andrew Worley

Abstract Plutarch’s Lives of Nicias and the Gracchi share textual recollection of the Athenian politician Cleon as described in the pseudo-Aristotelian Ath.Pol. Whereas Plutarch’s Nicias has the understandable direct reference to Cleon’s antics (Cleon is the political rival of Nicias), the Ti. Gracchus exploits the Ath.Pol. in explication of the Gracchi’s approach to public oratory. Plutarch seemingly inserts a Greek anecdote without any hesitation into a biography of an unrelated Roman, living some three hundred years later, for little purpose other than a repetitive display of erudition. This chapter discusses Plutarch’s resurrection of Cleon as a figure of demagogic vocal excess, especially since extant Latin literature prior to Plutarch notably fails to fully exploit the potential of a possible rabble-rousing pairing of C. Gracchus and Cleon. Cleon’s casting as one given to κράζειν is less a matter of shouting than of screeching (as attested by Plutarch’s own commentary on C. Gracchus, supported by the description of Cleon’s contemporary, Aristophanes). Second, Plutarch’s usage of Cleon indicates an afterlife for the Athenian politician, remembered not only for his fierce oratory and factious political approach, but also his questionable pitch. Despite Quintilian’s statement that to a late 1st century CE audience Cleon’s style would have been hardly controversial, Plutarch sees pitch as a key measure of the orator. As an outcome, Plutarch’s erudition becomes far from being banal—instead it enables us to reappraise the role of κράζειν in public, political oratory on both sides of a linguistically divided empire.

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Introduction: Plutarch, Cleon and the Ath.Pol.

Plutarch using a literary reference that is just too irresistible to not recycle should hardly be a surprise to anyone.1 Wading through Plutarch’s favorite clip-

1 Plutarch’s repetitive nature is aptly summarized by G. Roskam, Plutarch’s Maxime Cum Principibus Philosopho Esse Disserendum (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2009) 132–133.

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pings from the classical Greek literary canon, one stumbles upon two obvious intertextual borrowings from the pseudo-Aristotelian Athenaion Politeia (Ath.Pol.) in his Lives of Nicias and the Gracchi—in fact, this reuse has been long noted.2 These textual recollections relate to the Athenian politician Cleon and his innovatory antics upon the bema. This line of conduct is a curiosity ([Arist.] Ath.Pol. 28.3): Περικλέους δὲ τελευτήσαντος, τῶν μὲν ἐπιφανῶν προειστήκει Νικίας ὁ ἐν Σικελίᾳ τελευτήσας, τοῦ δὲ δήμου Κλέων ὁ Κλεαινέτου, ὃς δοκεῖ μάλιστα διαφθεῖραι τὸν δῆμον ταῖς ὁρμαῖς, καὶ πρῶτος ἐπὶ τοῦ βήματος ἀνέκραγε καὶ ἐλοιδορήσατο, καὶ περι ζωσάμενος ἐδημηγόρησε, τῶν ἄλλων ἐνκόσμῳ λεγόντων. When Perikles died, Nicias, who died in Sicily, held the headship of the men of distinction, and the head of the People was Cleon, son of Cleaenetus, who is thought to have done the most to corrupt the people by his impetuous outbursts, and was the first person to use bawling and abuse on the platform, and to gird up his cloak before making a public speech, all other persons speaking in an orderly fashion. Cleon’s innovations are his deportment (the gathered cloak) and the break from traditional approaches to public speaking (Cleon’s new speaking style juxtaposed with τῶν ἄλλων ἐνκόσμῳ λεγόντων). Given that the Ath.Pol. introduces Cleon’s innovation after referencing Nicias as his political rival, Plutarch’s recycling of the passage in his Life of Nicias is hardly unexpected.3 However, this does not explain Plutarch’s deployment of the same reference during his discussion of the Gracchi brothers. Seemingly, the reader is left to assume that this similarity has little purpose other than a repetitive display of erudition. Clues exist: the reappearance of the Ath.Pol. in the Ti. Gracchus is ensconced within an exploration of the Gracchi’s approach to public oratory.4 A Greek anec-

2 For the history of the Ath.Pol. from its discovery in 1879 and its publication 1891 (and the fullest commentary in English), see P. Rhodes A Commentary on the Aristotelian Athenaion Politeia (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1981) 1–5. 3 Nic. 8.3: καὶ τὸν ἐπὶ τοῦ βήματος κόσμον ἀνελὼν καὶ πρῶτος ἐν τῷ δημηγορεῖν ἀνακραγὼν καὶ περισπάσας τὸ ἱμάτιον καὶ τὸν μηρὸν πατάξας καὶ δρόμῳ μετὰ τοῦ λέγειν ἅμα χρησάμενος. “Worst of all, Cleon stripped the bema of its decorum, setting the fashion of yelling when he harangued the people, of throwing back his robe, slapping his thigh, and running about while speaking” (transl. B. Perrin, Plutarch. Lives, Volume III [Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1916]). 4 TG 2.2: … ἔντονος δὲ καὶ σφοδρὸς ὁ Γάϊος, ὥστε καὶ δημηγορεῖν τὸν μὲν ἐν μιᾷ χώρᾳ βεβηκότα κοσμίως, τὸν δὲ Ῥωμαίων πρῶτον ἐπὶ τοῦ βήματος περιπάτῳ τε χρήσασθαι καὶ περισπάσαι τήν τήβεννον ἐξ ὤμου λέγοντα, καθάπερ Κλέωνα τὸν Ἀθηναῖον ἱστόρηται περισπάσαι τε τὴν περιβολὴν

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dote in a Roman context, without any hesitation or explanation from Plutarch, should provoke questions as to the relevance and import of connecting Gaius Gracchus with Cleon’s antics on the bema.

2

Shout Out: Plutarch & Friends on ἀνακράζω

In order to fully appreciate what Plutarch is aiming to achieve through this intertextuality, it is necessary to consider Cleon’s previous treatment, and to understand what exactly is so innovative about Cleon’s public speaking. Whilst much focus has been given to Cleon slipping off his mantle and outraging fifthcentury Athenian etiquette norms, the statement πρῶτος ἐπὶ τοῦ βήματος ἀνέκραγε καὶ ἐλοιδορήσατο (usually translated along the lines of “the first to shout and engage in abuse from the bema”) has been allowed to pass unanalyzed.5 The idea that Cleon is “first to shout from the bema” is surely nonsense: even if the democratic Athenian assembly sat in absolute silence, a speech delivered at normal conversational volume must have been barely audible to those gathered. ἀνακράζω must, therefore, connote some audial quality rather than voluminous quantity. Unfortunately, the speech of Cleon is surely lost to us; any attempt to reconstruct his oratory results in a study heavily dependent upon Cleon’s depiction in the contemporaneous accounts of Thucydides and Aristophanes.6 Yet Plutarch’s brief erudition allows not only for a chance to reconstruct something of the quality of this speech, but also to explore the continuation of attitudes on both sides of a linguistically-divided empire—a literary afterlife—toward an individual who evidently survived in the Greek and Roman consciousness, but haunts the margins of our extant literature. Plutarch’s intertexting of Cleon as a figure of vocal excess marks a development from the interest of his critical predecessors in the statesman’s ques-

καὶ τὸν μηρὸν ἀλοῆσαι πρῶτον τῶν δημηγορούντων. “… while Gaius was high-strung and vehement, so that even when haranguing the people the one [Tiberius] stood composedly in one spot, while the other [Gaius] was the first Roman to walk about upon the rostra and pull his toga off his shoulder as he spoke. So Cleon the Athenian is said to have been the first of the popular orators to strip away his mantle and smite his thigh.” (transl. B. Perrin, Plutarch. Lives, Volume X [Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1921]). 5 So Rhodes, A Commentary, 354. The recent work of V. Azoulay, Pericles of Athens (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2014) 44–45 neatly summarizes both Cleon’s oratorical innovation and its reception. 6 A point made and explored by N. Worman, Abusive Mouths in Classical Athens (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008) 83–94.

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tionable politics and gesticulatory antics.7 The predominance of politics over parlance is perhaps unsurprising: speech is a transient thing. As has been duly observed by Andrew Laird, written speech—even if recorded word-forword—is still lacking the nuances of delivery.8 Pitch, cadence, tone, the pregnant pause, the rapid delivery imbued with passionate expression and emotional appeal to the assembled audience—all are condemned to being lost and unpreservable once spoken. Thucydides may capture the oratorial coloring of Cleon’s speech in moments, such as in the Mytilenean Debate, yet he gives us sparse insight to the depth of Cleon’s delivery. Aristophanes’ dislike of Cleon is a persistent, patent theme in his plays. The characterization is aggressively exaggerated—after all, the staging of this demagogue in comedy is played for laughs, as well as the playwright making his own political points.9 Aristophanes is a comedian, Thucydides a historian: neither are Hansard. Cleon’s position as leader of the Athenian democracy through a period which his contemporaries and subsequent observers (including modern scholarship) considered as radical further complicates any perspective. Cleon is labelled δημαγωγός, a term heavily imbued with criticism. Of the references to Cleon (and his politics) in works from the fourth century BCE onward, our subject is labelled as being fierce, factious and repeatedly condemned to be yoked with Hyperbolus in a pernicious pairing of dangerous demagogues.10 Given the variety of genres and approaches that those authors who recall Cleon are working with, let alone the timespan of over half a millennium, it is unsurprising that the little material there is hardly seems balanced. Even Plutarch plays the politics of Cleon, noting his failure to be politeia, and contrasting him with the great Pericles.11 Cleon is characterized simply as a cruel and violent man.12 Plutarch’s interest in Cleon’s speech harks back to Aristophanes and Thucydides’ agreement on the portrayal of Cleon as an emotional but efficacious speaker. The Thucydidean Cleon is prone to rash outbursts of speech—as evinced by his boast to capture the Spartans on Pylos within twenty days. He also appreciates the power to manipulate the emotions of his audience.13 7 8 9 10 11 12 13

Most notably Cicero and Quintilian, discussed below. A. Laird, Powers of Expression, Expressions of Power (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999) 1–43. For a full exposition of this bi-partite construction of Cleon, see V. Wohl, Love Among The Ruins (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2002) 71–123. Factious: Cic. Brut. 7. Pairing with Hyperbolus: August. C. D. 2.9 = Cic. Rep. 4.11; D.Chr. Or. 25.4, 50.2; Luc. Tim. 30; Plu. Praec. ger. reip. 826D, De Her. mal. 855C. Plu. Prae. ger. reip. 826D, De comm. not. 1065C. D.S. 12.8. Th. 4.27–28. Cleon’s boast is the result of his hyperbole in the assembly; Nicias forces Cleon

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Thucydides’ Cleon is not a man of reason and cold rationalism; instead, he is an anti-Pericles, an ambitious self-aggrandizing imperialist who speaks to incense, not persuade.14 Aristophanes’ Cleon is a more complex beast. In the extant works, Cleon is always defined by the other: he is a veiled character, be it the slave Paphlagon in Equites, the dog in Vespae, or one-half of the mortar-andpestle in Pax. His speech is full-volumed, spitting venom at his opponents (who are also always classified by him as the opponents of Athens). Again, Cleon is an emotional figure, almost hysterical: ‘real’-Cleon accuses Aristophanes of treason for daring to lampoon him; Paphlagon-Cleon cries blue-murder as an opening rhetorical gambit.15 The Cleon of the Ath.Pol. cuts a ridiculous, revolutionary figure—strutting across the bema, whilst tearing at his clothes, in order to make a greater impact upon his audience. Moving to the Roman period, Cicero’s deployment of Cleon is marked with an acknowledgement of a factious politician who was yet a powerful, eloquent orator.16 Plutarch himself considers speechifying: Demetrius is described as modelling his speech on Cleon’s inappropriate public vocalizations.17 So is Cleon’s questionable speaking due to the injection of emotion—in essence, a question of pitch? Plutarch’s import of the passage from Ath.Pol. is at first not clear. If the initial premise is indeed correct that ἀνακράζω is something more than mere shouting, then the Ath.Pol. gives us little to work with. However, something can be gleaned from Plutarch’s reuse. There are echoes of phrasing and in the choice of lexicon—particularly the re-use and positioning of ἀνακράζω—, which suggests more than familiarity with the original. Given that Plutarch’s ‘recycling’ of the text gives the reader nothing substantially new in terms of contextualization, ἀνακράζω itself offers elucidation. To this

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to either disown his previous speech or to make good his claim. On Thucydides’ presentation of Cleon and the Pylos debate: H. Flower, “Thucydides and the Pylos Debate (4.27–29),” Historia 41 (1992) 40–57. M. Lang, “Cleon as the Anti-Pericles,” CPh 67 (1972) 159–169; V. Saldutti, Cleone, un politico ateniese (Bari: Edipuglia, 2014) 115–167. Ar. Eq. 235–302 On Cleon’s portrayal in Aristophanes: L. Edmunds, Cleon, Knights, and Aristophanes’ Politics (Lanham: University Press of America, 1987); M. Heath, Political Comedy in Aristophanes, Hypomnemata 87 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1987). On Thucydides and Aristophanes’ joint presentation of Cleon, see now E. Foster, “Aristophanes’ Cleon and Post-Peloponnesian War Athenians: Denunciations in Thucydides,” Histos Supplement 6 (2017) 129–152. Cic. Brut. 7: Cleonem etiam temporibus illis turbulentum illum quidem civem, sed tamen eloquentem constat fuisse. “At the same time Cleon, for all his turbulence as a citizen, was a man of eloquence.” (transl. G. Hendrickson & H. Hubbell [eds.], Cicero: Brutus. Orator [Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1939]). Plu. Demetr. 11.2.

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end, ἀνακράζω, considered in its usage elsewhere within the Plutarchan corpus, appears another fourteen times in the extant works, of which ten instances are in the Lives.18 What all these fourteen appearances share is a context where those given to ἀνακράζω utterances speak in emotional response to a stimulus (other speakers, murderous situations, etc.) that provokes an impassioned reaction. ἀνακράζω has no negatively modifying impact on those speakers who are deemed morally or politically sound. For example, the steadfast Fabricius’ ἀνακράζω reaction is the correct Roman response to Cineas’ spouting of Epicurean philosophy; therefore, Fabricius further illustrates his unswerving adherence to the Roman mos maiorum.19 Caesar’s ἀνακράζω is the shocked response of one just stabbed by a friend. In short, ἀνακράζω means more than mere shouting when used by Plutarch: he uses it to describe emotional speech, speech indicating surprise, exasperation and momentary indulgence in impassioned intellect. Yet ἀνακράζω is not an absolute—its negative connotation arises from its overindulgence or as a reflection of the speaker’s own personal mores. Cleon’s vocal revolution is thus not shouting but rather the introduction of emotive speech before the people—a play to the emotions of the Assembly.20 ἀνακράζω takes on a negative coloring in its contextualization of Cleon’s general behavior on the bema, as illustrated in Ath.Pol. 28.3 and Plu. Nicias 8.3; lexically, as a marker of speech, the word seems generally colorless.21

3

Plutarch’s Hidden Parallel: Gaius Gracchus & Cleon

To return now to Plutarch’s reference to Cleon and his bema antics in the TG, it is its contextualization which proves enlightening. In the discussion as to the difference in oratorial styles between the two brothers Gracchi, Plutarch observes a marked difference in both composure and style (TG 2.2). Gaius dif-

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ἀνακραγών: Arist. 9.3; Caes. 14.2; Pyrrh. 20.4; Amatorius 757C; Quaest. conv. 613A. ἀνακραγεῖν: Galba 27.3; Pomp. 26.6; De lib. educ. 4E. ἀνακραγόντες: Tim. 32.7. ἀνακραγόντος: Brut. 17.5; Ca. Mi. 34.3; De coh. ira 461A. ἀνακραγόντων: Phoc. 35.4. ἀνακραγούσης: Ant. 79.2. Pyrrh. 20.4. Plutarch, in the preceding lines, details that Fabricius has failed to be impressed (and more importantly, swayed) by Pyrrhus’ offer of monies and demonstration of the capabilities of an elephant. Th. 5.84–116 (the ‘Melian dialogue’). A similar coloring exists in the English verb ‘to shout.’ The contextualization or adverbial lexeme modifies the verb. For example: he shouts: neutral (no indication whether this is socially unacceptable); he shouts encouragement: positive (through the additional lexical modification of ‘encouragement’); he shouts abuse: negative (through the additional contextual information of abuse).

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fers from his brother in his predilection for displaying his emotions (ἔντονος δὲ καὶ σφοδρός). What should pique curiosity is the sudden display of erudition on the part of the biographer: enter the recollection of Cleon in the remark that Gaius is the first Roman to engage in the rostra costume-fumbling routine. This fleeting comment commences an association of the Athenian leader of unrestrained democracy with the Roman demagogue deemed a menace to the safe operation of the res publica. The seed of implication planted in the mind of a politically-educated audience is that both figures—their personal and political circumstances—are perhaps inter-exchangeable. Roman audiences were aware of Cleon and his introduction of thigh-slapping. Quintilian follows this strand of recollection, noting its utility as a technique for emphatic demonstration, a technique both considered acceptable and even exhorted for the trainee Roman orator to utilize.22 The deployment of Cleon by Plutarch in his Gracchan Lives is immediately followed by a focus on the brothers’ differing approaches to vocal delivery (Plu. TG 2.3–5): ἔπειτα ὁ λόγος τοῦ μὲν Γαΐου φοβερὸς καὶ περιπαθὴς εἰς δείνωσιν, ἡδίων δὲ ὁ τοῦ Τιβερίου καὶ μᾶλλον ἐπαγωγὸς οἴκτου: τῇ δὲ λέξει καθαρὸς καὶ διαπεπονημένος ἀκριβῶς ἐκεῖνος, ὁ δὲ Γαΐου πιθανὸς καὶ γεγανωμένος. οὕτω δὲ καὶ περὶ δίαιταν καὶ τράπεζαν εὐτελὴς καὶ ἀφελὴς ὁ Τιβέριος, ὁ δὲ Γάιος τοῖς μὲν ἄλλοις παραβαλεῖν σώφρων καὶ αὐστηρός … τῷ δὲ ἤθει κατὰ τήν τοῦ λόγου διαφορὰν ὁ μὲν ἐπιεικὴς καὶ πρᾶος, ὁ δὲ τραχὺς καὶ θυμοειδής, ὥστε καὶ παρὰ γνώμην ἐν τῷ λέγειν ἐκφερόμενον πολλάκις ὑπ’ ὀργῆς τήν τε φωνὴν ἀποξύνειν καὶ βλασφημεῖν καὶ συνταράττειν τὸν λόγον. ὅθεν καὶ βοήθημα τῆς ἐκτροπῆς ἐποιήσατο ταύτης τὸν Λικίννιον, οἰκέτην οὐκ ἀνόητον, ὃς ἔχων φωνασκικὸν ὄργανον, ᾧ τοὺς φθόγγους ἀναβιβάζουσιν, ὄπισθεν ἑστὼς τοῦ Γαΐου λέγοντος, ὁπηνίκα τραχυνόμενον αἴσθοιτο τῇ φωνῇ καὶ παραρρηγνύμενον δι’ ὀργήν, ἐνεδίδου τόνον μαλακόν, ᾧ τὸ σφοδρὸν εὐθὺς ἐκεῖνος ἅμα τοῦ πάθους καὶ τῆς φωνῆς ἀνιεὶς ἐπραΰνετο καὶ παρεῖχεν ἑαυτὸν εὐανάκλητον. In the second place, the speech of Gaius was awe-inspiring and passionate to exaggeration, while that of Tiberius was more agreeable and more 22

Quint. Inst. 11.3.22: femur ferire, quod Athenis primus fecisse creditur Cleon, et usitatum est et indignantes decet et excitat auditorem. “Slapping the thigh, which Cleon is said to have been the first to introduce at Athens, is in general use and is becoming as a mark of indignation, while it also excites the audience” (transl. D.A. Russell, Quintilian: The Orator’s Education, Volume I: Books 1–2 [Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2002]).

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conducive to pity. The style also of Tiberius was pure and elaborated to a nicety, while that of Gaius was persuasive and ornate … Tiberius was reasonable and gentle, while Gaius was harsh and fiery, so that against his better judgment he was often carried away by anger as he spoke, raising his voice to a high pitch and uttering abuse and losing the thread of his discourse. Wherefore, to guard against such digressions, he employed an intelligent servant, Licinius, who stood behind him when he was speaking, with a sounding instrument for giving the tones of the voice their pitches. Whenever this servant noticed that the voice of Gaius was getting harsh and broken with anger, he would give out a soft key-note, on hearing which Gaius was at once remit the vehemence of his passion and of his speech, grow gentle, and show himself easy to recall. Here, Tiberius is the traditional, restrained orator, whilst Gaius is rendered as over-blown and emotional (ἔπειτα ὁ λόγος τοῦ μὲν Γαΐου φοβερὸς καὶ περιπαθὴς εἰς δείνωσιν, ἡδίων δὲ ὁ τοῦ Τιβερίου καὶ μᾶλλον ἐπαγωγὸς οἴκτου). Such a sudden switch, from the parenthetical reference to Cleon to the establishment of Gaius as the non-ideal speaker, further binds the two together, albeit subtly. (For those familiar with at least the Nicias, or even the Ath.Pol., this tethering is explicit). Plutarch continues to narrate his litany of fraternal contrasts: Gaius is a speaker whose oratory is persuasive (πιθανός) as opposed to his brother whose oratory is described as precise (ἀκριβῶς). The Gracchi are being put asunder— the forensic speaker and the emotive demagogue. This rhetorical coloring is key to Plutarch’s approach to the presentation of the Gracchi. Whilst both brothers are the scions of a noble house, Tiberius is the restrained elder, whose benevolent politics runs afoul of the dominant ruling faction, resulting in his murder. Gaius is portrayed as motivated both by the injustice of his brother’s assassination and a burning desire to seek vengeance on the very institutions held by those he deems responsible, utilizing the Roman mass in class-warfare.23 Plutarch, in rejecting the traditional Roman simplification of the Gracchi as individuals determined to be enemies of the state, is constructing for his audience a feasible, alternative, interpretative framework.24 Unlike Tiberius, Gaius’ impassioned speech imperils his delivery. As he warms to the theme, the pitch of his voice rises to shrillness (ἀποξύνειν), hence 23

24

Plutarch rejects the traditional Roman viewpoint of the Gracchi being enemies of the res publica, stressing the murder of Tiberius as a prima causa for Gaius’ political career (CG 1.5). As per G. Roskam, “Ambition and Love of Fame in Plutarch’s Lives of Agis, Cleomenes, and the Gracchi,” Classical Philology 106:3 (2011) 208–223.

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the need for Licinius to be on hand with his pipe. Admittedly, Plutarch is unclear whether he is suggesting that Licinius dictated Gaius’ pitch for every oration, or that this anecdote is from the start of Gaius’ career. It falls to Aulus Gellius, writing shortly after Plutarch, to offer some clarity in his recounting of the tale of Gracchus and the pipe (Gel. 1.11.10–16): ecce autem per tibicinia Laconica tibiae quoque illius contionariae in mentem venit, quam C. Graccho cum populo agente praeisse ac praeministrasse modulos ferunt. sed nequaquam sic est, ut a vulgo dicitur, canere tibia solitum qui pone eum loquentem staret, et variis modis tum demulcere animum actionemque eius, tum intendere. quid enim foret ista re ineptius, si, ut planipedi saltanti, ita Graccho contionanti numeros et modos et frequentamenta quaedam varia tibicen incineret? sed qui hoc compertius memoriae tradiderunt, stetisse in circumstantibus dicunt occultius, qui fistula brevi sensim graviusculum sonum inspiraret ad reprimendum sedandumque inpetus vocis eius effervescentes; namque inpulsu et instinctu extraneo naturalis illa Gracchi vehementia indiguisse, non, opinor, existimanda est. M. tamen Cicero fistulatorem istum utrique rei adhibitum esse a Graccho putat, ut sonis tum placidis tum citatis aut demissam iacentemque orationem eius erigeret aut ferocientem saevientemque cohiberet. verba ipsius Ciceronis apposui: “itaque idem Gracchus, quod potes audire, Catule, ex Licinio cliente tuo, litterato homine, quem servum sibi habuit ad manum, cum eburnea solitus est habere fistula, qui staret occulte post ipsum cum contionaretur, peritum hominem, qui inflaret celeriter eum sonum, qui illum aut remissum excitaret aut a contentione revocaret.” But, look you, the Laconian pipe-playing reminds me also of that oratorical pipe, which they say was played for Gaius Gracchus when he addressed the people, and gave him the proper pitch. But it is not at all true, as is commonly stated, that a musician always stood behind him as he spoke, playing the pipe, and by varying the pitch now restrained and now animated his feelings and his delivery. For what could be more absurd than that a piper should play measures, notes, and a kind of series of changing melodies for Gracchus when addressing an assembly, as if for a dancing mountebank? But more reliable authorities declare that the musician took his place unobserved in the audience and at intervals sounded on a short pipe a deeper note, to restrain and calm the exuberant energy of the orator’s delivery. And that in my opinion is the correct view, for it is unthinkable that Gracchus’ well-known natural vehemence needed any incitement or impulse from without. Yet Marcus Cicero thinks

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that the piper was employed by Gracchus for both purposes, in order that with notes now soft, now shrill, he might animate his oratory when it was becoming weak and feeble, or check it when too violent and passionate. I quote Cicero’s own words: “And so this same Gracchus, Catulus, as you may hear from your client Licinius, an educated man, who was at that time Gracchus’ slave and amanuensis, used to have a skilful musician stand behind him in concealment when he addressed an audience, who could quickly breathe a note to arouse the speaker if languid, or recall him from undue vehemence.” For Gellius, the tale only makes sense in the context of recalling Gaius from overly impassioned speech—restraining and calming, the antidote for emotion. Gaius was undoubtedly a hot-head: the tradition (as cited by Cicero) of Licinius playing pied-piper to Gaius’ speeches is acknowledged, but deemed frankly ludicrous. Both Plutarch and Gellius testify, regardless of the preferred tradition, to the existence of a tradition in which Gaius, when emotional, became in all senses an emotional speaker, in both content and pitch. To return to the earlier discussion of ἀνακράζω, Plutarch notably avoids utilizing it to describe Gaius’ speech. Given the discussion of the other instances where Plutarch uses ἀνακράζω, its absence here suggests a difference between a single incidence of emotive speech in a select circumstance (Cleon and his bema antics) and a continuing predilection for speaking emotively (Gaius Gracchus). The temporal ambiguity in the tale of Licinius and his pipe is perhaps deliberate, creating multiple alternative and interlinked possibilities of Gaius being shrill and abusive at one specific contio of an uncertain date, on each reading of Plutarch’s Life and every time he speaks—the circumstances being dictated by audience interpretation of Plutarch’s passage and the presence of Licinius and his pipe.

4

Quintilian and Cleon’s Ghost

This question of pitch and performance is worth considering. Both Quintilian and Cicero discuss how their ideal speaker should speak and behave publicly. Quintilian, in his discussion as to the perceived rhetorical advantages of being an untrained (indoctus) speaker, notes that such a speaker aims for effects that are most pleasing to the audience (nihilque aliud quam quod vel pravis voluptatibus aures adsistentium permulceat quaerunt).25 More telling are the examples 25

Quint. Inst. 2.12.6: “[they] seek only for effects which charm the ears of the audience, even if the pleasure is a perverse one” (transl. D.A. Russell, Quintilian).

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Quintilian uses to preface this pithy observation. Enter once more Cleon’s ghost under the intertextual sheet (Quint. Inst. 2.12.9–11): verum hi pronuntiatione quoque famam dicendi fortius quaerunt; nam et clamant ubique et omnia levata, ut ipsi vocant, manu emugiunt, multo discursu, anhelitu, iactatione gestus, motu capitis furentes. iam collidere manus, terrae pedem incutere, femur pectus frontem caedere, mire ad pullatum circulum facit: cum ille eruditus, ut in oratione multa summittere variare disponere, ita etiam in pronuntiando suum cuique eorum quae dicet colori accommodare actum sciat, et, si quid sit perpetua observatione dignum, modestus et esse et videri malit. These people [the indoctus speakers], however, also claim a reputation for “strong” speaking by their delivery. They shout at every point, and bellow everything out, with “uplifted hand” (as they say), with much running up and down, panting, gesticulating violently, and tossing their heads like madmen. Clapping your hands, stamping on the floor, striking your thigh and chest and forehead, are all wonderfully effective with the dingier part of the audience. But the educated speaker, just as he knows how to lower the tension often in his speech and constantly vary his style and arrange his material, also knows, in his delivery, how to suit his action to the tone of each part of his speech; if there is any rule which deserves to be always observed, it is to keep, and be seen to keep, within the bounds of decency. The uneducated, unrefined speakers play to the audience, rather than focusing on the forensic aspects of the case at hand. Their appeal seems to be their unpolished, everyman approach. Further, such a style of speaking suggests strength: verum hi pronuntiatione quoque famam dicendi fortius quaerunt. Quintilian and his audience are schooled in an approach that sees the importance of delivery and structure, which exudes training, intellectual discipline, and an adherence to socially accepted norms (i.e. behaviors deemed appropriate by their peers within the political, social and educated elite). The teacher then displays his erudition: nam et clamant ubique et omnia levata, ut ipsi vocant, manu emugiunt, multo discursu, anhelitu, iactatione gestus, motu capitis furentes. Speaker who shout, gesticulate wildly, display their hands, run and throw their head are, in short, emotional speakers. The predilections of the indoctus speaker are those charges levelled at Cleon in the Ath.Pol., which Plutarch keeps recycling. The association is strengthened by the next statement: hand-clapping, foot-stamping, and thigh-slapping all go down well with a low-class audience (pullatum circulum). Within the Institutio Oratoria, the

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introduction of the thigh-slap to the Athenian bema is ascribed as a Cleonic innovation.26 Quintilian makes clear the main difference between the doctus and indoctus, i.e. variation in tone and color when speaking: cum ille eruditus, ut in oratione multa summittere variare disponere, ita etiam in pronuntiando suum cuique eorum quae dicet colori accommodare actum sciat, et, si quid sit perpetua observatione dignum, modestus et esse et videri malit. Gaius, by means of Licinius and his pipe, is (only just) saved from being the indoctus speaker, spewing forth insulting speech in a high pitch. He is, literally, saved by the whistle. So where does this leave Cleon’s speech labelled as ἀνακράζω? As seen, the Ath.Pol. attributes to Cleon the introduction of ἀνακράζω in public oratory at Athens, but remains taciturn on his speaking style. Plutarch’s own use of ἀνακράζω in his paraphrasing of the Ath.Pol. within the Nicias adds little to a discussion on the style of Cleon’s speech, whilst the association between Gaius Gracchus and Cleon in the TG notably avoids employing ἀνακράζω to describe either orator’s speech. Combining Plutarch’s corpus-wide presentation of ἀνακράζω with the contemporary doctrines on public speaking as explored above, a possible solution is afforded: ἀνακράζω is given to individuals experiencing a momentary, startling revelation which overturns their usual adherence to forensic discourse, whilst their usual composure permits them to remain within the framework of Quintilian’s doctus-rules of speech. Cleon’s introduction of ἀνακράζω to the bema may not exclude the possibility that his speech is ever lacking the coloring of ἀνακράζω, but redeems him from the Aristophanean caricature of a perpetual screamer.

5

Conclusion

Plutarch’s resurrection of Cleon as a figure of demagogic vocal excess is wholly within the strictures of Cicero’s analysis (“what better than Cleonic innovation? what worse than his politics?”). His reappearance within the context of the intertextual borrowing from the Ath.Pol. makes little of his fractious politics, but rather his innovative oratorical style. Cleon’s appearance within the Nicias is expected—not only are they political contemporaries, but also the Ath.Pol. intertexted by Plutarch connects the pair. In the case of his pairing with Gaius Gracchus, Plutarch is undoubtedly displaying his erudition, but he does so beyond the mere recycling of material. Rather than a throw-away observation,

26

Quint. Inst. 11.3.22. Plutarch twice attributes Cleon with thigh-slapping: Nic. 8.3; TG 2.2.

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Plutarch’s introduction of Cleon into the Gracchi narrative sets up a potential window into the oratorical style of Gaius for his Greek readership. Cleon may lack a biography by Plutarch, but as a figure remembered well enough for a number of authors on both sides of the linguistic divide to utilize him, Cleon’s ghost, evidently, still haunted the collective memory. Plutarch’s intertextual repetition within the TG opens an insight into the question of what was innovative about Cleon’s ἀνακράζω: the injection of emotion and the appeal to passion, not logic, of the audience. ἀνακράζω, as utilized by Plutarch, denotes a seemingly transient quality of speech—Cleon’s remembrance as one given to ἀνακράζω is less a matter of shouting, but more the occasionally-bound emotive shriek. The absence of ἀνακράζω in the Gracchi narrative is perhaps an indication on the part of Plutarch that Gaius’ speech was constantly affected by emotion (hence the need for Licinius). It may well be that, in Plutarch’s conceptualization of Cleon, Gaius’ speech had moments of emotion, rather than the flat-out Aristophanean bawling. Cleon is remembered as a worthy oratorical innovator—the first to introduce emotion and the theatrical into rhetoric—, but is a personality tainted with his factiously radical and demagogical politics, politically not dissimilar to Gaius Gracchus.27 Oratory is about exploiting the arsenal of rhetoric—even employing emotion—, but always within the bounds of decency. Plutarch, like Quintilian, appreciates an orator being learned and skilled, and conservatively rejects pandering to the low-brow. His Lives, with their paralleled Greek and Roman biographies, allow for a Greek audience to become more familiar with the Romans on the other side of the linguistically and culturally divided empire; his repetitive intertextuality offers his audience a means to bridge this gap from the Greek side at least. 27

One distinct difference between the two is that the Gracchi were scions of the Roman nobility, and linked to the Scipii, whereas tradition had Cleon as being the son of a tanner.

chapter 10

How to Do Things with Hellenistic Historiography: Plutarch’s Intertextual Use(s) of Polybius Eran Almagor

Abstract This chapter examines several of Plutarch’s explicit references to Polybius in an effort to appraise the intricate character of intertextuality in his works, especially through an author who both lived during the period of transition of power from Greece to Rome, and wrote about it. The chapter studies, therefore, both the use of Polybius’ text in the works of Plutarch and the appearance of Polybius as an author outside his text. Three examples are explored: Cleomenes, Aemilius Paulus and Philopoemen.

As is well known, Plutarch is exceptional among his contemporaries1 in his continuous interest in the Hellenistic era, chronologically positioned between two periods of Greek history—the Classical era and the rise of Rome. He was fascinated by certain aspects of the relatively neglected period after Alexander and wrote some biographies of heroes from this age (Eumenes, Pyrrhus, Demetrius, Agis, Cleomenes, Aratus, Philopoemen).2 Plutarch is also noteworthy for his persistent employment of historical writings from the Hellenistic era (e.g. Phylarchus, Hieronymus of Cardia, Timaeus, Aratus of Sicyon).3 Poly1 Cf. E.L. Bowie, “The Greeks and their Past in the Second Sophistic,” Past and Present 46 (1970) 14–15. For some exceptions, see Gel. NA 17.21.3, Plu. Phil. 2.6. See J. Geiger, “Plutarch on Hellenistic Politics,” in I. Gallo & B. Scardigli (eds.), Teoria e prassi politica nelle opere di Plutarco. Atti del V Convegno plutarcheo, Certosa di Pontignano, 7–9 giugno 1993 (Naples: D’Auria, 1995) 173–185. 2 According to J. Geiger, “Plutarch’s Parallel Lives: The Choice of Heroes,” Hermes 109 (1981) 85– 104 [esp. 93], the biographies of Greeks from the Hellenistic age had not formed a part of Plutarch’s original plan of the Parallel Lives, but were added to the series when the success of the work was evident. This does not exclude, of course, the possibility that Plutarch began his project with a rudimentary notion regarding the importance of the Hellenistic period. 3 See, for instance, E. Gabba, “Studi su Filarco: Le biografie Plutarchee di Agide e di Cleomene,” Athenaeum n.s. 35 (1957) 3–55 and 193–239 and T. Africa, Phylarchus and the Spartan Revolution (Berkeley: University of California, 1961) 40–43 on Phylarchus. See H.D. Westlake, “Eumenes of Cardia,” Bulletin of the John Rylands Library 37 (1954–1955) 313–315 and J. Horn-

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bius is mentioned by name twenty-six times in Plutarch’s extant writings (and he probably appeared in some lost works, like the Life of Scipio);4 his writings were perhaps used in even more passages without acknowledgement.5 Due to constraints of space, this chapter can only deal with a limited number of these instances, in an effort to explore features of Plutarch’s use of intertextuality. This will be done under two categories: (a) The first is called ‘Polybius the Text’—i.e., the text of Polybius as explicitly alluded to through reference to what Polybius ‘says’ (or ‘writes’). (b) The second category is termed ‘Polybius the Historian’—that is, Polybius mentioned as an author (or as an agent) outside his text; it is an implicit reference to his text. The assumption here is that whenever Plutarch mentions historians or writers in his works (which is not often the case), it is not merely intended to show his erudition and his wide reading, nor is it aimed solely at substantiating his assertions.6 Rather, these references have largely artistic, literary and histori-

blower, Hieronymus of Cardia (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1981) 68–69, 88 on Hieronymus of Cardia. See Geiger, “Choice of Heroes,” 91–93. C.A. Baron, Timaeus of Tauromenium and Hellenistic Historiography (Cambridge-New York: Cambridge University Press, 2013) 174– 175 and L. Pearson, The Greek Historians of the West. Timaeus and His Predecessors (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1987) 7, 38–39, 143–144, 146. See W.P. Theunissen, Ploutarchos’ Leven van Aratos met hist.-topogr. comm. (Diss. Nijmegen, 1935) 4–13; A. Koster, Plutarchi Vitam Arati (Leiden: Brill, 1937) xiv–xvii; W.H. Porter, Plutarch’s Life of Aratus (Dublin-Cork: Cork University Press, 1937) xiii–xx; R.M. Errington, Philopoemen (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1969) 228– 240. 4 The 4th century AD list called ‘Lamprias Catalogue’ has two entries: the lost (and probably first) pair Epaminondas—Scipio (no. 7) and a solitary Scipio (no. 28). The biography in the Parallel Lives could have been that of Africanus Major: see L. Peper, De Plutarchi Epaminonda (Weida: Thomas & Hubert, 1912) 128–131; K. Ziegler, “Plutarchos von Chaironeia,” RE XXI.1 (1951) 636–962 [896] and A. Georgiadou, Plutarch’s Pelopidas. A Historical and Philological Commentary (Stuttgart: Teubner) 7–8. Yet, cf. U. von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff, “Plutarch als Biograph,” in id., Reden und Vorträge 2 (Berlin: Weidmann, 1902) 247–279 [260] and K.B.J. Herbert, “The Identity of Plutarch’s Lost Scipio,” AJPh 78 (1957) 83–88: Aemilianus Africanus Minor. 5 Cf. C. Theander, Plutarch und die Geschichte (Lund: Gleerup, 1951) 52–53, 67–68; C.B.R. Pelling, “Childhood and Personality in Greek Biography,” in C.B.R. Pelling (ed.), Characterization and Individuality in Greek Literature (Oxford: Oxford University Press) 216–219 [reprinted in C.B.R. Pelling, Plutarch and History: Eighteen Studies (London: Duckworth, 2002) 301–338]; id., “Introduzione,” in id. & E. Melandri (eds.), Plutarco: Vite parallele. Filopemene—Tito Flaminino (Milan: BUR, 1997) 100–107; id., Plutarch and History (London: Duckworth, 2002) 288–291, 298 n. 24. 6 See E. Almagor, “Two Clandestine Readers within Plutarch’s Lives: The Narrator and the Implied Author,” in G. Pace & P. Volpe Cacciatore (eds.), Plutarch’s Writings: Transmission, Translation, Reception, Commentary. Proceedings of the IX International Conference of the

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ographic goals. They shed light on the protagonist, on the narrative, and on Plutarch’s views of the course of political history or the development of historiography (as well as his own place within these processes).7 This is thus not a Quellenforschung, a study of the relation of Plutarch the author to his sources, but rather a literary study detailing the significance of these intertextual allusions within Plutarch’s works.8

1

Polybius the Text

In Cleomenes 27 (= Ag.-Cleom. 48), Plutarch addresses the battle at Sellasia (summer of 222BC) between Antigonus III Doson, the Macedonian king, and Cleomenes III, the reformer-king of Sparta.9 Citing Polybius (“as Polybius says,” ὡς Πολύβιός φησι), Plutarch addresses two elements that already appeared in his predessessor’s account: (a) the fact that Antigonus had greater funds than Cleomenes, which was reflected in the different sizes of their respective armies (thirty thousand and twenty thousand men);10 (b) Fortune’s role—Plutarch claims that it “decides the most important affairs by a minor detail” (ἡ τὰ μέγι-

7

8 9

10

International Plutarch Society (Naples: Calata Trinità Maggiore, 2013) 22; pace R.H. Barrow, Plutarch and his Times (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1967) 153 and P.A. Stadter, Plutarch’s Historical Methods (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1965) 128–132. Cf. D.A. Russell, Plutarch (London: Duckworth, 1973) 54. Cf. E. Almagor, “ ‘But This Belongs to Another Discussion’: Ethnographic Digressions in Plutarch,” in E. Almagor & J. Skinner (eds.), Ancient Ethnography: New Approaches (London: Bloomsbury, 2013) 153–154. See E. Almagor, Plutarch and the Persica (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2018) 2–12. On the location and date of the battle see Plb. 2.65–69, Plu. Cleom. 28 [Ag.-Cleom. 49], Phil. 6. See J. Kromayer & G. Veith, Antike Schlachtfelder in Griechenland 1: Von Epaminondas bis zum Eingreifen der Römer (Berlin: Weidmann, 1903) 266–277; J. Kromayer, “Sellasia,” BCH 34 (1910) 508–537; W. Bettingen, König Antigonos Doson (Weida: Thomas & Hubert, 1912) 43–51; A. Ferrabino, “La battaglia di Sellasia,” Atti Acad. di Torino 54 (1918–1919) 751– 760, 811–819; E. Honigmann, “Sellasia,” RE II.A (1923) 1316–1320; F.W. Walbank, A Historical Commentary on Polybius. Vol. 1: Commentary on Books 1–6 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1957) 272–279 [correcting F.W. Walbank, Aratos of Sicyon (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1933) 108–110, 195–196: 223BC]; W.K. Pritchett, Studies in Ancient Greek Topography. 3 vols. (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1965) 1.59–70. This example is treated elaborately in E. Almagor, “A Literary Passage: Polybius and Plutarch’s Narrator,”Histos Supplement 8 (2018) 171–209 and, therefore, shall be discussed briefly here. According to Plutarch (Cleom. 27.4 [Ag.-Cleom. 48.4]), Cleomenes “could only meagerly and with difficulty provide pay for his mercenaries and provisions for his citizen-soldiers” (transl. Perrin).

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στα τῶν πραγμάτων κρίνουσα τῷ παρὰ μικρὸν τύχη). Indeed, Fortune did not support Cleomenes, as only after the battle was waged and concluded did envoys arrive to inform Antigonus of trouble back home in Macedonia, in the form of a barbarian invasion (cf. Cleom. 30.2 [= Ag.-Cleom. 51.2]).11 Had they arrived earlier, this information would doubtless have ended Antigonus’ involvement in the Peloponnese. Polybius also describes the same variance between the strengths of the two armies (2.65.3), yet according to him, this made no difference: Antigonus himself observed how well Cleomenes positioned his forces on advantageous points on the two sides of the River Oenous (2.65.8–11). Furthermore, Polybius claims that the two leaders were talented and their armies were “nearly equal in size” (2.66.4: παραπλησίους, LSJ A.2).12 Therefore, while the fact certainly appears in Polybius’ text, Plutarch makes much more of the difference in numbers than Polybius does as an explanation for the Macedonian-Achaean victory. Polybius also mentions Fortune in his depiction of the clash. First, it was Fortune that “brought the men to face each other” (2.66.4: ἡ τύχη συνέβαλε τούτους τοὺς ἄνδρας). Second, Polybius claims that Fortune was responsible for the delay in the arrival of news regarding the Illyrian invasion of Macedonia (2.70.1), thus deciding the matter. Polybius concludes by saying that “in this way almost always Fortune is accustomed to decide the greatest of affairs [in a way which seems to human beings] outside of reason [the sphere of rational analysis]” (2.70.2: οὕτως ἀεί ποθ’ ἡ τύχη τὰ μέγιστα τῶν πραγμάτων παρὰ λόγον εἴωθε κρίνειν). In other words, in Polybius’ version, Cleomenes’ defeat is allegedly unaccounted for when using rational means. Polybius’ reference to a capricious fate may come from the historian Phylarchus.13 Thus, Plutarch changed Polybius’ words παρὰ λόγον into παρὰ μικρὸν (“a slight change”, “an imperceptible change”), sarcastically effecting a slight change to alter the significance. There is no need to change the MSS reading of Polybius to παρὰ ὀλίγον just because of Plutarch’s different version.14 The phrase παρὰ λόγον appears in Polybius’ text elsewhere (2.38.5, 12.22.4, 29.22.2, 33.17.4, even παρὰ [τὸν] λογισμόν: 29.21.5, quoting Demetrius of Phaleron on Tyche).15 The change 11 12 13 14 15

On these barbarian invaders as Dardanians, see J.V.A. Fine, “Macedon, Illyria and Rome 220–219 B.C.,” JRS 26 (1936) 25. Cf. 2.65.12, 2.66.3. See Walbank, Historical Commentary 1, 279. See B.L. Ullmann, “History and Tragedy,” TAPA 73 (1942) 41. Cf. FGrHist 81 F 26. Cf. Walbank, Historical Commentary 1, 289. As suggested by C. Wunderer, “IV. Textkritische Untersuchungen zu Polybius,” Philologus 53 (1894) 62 and accepted by Walbank Historical Commentary 1, 289. Moreover, one certainly need not postulate that Polybius hastily copied Phylarchus’ text.

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is meaningful, and would strike readers familiar with the original passage as ‘tongue in cheek’, since it implies that the real reason for the battle’s outcome is, after all, not outside the sphere of rational analysis, but rather in accordance with the numbers of soldiers and other perceptible causes. Plutarch’s misquotation of Polybius, while ostensibly repeating his predecessor’s words, is a subversive intertextual reference. This change and Plutarch’s overall description of the engagement give the impression that Tyche is actually ignored by Plutarch as a proper explanation of the event,16 a presentation that renders Polybius’ own turn to Fortune and divine causes for actions as superfluous, thereby casting doubt on the Megalopolitan’s correct historical judgment.17 One feature of Plutarch’s intertextuality thus emerges: while referring to a different text, he changes that text in the process. The alteration is deliberate: it is not the result of a different manuscript version.

2

Polybius the Historian

In this category, I treat mentions of Polybius as intertextual references to his work. Let us inspect two such examples. In the first, Plutarch addresses Polybius’ contemporary occurrence, the circumstances leading to the decisive bat-

16 17

Even the phrase παρὰ μικρόν comes from Polybius elsewhere (1.43.7; 2.38.3; 12.20.7; 15.6.8) and was known to Plutarch. There seems to be here thus another intertextual reference. Deliberate misquotation is Plutarch’s habit, as evidenced, for instance, by the rendition of Plato’s Timaeus 35a–b in De an. procr. 1012B–C; see H. Cherniss, Plutarch. Moralia, Volume XIII, Part I (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1976) 137–138, 147, 149, pace J. Opsomer, “Plutarch’s De animae procreatione in Timaeo: Manipulation or Search for Consistency?” in P. Adamson, H. Baltussen & M.W.F. Stone (eds.), Philosophy, Science and Exegesis in Greek, Latin and Arabic Commentaries (London: University of London, 2004) 139–142, 155, 159–161. Cf. S.C.R. Swain, “Plutarch: Chance, Providence, and History,” AJPh 110 (1989) 277: “there is no discernible trace of Polybian influence in Plutarch’s writings”. On Polybius’ use of Fortune in causal explanations see Walbank, Historical Commentary 1, 17–21, esp. 18 on the present case. Cf. W.W. Fowler, “Polybius’ Conception of Τύχη,” CR 17 (1903) 445–449; P. Shorey, “Τύχη in Polybius,” CPh 16 (1921) 280–283; A. Roveri, “Tyche bei Polybios,” in K. Stiewe & N. Holzberg (eds.), Polybios (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1982) 297–326. Even Polybius himself seems to oppose the turn to Tyche (or divinity in general) to explain events (36.17.2–4) and he criticizes people who ascribe occurrences to Fortune (10.2.5, 10.5.8, 10.7.3, 10.9.2–3). In other places he claims people should assume responsibility and not attribute everything to Tyche (1.37.4, 2.7.2, 15.21.3). Compare the conclusions of P. Pédech, La méthode historique de Polybe (Paris: Belles Lettres, 1964) 336–337 with L.I. Hau, “Tykhe in Polybios: Narrative Answers to a Philosophical Question,” Histos 5 (2011) 188.

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tle of Pydna (168 BC; Aem. 15) in the Third Macedonian War.18 Plutarch relates that among L. Aemilius Paulus’ entourage, P. Cornelius Scipio Nasica Corculum (later cos. 162, 155BC), a son in law of Scipio Africanus the elder (Liv. 38.57.2), volunteered to lead the enveloping force across the mountains. He was preferable to [Quintus] Fabius Maximus, the eldest of Aemilius’ sons, who was still a young man.19 Aemilius gave him forces; however, Plutarch continues (transl. Perrin), not as many men as Polybius states (οὐχ ὅσους Πολύβιος εἴρηκεν), but as many as Nasica himself says they took, in a short letter which he wrote concerning these exploits to one of the kings (γεγραφὼς περὶ τῶν πράξεων τούτων ἐπιστόλιον πρός τινα τῶν βασιλέων) … Plutarch relies on Nasica’s letter (cf. also Aem. 16.1–4, 17.11–13, 18.1–9, 21.7) and chooses to believe the figure that Nasica used.20 We are led to understand that Polybius, in a lost section, employed a higher number of troops than eight thousand and four hundred men.21 No reason is given for this preference, but one 18

19

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21

Initially (3.4.2), Polybius planned to end his work with this battle, but later expanded it to reach 146 BC (3.4.4–3.5.6). See E.G. Sihler, “Polybius of Megalopolis,” AJPh 48 (1957) 50; Walbank, Historical Commentary 1, 291–297, 304. For the significance of Pydna for Polybius see 1.1.5, 1.4.5 and 29.21 (the occasion to quote Demetrius of Phaleron after the fall of Achaemenid Persia); A.M. Eckstein, Moral Vision in the Histories of Polybius (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995) 229; D.W. Baranowski, Polybius and Roman Imperialism (London: Bloomsbury, 2011) 26, 114. Nasica was perhaps a military tribune in 168 BC. See F. Münzer, “Cornelius (353) Scipio Nasica (Corculum),” RE IV.A (1900) 1497–1501; T.R.S. Broughton, The Magistrates of the Roman Republic. Vol. I: 509B.C.–100 B.C. (New York: American Philological Association, 1951) 429, 449; J.W. Rich, “A16. Cornelius Scipio Nasica Corculum, P.,” in T.J. Cornell (ed.), The Fragments of the Roman Historians, volume 1: Introduction (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013) 636–637. Cf. H. Beck’s Brill New Jacoby entry 233. On the battle cf. N.G.L. Hammond, “The Battle of Pydna,” JHS 104 (1984) 31–47. The royal addressee of the letter could be Masinissa of Numidia according to W. Soltau, “P. Cornelius Scipio Nasica als Quelle Plutarchs,”Hermes 21 (1896) 155—followed by Jacoby in FGrHist 233. The letter may not have been intended for circulation. See Rich, “Cornelius Scipio Nasica Corculum,” 637. Yet, cf. J.M. Candau, “Republican Rome: Autobiography and Political Struggles,” in G. Marasco (ed.), Political Autobiographies and Memoirs in Antiquity: A Brill Companion (Leiden: Brill, 2011) 129–132. See Cornell, Fragments, 269 n. 13 for the suggestion that it was a first person narrative. On Nasica as an indirect source of Plutarch see Soltau, “Cornelius Scipio Nasica,” 158. Cf. F.W. Walbank, A Historical Commentary on Polybius, Vol. 3: Commentary on Books 19–40 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1979) 378–388; R. Flacelière & E. Chambry, Plutarque. Vies. Tome IV (Paris: Belles Lettres, 1966) 60–65. On his oratory see Cic. Brut. 79. See Walbank, Historical Commentary 3, 380.

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may gather with confidence that it is related to the fact that Nasica was present at the scene, while Polybius was not.22 Nasica’s stop near the Olympus Mountain gives Plutarch an occasion to begin a digression on its height, which is asserted to be more than ten stades, as evidenced in an inscription quoting Xenagoras son of Eumelus, the person who did the measuring.23 The emphasis on autopsy is clear throughout the chapter. Bearing in mind the possibility that Polybius was aware of Nasica’s letter, the reader surely notices Plutarch’s brilliant tour de force of a literary metalepsis (violation of the narrative levels) in which Nasica, the historical agent, ‘rejects’ the ‘soldiers’ that Polybius, the author, is made to ‘give’ him in competition with Aemilius, as much as Polybius, the historian, probably rejected the description of Nasica the author.24 Like Polybius, who did not trust the self-praise of the general,25 Nasica the Roman does not trust the Achaean, as it were.26 22

23

24 25

26

Moreover, Polybius’ exaggerated number is chronologically later than Nasica’s account. Polybius’ lost description of the battle is believed to be the source of Liv. 44. See Candau, “Autobiography and Political Struggles,” 129. See F. Cajori, “History of Determinations of the Heights of Mountains,” Isis 12 (1929) 482– 485. This Xenagoras is otherwise unknown, but his investigations need not precede the Third Macedonian War; cf. W. Capelle, Berges- und Wolkenhöhen bei griechischen Physikern (Leipzig-Berlin: Teubner, 1916) 21. In the inscription, the height of the sacred peak of Olympus is said to be ten full stades and another hundred feet lacking four. This figure (ca. 1,879m.) is too low if the summit, Mytikas/Pantheon was measured; for modern estimate at 2,918 m. see M.N. Styllas et al., “Geomorphologic and paleoclimatic evidence of Holocene glaciation on Mount Olympus, Greece,” The Holocene 26 (2016) 709–721 [710]; but see M.J.T. Lewis, Surveying Instruments of Greece and Rome (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001) 160–164, who believes the peak measured was that of Flambouro (2,618 m.), as seen from the present site of Avles (620m. high), yielding 1,850m., not far from Xenagoras’ figure. Nasica’s ‘rejection’ of Polybius is made to look like the actual one of Q. Marcius Philippus in Thessaly in 169 BC (Plb. 28.13.4–5), who declined to accept the Achaean’s help. Cf. Candau, “Autobiography and Political Struggles,” 131–132; Rich, “Cornelius Scipio Nasica Corculum,” 637. Cf. Walbank, Historical Commentary 3, 380, who is uncertain whether Polybius read the letter. Despite Polybius’ support of Rome in her dispute with Perseus (Plb. 28.6.7–28.7.2, 12.2– 4), he apparently initially, like his father Lycortas (28.6.3), an influential statesman (and several times a strategos), advocated neutrality (cf. 29.24.7–9) and was therefore suspected by the Romans (cf. 28.3.7–8), who were ready to believe the accusations of Callicrates of Leontium (Plb. 30.7.5–7, 30.13.8–10, 32.1–12, cf. Liv. 45.31.6–10, Paus. 7.10.7–11). Cf. R.J.H. Shutt, “Polybius: A Sketch,” G&R 8 (1938) 51; G.C. Richards, “Polybius of Megalopolis the Greek Admirer of Rome,” CJ 40 (1945) 281; Errington, Philopoemen, 225–226; E.S. Gruen, “The Origins of the Achaean War,” JHS 96 (1976) 48; id., The Hellenistic World and the Coming of Rome, 2 vols. (Berkeley: University of California, 1984) 2.507–508; Walbank, Historical Commentary 3, 264–267, 427–431; Eckstein, Moral Vision, 204–205; C. Champion, “Polybian Demagogues in Political Context,” HSCP 102 (2004) 209.

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Plutarch eschews Polybius’ account; his adherence to the Roman general’s version causes him to reverse the chronological sequence between the two persons and to reject a higher figure, as opposed to his practice throughout this chapter.27 But is Plutarch correct? The reader’s perplexity stems from the inability to find a proper criterion by which to decide whose version is most accurate. Preference seems to be given to the person in the area, as someone who is actually present to conduct an autopsy. Plutarch, however, appears authoritative because his is the written record, like Nasica’s letter and the inscription near Mt. Olympus. In this respect, the writer affects reality as well as records it.28 Yet, the fact that Polybius’ written account can still be discarded (by Plutarch) shows that being recorded does not safeguard the version’s acceptance. At the end of the day, what determines the case seems to be, again, the actual person in the area, meaning this time the one who holds physical power. This portrayal appears to tackle the tension in which the historian finds himself, namely between the relationship with truth and reality on the one hand, and with the political reality of his day, in this case Roman might. By alluding to Polybius, Plutarch vies, as it were, with his predecessor, and both seem to flatter the Romans; while Polybius increases Nasica’s forces, Plutarch upholds Nasica’s written version. Intertextuality should have safeguarded Plutarch in a world that is further away from Roman controlled reality; yet, not even here is Plutarch entirely free to openly state his mind. Plutarch hints that the only autonomous field left to Imperial Greeks, in this new world, is an impractical study, like the discussion of the height of the Olympus—literally outside the reach of the Romans.29 Our last example concerns Polybius as a historian, through a sophisticated allusion to him as a historical agent. This is an example of intertextuality that takes the readers beyond the text, by dealing with actual actions of the author. In this manner, Polybius appears in the last chapter of the Philopoemen (21),

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All the higher figures in the chapter are accepted by Plutarch, except those of Polybius. Aemilius prefers Nasica over his own son, because Fabius Maximus was too young. Plutarch accepts Nasica’s claim that he increased the number of his soldiers, as well as Xenagoras’ high figure for the mountain’s height. Plutarch subtly indicates this point by an indirect parallel between the preferred characters in this chapter, when Xenagoras is said to add ninety-six feet (πλέθρον τετραπέδῳ λειπόμενον) to the figure other geometricians give, as Nasica adds a hundred and twenty horsemen (ἱππεῖς ἑκατὸν εἴκοσι) to those which Aemilius supplied him. Writing, therefore, is comparable to action done by a historical agent. The contrast with Aemilius’ practical exploration of the terrain at the beginning of the chapter (Aem. 15.2) is thus complete.

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which is divided into two parts. In each part Polybius performs an action that occurs in each of his incarnations in life: once within the context of Greek affairs, immediately after the death of Philopoemen (Phil. 21.1–9; 182BC);30 and once within the world of Roman dominance of Greece, after the destruction of Corinth (Phil. 21.10–12; 146 BC). The first action may have been his first public act, the second among his last known deeds. In between, Polybius earned his reputation as a historian, while the world as he knew it changed completely. The first scene depicts Philopoemen’s funeral procession, in which Polybius carries an urn containing the ashes of the deceased statesman.31 Spectators from the cities and villages are reported to come to meet them, as if receiving Philopoemen himself returning from an expedition (ὥσπερ αὐτὸν ἀπὸ στρατείας ἐπανιόντα δεξιούμενοι). Plutarch flashes forward to the second scene, during the days when the Romans devastated Corinth, wherein a certain Roman attempts to destroy the statues of Philopoemen and attacks the deceased Achaean as if he were still alive (ὥσπερ ἔτι ζῶντα). Polybius’ arguments (which are not given) in favour of preserving the statues eventually win over Mummius and members of the Roman commission in charge of affairs in Greece.32 In both cases we see a material, inanimate object either taken to be alive or to represent a living person (a living Philopoemen). This is the exact same effect we have from the material text: it is the illusion involved in the act of writing and its world of images that makes the figures in it come alive. Ironically, this is also what Plutarch does in his bios (say, Philopoemen), and, more important here, what Plutarch does to his Polybios. The intertextual references to the Megalopolitan historian make the author of one text (Polybius) come alive as a character in another text (‘Polybius’). The flexibility of an author of a text to go and become a character in the fictional world of another text is made possible because that author already appears in his or her text as fictional, through the character of the projected persona of the ‘narrator’. This character thus can be fictional in another text, which alludes to that persona of a narrator.33 It is

30 31 32

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For the date: Errington, Philopoemen, 241–245. Cf. Errington, Philopoemen, 193–194; A.M. Eckstein, “Notes on the Birth and Death of Polybius,” AJPh 113 (1992) 401. On L. Mummius Achaicus, the consul of 146 BC and conqueror of Corinth, see Paus. 7.15.1, 7.16.1–4, 7–9, Just. 34.2.1–6. On the actions taken in Greece after the Achaean War, see Liv. 52.3–6; Vell. 1.12.1, 1.13.1, 4, CIL 1.626 (142 BC). For his looting of statues and paintings distributed in Italy, see Cic. Ver. 2.1.55, 2.3.9, Off. 2.22.76, Strab. 8.6.23, Plin. NH 34.6.12, 34.17.36, 37.6.12, D.Chr. 37.42. See S. Richardson, The Homeric Narrator (Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press, 1990) 180; R.J. Rabel, Plot and Point of View in the Iliad (Ann Arbor, MI: The University of Michigan Press, 1997) 19 on the narrator of the Homeric poems; cf. I.J.F. De Jong, Narrators and Focal-

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even more interesting when that figure is already known both as an author and as a person who acted in the real political or historical world, as in the case of Polybius. Plutarch dissociates the historical appearances of Polybius from any text he has written, and brings the intertextual reference ad absurdum, so that the text disappears. When we bear in mind that the references to Polybius as a historical agent most likely came from the very text of Polybius, writing about himself, we understand that here the ‘figure’ of Polybius replaces his own text. All this enhances our appreciation that the Philopoemen’s last two scenes are, in fact, beautiful allegories of the writing of Polybius, commemorating the glory of past heroes, like Philopoemen. The two may even allude to Polybius’ two periods of writing: once as composing the encomium for Philopoemen in Greece and once as writing his History under Rome.34 Yet, the flaws of Polybius in each one of his productive periods are insinuated. Firstly, in his encomium, there was probably so much praise that the figure of Philopoemen virtually disappeared.35 Compare what Plutarch writes about the urn: it was barely seen because of the garlands placed on it (αὐτὴν δὲ τὴν ὑδρίαν ὑπὸ πλήθους ταινιῶν τε καὶ στεφάνων μόλις ὁρωμένην). Secondly, when we arrive at Roman controlled Greece, the act of commemoration is dependent on the goodwill of the Romans and their consent to preserve the relics of the Greek past. Polybius’ work would not have been composed and circulated had the Romans not approved it. Plutarch ends the Life of the “last of the Greeks” (Phil. 1.4, Arat. 24.2, cf. Paus. 8.52.1) by speaking of the debt owed by beneficiaries to benefactors (τοῖς μὲν

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izers: The Presentation of the Story in the Iliad (London: Bristol Classical Press, 2004, 2nd ed.) 45: the narrator is “a creation of the poet like the characters”. Cf. Plb. 10.21.5. Early date: H. Nissen, Kritische Untersuchungen über die Quellen der vierten und fünften Dekade des Livius (Berlin: Weidmann, 1863) 280–281; H.M. Werner, De Polybii vita et itineribus quaestiones chronologicae (Leipzig: Sturm und Koppel, 1877) 14; K. Ziegler, “Polybios (1),” RE XXI.2 (1952) 1472–1473; F.W. Walbank, A Historical Commentary on Polybius, Vol. 2: Commentary on Books 7–18 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1967) 121–122. A late date: C.T. Lucas, Über Polybius’ Darstellung des Ätolischen Bundes (Königsberg: Verlage der Hartungschen Hofbuchdruckerei, 1827) 35 n. 2; P. Pédech, “Polybe et l’éloge de Philopoemen,” REG 64 (1951) 82–103. On the difference between the two genres see Polybius 10.21.8. Cf. Pelling, “Introduzione,” 106–107. Polybius included an obituary for Philopoemen also in the History: 23.12.3; cf. Diod. 29.18. Cf. A.J. Pomeroy, “Polybius’ Death Notices,” Phoenix 40 (1986) 415. Cf. Errington, Philopoemen, 228–237. Polybius appears to have downplayed Philopoemen’s faults and atrocities. As a strategos of the League, Philopoemen put to death many Spartans, eighty according to Polybius, but three hundred and fifty as stated by Aristocrates (Phil. 16.4, cf. Liv. 38.33.10–11). We are compelled to believe that the lower number is the result of Polybius’ bias.

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ὠφελοῦσι μισθὸν καὶ χάριν παρὰ τῶν εὖ παθόντων). The Achaeans owed Philopoemen their position. One can even go further and affirm that, due to the interstate Greek wars, the Roman intervention in Greece was easier, and so the Romans also owed Philopoemen their position in Greece.36 It is this implicit sentiment that concludes the biography with a tinge of bitter irony that reflects Plutarch’s own writing under Rome. These reflections appear most clearly in his use of intertextual allusions. Plutarch owed a great deal to Polybius and his descriptions. Polybius saw the Romans as benefactors; his work betrays the same favorable portrayal of the Romans comparable to the implicit acknowledgement of their role as benefactors in Phil. 21.12.37 Polybius owed his standing and reputation to the Romans. Plutarch did as well.38

3

Conclusion

In my brief survey, we saw several features of Plutarch’s intertextual references. In the allusions to Polybius, Plutarch rejects the latter’s figures, discards his lack of consistency, his bias, and in particular, his occasional reliance on Fortune as having an explanatory force. All this amounts to a subversive reading of his source, which also takes the form of an alteration of the original text in misquotation. In fact, Plutarch uses this very device of historiographic intertextuality as compable to the political/historical action described in the text. Conversely, the portrayals of Polybius as a historical figure are similar to historiographic intertextual allusions to the Megalopolitan’s work, and thus Plutarch is able to use intertextuality without texts, simply by a ‘tongue in cheek’ reference to the author’s activities of commemoration. Plutarch employs artistic creativity in presenting intertextuality as a metapoetic statement, or at least as a comment on the writing of historical themes, especially in his day and age. Like Polybius, who witnessed the transition between the periods of Greek and Roman dominance in the eastern Mediter36

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Diophanes the Achaean introduces the Romans into the Peloponnese (Phil. 16.1–3), and Philopoemen does the same through his irresponsible and violent policy towards Sparta. The Spartans enter into an alliance with Rome, who assists them in restoring their traditional polity and educational system (Phil. 16.8; cf. Liv. 38.34). Cf. Baranowski, Polybius and Roman Imperialism, 8, 62–63, 87–101, 107, 109, 113, 161, 163, 171. Plutarch presumably drew comparison between his own friendship with his benefactor, Q. Sosius Senecio, cos. AD 99, 107 (Thes. 1.1, Dem. 1.1, Dion 1.1, Quaest. conv. 612C, 622C–623D, 635E–638A)—see Ziegler, “Plutarchos von Chaironeia,” 657–658 and C.P. Jones, Plutarch and Rome (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1971) 28–29, 54–57—and that of Polybius and Scipio: cf. Quaest. conv. 659E, Reg. et imp. apophth. 199F, 200A, Praec. ger. reip. 814C.

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ranean, Plutarch also finds himself located between the two worlds: he writes in Greek under the sway of Rome. His reference to Polybius’ text is thus evidence of the victory of Greek civilization, while his debate with his predecessor echoes a Greek culture of perennial, internal divisions that eventually led to Roman political superiority. In fact, Rome wields such a power over Greece that Plutarch’s sojourn in the world of texts (his own and that of his predecessor) implies that he cannot really have a say in the world beyond them.

chapter 11

“Let Us Make the Most of What They Offer Us”: Different Layers of Intertextuality in Plutarch’s Non posse suaviter vivi secundum Epicurum Geert Roskam

Abstract In this chapter, the complicated intertextual dynamics that can often be found in Plutarch’s oeuvre is examined through the study of one work, viz. the anti-Epicurean polemic That Epicurus actually makes a pleasant life impossible. There, several major sources are combined with other material and introduced into the context of a new and coherent argument. Especially important are (1) the treatise of Colotes (which had itself an obvious intertextual dimension, as it contained an attack against the entire previous philosophical tradition), (2) the perspective of Plutarch’s school, where the whole discussion took place, (3) the works of Epicurus and Metrodorus (the real polemic targets of the work), and (4) the rich tradition attacked by the Epicureans and defended by Plutarch. Next to the input from these four sources, there is, of course, Plutarch himself, who as an author directs and structures the whole piece, adding a wealth of quotations from poets, historians, philosophers, and so on. By unravelling this multi-layered structure, I will lay bare the different aspects of Plutarch’s modus operandi and of his approach towards and use of literature in That Epicurus actually makes a pleasant life impossible.

1

Feasting on Literature

In one of Plutarch’s Table Talk, the speakers discuss the origin of the words for breakfast, lunch and dinner. According to Theon, the word ἀκράτισμα (“breakfast”) can be traced back to the customs of the ancients, who were still hardworking and temperate, and who, in the morning, ate just a piece of bread dipped in unmixed wine (ἄκρατος, Quaest. conv. 726C). These days, however, were long gone. We do not know what Plutarch ate for breakfast, but in view of his works, the conjecture is not unreasonable that he dipped his bread in poetic quotations and took for lunch a slice of fish seasoned with a dressing of historical or philosophical prose. Plutarch may have been frugal, and he may have

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avoided eggs for some time,1 but he certainly never abstained from reading. Indeed, the great majority of his works overflow with references to previous literature.2 Both poetry and prose are well represented, and quotations from well-known authors are juxtaposed to borrowings from long-forgotten writers. And everything is blended, in a virtuoso way, into an harmonious and wellpolished whole, a savory stew of literature as it were. If intertextuality, then, is no doubt one of the prominent features of Plutarch’s works, it is seldom its easiest aspect. Frequently, different layers can be distinguished and general patterns based on clear references to one or more basic hypotexts are time and again interrupted by strings of quotations from other sources. In this chapter, I examine these complex intertextual dynamics by focusing on one work in which Plutarch’s intertextual approach is particularly complicated, viz. the anti-Epicurean polemic That Epicurus actually makes a pleasant life impossible (henceforth Non posse). There, several major sources are combined with other material and introduced into the context of a new and coherent argument. By unravelling this multi-layered structure, I will lay bare Plutarch’s modus operandi and thus reach a better understanding of this work.

2

The Point of Departure: One Text Entailing Many Others

Plutarch begins his anti-Epicurean polemic with a sentence that immediately opens a window onto a complex pattern of intertextual relations (Non posse 1086C–D):

1 Cf. Quaest. conv. 635E; the text, however, is not certain; cf. A. Caiazza, Plutarco. Conversazioni a tavola. Libro secondo. Introduzione, testo critico, traduzione e commento (Naples: D’Auria, 2001) 307–308 (who prefers ἀπεπειρώμην to ἀπειχόμην). 2 Plutarch’s use of literature has been much discussed, see I. Gallo (ed.), La biblioteca di Plutarco. Atti del IX Convegno plutarcheo. Pavia, 13–15 giugno 2002 (Naples: D’Auria, 2004) for a general survey and references to further studies. The classic list of quotations in Plutarch’s works is to be found in W.C. Helmbold & E.N. O’Neil, Plutarch’s Quotations (Baltimore: American Philological Association, 1959) (although the list is not always equally reliable and has to be used with caution). On Plutarch’s habits of citation, see E.L. Bowie, “Plutarch’s Habits of Citation: Aspects of Difference,” in A.G. Nikolaidis (ed.), The Unity of Plutarch’s Work. Moralia Themes in the Lives, Features of the Lives in the Moralia (Berlin-New York: De Gruyter, 2008) 143–157; on his quotations from unknown poets, see J. Dillon, “Plutarch’s Use of Unidentified Quotations,” in M. Jufresa et al. (eds.), Plutarc a la seva època: Paideia i societat. Actas del VIII Simposio Español sobre Plutarco (Barcelona, 6–8 de Noviembre de 2003) (Barcelona: Universitat de Barcelona, 2005) 273–281; on patterns of recurrent clusters of quotations (and the Leuven cluster method), see e.g. L. Van der Stockt, “A Plutarchan Hypomnema on Self-Love,” AJPh 120 (1999) 575–599.

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Κωλώτης ὁ Ἐπικούρου συνήθης βιβλίον ἐξέδωκεν ἐπιγράψας ὅτι κατὰ τὰ τῶν ἄλλων φιλοσόφων δόγματα οὐδὲ ζῆν ἐστιν. Epicurus’ disciple Colotes brought out a book entitled “That Conformity to the Doctrines of the Other Philosophers Actually makes Life Impossible.”3 The very first sentence already confronts the reader with a previous work. Moreover, the title of Colotes’ treatise shows that it was polemical as well, and, even more, that it was not directed against one particular author but rather contained a massive attack against the entire previous philosophical tradition.4 This significantly broadens the polemical scope of Non posse: the work does not merely contain a discussion between two authors (Plutarch and Colotes), but can also be placed in the framework of an age-long intellectual debate in which dozens of authors are involved. Furthermore, Colotes is introduced here as a student of Epicurus. Such a characterization is necessary for the less erudite readers (the ἄπειροι mentioned in 1086D), given that Colotes was not the most famous member of the Garden. It is no coincidence that a similar explanatory specification can be found at the beginning of Against Colotes (1107E), a treatise dedicated to Saturninus, who may well have been among the ἄπειροι too.5 Yet the label ὁ Ἐπικούρου συνήθης has a further relevance as well: Colotes is, from the very outset, introduced as the representative of a specific philosophical school, and this is of paramount importance for the general focus of the work. As we shall see in

3 All translations are borrowed from the LCL. 4 For general and careful reconstructions of the work, see R. Westman, Plutarch gegen Kolotes. Seine Schrift “Adversus Colotem” als philosophiegeschichtliche Quelle (Helsingfors: Societas philosophica, 1955) 40–107; E. Kechagia, Plutarch Against Colotes. A Lesson in History of Philosophy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011) 81–132; A. Corti, L’Adversus Colotem di Plutarco. Storia di una polemica filosofica (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2014) 61–136. 5 The dedicatee of Plutarch’s Against Colotes has been identified with L. Herennius Saturninus, the proconsul of Achaea in 98–99 and consul suffectus in 100 AD; see B. Puech, “Prosopographie des amis de Plutarque,” in ANRW II.33.6 (Berlin-New York: De Gruyter, 1992) 4855. Several of Plutarch’s works were dedicated to such influential politicians, whose attention was primarily given to public affairs, but who were also interested in philosophical discussions (see L. Van Hoof, Plutarch’s Practical Ethics. The Social Dynamics of Philosophy [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010] 19–24 and passim on Plutarch’s target readers) and ancient books (cf. Kechagia, Plutarch Against Colotes, 22–28). We may presume, then, that readers such as Saturninus were familiar with the basic outlines of Epicurean philosophy, but ignored figures such as Colotes; cf. P.-M. Morel & F. Verde, “Le Contre Colotès de Plutarque et son prologue,” Aetia [Online] 3 (2013) 13.

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figure 11.1

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The first intertextual triangle as point of departure

a moment, Non posse primarily deals with Epicurean philosophy as such, not with Colotes’ individual position. In that sense, the characterization ὁ Ἐπικούρου συνήθης can also be seen as a subtle anticipation of the overall focus of the following discussion. The opening sentence of the work thus already contains an intertextual triangle (see Figure 11.1). The precise relation and interaction between these three poles needs some further clarification. Everyone familiar with the history of Epicureanism knows that the relations between the members of the Garden were based on warm friendship and that all the Epicureans showed a striking loyalty to the insights of their master. Epicurus had acquired a kind of divine status in his school,6 where he was regarded as the brilliant thinker who had freed all men from misery by initiating them, as it were, into the mysteries of his own philosophical doctrine. Metrodorus, for instance, invited his brother to “exchange this earthbound life for the holy mysteries of Epicurus, which are in very truth the revelation of a god.”7 Such unanimous enthusiasm later led to the Epicureans’ reputation of being almost slavishly obedient to their master. Seneca, for instance, tells Lucilius that in the Epicurean tradition, “everything that any man utters is spoken under the leadership and commanding authority of one alone.”8 Such a view, however, probably requires at least some qualification. While it is true that the Epicureans usually stuck to the general opinions of their master, they were not afraid to develop their own insights. Different Epicurean communities some6 See e.g. Lucr. 5.8; Cic. Tusc. 1.48 and N.D. 1.43. 7 Adv. Colot. 1117B = fr. 38 K.; cf. Cic. de Orat. 3.64 and D.L. 10.6; D. Armstrong, “Epicurean Virtues, Epicurean Friendship: Cicero vs the Herculaneum Papyri,” in J. Fish & K.R. Sanders (eds.), Epicurus and the Epicurean Tradition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011) 105–107. 8 Sen. Ep. 33.4; cf. also Numenius’ view in Eus. PE 14.5.3 (= fr. 24 des Places). See G. ReydamsSchils, “Authority and Agency in Stoicism,” GRBS 51 (2011) 296–322 on the difference between Stoicism and Epicureanism in this respect.

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times endorsed different positions, as appears from the works of Philodemus. The latter frequently quotes Epicureans whom he himself regards as heterodox, but who, on closer inspection, often defended a different interpretation of Epicurus’ view. As a matter of fact, there was ample room for creative individual thinking among later generations of Epicureans, and there is no cogent reason to presume that it was different in Epicurus’ own time. If that is true, the arrow from Epicurus to Colotes in the above scheme should be understood in this light. Colotes was not just a soulless spokesman without individual identity, merely parroting the insights of Epicurus as a schoolboy repeats the words of his master (cf. Adv. Colot. 1120F). Epicurus was by far the most important source of inspiration for Colotes’ thinking, no doubt, but he did not do away with the latter’s individual voluntas auctoris. And while borrowing fundamental insights from his master, Colotes also developed them in his own way and thus both elaborated and confirmed the Epicurean position. The relation between Colotes and the tradition, too, is more complicated than the above scheme suggests. On the one hand, the philosophical tradition was a source for Colotes in that it provided him with the material to refute. But Plutarch presumably oversimplifies Colotes’ straightforward opposition to this tradition, for the latter also contained elements that could easily be appropriated in an Epicurean perspective. An obvious case in point is the philosophy of Democritus, who shared many fundamental starting points with Epicurus, as the Epicureans realized very well. Metrodorus bluntly states that, “if Democritus had not shown the way, Epicurus would not have attained to wisdom” (Adv. Colot. 1108E–F = fr. 33 K.). Plutarch suggests that Colotes radically rejects Democritus’ philosophy, but it is more likely that the Epicurean attacked specific epistemological implications of Democritus’ position, thus also explaining and underscoring the peculiarity of the Epicurean doctrine.9 However, Metrodorus’ assessment, quoted above, shows that such detailed criticisms did not necessarily exclude sincere appreciation.10 Moreover, Colotes’ positive attitude 9

10

In view of the many significant points of contact between Democritus’ and Epicurus’ philosophy, it is not really surprising that several polemical treatises were written against Democritus in the Garden (see D.L. 10.24; Cic. Fin. 1.12 and 28): since Democritus set the beginning of the philosophical tradition to which Epicurus was obviously indebted (cf. J. Warren, Epicurus and Democritean Ethics. An Archaeology of Ataraxia [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002]), clarifications of the differences between both thinkers and polemical refutations of Democritus’ views were of paramount importance for the self-understanding and self-definition of every Epicurean philosopher. For Colotes’ attack on Democritus and Plutarch’s reply to it, see L. Castagnoli, “Democritus and Epicurus on Sensible Qualities in Plutarch’s Against Colotes 3–9,” Aetia [Online] 3 (2013) (with further literature). See further P.M. Huby, “Epicurus’ Attitude to Democritus,” Phronesis 23 (1978) 80–86.

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towards the tradition in a broader sense is also illustrated by his praise of the early legislators (Adv. Colot. 1124D), whose accomplishments were held in high esteem in the Garden—contrary to those of over-ambitious political philosophers from later periods.11 Colotes, then, indeed launched a massive attack on the previous philosophical tradition, but in all likelihood, his views were more nuanced than Plutarch suggests. On the other hand, Colotes always looks at the tradition from his own Epicurean perspective. His reception of the tradition, in other words, was not neutral but always conditioned by his philosophical presuppositions and guided by the fundamental criterion of pleasure (cf. RS 25). And this repeatedly entails an idiosyncratic interpretation of the tradition, including several awkward distortions. In that sense, Figure 11.1 (see p. 176) should be slightly adapted, by placing “tradition” between quotation marks. These distortions were Colotes’ Achilles heel and one of the main targets of Plutarch’s counterattacks. Especially Plutarch’s replies to Colotes’ criticism of Plato and of the Academy are interesting in that respect, for there Plutarch defends his own philosophical tradition. There, he speaks as an insider, wellinformed and in the best possible position to unmask Colotes’ problematic Epicurean presuppositions. Typically enough, he provides his reader with a kind of short, school introduction to Plato’s doctrine of the Forms (Adv. Colot. 1115D–1116C) and to the precise meaning of Academic skepticism and the argument from inaction (1122A–D).12 From the first sentence, then, the reader finds himself in an intricate web of intertextual relations. This, in fact, is not untypical of Plutarch’s works, which are based on an impressive familiarity with the age-old intellectual tradition. And this is only the beginning. 11

12

On the Epicureans’ appreciation of the laws and of the ancient legislators, see e.g. V. Goldschmidt, La doctrine d’Épicure et le droit (Paris, 1977) and A. Alberti, “The Epicurean Theory of Law and Justice,” in A. Laks & M. Schofield (eds.), Justice and Generosity: Studies in Hellenistic Social and Political Philosophy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995) 161–190; on their criticism of contemporary politicians and public-spirited philosophers, see G. Roskam, Live Unnoticed (Λάθε βιώσας). On the Vicissitudes of an Epicurean Doctrine (Leiden-Boston: De Gruyter, 2007). For Plutarch’s defence of Plato in Against Colotes, see Kechagia, Plutarch Against Colotes, 213–250; M. Bonazzi, “Parmenide e Platone (e Aristotele) nel Contro Colote di Plutarco,” Aetia [Online] 3 (2013); Corti, L’Adversus Colotem di Plutarco, 144–173; for his defence of the Academics and his explanation of the ‘argument from inaction’, J. Opsomer, In Search of the Truth. Academic Tendencies in Middle Platonism (Brussels: Koninklijke Academie voor Wetenschappen, Letteren en Schone Kunsten, 1998) 88–96; C. Lévy, “Plutarque juge et partie: à propos des débats entre l’ Académie, le Jardin et le Portique,” Aetia [Online] 3 (2013); Corti, L’Adversus Colotem di Plutarco, 173–267.

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figure 11.2

Plutarch enters the scene

figure 11.3

Intertextuality meets intratextuality

3

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The Encounter between Intertextuality and Intratextuality

The reference to Colotes’ polemical book is followed by another reference, now to Plutarch’s own reply Against Colotes (Non posse 1086D): ὅσα τοίνυν ἡμῖν ἐπῆλθεν εἰπεῖν πρὸς αὐτὸν ὑπὲρ τῶν φιλοσόφων ἐγράφη πρότερον. What I was prompted to reply to him in defence of the philosophers has already been put in writing. Thus, the web of literary references becomes even more complex, for Plutarch now enters the scene (see Figure 11.2). At this point, intertextuality meets intratextuality. We are now reminded of the fact that Plutarch has already entered this debate and published another work on the topic. In this way, Non posse is, from the beginning, presented as the last link of a long chain (see Figure 11.3). The work appears as a kind of addendum to the previous treatise, a second dagger, as it were, in Colotes’ belly. Plutarch has already published a thorough and lengthy refutation of the Epicurean, but he has now decided to record “a number of further arguments that were brought against the sect in the course of the promenade” (1086D). The goal of the work, as Plutarch states explicitly, is to provide the reader with a lesson in correct philosophical polemics (ibid.). At first sight, then, this explicit reference to Against Colotes seems to reduce

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the relevance of Non posse: the substantial discussion is to be found in the first treatise, whereas the present work (only) contains a few additional comments, illustrating a fair polemical approach. This inference, however, is contradicted by the remainder of the work, which clearly shows that Non posse is not merely an addendum but that it has its own program, independent of Against Colotes. The latter work was “written earlier” (ἐγράφη πρότερον), and Plutarch’s use of the aorist tense (rather than the perfect) may well be relevant in this respect. Against Colotes is something of the past. Anyone can turn to it if he likes to do so, but at present attention will be given to what comes next. In that sense, Non posse is more than a mere sequel. As a matter of fact, there are at least three significant differences between the two works that give Non posse its own autonomy. 3.1 The Persona of the Author Against Colotes results from an ex cathedra lecture that Plutarch himself gave at his students’ request. This is told in the introduction of the work (Adv. Colot. 1108A–B) and is also repeated in the second sentence of Non posse, quoted above (ὅσα τοίνυν ἡμῖν ἐπῆλθεν εἰπεῖν κτλ.). Non posse, on the other hand, contains the report of the discussion between Plutarch’s students after the lecture. As a result, Plutarch disappears into the background and Theon and Aristodemus take over the initiative. The question, of course, remains as to whether we should simply accept this staging at face value, or rather regard it as literary embellishment. If the latter proves to be the case, the argument developed in Non posse is entirely Plutarch’s own;13 there is no difference at all between the two works in this respect. We shall come back to this in due course. For the time being, I grant Theon and Aristodemus the place that Plutarch himself grants them, which implies a modification of our scheme (see Figure 11.4). 3.2 The Genre The difference in genre between the two works is connected with the abovementioned difference in the author’s persona. Non posse is not a straightforward treatise based on a previous lesson in Plutarch’s school, but a literary dialogue. This opens another intertextual dimension of the work, for the dialogue is the privileged genre of Plutarch’s great model, Plato.14 Moreover, it is 13

14

Thus H. Görgemanns, Untersuchungen zu Plutarchs Dialog De facie in orbe lunae (Heidelberg: Winter, 1970) 60, who regards Non posse as “ein Vortrag Plutarchs (seine Person wird nicht in Zweifel gelassen) innerhalb des Dialogs” (cf. also 62). On the place of the dialogue in Plutarch’s works, see e.g. K. Ziegler, “Plutarchos von Chaironeia,” RE XXI.1 (1951) 890–893 (focusing on the differences between Plutarch and

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figure 11.4

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Theon and Aristodemus take over

a genre that perfectly fits in with Plutarch’s Platonic philosophy, as it directly supports its fundamentally ‘zetetic’ approach15 by showing how all the participants in the discussion search for the truth together. We may, at this point, briefly compare Non posse with Table Talk. Both works indeed are literary dialogues in a pedagogical setting.16 Moreover, both somewhat underdevelop the dialogical element:17 the different participants listen to each other and develop their own view, often in response to the previous speaker, but real and sustained interaction between the speakers, or Socratic ‘elenctic’ refutation, is not to be found. In Table Talk, this absence probably results from the influence of the genre of ζήτημα: the speakers propose various solutions to a problem, based on their own expertise and/or philo-

15

16

17

his model Plato); I. Gallo, “Forma letteraria nei ‘Moralia’ di Plutarco: Aspetti e problemi,” in ANRW II.34.4 (Berlin-New York: De Gruyter, 1998) 3522–3523 and 3528–3531; L. Van der Stockt, “Aspects of the Ethics and Poetics of the Dialogue in the Corpus Plutarcheum,” in I. Gallo & C. Moreschini (eds.), I generi letterari in Plutarco (Naples: D’Auria, 2000) 93– 116. On this ‘zetetic’ approach, see e.g. Opsomer, In Search of the Truth, 189 and 191; Van der Stockt, “Aspects of the Ethics and Poetics of the Dialogue,” 96; G. Roskam, “From Stick to Reasoning. Plutarch on the Communication between Teacher and Pupil,” WS 117 (2004) 100 and 103; M. Bonazzi, “L’offerta di Plutarco. Teologia e filosofia nel De E apud Delphos (capitoli 1–2),” Philologus 152 (2008) 205–211; E. Kechagia, “Philosophy in Plutarch’s Table Talk. In Jest or in Earnest?” in F. Klotz & K. Oikonomopoulou (eds.), The Philosopher’s Banquet. Plutarch’s Table Talk in the Intellectual Culture of the Roman Empire (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011) 80 and 93–104. Of course, the conversations of Table Talk were not held in Plutarch’s school, but several of them had a clear educative character; see G. Roskam, “Educating the Young … over Wine? Plutarch, Calvenus Taurus, and Favorinus as Convivial Teachers,” in J. Ribeiro Ferreira et al. (eds.), Symposion and Philanthropia in Plutarch (Coimbra: Classica Digitalia, 2009) 369– 383 and Kechagia “Philosophy in Plutarch’s Table Talk.” Pace Gallo, “Forma letteraria nei ‘Moralia’ di Plutarco,” 3523, who regards Non posse as a “vero e proprio dialogo”.

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sophical convictions, and these solutions are merely juxtaposed, as successive items in an elaborate ζήτημα.18 In Non posse, it is rather the framework of Plutarch’s school that seems to interfere with a real dialogue: all students share the same Platonic convictions—no need to discuss about that—and make their own contribution to a common project, under the approving eye of their teacher, Plutarch. The purpose of the συζήτησις in Non posse, then, is not searching for alternative explanations but elaborating one basic argument together. 3.3 The Method The most important difference between Against Colotes and Non posse is perhaps the methodological one. This appears from the programmatic introduction to Non posse, which contains interesting methodological reflections.19 Aristodemus first proposes to demonstrate that Epicurean philosophy makes it impossible to live a good life (εὖ ζῆν; 1087A). This is a traditional argument that is well in line with Aristodemus’ own Platonic outlook and with what Plutarch himself already argued in Against Colotes.20 If the company would have adopted this line of reasoning, the two works would have been closely related from a methodological point of view. But Aristodemus’ proposal is rejected by Theon, who proposes a new method: “let us set out to prove, if proved it can be, that they [viz. the Epicureans] actually make a pleasurable life impossible” (1087B). This is a completely different approach: Colotes’ Epicurean position will now be refuted on the basis of his own Epicurean convictions (see Figure 11.5). Fundamentally, such a strategy is still a reply to Colotes, albeit along different lines. A thorough investigation will now show that the application of the Epicurean standards does not undermine the rich philosophical tradition, as

18

19

20

For the importance of the genre of ζήτημα in the Corpus Plutarcheum, see e.g. J. Opsomer, “Ζητήματα: structure et argumentation dans les Quaestiones Platonicae,” in J.A. Fernández Delgado & F. Pordomingo Pardo (eds.), Estudios sobre Plutarco: Aspectos Formales (Salamanca: Universidad de Salamanca, 1996) 71–83; G. Roskam, “Two Quaestiones Socraticae in Plutarch,” in J.M. Candau Morón et al. (eds.), Plutarco transmisor. Actas del X Simposio Internacional de la Sociedad Española de Plutarquistas (Sevilla: Universidad de Sevilla, 2011) 419–431. See G. Roskam, “Considering Tit for Tat. The Programmatic Introduction to Non posse suaviter vivi secundum Epicurum,” in M. Sanz Moralez et al. (eds.), La (inter)textualidad en Plutarco (Cáceres-Coimbra: Universidad de Extremadura, 2017) 345–356 for a detailed analysis. Aristodemus explicitly refers back to Plutarch’s argument (τὸ δὲ ἐν ἀρχῇ τῶν λόγων ῥηθὲν πρὸς τοὺς ἄνδρας); Non posse 1087A, referring back to Adv. Colot. 1108C.

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figure 11.5

Internal criticism of the Epicurean position

figure 11.6

Theon and Aristodemus versus Colotes

183

Colotes would have it, but the Epicurean ideal itself. A comparison of Colotes’ project with that of Theon illustrates how Theon turns Colotes’ arguments against the Epicurean himself (see Figure 11.6). Theon’s polemic argument rests on the great importance that was given in ancient philosophical thinking to consistency between words and deeds. A philosopher should practice what he preaches; if he fails to do so, he immediately loses all credibility. But if he does translate his words into deeds, and this practical application of his doctrines does not lead to the hoped-for results, his philosophy is no less refuted. And this is what is at stake in Non posse: if Theon can prove that a man cannot enjoy a pleasant life, which is the highest end of Epicurean philosophy, precisely because he endorses Epicurean convictions, then we can all bid farewell to Epicureanism and look for our happiness elsewhere (in Plutarch’s school, for instance). In spite of a short critical comment by Aristodemus (1087C), this line of argument is adopted. The choice of this polemic strategy, however, has several important consequences for the rest of the work. First, it entails a subtle change of the polemic target. After the opening section of the work, Colotes, indeed, almost completely disappears from the scene. In the main body of Non posse, he is mentioned only once, and even there,

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Theon does not attack his philosophical view, but merely refers to his notorious act of adoration (Non posse 1100A and C). In Theon’s eyes, this is little more than a fait divers in the history of Epicureanism, a piece of information that can be coupled with other statements about Epicurus’ mother and his brother Neocles. In this passage, as in Non posse as a whole, the real targets are Epicurus and Metrodorus, the heavyweights of the Garden. In Non posse, Plutarch, as it were, leaves Colotes behind, relegating him to the secondary position that he deserves21 and turning to what is really important. Even if Theon’s polemic argument turns Colotes’ argument against himself, the Epicurean is too unimportant to be treated, for the second time, as the principal opponent. Plutarch and his students have already wasted too much time and energy on him. Second, as a direct consequence of Theon’s strategy, Epicurus has to play a double role in Non posse. He is, for the sake of the argument, the source of inspiration for Theon and Aristodemus, while at the same time he is their polemic target. As a result, the value of their arguments also depends on the accuracy with which they deal with Epicurus’ doctrines. Theon’s ambitions in this respect are methodologically blameless: “let us make the most of what they offer us” (νῦν δὲ χρησώμεθα τοῖς διδομένοις ὑπ’ αὐτῶν, 1087D). This suggests a fair discussion, and Plutarch himself emphatically supports this claim by presenting Non posse, at the very outset, as a normative model of a correct polemical approach (1086D). Moreover, this claim is prima facie not even unjustified, at least insofar as the quotations from Epicurus and Metrodorus are indeed generally reliable.22 This does not mean, however, that Theon and Aristodemus always present the Epicurean point of view in a correct and fair way. Their quotations may be reliable, but their selection of the material is biased. They are particularly interested in extremely radical and provocative statements, or quote sayings that only deal with one aspect of an issue. If such passages are isolated from their context and introduced without further explanation as the

21 22

Cf. Adv. Colot. 1108B, where Plutarch observes that we should not take the book more seriously than it is proper. On the reliability of Plutarch’s citations from Epicurus, see J.P. Hershbell, “Plutarch and Epicureanism,” in ANRW II.36.5 (Berlin-New York: De Gruyter, 1992) 3365–3368; J. Boulogne, Plutarque dans le miroir d’Épicure. Analyse d’une critique systématique de l’ épicurisme (Villeneuve d’Ascq: Presses universitaires du Septentrion, 2003) 17. For the references to Metrodorus, see Hershbell “Plutarch and Epicureanism,” 3368–3369. Hershbell expresses some doubts about Plutarch’s accuracy as far as his quotations from Metrodorus are concerned, but the few cases where parallels are available (De tranq. an. 476C ~ SV 47 and Adv. Colot. 1125B = fr. 6 K. ~ PHerc. 418,12–14; see on the latter parallel E. Spinelli, “Metrodoro contro i dialettici?” CErc 16 [1986] 33 and A. Tepedino Guerra, “Metrodoro ‘Contro i dialettici’?” CErc 22 [1992] 119–120) show a remarkable accuracy.

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figure 11.7

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Theon’s and Aristodemus’ Platonic reception of Epicureanism

orthodox Epicurean position, the refutation becomes easy, of course, but such a line of argumentation does seldom justice to Epicurus’ usual sense of nuance and qualification.23 Moreover, Theon’s and Aristodemus’ reception of the Epicurean doctrines is also colored by their own philosophical tradition, most notably by Plato.24 Warren has shown that Plutarch’s understanding of pleasure in Non posse rests on several key passages from Plato’s Republic.25 While developing his antiEpicurean attack, then, Theon himself does not endorse the orthodox Epicurean understanding of pleasure, but the Platonic one, and this obviously undermines his argument. Just as Colotes’ view of the philosophical tradition is biased by his Epicurean perspective, Theon’s view of Epicureanism is biased by his Platonic outlook (see Figure 11.7). Whereas Theon’s proposal to attack Epicurus’ position from the inside is, in itself, impeccable, his concrete approach is methodologically more problematic than it appears. In this case, intertextuality often undermines the argument rather than contributing to it.

4

Weaving the Different Threads Together

The above analysis has revealed a complicated web of intertextual relations. Up to now, we have seen that four main actors are involved in the overall argument of Non posse (see Figure 11.8). 23 24

25

Cf. Roskam, Live Unnoticed, 148 and passim. See A. Giavatto, “Répertoire des citations de Platon dans les Moralia,” in X. Brouillette & A. Giavatto (eds.), Les dialogues platoniciens chez Plutarque. Stratégies et méthodes exégétiques (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2010) 139–140 for a list of quotations from Plato’s works in Non posse. J. Warren, “Pleasure, Plutarch’s Non posse and Plato’s Republic,” CQ 61 (2011) 278–293.

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figure 11.8

The four main actors

Their mutual interplay conditions the argumentative dynamics and the goal of the work. Not all four of them, however, are equally important. Colotes, as we have seen, plays a minor part. His work occupied a central position in an earlier treatise (Against Colotes), but in Non posse it is little more than the point of departure for further discussion. As soon as Colotes has done his work, he can be forgotten. More important is the framework of Plutarch’s school, which significantly conditions the course of the discussion. In the introductory section of Non posse, Plutarch tells how his students took themselves the initiative for further discussion, and the rest of the work aims to show how they fully elaborated an anti-Epicurean argument in an accurate and fair way. In that sense, Plutarch’s students do better than Colotes, asking correct questions and coming up with sensible answers. Plutarch’s disciples, in short, far surpass those of Epicurus. Epicurus and the tradition have to play a similar part, in that both are, at the same time, the source for and the object of the discussion. Yet they are also diametrically opposed to each other: whereas Epicurus is the central polemical target, the tradition plays a contrastive role—its ideals being confirmed every time Epicurus proves to be wrong. Together, they provide the opposite threads of the intellectual web that is woven in Plutarch’s school. Yet there is one actor missing from the above scheme, probably the most important of all, and that is, of course, Plutarch himself (see Figure 11.9). In Non posse, Plutarch usually stays in the background, presenting himself as a kind of ideal teacher who generously stimulates his students and confirms them whenever they ask for it, but who further leaves the initiative to them— quite similar to his own teacher Ammonius, as he is presented in On the Delphic E and Table Talk.26 As a character in Non posse, Plutarch is a man of few words.

26

Roskam, “From Stick to Reasoning,” 108–113.

“let us make the most of what they offer us”

figure 11.9

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Plutarch as fifth actor

Plutarch the author, however, is different. He is the director who post factum writes down the whole conversation. Whether or not the discussion actually took place, and whether Theon and Aristodemus really proposed all the arguments that are attributed to them, is a question that is only of secondary importance here.27 In any case, it is Plutarch who holds the pen, polishes the different arguments, and structures and edits the whole discussion. And this is obviously not only a matter of elocutio. Plutarch also adds a wealth of quotations from other works, not only Epicurean or even philosophical material, but also references to poets, historians, scientific literature, and so on. As a result, the tradition that is defended in Non posse is much broader than the philosophical tradition attacked by Colotes. The latter’s universal claims turn out to be limited in light of the much greater erudition shown by Plutarch. In the end, it is the whole of Greek education, of the παιδεία scorned by the Epicureans,28 that is mobilized against Epicurus and his followers. And thus, we come across the last dimension of intertextuality in Non posse. The many references to all these texts from the age-long tradition do not only 27

28

It is impossible to reach certainty on this matter, but I am inclined to adopt a middle position and argue that, while the dialogue does not contain the verba ipsissima of Theon and Aristodemus, Non posse can nevertheless be traced back to a conversation that was held in Plutarch’s school. A similar conclusion may be reached in the case of Table Talk; cf. G. Roskam, “Plutarch’s ‘Socratic Symposia’. The Symposia of Plato and Xenophon as Literary Models in the Quaestiones convivales,” Athenaeum 98 (2010) 46–47 (with further literature). Cf. D.L. 10.6 (= fr. 163 Us.). For Epicurus’ attack on the poets, see K.-D. Zacher, Plutarchs Kritik an der Lustlehre Epikurs. Ein Kommentar zu Non posse suaviter vivi secundum Epicurum: Kap. 1–8 (Königstein: Hain, 1982) 54–55. Plutarch devotes a long section of Non posse to an attack against Epicurus’ supposed rejection of the intellectual pleasures that can be derived from the contemplative life; see Non posse 1092E–1097A, and the brief discussion in H. Adam, Plutarchs Schrift non posse suaviter vivi secundum Epicurum. Eine Interpretation (Amsterdam: Gruener, 1974) 42–45.

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have a pedagogical function. They also reflect a way of being and constitute the identity itself of Plutarch as a thinker and an author. All this display of erudition is not just a matter of strategic self-promotion: it is part and parcel of Plutarch’s way of thinking and writing, of the way in which he expressed his ideas in continuous dialogue with the past. In nearly all of his works, Plutarch breathed literature. Surely he must have eaten quotations for breakfast.

chapter 12

The Encounter between Roman Virtue and Platonism in Plutarch’s Cato the Elder Michael Nerdahl

Abstract In Plutarch’s Life of Cato the Elder, Platonic allusions and intertextual references play an innovative role in our moral-philosophical understanding of this titan of traditional Roman culture. Cato, a famously anti-Hellenic curmudgeon, is relentless in his disdain for Greek culture. Thus, the informed reader of Plutarch should expect a negative portrayal of Cato, like that of the explicitly anti-Hellenic Caius Marius. Instead Plutarch’s Cato is a relatively positive figure, who benefits Rome in spite of consistently expressing a preference for Roman culture over Plutarch’s adored Greek paideia. Yet, Cato’s claims to anti-Hellenic identity are complicated by Plutarch’s use of intertextual references to the works of Plato. These connections in the Life between Platonic philosophy and Cato’s career at first sight suggest that Plutarch’s Cato has unconsciously absorbed Greek philosophy into his worldview. However, a key intertextual reference to Plato’s Meno at the conclusion of the biography casts an instructive light on our interpretation of Cato’s character, addressing both how Cato’s Roman virtue is successful and how it—in Platonic terms—ultimately proves problematic.

In writing the Lives, Plutarch prefers to encourage meaningful reflection on his figures through implication as opposed to directive.1 In intertextuality, he has a remarkably deft tool, as it allows him to offer sophisticated, even philosophical analysis of his figures without the need to make prescriptive remarks. A work that demonstrates the potential of such implied instruction through intertextuality is the Cato the Elder. In this Life, Plutarch employs intertextual references to provide a particularly nuanced interpretation that helps to resolve a paradox for Plutarch: namely, how a devoted anti-Hellene like Cato can nevertheless be a virtuous example for Rome. For, as has been well established, Plutarch di1 On this topic, see esp. T.E. Duff, “Plutarch’s Lives and the Critical Reader,” in G. Roskam & L. Van der Stockt (eds.), Virtues for the People: Aspects of Plutarchan Ethics (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2011) 59–82.

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plays frequent concern for how Romans relate to Hellenic culture,2 and Cato’s antagonism toward Greek education and philosophy in favor of traditional Roman methods should make him a morally unsettling figure, much along the lines of someone like Caius Marius, who “never used the Greek language for any matter of real importance, thinking it ridiculous to study a literature whose teachers were the subject of another people” (Mar. 2.2–3).3 Still, while Cato certainly has his faults, in no way can even the most injudicious reader consider him a moral or political failure on the level of Caius Marius.4 In fact, Cato demonstrates a consistent, philosophical concern for self-improvement, especially with respect to virtue (arete),5 a concern that echoes Plutarch’s own purpose in writing the Lives.6 It is in resolving this conflict between the antiHellenic sentiments of Cato and his position as a paragon of Roman virtue that Plutarch makes critical use of intertextuality and allusion, above all to the works of Plato.7 In using such methods, Plutarch emphasizes the innumerable

2 The bibliography on this topic is, of course, extensive. For a broad understanding of the topic, see esp. C.B.R. Pelling, “Plutarch: Roman Heroes and Greek Culture,” in M. Griffin & J. Barnes (eds.), Philosophica Togata: Essays on Philosophy and Roman Society (Oxford-New York: Clarendon Press, 1989) 199–232; S.C.R. Swain, “Hellenic Culture and the Roman Heroes of Plutarch,” JHS 110 (1990) 126–145, reprinted in B. Scardigli (ed.), Essays on Plutarch’s Lives (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995) 229–264; T.E. Duff, Plutarch’s Lives: Exploring Virtue and Vice (Oxford-New York: Oxford University Press, 1999) 72–98. 3 For this failure of Marius specifically, see C.B.R. Pelling, “Rhetoric, Paideia, and Psychology in Plutarch’s Lives,” in L. Van der Stockt (ed.), Rhetorical Theory and Praxis in Plutarch. Acta of the IVth International Congress of the International Plutarch Society, Leuven, July 3–6, 1996 (Leuven: Peeters, 2000) 332–334 [reprinted in C.B.R. Pelling, Plutarch and History: Eighteen Studies (London: Duckworth, 2002) 340–342]. 4 For analysis of Caius Marius, see Duff, Plutarch’s Lives, 101–130; V. Werner, Quantum Bello Optimus, Tantum Pace Pessimus: Studien zum Mariusbild in der antiken Geschichtsschreibung (Bonn: R. Habelt, 1995) 236–251. For Plutarch’s conception of virtue as being relative, see De prof. in virt. 75F–76D. 5 Some examples taken from his own sayings: at Ca. Ma. 8.7 he urges the Romans to remain the same if they have become great through “temperance and virtue” but to change for the better if they did so through “lack of restraint and wickedness”; at 10.5 he claims to be more concerned with rivaling people in virtue (arete) than in wealth or greed. And at 11.3–4 he makes the argument that Rome will only be at her “greatest” (μεγίστην) when she respects her leaders on the grounds of virtue rather than high birth, and receives plaudits for not dismissing his virtue once he was famous, but continuing to aid his fellow Romans at home and abroad. 6 As noted at Aem. 1.1, where Plutarch claims to use the virtues (aretai) of his figures as a looking glass for his own self-improvement. For a discussion of this programmatic statement and its relation to Plutarchan instruction, see Duff, Plutarch’s Lives, 30–34. 7 For the importance of Platonism for Plutarch, see R. Lamberton, Plutarch (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2001) 12–44; J. Dillon, “Plutarch and Platonism,” in M. Beck (ed.), A Companion to Plutarch (Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2014) 61–72.

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benefits of Cato’s Roman education in relation to Platonic philosophy, but also, in a key concluding intertextual reference, points out the nuanced, instructive way that Cato’s virtuous character is ultimately lacking. Before analyzing the Platonic allusions and intertext that I consider particularly illuminating, I first want to stress an especially strong connection that is present between Cato and Plutarch’s paradigmatic philosophical hero, Socrates. Socrates holds a prominent position in the Aristides-Cato the Elder pair, appearing more often in these two Lives than in any other pair aside from Coriolanus-Alcibiades—where, as Alcibiades’ teacher and lover, he is necessarily a pivotal figure.8 In Cato the Elder, Socrates appears by name three times: first, Plutarch stresses that he finds Cato’s speaking style to be reminiscent of Socrates, “who seemed externally to be an unskilled, satyr-like, aggressive fellow to those who met him, while being internally full of earnestness and things that would move tears and trouble the heart of his listeners” (7.1–2). In spite of this avowed similarity, however, Plutarch later remarks that the only thing Cato approved of in Socrates was that he demonstrated patience and kindness towards a difficult wife and stupid children (20.3). This acidic compliment anticipates his ultimate judgment on the man, for Cato “railed completely against philosophy, reproaching the Greek Muses and their system of education (paideia) out of a concern for Roman honor, and considered even Socrates a violent blabbermouth” (23.1). As both Christopher Pelling and Mark Beck have argued,9 for Plutarch, Socrates is the embodiment of the virtuous life. As a consequence, Cato’s explicit condemnation of the self-aware, emotionally even-keeled Socrates tells us, as Pelling has stated, “a good deal about Cato and the extreme version of stiff-necked Roman values that he represents.”10 The references to Socrates in this Life thus serve two functions: first, the Roman hero’s haughty disdain for Socrates anticipates Cato’s ultimate philosophical deficiencies, and the presence of Socrates in the Life also encourages the reader to anticipate Platonic intertext and allusions. This picture of Cato as an avid anti-Hellenic philosopher likely strikes the reader as typical, but it should be stressed that Plutarch was in no way bound by his sources to portray Cato in such a way.11 Plutarch might have followed

8 9

10 11

See esp. Alc. 1–7. Socrates is mentioned in the parallel Life of Aristides at 1.2, 9; 27.3–4. C.B.R. Pelling, “Plutarch’s Socrates,”Hermathena 179 (2005) 105–139; M. Beck, “The Socratic Paradigm,” in M. Beck (ed.), A Companion to Plutarch (Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2014) 463–478. Pelling, “Plutarch’s Socrates,” 114. For the historical accuracy and problematic issues of portraying Cato as an ‘anti-Hellenic’ figure, see A. Astin, Cato the Censor (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1978) 157–181.

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a more positive precedent in writing this Life, namely, Cicero’s dialogue De senectute.12 In this work, with which Plutarch is familiar,13 Cato features as a font of Hellenic, philosophical wisdom, and Cicero states in the preface that “if Cato will seem to be more learned than he is accustomed in his own works, attribute this to Greek literature, which it is well known that he became quite keen on in his old age” (Sen. 1.3). Throughout this dialogue, Cato frequently appeals to the thought of many Greek philosophers, and (like Plutarch’s Cato) refers to the works of Plato and Xenophon.14 Cicero’s Cato states, in fact, that he has “learned of those things which Socrates discussed on the last day of his life, concerning the immortality of souls; that Socrates, who was judged the wisest of all by the oracle of Apollo” (21.78). The document teems with Cato’s appreciation for Greek culture, plausibly presented as something Cato learned late in his life. Cicero has also emphasized Cato’s respect for Socrates, who is explicitly maligned by Cato in Plutarch’s version, as noted above. In sum, we see that Plutarch has outright rejected the Ciceronian portrait of Cato the redeemed philosophical Hellenophile in favor of presenting him as a consistent denouncer of Greek culture. And yet, Plutarch’s Cato shares much of the familiarity with Greek learning exhibited by Cicero’s Cato. In Plutarch’s Life, Cato quotes Themistocles (Ca. Ma. 8.4–5) and Homer (8.3; 27.6), praises Greeks like Epaminondas, Pericles, and Themistocles alongside his Roman hero Manius Curius Dentatus (8.14), and he is well-read with respect to Thucydides and Demosthenes (2.5). Plutarch also stresses that Cato’s own works are peppered with Greek anecdotes (2.6). Still, Plutarch repeatedly emphasizes Cato’s antagonism towards Greek culture and literature, in particular when Cato is old.15 When Plutarch quotes Cato as insist12

13 14

15

In fact, as C. Carsana, “Il Catone di Plutarco,” in A. Gonzalès & M.T. Schettino (eds.), L’ idéalisation de l’ autre: faire un modèle d’un anti-modèle. Actes du 2e colloque SoPHiASociété, politique, histoire de l’ Antiquité, tenu à Besançon les 26–28 novembre 2012 (Besançon: Presses Universitaires de Franche-Comté, 2014) 243–266 argues, Plutarch’s depiction of Cato at the end of his life is, in many ways, the philosophical antithesis of how he is presented in Cicero’s work. At Ca. Ma. 17.5, he mentions Cicero’s Sen. as a source for the story of L. Quinctius Flamininus (from chapter 42). See J.G.F. Powell, Cicero. Cato Maior de Senectute (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988) 111–113 on how the opening of the dialogue (2.6–8) corresponds to the opening of Plato’s R. (1.328d–330a), where Laelius plays the role of Socrates, and Cato the role of Cephalus. Powell also discusses (224–226) connections between Xenophon’s Oec. (4.20– 25) and Sen. 59, and argues (256–258) for extensive similarities between Sen. 79 and Xenophon’s Cyr. (8.7.17–22). As for when Cato studied Greek, the evidence provided by Plutarch is unclear. He reveals that Cato “is said” (λέγεται) to have read Greek literature late in life (Ca. Ma. 2.3), but

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ing to his son that Greek culture would ruin Rome, he explicitly notes that Cato says this while an old man (23.2).16 Cato’s attitude is perhaps best characterized by his actions in Athens in 191BCE. There, Plutarch tells us, using an interpreter, Cato chose to give a speech in Latin about his admiration for the virtues of the Athenians of old. Cato, he adds, could have given the speech in Greek himself, but that he instead “abided by his forefathers and ridiculed those who admired all things Greek” (12.5). Here, a rare concession to Greek excellence is undermined by deliberately expressed scorn for contemporary fascination with Hellas. For Plutarch, the (often spiteful) contest between Cato’s devotion to Roman simplicity and the influence of Greek culture and philosophy is one of the most important elements coloring his status as a virtuous example. The singular role of Roman virtue in defining Cato’s character, however, acquires special nuance when we see that some fundamental explanations for his moral development arise in passages that refer to Platonism. Cato’s first encounter with Platonic thought occurs early on. As Plutarch recalls, Cato meets a Pythagorean philosopher while a young man serving at Tarentum. We are told that (2.4) ἀκούσας δὲ ταῦτα διαλεγομένου τοῦ ἀνδρὸς οἷς καὶ Πλάτων κέχρηται, τὴν μὲν ἡδονὴν ἀποκαλῶν μέγιστον κακοῦ δέλεαρ, συμφορὰν δὲ τῇ ψυχῇ τὸ σῶμα πρώτην, λύσιν δὲ καὶ καθαρμὸν οἷς μάλιστα χωρίζει καὶ ἀφίστησιν αὑτὴν τῶν περὶ τὸ σῶμα παθημάτων λογισμοῖς, ἔτι μᾶλλον ἠγάπησε τὸ λιτὸν καὶ τὴν ἐγκράτειαν. Once he had heard the man [= Nearchus the Pythagorean] discussing the things that Plato has proclaimed, namely warning that “pleasure is the greatest lure of evil,”17 that the primary misfortune for the soul is the body, and that there is release and purification by means of those thoughts that especially separate and distance the soul from the experiences of the body, Cato grew still more fond of simplicity and self-control.18

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the episode in Athens (referenced below) occurred in 191BCE. Most other anecdotes concerning Cato’s use of Greek quotations and historical knowledge, when datable, occur no earlier than the late 170s BCE. On the implications of λέγεται, see B. Cook, “Plutarch’s Use of λέγεται: Narrative Design and Source in Alexander,” GRBS 42 (2001) 329–360. For other pre-Plutarchan authors who echo the statement that Cato learned Greek late, see Powell, Cicero. Cato Maior, 103. On this sentiment, cf. Plin. Nat. 29.14, where he quotes Cato’s Ad Marcum filium. Pl. Ti. 69d. The episode also appears at Cic. Sen. 11.39–12.41, though Cicero assigns the thoughts to a Tarentine named Archytas. Cicero’s Cato also insists (12.41) that Plato once visited Tarentum, a piece of information unmentioned by Plutarch.

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The moral benefits of this event are clear, but what is more, the content of these Pythagorean-infused discussions is explicitly linked to Platonism, and the episode spurs Cato to redouble his youthful designs on virtue.19 So, already as a young man, Cato’s virtuous Roman character is connected to Platonic teachings. A richer, subtle intertextual reference to Plato occurs in the next chapter. Here, Plutarch describes how Cato is discovered by his subsequent patron and friend, Valerius Flaccus. This man, we are told, “was astute in observing virtue as it was forming (ἀρετὴν φυομένην), and was also kind in his attempts to nourish it and bring it distinction” (3.1). Valerius, in fact, sees that Cato, “like a plant” (φυτόν), needed “a mode of life (ἄσκησις)20 and a position from which he can be noticed” (3.3). Valerius Flaccus takes the excellent young Cato from his land of rustic turnip-eaters and transports him to the political hub of Rome. From there, Cato begins to plead cases and to acquire clients. Then, assisted by Valerius, Cato becomes military tribune as the first step in his political career (3.3). This episode recalls a metaphor shared in the sixth book of Plato’s Republic, where Socrates states (491d–492a) Παντός … σπέρματος πέρι ἢ φυτοῦ, εἴτε ἐγγείων εἴτε τῶν ζῴων, ἴσμεν ὅτι τὸ μὴ τυχὸν τροφῆς ἧς προσήκει ἑκάστῳ μηδ’ ὥρας μηδὲ τόπου, ὅσῳ ἂν ἐρρωμενέστερον ᾖ, τοσούτῳ πλειόνων ἐνδεῖ τῶν πρεπόντων … Ἣν τοίνυν ἔθεμεν τοῦ φιλοσόφου φύσιν, ἂν μὲν οἶμαι μαθήσεως προσηκούσης τύχῃ, εἰς πᾶσαν ἀρετὴν ἀνάγκη αὐξανομένην ἀφικνεῖσθαι, ἐὰν δὲ μὴ ἐν προσηκούσῃ σπαρεῖσά τε καὶ φυτευθεῖσα τρέφηται, εἰς πάντα τἀναντία αὖ, ἐὰν μή τις αὐτῇ βοηθήσας θεῶν τύχῃ. We know that, concerning every seed or plant, whether animal or vegetable, that should it not receive the nourishment each needs, nor proper season or place, the more vigorous it is, the more it is wanting of achieving its potential … Now, as for the philosophic nature that we have established, should it happen to receive suitable instruction, it will necessarily arrive at complete virtue, but if that nature should be sown, planted, and

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The importance of this fact has also been noted by A. Pérez Jiménez, “Exemplum: The Paradigmatic Education of the Ruler in the Lives of Plutarch,” in P.A. Stadter & L. Van der Stockt (eds.), Sage and Emperor: Plutarch, Greek Intellectuals, and Roman Power in the Time of Trajan (98–117 A.D.) (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2002) 111. On the importance of the role of ἄσκησις, “training” or “practice,” in acquiring virtue in Plutarch, see De prof. in virt. 83A–C.

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grown improperly, it will develop in quite the opposite way, unless one of the gods should be there to assist it.21 Like Socrates, Valerius is concerned with aiding Cato while still young and developing. So, recognizing Cato’s nature, he provides a new, more beneficial location in which Cato can grow, and he re-plants (so to speak) this virtuous youth in Rome, so that Cato can take root in a more appropriate environment and be more likely to attain “complete virtue.” Hellenic philosophy, again, has echoes in Cato’s life. In the first instance, at Tarentum, Platonic philosophy confirms his own moral inclinations; and here, the advice advocated by Socrates to help virtue flourish in an individual is similarly followed to Cato’s benefit.22 Still, while the philosophy underlying the episode is Platonic, Cato’s education is unquestioningly Roman. The subsequent description of Cato’s character does not highlight Hellenic paideia or philosophy but instead Cato’s relationship with famous Roman figures.23 The traditional Roman-ness of Cato’s further development is emphasized by the fact that Cato opposes Scipio Africanus, whom he disapproves of because he corrupts the “native simplicity” of his soldiers,24 and seeks out Fabius Maximus, to whom he attaches himself “because of his character and conduct, which Cato regarded as the finest models to follow” (Ca. Ma. 3.4).25 Thus, in this transitional episode, we have a blending of the Greek and the Roman elements, which are again thematically significant to Cato’s development: first, there is the desire of Valerius Flaccus to transplant 21

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For further discussion of this passage from the Republic in Plutarch, see Duff, Plutarch’s Lives, 207, who discusses it in relation to Coriolanus, a figure who lacks a proper education himself. This botanical theme also appears in the Alc. There, Socrates is concerned that the magnificent talents of Alcibiades attract the attention of too many people, and he “wanted to protect him, and not allow such a plant in bloom to lose and waste its fruit” (4.1). The concern in the Alc., as at R. 6.490d–495b, is that Alcibiades will be corrupted by the Athenian people, like any philosopher who associates too much with the greater population. The metaphor also appears at Dem. 1.3: “For it is fair to say that other arts composed for profit or reputation wither away in obscure and humble cities; but virtue (arete), like a strong and enduring plant, takes root anywhere, so long as it lays hold of an upright nature and an industrious soul.” Note that, in this passage, virtue is the seed that has need of a specific type of environment. His actions here are similar to those for which Cato himself praises his father and greatgrandfather, whose virtue he considers to have transcended their status as “new men” (Ca. Ma. 1.1–2), and likewise similar to how he consciously and reflectively emulates the life of M’. Curius Dentatus (2.1–2.3). Ca. Ma. 3.5. See Plutarch’s discussion of the benefits of imitating a good example at De prof. in virt. 84B–C.

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Cato’s growing virtue to a different forum, which intertextually recalls Socrates’ concern in the Republic with getting each citizen the best education; second, Plutarch stresses that the nature of Cato’s own development occurs at Rome among traditional Roman exemplars like Fabius. Once more, the Greek and Roman influences on Cato are fundamentally in agreement. Cato, to his credit, even if consistently disdainful of Greek learning, nevertheless takes education very seriously. Later in the Life, when Plutarch discusses Cato’s relationship with his family, Plutarch approvingly explains how Cato taught his son (20.5–9): ἐπεὶ δ’ ἤρξατο συνιέναι, παραλαβὼν αὐτὸς ἐδίδασκε γράμματα … αὐτὸς μὲν ἦν γραμματιστής, αὐτὸς δὲ νομοδιδάκτης, αὐτὸς δὲ γυμναστής … καὶ τὰς ἱστορίας δὲ συγγράψαι φησὶν αὐτὸς ἰδίᾳ χειρὶ καὶ μεγάλοις γράμμασιν, ὅπως οἴκοθεν ὑπάρχοι τῷ παιδὶ πρὸς ἐμπειρίαν τῶν παλαιῶν καὶ πατρίων ὠφελεῖσθαι … οὕτω δὲ καλὸν ἔργον εἰς ἀρετὴν τῷ Κάτωνι πλάττοντι καὶ δημιουργοῦντι τὸν υἱόν … Once his son began to display intelligence, Cato himself undertook to teach him letters … he himself was his grammar teacher, his law-teacher, and his physical trainer … Also he himself says that he wrote his histories with his own hand and in large letters so that his son would have the opportunity, from within his own home, to benefit through acquaintance with the men of old and his forefathers … So did Cato take on the excellent task of molding and fashioning his son to virtue … The passage then lists the good qualities and brave deeds of Marcus Cato filius (20.10–11). Once more, applying knowledge of Plato’s works to the context is instructive: first, recall that Cato is paired with Aristides, a man whom the Platonic Socrates praises in the Gorgias as being one of the few men in Athens who managed to live a just life when he had freedom to do what was unjust (Grg. 526b).26 And while Socrates very much approves of Aristides as an upright individual, one area where he suggests that Aristides was a failure was in the education of his son Lysimachus. In the Meno, a dialogue concerned with whether or not virtue can be taught, Socrates names, one after another, the great lead-

26

This passage is alluded to at Arist. 25.9, but there Plutarch says of Aristides, “Plato shows that of all the men considered great and famous at Athens, [Aristides] was the only man worthy of discussion (logos).” The reference is essentially a merging of the thought noted here from Pl. Grg. 526b as well as the criticism of Pericles, Cimon, and Themistocles presented by Socrates at Grg. 519a. See also D. Sansone, Plutarch: The Lives of Aristides and Cato (Warminster: Aris & Phillips, 1989) ad loc.

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ers of the Athenians who seem to have failed to pass their greatness on to their descendants: Themistocles, Aristides, Pericles. All these great leaders are criticized for their inability to teach virtue (arete) to their sons (Men. 94a). Cato, then, compares quite favorably to these figures when it comes to ensuring that his son will be virtuous. As Plutarch says, “Ultimately, his diligence towards his son had a result worthy of Cato” (Ca. Ma. 20.12). Indeed, Cato’s virtuous legacy is stressed at the conclusion. Plutarch reminds his reader at the close of the Life that this Cato is great-grandfather to “Cato the philosopher, who for virtue (arete) and renown was one of the most illustrious figures of his time” (27.7). While the younger Cato’s philosophical credentials are, of course, not directly attributable to his great-grandfather, the explicit link between the two men underscores a key point: unlike Themistocles, Aristides, and Pericles, who fail to adequately train their children as Socrates laments in the Meno,27 the elder Cato is a teacher of consequence.28 Still, the content of Cato’s teachings is Roman and decidedly anti-Hellenic. To his son, Cato slanders Greek culture and deliberately adheres to a traditional Roman education.29 Here, as elsewhere, the Life demonstrates the correspondence between Cato’s Roman education and Platonic philosophy through allusion and intertextual references, while also stressing Cato’s self-avowed rejection of Hellenic culture.30 One might argue that these Platonic references might be a way to link Cato’s virtuous characteristics to an unconscious appreciation for Greek learning and philosophy. That is, perhaps the insertion of Platonic allusion and intertextuality into the Life of Cato is merely a way to ‘sneak’ the benefits of Platonism and, by extension, Greek paideia, into Cato’s character while simultaneously allowing Plutarch to criticize Cato for his explicit, hypocritical stance against Hellenism. In such a reading, Cato is only virtuous because of Greek culture, in spite of his lack of awareness about how it shaped him. I would counter this claim by emphasizing that rather than presenting Cato as being instructed

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In fact, Aristides’ grandson became a fortune teller (Arist. 27.3), which earns Plutarch’s outright contempt at Comp. Arist. et Ca. Ma. 3.6. Cato the Younger is a devoted, if flawed, student of philosophy (See esp. Ca. Mi. 4, 6, 10, 67–69). His moral failures in applying this learning are illustrated in A. Zadorojnyi, “Cato’s Suicide in Plutarch,” CQ 57 (2007) 216–230. E.g. see Ca. Ma. 23.2, quoted above. If one compares Cato’s instruction of his son to that of the way Aemilius Paullus is described, the implication that the education is Roman in nature is stronger, though (admittedly) not wholly explicit. At Aem. 6.8, Plutarch notes that, after losing the election for a second consulship, Aemilius trained “his children in the native and ancestral education, as he himself had been trained (τὴν μὲν ἐπιχώριον παιδείαν καὶ πάτριον ὥσπερ αὐτός), but also, quite zealously, in the education of Greece.”

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by Hellenic thinking, Plutarch shows that Hellenism is not the force that primarily informs his virtues. The episode with the Pythagorean in Tarentum only encourages Cato to follow a path he had already begun. The nature of his political education after meeting Valerius Flaccus is not characterized as Greek, but traditionally Roman, as he embraces, in particular, the model of the stolidly traditional Fabius Maximus in favor of the more Hellenophilic Scipio. His own instruction of Marcus filius is portrayed as successful, and yet he determinedly minimizes Hellenism’s influence on his son. Cato is a contradictory case in the Lives of Plutarch: he is a rabid anti-Hellenist who has a lasting, beneficial impact on his state and family. Cato is not perfect—not one of Plutarch’s heroes is—but he is, in relative terms, a far cry from the monstrosity that the avowedly anti-Hellenic Caius Marius becomes late in his Life.31 Does Cato then provide evidence that Roman virtues are a match for those promoted by Hellenic paideia? One final, instructive, intertextual reference at the end of the biography points to a way we can answer this question and also distinguish between the Catonic and Platonic paths to virtue. The Life concludes with Cato’s famous involvement in initiating the Third Punic War, the end of which Cato will not live to see.32 Early in the war, Scipio Aemilianus had begun to perform clever and bold acts in Africa. Cato speaks approvingly of Aemilianus, at one point quoting Odyssey 10, when Odysseus recalls how Circe urged him to speak with Tiresias’ ghost, whom she characterizes in the following way: “he alone has sense, while the other shadows flit about.” The line, one that seems to weigh heavy on Plutarch’s mind since he uses it in various forms three other times in the Moralia, also appears in Plato’s Meno.33 There, at the end of a dialogue where Socrates and Meno despair of the fact that virtue seems unteachable,34 31 32 33

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See especially Mar. 41–45. It’s also worth noting that Cato appears in Praec. ger. reip. a handful of times as a good example. Ca. Ma. 26–27. At Men. 100a. The quotation Plutarch employs, “ ‘οἶος πέπνυται, τοὶ δὲ σκιαὶ ἀίσσουσι’” (Ca. Ma. 27.6), is modified from the Homeric original: “τῷ καὶ τεθνηῶτι νόον πόρε Περσεφόνεια | οἴῳ πεπνῦσθαι, τοὶ δὲ σκιαὶ ἀίσσουσι” (Od. 10.494–495). Plutarch’s finite usage of the verb in his quotation here is actually similar to Socrates’ summary of Od. 10.495 in the Men.: “οἶος πέπνυται τῶν ἐν Ἅιδου, τοὶ δὲ σκιαὶ ἀίσσουσι” (Men. 100a). Also, when Plutarch cites this same passage at Quaest. conv. 740E, in a discussion of counting the number of souls in the Underworld, Plutarch (attributing the statement to Lamprias) maintains the dativeinfinitive from the original: “ᾦ καὶ τεθνειῶτι νόον πόρε Περσεφόνεια | οἴῳ πεπνῦσθαι” (Od. 10.494–495). But at Praec. ger. reip. 805A as well as Reg. et imp. apophth. 200A, both quotations ascribed to Cato the Elder, as here, use the finite form with the nominative. Plutarch does not seem to agree with the conclusion reached by Socrates and Meno, as evidenced by his arguments in the essays An virt. doc. and De prof. in virt.

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Socrates compares the statesman who truly understands virtue—unlike the rest of us, who only come upon virtue as a gift from the gods—to Tiresias among the shades. At this point Socrates, in order to explain how good men like Pericles, Themistocles, and Aristides came about, has posited that people can have what he calls “right” or “true opinion” (ὀρθὴ/ἀληθὴς δόξα), but that this is not the same as possessing “understanding” (ἐπιστήμη). That is, individuals sometimes happen to have opinions that are correct, but they cannot explain why their opinions are correct; as a result, they do not possess actual understanding.35 The distinction is apt for a discussion of Plutarch’s Cato. Socrates proposes that someone may actually have true opinions about things one knows nothing about (Men. 85c) and subsequently concedes that a person who has a true opinion about something is, in pragmatic terms, as useful and beneficial as someone who has actual understanding (98c–d). But Meno, in the course of this discussion, argues that the difference between one who has right opinion and one who has “understanding” is that “he who has understanding would always hit on the profitable way, whereas he who has right opinion would do so sometimes, but sometimes not.”36 That is, a person with “right opinion” acts identically to a person with “understanding” … until he doesn’t.37 I propose that this intertextual reading illustrates that Plutarch sees Cato not as a man gifted with understanding, but one fortunate enough to have “right opinion.” What’s more, the statement is somewhat ironic. When Socrates utters it at the end of the Meno, he is at a loss and despairing of finding virtue. Cato, in contrast, speaks from a place of confidence and patronizing instruction. While the claim is made of Aemilianus, Cato does not exhibit any recognition that he, too, is merely a shade flitting about. After all, as Casana has noted, many of 35

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As Socrates states, one may go from having “true opinions” to “understanding” through “causal reasoning” (αἰτίας λογισμῷ, Men. 98a). According to Plutarch (De virt. mor. 444D), “understanding” (ἐπιστήμη) becomes possible through “wisdom and prudence” (σοφία καὶ φρόνησις). On the stability of ἐπιστήμη in Plutarch’s thought, cf. Tim. 6.4, where he notes that “decision (προαίρεσις) based on understanding and calculation (λογισμοῦ) does not change.” Pl. Men. 97c. Socrates notes that someone could always have “right opinion,” but appears to come to the conclusion that it would, through recollection arrived at by reasoning out causes, ultimately prove to be “understanding” after all, as highlighted in the previous note. There is, of course, the issue that a person may not be able to truly attain “understanding,” as implied by Plutarch De virt. mor. 444E, where he notes that a virtue that requires the passions (which wisdom is exempt from) is all that’s possible, especially in practical affairs. But the importance is not so much that Cato does not achieve “understanding” as much as his belief that he has, as I note below.

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the virtues Cato exemplified in the beginning of the Life, especially his temperance, have weakened by the end, when he carries on sordid love affairs and luxuriates in banquets.38 The quotation also once more urges the reader to compare Cato to Socrates, Plutarch’s beloved philosophic model. And Cato comes up short again, for Socrates always recognizes he has more to learn. Cato, in contrast, as if lacking self-awareness, has begun to slip late in his life. Relatedly, in his disdain for Greek learning, he mistakenly credits his Romanness for his virtue, whereas Plutarch routinely implies that his most honorable traits and approaches coincide with more universal elements as espoused by Platonic philosophy. His admiration for the life of temperance is reinforced by a Pythagorean whose teachings echo those of Plato; his transfer from the country to Rome recalls the proper treatment of a virtuous soul as proposed by Socrates in the Republic; his careful education of his son compares favorably to the failures of Greek leaders as expressed in the Gorgias and the Meno. But, as my interpretation of the intertextual connection to the Meno suggests, these are not expressions of true understanding, but “opinions.” When Cato’s opinions are “right,” their benefit is profound, as useful and profitable as if he had true philosophical understanding—as one would expect based on Socrates’ conclusions in the Meno. But Cato’s disdain for Greek culture, which Plutarch considers the preferred paradigm for education, underscores that Cato’s certainty in his beliefs does not rest on a firm foundation. Cato, unlike the Socrates he generally despises, has confused “opinion” with “understanding.” Ultimately, it is not enough to be virtuous like Cato, unthinkingly, confidently, and boastfully adhering to Roman simplicity; one needs the value of self-reflection in order, if not to reach “understanding,” then at least to recognize that one still has room to improve. Cato’s is mostly a virtuous life, and, in many respects, it appears guided by philosophy. But without recognition and consideration of what acquiring virtue really means, one’s virtue is precarious. Such a lesson, had Plutarch made it explicit, would be judgmental and tedious. But through intertextuality and allusion, Plutarch can both redeem and criticize the wellmeaning, if flawed, moral philosophy of Cato, bastion of Roman—if not true— virtue. 38

Carsana, “Il Catone di Plutarco,” 260–266.

chapter 13

Plutarch’s Theseus-Romulus and the Murder of Remus Bradley Buszard

Abstract The intertext of Remus’ murder is complex, involving several contradictory versions of Romulus’ and Remus’ motivations and actions. Plutarch’s adaptation of this material in Theseus-Romulus is idiosyncratic. Within the main body of the pair, he is highly critical of Romulus, as though he were condemning his Roman subject in order to exonerate Theseus for the death of Hippolytus. Then, within the concluding synkrisis, Plutarch subverts his earlier approach entirely, excusing the death of Remus and condemning Theseus as unfairly as he previously had Romulus. He thereby forces his readers to reevaluate the intertext of Remus’ murder for themselves.

The intertext of Remus’ murder is among the most varied in the Roman tradition. Its earliest versions evolved from an Indo-European creation myth that has Vedic, Germanic, and Greek parallels.1 Central to this myth are two brothers, one of whom is sacrificed in an act of cosmic creation. In the Roman tradition, as also in the Greek traditions of the Seven against Thebes and the foundation legend of Tanagra, this creation myth is adapted to state formation. Remus gives his life that Rome might be born. Whatever creation narrative originally motivated Remus’ death, it was already obscure by the Middle Republic, and the resulting confusion gave rise to rationalizing interpretations.2 The dispute that leads to Remus’ death, its 1 See J. Puhvel, “Remus et frater,” History of Religions 15.2 (1975) 146–157; and M. Benabou, “Rémus, le mur et la mort,” in Annali: dipartimento di studi del mondo classico e del mediterraneo antico. Sezione di archeologia e storia antica VI (Naples: Istituto universitario orientale, 1984) 113–114. 2 W.H. Roscher, Ausführliches Lexikon der Griechischen und Römischen Mythologie, vol. 4 (Leipzig: Teubner, 1909–1915) does an exemplary job laying out the various reasons given for Romulus’ and Remus’ fight (180), the different versions of their augurium (180–181), and the several ancient interpretations (181–183). See also, T. Mommsen, “Die Remuslegende,” Hermes 16.1 (1881) 1–23; H.J. Krämer, “Die Sage von Romulus und Remus in der Lateinischen Liter-

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immediate motivation, and the identity of the murderer vary in our surviving accounts, as does Remus’ culpability in his own demise. So when Plutarch adapts the murder of Remus for Theseus-Romulus, he has a rich array of variants to choose from. Some of the authors who describe Remus’ death choose one version alone and shape their narrative to fit. While Livy gives more than one version, he does so in a straightforward manner that does not invite the reader’s deeper reflection.3 Cassius Dio may have done likewise, at least so far as we can determine from the fragmentary remains of his account.4 Plutarch too draws upon more than one variant, but his treatment of the intertext is the most complex, subtle, surprising, and ultimately subversive of any extant. We can perhaps best explore this intertext within Theseus-Romulus through an Iserian reading, an approach that is particularly well suited to Plutarch’s approach, which will repeatedly surprise and confuse the reader.5 The essen-

atur,” in Synusia: Festgabe für Wolfgang Schadewaldt zum 15. März 1965 (Pfullingen: Günther Neske, 1965) 356 n. 10; P.M. Martin, L’ idée de royauté à Rome: de la Rome royale au consensus républicain (Clermont-Ferrand: Adosa, 1982) 228; J. Poucet, Les origines de Rome: tradition et histoire (Brussels: Publications des facultés universitaires Saint-Louis, 1985) 282–283; P. Bruggisser, Romulus Servianus. La légende de Romulus dans les Commentaires à Virgile de Servius: mythographie et idéologie à l’ époque de la dynastie théodosienne (Bonn: Dr. Rudolf Habelt GmbH, 1987) 84–106; F. Mora, Il pensiero storico-religioso antico: Autori greci e Roma. I: Dionigi d’Alicarnasso (Rome: L’Erma di Bretschneider, 1995) 185–187; W.S.M. Nicoll, “The Sacrifice of Palinurus,” CQ 38.2 (1988) 467–469; T.P. Wiseman, Remus: A Roman Myth (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995) 5–13 and especially notes 23–27 on p. 5; J. Poucet, Les rois de Rome: tradition et histoire. (Louvain-la-Neuve: Académie royale de Belgique, 2000) 59– 62; A. Meurant, “Quelques observations sur Celer, un autre double maudit de Romulus,” in P. Defosse (ed.), Hommages à Carl Deroux 4: Archéologie et histoire de l’art, religion (Brussels: Latomus, 2003) 484–494. The commentary on Theseus-Romulus by C. Ampolo & M. Manfredini, Le Vite di Teseo e di Romolo (Milan: Arnoldo Mondadori, 1988), while very good on the pre-history behind Plutarch’s narrative, does not address the issues I will raise here (see S.C.R. Swain, Review of C. Ampolo & M. Manfredini, Le Vite di Teseo e di Romolo, CR n.s. 40.2 [1990] 244–245). 3 In Livy’s first version Remus sees six vultures, then Romulus announces that he has seen twelve; their partisans begin to fight and Remus falls by an unknown hand (ibi in turba ictus Remus cecidit, 1.7.1–2). A more common story (uolgatior fama) follows, in which Remus leaps over Romulus’ walls and Romulus kills him in anger. See Meurant, “Quelques observations,” 484 and Benabou, “Rémus,” 106. 4 Zon. 7.3 mentions both the turba variant (… διὰ μάχης ἐχώρησαν, ἐν ᾗ ὁ Ῥῶμος ἀπέθανεν) and the traditional penalty for the transgression of castra walls (… ὅθεν καὶ ἐνομίσθη τὸν στρατοπέδου τάφρον τολμήσαντα διελθεῖν παρὰ τὰς συνήθεις ὁδούς, θανατοῦσθαι). See U.H. Boissevain, Cassii Dionis Cocceiani: historiarum Romanarum quae supersunt, vol. 1 (Berlin: Weidmann, 1895) 7–8; and Roscher, Ausführliches Lexikon, 4.181. 5 F.J. Frost, “Plutarch and Theseus,” Classical Bulletin 60 (1984) 70, wondered if Theseus “served only to confuse Sosius Senecio and the other readers for whom it was intended …,” attribut-

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tial idea will be to avoid thinking of the text and reader as static entities, and to concentrate instead on the process of reading, on the dynamic experience created by the relationship between reader and text. The text is “… an intentional object whose communicatory effect can be brought about only by the reader’s active assumption of a role designated by the text itself.”6 As Iser put it when discussing Henry James’ The Figure on the Carpet, “… the meaning is no longer an object to be defined, but is an effect to be experienced.”7 As we progress through the pair, we will focus on three aspects of our experience: on the reader persona that the text creates, on our shifting expectations for Plutarch’s evolving adaptation of the intertext, and on our re-assessments of what we have already encountered. Put another way, we will adapt ourselves continually to the type of reader prefigured by the text, with each clue or shift prompting a fresh assessment of what has already been read and generating a new set of expectations for what is to come. The importance of reading Plutarch’s paired Lives as integral units has been well established, so we must begin our examination with Theseus.8 In accordance with Iser’s method, we should define ourselves and our expectations at the outset of the work, including the reading persona that the text establishes and the assumptions such a persona would bring to the pair. Plutarch’s secondperson dedication to Sosius Senecio in the opening of Theseus is quite helpful in this regard. It suggests that we imagine ourselves to be philhellenic members of the Roman elite, and as such familiar from early youth with the traditions of Rome’s foundation. Our knowledge of the intertext of Remus’ murder will be extensive, and we will expect Plutarch to address that murder in some fashion. As an admirer of Greek culture, moreover, we will certainly know at least the main lines of Theseus’ legend, and we will expect Plutarch to compare Remus’ death with one or more of the violent deaths within Theseus’ family. The more

ing the confusion to Plutarch’s difficulties wrangling such unhistorical source material into a biography. I will argue that the confusion is not a sign of failure but an integral part of Plutarch’s approach within the pair. 6 R. Heidenreich, “Iser, Wolfgang,” in I.R. Makaryk (ed.), Encyclopedia of Contemporary Literary Theory: Approaches, Scholars, Terms (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1993) 373. 7 W. Iser, The Act of Reading: A Theory of Aesthetic Response (Baltimore and London: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1978) 10. 8 See T.E. Duff, Plutarch’s Lives: Exploring Virtue and Vice (Oxford-New York: Oxford University Press, 1999) 243–286; C.B.R. Pelling, “Synkrisis in Plutarch’s Lives,” in F.E. Brenk & I. Gallo, Miscellanea Plutarchea (Ferrara: Giornale filologico ferrarese, 1986) 83–96 [reprinted in C.B.R. Pelling, Plutarch and History: Eighteen Studies (London: Duckworth, 2002) 349–363]; B. Buszard, The Thematic Unity of Plutarch’s Pyrrhus-Marius (Diss. Chapel Hill, 2003) 162– 164.

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famous of these include the suicides of Aegeus and Hippolyte, but the closest parallel is the cursing and death of Hippolytus, which is effectively a murder even if Theseus does not perform the act with his own hand. Plutarch begins the pair with an intriguing captatio beneuolentiae. Congenial and apologetic, he stakes out a position unique in the Lives, comparing himself with those geographers who crowd the unknown portions of the world into the margins and excuse themselves by calling the terra incognita a frozen waste, or the abode of beasts. “Everything beyond is monsters and the stuff of tragedy, occupied by poets and mythographers, and can no longer be believed or explained” (Thes. 1.2–3).9 In a similar way, Plutarch is himself about to seek beyond the boundaries of what is known, and therefore asks our indulgence (εὐγνωμόνων ἀκροατῶν δεησόμεθα, Thes. 1.5). He will try to purify what is fabulous (τὸ μυθῶδες) and make it submit to reason, but where he cannot he begs us to remain well-disposed. Given our familiarity with the convoluted intertext of Remus’ death, we may well wonder at the outset whether his murder will prove to be one of these intractable episodes. We cannot know how Plutarch will shape his narrative from this early vantage point, but our curiosity will be piqued and we will be more attentive to his narrative choices as we move forward. When Plutarch explains his choice of subjects in the second chapter of his preface, his terminology seems to corroborate our initial guess. Among the similarities between Theseus and Romulus that caught his attention, Plutarch notes in particular their domestic misfortune (δυστυχία περὶ τὰ οἰκεῖα) and familial nemesis (νέμεσις ἐγγενής; Thes. 2.3), which will prove to be important themes throughout the pair. The ideas of misfortune and nemesis seem to point the way clearly, at least for the Roman Life: the murder of Remus is the preeminent example of each in Romulus’ career, striking within his household (οἰκία) and family (γένος). For Theseus, the foreshadowing is more vague: δυστυχία could apply to Pittheus, Aegeus, and Theseus, who all had difficulties with their wives or children; νέμεσις could apply to any number of deaths within Theseus’ extended family, including not only Hippolyte and Aegeus, but also Ariadne and the sons of Pallas, all of whom are prominent enough to be familiar to the elite Roman reader envisioned by the text. Yet the two ideas together seem best suited to the cursing and death of Hippolytus. We will be expecting a comparison between Remus and Hippolytus, but will reserve judgement, prepared by Plutarch’s ambiguous language for other possibilities. 9 For an insightful discussion of this proem and its ramifications for Plutarch’s method see C.R. Cooper, “Making Irrational Myth Plausible History: Polybian Intertextuality in Plutarch’s ‘Theseus’,” Phoenix 61.3–4 (2007) 212–233.

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We might still be surprised, in spite of our reserve, by the amount of narrative time Plutarch devotes to these other possibilities. Many examples of Theseus’ domestic misfortune and nemesis are described at length, including the dalliance of Medea with Aegeus and her attempt to murder Theseus (Thes. 12), Theseus’ slaying of the sons of Pallas (13), the death of Aegeus (22), the suicide of an Athenian youth who had fallen in love with Hippolyte (26), and various accounts of the death of Hippolyte herself (27–28). In one particularly interesting example of misfortune, the fate of Ariadne, Plutarch explicitly assumes our earlier knowledge of her story, reinforcing our reading persona as one familiar with the Theseus tradition. He first details several more or less tragic ends for her, then passes over what he calls the most favorable account (εὐφημότατα, 20.2), which doubtless refers to her rescue by Dionysus. The reason he gives for the omission is that, “… everyone has it, so to speak, through their mouth” (διὰ στόματος ἔχειν, 20.3). If we do recognize the reference to Dionysus we may pause to congratulate ourselves for our (admittedly modest) erudition. If not, we may still imagine ourselves as Senecio, a man familiar enough with Theseus’ legend that he (and therefore we) would not need further explanation. None of these various misfortunes is narrated in such a way that it serves as a good parallel for Remus’ murder, so as we move forward in the Life our anticipation grows for Plutarch’s narrative of Hippolytus’ death. It is with a growing sense of unease, then, that we realize the incident has been almost entirely suppressed. This narrative choice is all the more unexpected because Plutarch mentions quite early the most famous account of the murder, that of Euripides’ Hippolytus. He does so only very briefly, however, and only to flesh out Pittheus’ character (Thes. 3.4 = E. Hipp. 11). The only time Plutarch mentions Hippolytus’ death itself he hurries past it, making only an oblique reference to Hippolytus’ and Phaedra’s sad fate: “As for the misfortunes (δυστυχία again) concerning this woman (sc. Phaedra) and his son, since the historical and tragic accounts do not differ, it must be reckoned as they all have described it” (Thes. 28.3). There is no mention of Poseidon or Aphrodite, no suicide, no curse, no crash, and no deathbed recrimination. Hippolytus’ death, one of the most famous stories concerning Theseus, one of the most obvious examples of his domestic misfortune, and a natural parallel for Remus’ death in the paired Life, has been expunged. And expunged, no less, in a way that implies our knowledge of the affair. Therefore, we cannot suspect that Plutarch is trying to deceive us. His treatment is more in the style of an apologia for Theseus’ rash behavior, confirming what cannot be denied, but minimizing its impact on his overall encomium. Thinking back to the start of the Life, we might wonder whether we misjudged the implications of Theseus’ familial nemesis. And looking forward, we might wonder if the murder of Remus will now be dealt with similarly,

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if Plutarch will choose from the intertext the most benign version of Remus’ death in order to exonerate Romulus and strengthen the parallel with Theseus. As it turns out, Plutarch’s approach to the murder of Remus could not be more different. He not only narrates the episode in detail, but includes the most damning variants in the tradition.10 The full intertext, which we (like Senecio) will know very well, includes at least three different motives for the struggle that leads to Remus’ death. Our surviving Latin sources, primarily Ennius and Livy, claim that the argument was either over the name of the future city or over who would rule it.11 Our Greek sources, primarily Dionysius, Cassius Dio, and Plutarch, emphasize instead a dispute over the site of the city.12 The latter would seem a fairly anodyne choice on Plutarch’s part, but it will prove otherwise once we reach the synkrisis.13 Whatever the cause of the disagreement, our sources all agree that it will be settled by bird signs (auspicia impetrata).14 There are, in turn, three different versions of the auspicia. In one variant, Romulus spies twelve birds and Remus either sees six or his results are not mentioned.15 Either way, Romulus clearly wins and there is no excuse for Remus’ defilement of the defensive wall his brother has begun building for Rome. In short, Remus earns his death and Romulus incurs no blame. In a second variant, Remus spies his six birds first and Romulus sees his twelve only afterwards.16 This outcome provides a reasonable pretext for dispute, and the assessments of the sources vary. Some blame Romulus; some absolve him; one (Schol. Bob.) 10

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My interpretation here departs from that of C.P. Jones, Plutarch and Rome (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1971) 90–91, who rightly points out that the version of the story in Dionysius of Halicarnassus is more favorable to Romulus than Plutarch’s, but relies upon the synkrisis of this pair too much when he characterizes Plutarch’s depiction as generally positive. Ennius 1 (fr. 47 Vahlen) and Livy 1.6 mention both hypotheses; Florus (1.1) restricts himself to the latter. D.H. 1.86–87; Plu. Rom. 9.4. Dio (Zon. 7.3) is the one complication in an otherwise clean Roman/Greek dichotomy, mentioning both the future site and the future ruler as causes. The truly anodyne version is in Ovid Fasti 4 & 5, as argued in P. Drossart, “La mort de Rémus chez Ovide,” REL 50 (1972) 187–204, and especially 187–189. See also Nicoll, “The Sacrifice of Palinurus,” 467–469, who discusses a parallel between Romulus-Remus and Aeneas-Palinurus and compares Ovid’s approach to the former with Virgil’s treatment of the latter. Bruggisser, Romulus Servianus, 84–106, understands the similar rehabilitation of Romulus in Servius as a response to Christian polemic against Rome; he addresses Ovid’s Fasti too at 91–93. The separate ideas of auspicatio and inauguratio are confused in almost all of our sources. Martin, L’ idée de royauté, 47–48 discusses their conflation and suggests that a trace of the originally distinct processes might survive in Dionysius (48 nn. 41–42). Ov. Fast. 5.151–152 and 8.17; ps.-Aur. Vict. De uiris illustribus 1.4. Liv. 1.7; Flor. 1.1; Serv. A. 1.273; Schol. Bob. in Cic. Uat. P.319.

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even seems to suggest that both brothers will survive and rule jointly.17 Plutarch mentions this second version at Rom. 9.5, but then gives a third, one that we see only in Romulus and in Dionysius 1.86. In it, Romulus cheats. He claims to have seen twelve birds when in fact he has seen none at all. Remus sees his six birds in truth, but is told that his brother has surpassed him. Only when Remus comes over to see for himself does Romulus finally spy his twelve birds.18 This is our most negative variant, and it is accepted in Plutarch’s narrative as the main one: he states unequivocally at Rom. 10.1 that Remus mocks and insults his brother’s wall because he is enraged by Romulus’ deception. As for the death of Remus itself, there are two main variants. In one tradition, mentioned by Livy, Dionysius, and Servius, Remus is killed in the tumult that follows directly from the auspicia.19 In a second tradition, Remus leaps over Romulus’ wall, and it is this offense that causes his death. This second version Livy calls the more common story (uolgatior fama), and it also appears in Ennius, Diodorus, Dionysius, Ovid, Plutarch, and Dio.20 In some accounts Remus hurdles the wall in simple mockery, but in Dionysius and Plutarch—the same authors who make Romulus a cheater—Remus is attempting to hinder the construction of the new wall when he is slain. In Diodorus, Dionysius, Ovid, Plutarch, and Dio, the murderer may be a lieutenant of Romulus named Celer; in Ennius, Livy, and Plutarch (again) the murderer might be Romulus himself.21 Plutarch is thus the only author to record both the tradition that Romulus lied about his auspicia and the tradition that Romulus himself murdered Remus. Any expectation we might have harbored for a parallel between the deaths of Hippolytus and Remus is destroyed. The former death is hardly mentioned, while the latter has been fashioned into the strongest condemnation of Romulus possible within the intertext. So negative is Plutarch’s treatment, in fact, that we can hardly guess how he might develop the contrast any further in the concluding synkrisis, the place where he typically emphasizes the differences between his two subjects. The text has repeatedly treated us as readers well acquainted with the Lives, so we will be conscious of the close integration 17 18 19 20

21

See Poucet, Les rois de Rome, 61–62. Diodorus 8.5 seems to be derived from the same tradition, but for him Romulus’ premature announcement is only a mistake. Liv. 1.7; D.H. 1.87; Serv. A. 1.273. Liv. 1.7; Flor. 1.1; Enn. 1 fr. 50 Vahlen = Macr. 6.1.15; D.S. 8.6; D.H. 1.87; Ov. Fast. 3.69–70; Plu. Rom. 10.1; D.C. 1 = Zon. 7.3. Martin, L’ idée de royauté, 228 discusses this version of the murder-legend as a ritual sacrifice of the first man to leap over a sulcus. Krämer, “Die Sage von Romulus,” 357 n. 23 claims that the murder of Remus by Romulus himself was for Plutarch the authoritative version. As we will see below, such a conclusion is only possible if we ignore the pair’s synkrisis.

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between earlier pairs and their synkrises.22 Plutarch never settles for a mere résumé, however, and we cannot predict how themes raised within the two Lives will be handled at the end. But we may still hope for a more balanced comparison of Remus’ and Hippolytus’ deaths. The synkrisis begins with yet another consideration of misfortune (τὰ δυστυχηθέντα) in which Plutarch asks rhetorically whether such troubles are to be understood as the products of the divine or whether one should seek instead the peculiar habitual and emotional circumstances that drive them (ἠθικαὶ καὶ παθητικαὶ … διαφοραί, 3.1). It is a loaded question. The idea that the divine is involved in human fate is well established in both the Remus and Theseus legends. In some versions of Remus’ death, for instance, especially those that feature Celer, his murder establishes the inviolability of Rome’s pomerium. This, in turn, is a historicizing inflection of the original cosmogenic function of his death. The gods are most certainly involved here. As for Theseus, one has only to recall Aphrodite’s prologue in Euripides’ Hippolytus to see how thoroughly the divine is implicated in Phaedra’s and Theseus’ actions. By invoking such supernatural forces, Plutarch calls into question his earlier evaluation of Romulus’ actions, which was expressed in human terms only, and any similar evaluation that follows will likewise be contingent. The reader’s confusion deepens, and it is difficult to imagine a way out of it. His prefatory comments out of the way, Plutarch finally brings Remus’ and Hippolytus’ murders together, as we had long expected him to do, and addresses the particular διαφοραί of the two deaths directly. He begins by introducing an entirely new point: Romulus was a political actor, whose dispute with his brother arose while planning the site of his future city, a matter of common welfare (3.2). For Plutarch, these circumstances make Romulus’ violent passion especially surprising and reprehensible (his verb ἠξίωσε can be taken both ways). Plutarch also treats Romulus here as the sole culprit. Celer, mentioned briefly in Rom. 9, is ignored. As readers to whom Celer’s role is well known, we will not miss Plutarch’s omission. So we will be all the more surprised when Plutarch turns to Theseus and begins making excuses: the Greek hero only quarreled with his son because of eros, jealousy, and the slanders of his wife, things that, according to Plutarch, few men have escaped. Both men may have erred, but Theseus was, as Plutarch puts it, driven to his error by a harder blow. This is far from the usual Hippolytus narrative. We are approaching the end of 22

David Larmour has also demonstrated well the importance of the synkrisis to this pair, showing in several instances how themes from Theseus and Romulus may even have been chosen for the concluding comparison. See D. Larmour, “Plutarch’s Compositional Methods in the Theseus and Romulus,” TAPhA 188 (1988) 361–375.

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the pair and time is running out for Plutarch to moderate his highly prejudicial account, but he seems intent rather on strengthening its overt bias. Plutarch’s main point (ὃ δὲ μεῖζόν ἐστιν) follows, and it makes everything even worse. It takes the form of a logical chiasmus: Romulus’ anger produced an unfortunate result (οὐκ εὐτυχές), but Theseus’ rage was limited to words, and abuse, and an old man’s curse, and in everything else, Hippolytus appears to have suffered at the hands of Τύχη (3.3). So Romulus’ actions caused his misfortunes; Fortune itself killed Hippolytus. This is how the pair’s running theme of misfortune reaches its culmination, in an unseemly rhetorical distortion that has no known precedent. In Euripides, for instance, Theseus is the direct cause of his son’s mutilation and death: Theseus speaks the curse himself (Hipp. 887– 890), and the play’s Messenger, who brings news of Hippolytus’ mutilation, lays the blame squarely on Theseus, at which point Theseus too acknowledges his guilt (Hipp. 1166–1170). Seneca’s Phaedra tells the same story (945–948 & 1117– 1118). Hippolytus’ death is also described in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, wherein Theseus is again explicitly blamed (15.492–546). Ovid’s Heroides 4, the letter from Phaedra to Hippolytus, proceeds from the same narrative. Outside of Plutarch we see no hint of an alternate version where Tyche can be blamed or Theseus exonerated.23 Perhaps Aphrodite or Poseidon might be implicated, but never Tyche. And yet Plutarch ignores the earlier tradition entirely and appends his own blithe conclusion that we should excuse Theseus’ part in the affair and give him our votes. If we were reading an inferior author then we might feel like the targets of a clumsy polemic and continue on, perhaps mildly annoyed. But we know that this is not the case with Plutarch, and this creates a problem. The text has prefigured a reader for whom such rhetorical manipulations will be transparent. Worse, if we imagine ourselves to be Senecio, then we have a personal relationship with the author, and we have received multiple dedications in the Lives and Moralia. Because this is a late pair (Thes. 1.2), we will by now be very familiar with the author and his work. We know that he is not a clumsy writer, so why would a clever man write such a sophomoric diatribe? Having seeded an unanswerable question in our minds, Plutarch closes the pair with a rhetorical coup de grâce. He returns to Remus’ murder one final time, in the fifth chapter of the synkrisis, only to turn everything on its head.24

23

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The sources are catalogued and discussed at length in F. Brommer, Theseus: Die Taten des griechischen Helden in der antiken Kunst und Literatur (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1982). As Christopher Pelling has observed, the synkrisis requires us to “reassess radically” our presumptions; this is true for our assessment both of the pair’s subjects and of the rhetorical aims of the work as a whole. See C.B.R. Pelling, “ ‘Making Myth Look Like History:’ Plato

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Now it is Romulus who receives leniency and Theseus who is attacked with unwonted severity. Plutarch reminds us that Remus’ murder is disputed, and that in most versions of the story he is killed by someone other than Romulus (Celer is back!). Then he introduces a remarkable shift, turning from Romulus’ brother to his mother and his grandfather, both of whom Romulus has saved, and contrasting them to Aegeus, whose death was caused by Theseus’ negligence when he forgot to switch the sails on his return home from Crete. Here again, Plutarch goes overboard with his condemnation, but now Theseus is the target. “Even with an extensive defense and a forgiving jury,” Plutarch claims, “I hardly think that he would be acquitted of the charge of parricide.”25 This is really too much. One might blame Theseus for forgetting the sail, but surely there never was a court, ancient or modern, let alone one with a favorable jury and able advocates, in which such neglect could be successfully prosecuted as parricide. This outrageous conclusion is Plutarch’s final word on the matter, and the Life ends soon after. His exoneration of Romulus and unfair condemnation of Theseus will, therefore, be fresh in our minds upon reaching the end of the work, which is the obvious place for reflection. As readers, we have reached an impasse, something like a state of aporia. It turns out that this is not a simple polemic against Romulus or an encomium of Theseus, but a conflicted polemic unfair to both men. As such, it does not comport well with Plutarch’s ostensible plan in the synkrises to weigh his subjects’ virtues and flaws. If we could imagine ourselves reading the pair in ignorance, or even in ignorance of one of the two traditions, we might think that Plutarch is cleverly rearranging his material, and that he withholds the details of Hippolytus’ death until after Remus’ murder has been discussed at length, so that he will be able to discuss Theseus’ actions in a more forgiving context. This would be a clever way to minimize Theseus’ guilt, while keeping the Greek Life first in the pair. But the reader prefigured by the text, one familiar with both traditions, cannot be manipulated in this way. A simple transposition of the material will have little effect. No, the primary effect of Plutarch’s shifting polemic will be to subvert the ostensible raison d’être of his synkrises. Within a supposedly straightforward

25

in Plutarch’s Theseus-Romulus,” in A. Pérez Jiménez, J. García López & R.M. Aguilar (eds.), Plutarco, Platón y Aristóteles. Actas del V Congreso Internacional de la I.P.S. (Madrid-Cuenca, 4–7 de Mayo de 1999) (Madrid: Ediciones Clásicas, 1999) 443 [reprinted in C.B.R. Pelling, Plutarch and History: Eighteen Studies (London: Duckworth, 2002) 171–195]. Synk. 5.1–2. Plutarch’s shift is prepared somewhat by the similar positions of Aegeus’ and Remus’ deaths within the main narratives of Theseus and Romulus (see Larmour, “Plutarch’s Compositional Methods,” 362).

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comparison, Plutarch is undermining the very idea of straightforward comparison. Thinking back to the beginning of the work, we might understand the contradictions in light of the geography metaphor from the preface: here, in this historical desert, this frozen waste, some things will defy explanation. But we can go further, for it is not just the legendary past that defies explanation. As informed readers of Plutarch, we know very well that his more historical Lives are also replete with alternate traditions and explanations, and that historiography from Herodotus onward has been no different. Like many elite Romans, we too are rhetorically proficient, taught from early maturity to argue both sides of a suasoria. Moral judgement for us will be inherently malleable, depending on which version of reality we choose to emphasize. By fashioning a narrative of Remus’ murder that is patently specious and contradictory, Plutarch reminds us that we must evaluate the conflicting evidence for ourselves and form our own conclusions.

part 3 Intratextuality and the Plutarchan Corpus

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chapter 14

Heroes Imitating Heroes: Ethical and Pragmatic Intratextuality in the Parallel Lives Susan Jacobs

Abstract In the Prologues to Pericles-Fabius, Aemilius-Timoleon and Demetrius-Antony, Plutarch indicates that he expects readers to use the paradigms in the Lives as catalysts for action in private and public life. It is now widely recognized—based on work of Christopher Pelling, Philip Stadter, Timothy Duff and others—that Plutarch’s paradigms are not prescriptive, but are descriptive and exploratory, and that readers are expected to distill positive and deterrent paradigms for themselves from the key incidents in a hero’s Life. This chapter examines Plutarch’s paradigms from a different perspective: rather than considering how readers might respond to the paradigms, the focus is on how Plutarch employs intratextuality across the Lives to sharpen the portrayal of his heroes as being guided by the example of leaders of the past and becoming role models themselves for later generations. Two questions are central. First, in what ethical and pragmatic contexts does Plutarch evoke the heroes of other Lives as standards of comparison or role models for handling challenges of public and private life? Second, to what extent do intratextual references to subjects of other Lives provide a unifying thread connecting ethical, political and military themes across the series? Nearly eighty cross-references are examined in three categories: (1) heroes referring to subjects of other Lives, (2) contemporaries naming subjects of other Lives and (3) Plutarch’s references to the subjects of other Lives in his authorial comments. This analysis illustrates how such intratextuality reinforces the central themes of the Lives and forms meaningful threads unifying the entire series of Parallel Lives into a multifaceted exploration of the ethical and pragmatic dimensions of leadership.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004427860_016

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Several well-known passages in the Prologues to Pericles-Fabius, AemiliusTimoleon and Demetrius-Antony reveal how Plutarch expected readers to use the paradigms embedded in the Lives as catalysts for action in private and public life.1 The process is articulated in Pericles 2.2–3,2 where Plutarch asserts that the investigation of virtuous deeds creates an impulse in the viewer to emulate those who performed them.3 In Aemilius (1.1), Plutarch reports that he himself uses the heroes as a mirror in which he adjusts his own behavior, and in Demetrius (1.6) he states, generally, that by studying the more blameworthy Lives we become more eager to imitate the praiseworthy ones.4 Based on the work of Pelling, Stadter, Duff and others, it is widely recognized that Plutarch’s paradigms are not prescriptive—leading the reader to definitive “do’s and don’ts”—, but instead are descriptive and exploratory, providing general insights into truths about the human condition, while also stimulating reflection on moral issues.5 Readers are expected to distill both positive and deterrent paradigms for themselves from the accounts of key incidents in a hero’s career.6 1 On these Prologues, see P.A. Stadter, “The Proems of Plutarch’s Lives,”ICS 13, 2 (1988) 275–295; T.E. Duff, Plutarch’s Lives: Exploring Virtue and Vice (Oxford-New York: Clarendon Press, 1999) 14–51. 2 Citations are taken from Loeb texts. Translations are my own modifications of Loeb translations. 3 On Per.-Fab., see P.A. Stadter, A Commentary on Plutarch’s Pericles (Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press, 1989) 53–61; T.E. Duff, “The Prologue to the Lives of Pericles and Fabius (Per. 1–2),” in A. Pérez Jiménez & F.C. Bordoy (eds.), Estudios Sobre Plutarco: Misticismo y Religiones Mistéricas en la Obra de Plutarco. Actas del VII Simposio Español sobre Plutarco, Palma de Mallorca, 2–4 de noviembre de 2000 (Madrid-Malaga: Ediciones Clásicas, 2001) 351–363. 4 On Aem.-Tim., see S.C.R. Swain, “Plutarch’s Aemilius and Timoleon,”Historia 3 (1989) 314–334; C.B.R. Pelling, Plutarch: Caesar (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011) 188. On Demetr.-Ant., see C.B.R. Pelling, Plutarch: Life of Antony (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988) 10– 12; T.E. Duff, “Plato, tragedy, the ideal reader and Plutarch’s Demetrius and Antony,”Hermes 132 (2004) 271–291. 5 See, for instance, C.B.R. Pelling, “The moralism of Plutarch’s Lives,” in D.C. Innes, H.M. Hine & C.B.R. Pelling (eds.), Ethics and Rhetoric: Classical Essays for Donald Russell on his Seventy-Fifth Birthday (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995) 205–220 [reprinted in C.B.R. Pelling, Plutarch and History: Eighteen Studies (London: Duckworth, 2002) 237–252]; P.A. Stadter, “The Rhetoric of Virtue in Plutarch’s Lives,” in L. Van der Stockt (ed.), Rhetorical Theory and Praxis in Plutarch. Acta of the IVth International Congress of the International Plutarch Society, Leuven, July 3– 6, 1996 (Leuven: Peeters, 2000) 493–510 [reprinted in Ph.A. Stadter, Plutarch and his Roman Readers (Oxford, 2015) 231–245]; P.A. Stadter, “Introduction: Setting Plutarch in his Context,” in P.A. Stadter & L. Van der Stockt (eds.), Sage and Emperor: Plutarch, Greek Intellectuals, and Roman Power in the Time of Trajan (97–117AD) (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2000) 1–26; Duff, Plutarch’s Lives; id., “Plato, tragedy”; id., “Plutarch’s readers and the moralism of the Lives,” Ploutarchos 5 (2007) 3–18. 6 On the reader’s active role in distilling lessons from the Lives, see Pelling, “Moralism”, 247;

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In this chapter, Plutarch’s paradigms are examined from a different perspective: rather than considering how Plutarch’s readers might respond to the paradigms, the focus is on how Plutarch’s heroes within the Parallel Lives use heroes in other Lives as models of conduct to imitate or avoid.7 Two types of questions are central to this analysis. First, in what contexts does Plutarch evoke the heroes of other Lives as standards of comparison or role models for handling challenges of public and private life? Are the heroes cited as paradigms primarily of moral qualities, or do they also exemplify pragmatic skills and strategic insights that impact political and military success? Second, to what extent do intratextual references provide a unifying thread connecting ethical, political and military themes across the series? In this regard, the employment of heroes who belonged to prior generations or to the other culture (Greek or Roman) as guides to effective or ineffective leadership is key, since it suggests that all leaders in the Parallel Lives faced similar types of challenges in their political and military roles.8 By focusing on the attributes of the subjects of the Lives who serve as exempla to other heroes in the series, the analysis below emphasizes the active use of earlier leaders as role models rather than evaluating the comparisons and ranking of heroes, as in other studies of synkrisis.9 After a review of the ethical and pragmatic components of Plutarch’s depictions of leaders, three categories of intratextuality are examined: (1) heroes referring to men who are subjects of other Lives, (2) contemporaries naming subjects of other Lives and (3) Plutarch Duff, “Plutarch’s readers,” 3; in Plutarch’s Pragmatic Biographies (Leiden: Brill, 2017) I argue that these lessons spanned both ethical and pragmatic dimensions of leadership. 7 Such ‘intratextual references’ include references to heroes, not simply references to other Lives in the series, which have been examined as a guide to the potential ordering of the Lives in earlier work. See A.G. Nikolaidis, “Plutarch’s Methods: His Cross-references and the Sequences of the Parallel Lives,” in A. Pérez Jiménez & F. Titchener (eds.), Historical and Biographical Values of Plutarch’s Works. Studies Devoted to Prof. Philip A. Stadter by the International Plutarch Society (Malaga-Logan: Universidad de Málaga-Utah State University, 2005) 283–323. 8 Thus, references across Lives of contemporaries—such as Cicero, Cato, Pompey, Caesar—are not included. 9 Analyses of the function of synkrisis in the Lives are found in C.B.R. Pelling, “Synkrisis in Plutarch’s Lives,” in F.E. Brenk & I. Gallo (eds.), Miscellanea Plutarchea (Ferrara: Giornale filologico ferrarese, 1986) 83–96 [reprinted in C.B.R. Pelling, Plutarch and History: Eighteen Studies (London: Duckworth, 2002) 349–363]; S.C.R. Swain, “Plutarchan Synkrisis,” Eranos 90 (1992) 101–111; C.B.R. Pelling, “Synkrisis revisited,” in A. Pérez Jiménez & F. Titchener (eds.), Historical and Biographical Values of Plutarch’s Works. Studies Devoted to Prof. Philip A. Stadter by the International Plutarch Society (Malaga-Logan: Universidad de Málaga-Utah State University, 2005) 325–340; D. Larmour, “The Synkrisis,” in M. Beck (ed.), A Companion to Plutarch (Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2014) 405–416.

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referencing subjects of other Lives in his comments. In each category, heroes from other Lives are cited as exempla of ethical traits or of effective (or ineffective) policy action or generalship.

1

Ethical and Pragmatic Components of Leadership

Throughout this chapter, the Lives are interpreted as ‘pragmatic biographies’ that explore not only the moral component of leadership, but also the techniques and critical judgment that enable leaders to solve practical problems in political and military contexts.10 These two components—the ethical and pragmatic—are distinct. On the one hand, the analysis of moral character centers on the hero as an individual and uncovers the moral traits and attitudes manifested in his choice of action or inaction. Pragmatic analysis, on the other hand, is impersonal and focuses on the effectiveness of a hero’s action in solving a particular problem. This distinction is illustrated, for instance, in Pelopidas 26.5, where Plutarch describes Epaminondas as a role model for Philip and as a man exemplifying key virtues for a leader: [Philip] was thought to have emulated (ζηλωτὴς γεγονέναι) Epaminondas, perhaps because he observed his efficiency (δραστήριον) in wars and campaigns, which was only a small part of the man’s virtue. However, in self-control (ἐγκρατείας), justice (δικαιοσύνης), magnanimity (μεγαλοψυχίας) and mildness (πρᾳότητος), in which Epaminondas was truly great, Philip had no share, either by nature (φύσει) or by imitation (μιμήσει). Here, Epaminondas’ virtue encompasses both a practical component, in his competency as a general, and a moral component, in his specific virtues.11 The pragmatic and ethical sides of leadership are also found in Cim. 5.1: Neither in daring (τόλμῃ) was [Cimon] inferior to Miltiades nor in sagacity (συνέσει) to Themistocles and … he was more just (δικαιότερος) than

10 11

For a broader discussion of ‘pragmatic biography,’ see Jacobs, Pragmatic Biographies, 5–10, 120–121, 416–430. The four virtues listed are emphasized throughout the Lives, including in the Prologues at Per. 2.4, Cim. 3.3, Thes. 2.1–2 and Sert. 1.4–5. In Demetr. 1.3, Plutarch refers to temperance, justice and practical judgment (φρόνησις) as the arts that enable a leader to distinguish what is “good, just and expedient”—the central challenge of leadership.

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both. And while not one bit inferior to those men in the qualities of a soldier (ἐν ταῖς πολεμικαῖς), he inconceivably surpassed them in those of a statesman (ἐν ταῖς πολιτικαῖς), even when still young and untried in war. This passage combines an assessment of specific virtues with a recognition of competency in managing military and political matters. Importantly, the description of Themistocles echoes the portrait in his own Life, where he is associated with sagacity (Them. 2.1–2), less-than-perfect adherence to justice (5.2, 20.2), and certain deficiencies as a demagogue (3.1–2, 5.5). The distinction between heroes as paradigms of ethical traits, as opposed to practical competencies, is reflected in intratextual references in which heroes are used as models (1) by the subjects of other Lives, (2) by their contemporaries or (3) by Plutarch in authorial comments. This intratextuality unifies the series by reinforcing ethical and pragmatic themes.

2

Heroes Name Heroes

Table 14.1, below, lists passages in which a hero consciously imitates, or compares himself to, a predecessor who is also the subject of a Life. This list, which is not necessarily exhaustive, includes twenty-five instances across three areas: (1) ethical qualities or reputation; (2) political policies or practices; and (3) military prowess or strategies. In most cases, qualities associated with the hero turned role model are illustrated in Plutarch’s Life of that hero. In seven of the ten passages centered on ethical qualities in Table 14.1, the hero admires either a predecessor or someone under whom he served. Among Greeks, both Philopoemen and Timoleon emulate Epaminondas (Phil. 3.1; Tim. 36.1), with the nature of Philopoemen’s imitation spelled out in detail (Phil. 3.1): Although Philopoemen desired to emulate (εἶναι … ζηλωτὴς) Epaminondas most of all, it was the efficiency (δραστήριον), sagacity (συνετὸν) and indifference to money (ὑπὸ χρημάτων ἀπαθὲς) of Epaminondas that he vigorously imitated (ἰσχυρῶς ἐμιμεῖτο). But since, on account of his anger (ὀργὴν) and contentiousness (φιλονεικίαν), he could not maintain Epaminondas’ mildness (πρᾴῳ), gravity (βαθεῖ) and kindliness (φιλανθρώπῳ) in political disputes, Philopoemen was thought to be endowed with military (στρατιωτικῆς) rather than with civic virtue (πολιτικῆς ἀρετῆς).

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table 14.1 Heroes name heroes (who are subjects of other Lives)

Ethical qualities and reputation 1. Ant. 37.1—Antony draws parallels between Monaeces and Themistocles and himself and the Persian King. 2. Brut. 40.7–8—Brutus considers Cato’s suicide as a paradigm to imitate or avoid. (cf. Cato Min. 64.2–5, 66.2, 69.1–3) 3. Ca. Ma. 3.4—Cato Maior chooses Fabius Maximus as his role model. 4. Ca. Ma. 8.8—Cato says no king is worthy of comparison with Epaminondas, Pericles or Themistocles. 5. Dem. 27.7—Demosthenes compares self to Alcibiades returning from exile. 6. Luc. 19.4–5—Lucullus wishes he could imitate Sulla in saving a conquered city from destruction. 7. Mar. 6.2—Caesar, because of his family relationship, made Marius his example. 8. Phil. 3.1—Philopoemen seeks to imitate Epaminondas’ efficiency, intelligence and indifference to money. 9. TG 4.4—Tiberius Gracchus emulates and imitates virtues of Scipio Aemilianus. 10. Tim. 36.1—Timoleon emulates Epaminondas. Political policies or practices; oratory 1. Agis 19.5—Agis, in admiration and imitation of Lycurgus, adopted the same public policy as he did. 2. Arist. 2.1—Aristides emulated Lycurgus and therefore favored an aristocratic form of government. 3. Cleom. 10.4—Cleomenes cites Lycurgus on the need for violence to change a constitution (cf. Lyc. 5.4–5). 4. Dem. 9.2—Demosthenes admires and seeks to imitate aspects of Pericles as an orator (cf. Per. 7.4–8.4). 5. Dem. 20.1—Demosthenes refers to Epaminondas and Pericles as men who ignored omens in making policy. 6. Phoc. 7.3—Phocion aims to restore service of Pericles, Aristides and Solon as both general and orator. 7. Comp. Sol. et Publ. 2.1—Publicola makes Solon his model for arranging a democracy. 8. Tim. 22.1—Timoleon deliberately avoids Dion’s error of preserving the tyrant’s edifices (cf. Dion 53.1). Military prowess or strategies 1. Comp. Ages. et Pomp. 4.3—Pompey called his flight from Rome “a Themistoclean” strategy.

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Table 14.1 Heroes name heroes (who are subjects of other Lives) (cont.)

2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7.

Alc. 37.4—Alcibiades in exile compares himself to Themistocles in his motive for approaching the Persian King and the assistance he would provide. Ant. 62.3—Antony wants to fight Octavian at Pharsalus, as Caesar and Pompey had done. Caes. 11.5–6—Caesar compares his successes to those of Alexander at his age. Caes. 19.4–5—Caesar facing Germans sees self as no worse a general than Marius facing the Cimbri (cf. Mar. 25–27). Demetr. 25.3—Demetrius as Commander-in-Chief of the Greeks considers himself superior to Alexander. Pomp. 63.1—Cicero blames Pompey for imitating the generalship of Themistocles rather than Pericles.

Among Romans, Cato Maior views the character and life of Fabius Maximus as the finest examples (κάλλιστα παραδείγματα) he could follow (Ca. Ma. 3.4); Caesar makes Marius his model (Mar. 6.2); Tiberius Gracchus emulates Scipio Aemilianus (TG 4.4); and Lucullus wishes he could imitate Sulla in sparing a conquered city from ruin (Luc. 19.4–5).12 In some cases, heroes compare the honorable nature of their own conduct with that of a predecessor. Demosthenes, for instance, compares his return from exile to that of Alcibiades, concluding that his return is more honorable because he had persuaded, not forced, the Athenians to take him back (Dem. 27.7). Brutus, in turn, before Philippi, re-assesses Cato’s suicide (Brut. 40.7–8): When I was a young man, and without experience of the world (πραγμάτων ἄπειρος), I blamed Cato for making away with himself, on the ground that it was neither pious nor manly to yield to one’s evil genius and not accept fearlessly whatever happens, but to run away. But at this moment, in my present fortunes, I am of a different mind. This passage illuminates the dynamics of using paradigms: Brutus not only views Cato as a potential guide to action, but also allows his interpretation of Cato’s suicide to evolve over time. Additionally, the issue raised is explored in Cato Minor, where Cato explains his choice.13 12 13

Themistocles, inspired by Miltiades (Them. 3.3–4; Thes. 6.6), is excluded from this list since Miltiades is not the subject of a Life. Ca. Mi. (64.2–5, 66.2, 69.1–3). When Cassius later comments “either we shall be victori-

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In the area of political policies or practices, Plutarch’s heroes imitate their predecessors in a variety of contexts. For instance, in Dem. 9.2, Pericles is Demosthenes’ role model in oratory: Demosthenes “admired and sought to imitate” (ζηλῶν καὶ μιμούμενος) the formality of Pericles’ speech and bearing, as well as his refusal to speak suddenly or on every subject—traits highlighted in Pericles (7.4–8.4). In another case, Demosthenes attempts to persuade the Greeks to ignore bad omens and stand up to Macedon by pointing to Epaminondas and Pericles as exempla of the reasoned thinking that should guide decisionmaking (Dem. 20.1). Phocion, in turn, wishes to imitate Pericles, Aristides, and Solon, not in their moral qualities, but by restoring the political practice (πολιτείαν) of their day when statesmen served as both generals and orators (Phoc. 7.3). Solon is also a model for Publicola when he arranges a democracy (Comp. Sol. et. Publ. 2.1): And Publicola, too, in his political activities, made Solon the finest of examples (παραδειγμάτων κάλλιστον) for a man arranging a democracy. For, he took away the arrogant powers of the consulship and made it welldisposed and acceptable to all, and he adopted many of Solon’s laws. Elsewhere, Lycurgus is a model for Aristides, in his preference for aristocratic government (Arist. 2.1), for Agis, in his choice of public policy (Agis 19.5), and for Cleomenes, in his support for violence as a means to change a constitution (Cleom. 10.4). In all of these cases, Plutarch’s heroes focus on the pragmatic actions, rather than the moral virtues, of their predecessors. With regard to deterrent models, Timoleon provides an example of a hero using a predecessor as a model of actions to avoid when facing a similar political challenge (Tim. 22.1): Timoleon did not repeat the experience of Dion (οὐκ ἔπαθε Δίωνι ταὐτὸ πάθος), […] but guarding against the suspicion (ὑποψίαν φυλαξάμενος) that had brought calumny and then destruction upon his predecessor, he made a proclamation that all Syracusans who wished should come with iron tools and help demolish the tyrants’ bulwarks. As often, the experience Timoleon seeks to avoid is described in the corresponding Life (Dion 53.1). Again, Timoleon looks to his predecessor for a pragmatic lesson, not an ethical one. ous or we shall not fear the victors,” he echoes sentiments expressed in Cato’s Life as well (Ca. Mi. 64.5, 71.1).

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In the area of military prowess or strategies, Plutarch’s heroes often compare themselves to earlier generals when they confront a challenge. For instance, Caesar compares himself to Alexander (Caes. 11.5–6), and, when facing the Germans, he judges himself to be “no worse a general” than Marius facing the Cimbri (Caes. 19.4–5)—a battle discussed in Mar. 25–27. Alcibiades, in turn, compares himself to Themistocles approaching the Persian King in exile (Them. 28–31) and expects to show himself “no worse” than Themistocles, should the King test his services, but “better in his pretext” for offering them, because he acted on behalf of his country rather than against it (Alc. 37.4). Here, Alcibiades uses Themistocles as a standard for assessing both his own competency as a general and the honorable nature of his motive for approaching the King— using his predecessor as a yardstick of both practical and ethical traits.

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Contemporaries Name Heroes

The same breadth of intratextual references to ethical and pragmatic inspiration from earlier leaders is found in the comparisons voiced by a hero’s contemporaries. Table 14.2 lists twenty instances across the ethical, political and military categories. Again, the association of the subjects of the Lives with pragmatic competencies, as well as the virtues of leadership, is clear. Among the passages highlighting ethical qualities, three that center on judgments about Titus Flamininus illustrate the variety of themes linking Lives. First, in Flam. 11.3, the Greeks compare Flamininus to Agesilaus, Lysander, Nicias, and Alcibiades, concluding that Flamininus shared the bravery and practical judgment of the other generals—in conducting wars and winning victories—but was superior in justice because he “used his successes to win legitimate favor and promote what was noble.” The implied criticism of the Greek generals echoes themes in their own Lives, where Plutarch laments the infighting that cost the Greeks their liberty. Secondly, Titus Flamininus’ role in the death of Hannibal is examined from multiple perspectives. In Flam. 20.6, Hannibal compares his own treatment at the hands of Titus to how Pyrrhus had been warned by earlier Romans about the plan to poison him (described at Pyrrh. 21.1–3), concluding that Titus’ victory would not “be worthy of his forefathers” (τῶν προγόνων ἀξίαν). Another view of Flamininus is supplied by the Roman senators, who, in Flam. 21.1–2, consider Titus’ actions to be odious (ἐπαχθής), officious (περιττὸς ἄγαν), cruel (ὠμός), and intended to win him fame (διὰ δόξαν); they contrast this conduct to Scipio’s mildness (πρᾳότητα) and magnanimity (μεγαλοψυχίαν) both before and after Zama.

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table 14.2 Contemporaries name heroes (who are subjects of other Lives)

Ethical qualities and reputation 1. Ca. Mi. 8.1—Men thought Cato Min. not inferior to Cato Mai. in discipline, selfcontrol, sagacity and courage. 2. Dem. 14.1—Contemporaries thought Phocion matched Aristides and Cimon in bravery and justice. 3. Flam. 11.3—Greeks see Flamininus as more just in victory than Agesilaus, Lysander, Nicias or Alcibiades. 4. Flam. 20.6—Hannibal compares Flamininus’ conduct to how the Romans treated Pyrrhus (cf. Pyrrh. 21.1–3). 5. Flam. 21.1–2—Roman Senators compare Flamininus’ treatment of Hannibal to Scipio’s treatment of him. Political policies or practices; oratory 1. Ca. Ma. 4.1—Men called Cato Maior a Roman Demosthenes. 2. Cleom. 18.2–4—Men say Cleomenes imitated Solon and Lycurgus in abolishing debt and equalizing property 3. Dem. 6.4—Eunomus upbraids Demosthenes for having the oratorical style of Pericles but not his boldness 4. Sol. 16.1—The poor are displeased that Solon did not redistribute land and make men equal, like Lycurgus 5. Sulla 12.6—Greeks compare Sulla’s conduct at Delphi to that of Flamininus and Aemilius Paullus. Military prowess or strategies 1. Agis 14.2—Greeks compare army under Agis to what it must have been under Agesilaus or Lysander. 2. Brut. 40.3—Cassius before Philippi sees himself in the same position as Pompey before Pharsalus. 3. Demetr. 41.3—Macedonian soldiers compare Pyrrhus to Alexander. 4. Fab. 3.1—Flaminius refuses to be forced, like Camillus, to fight in Rome for Rome’s defense. 5. Flam. 7.3—Both Romans and Macedonians at Scotussa want to exceed standards set by Alexander. 6. Flam. 11.3—The Greeks group Agesilaus, Lysander, Nicias and Alcibiades as men who were successful in conducting wars on both land and sea, but did not use their victories well. 7. Flam. 21.3—Hannibal cites Alexander and Pyrrhus as the greatest generals ahead of himself.

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Table 14.2 Contemporaries name heroes (who are subjects of other Lives) (cont.)

8.

Flam. 21.5—Some compare Titus Flamininus’ contest with Hannibal with Sulla’s and Lucullus’ contests with Mithridates. 9. Pyrrh. 8.1—Macedonian soldiers compare Pyrrhus to Alexander. 10. Sert. 23.2—Mithridates’ flatterers compare Sertorius to Hannibal and Mithridates to Pyrrhus in ability.

Plutarch supplements these appraisals of Flamininus’ action on ethical grounds with an assessment of the pragmatic implications of Hannibal’s demise. First, Plutarch reports praise for Flamininus by men who believed Hannibal’s death was necessary to end the threat to Rome (Flam. 21.5): When Hannibal was in his prime, they said, it was not his body or his arm that had been formidable to the Romans, but his cleverness (δεινότητα) and experience (ἐμπειρίαν) combined with his ingrained bitterness and hostility, and from none of these qualities is anything subtracted by old age. Plutarch further reports that, based on these considerations, some men believed that Flamininus was acting under orders from Rome when he brought about Hannibal’s death (Flam. 21.8).14 This pragmatic assessment virtually closes the Life, leaving readers with food for thought regarding ethical and pragmatic concerns that drive political action. The recognition of parallels between military challenges facing generals of different eras is also voiced by contemporaries. Cicero, for instance, blames Pompey for abandoning Rome, because Pompey imitated the generalship of Themistocles when he was situated like Pericles (Pomp. 63.1). Cassius, in turn, sees parallels between his own situation ahead of Philippi and Pompey’s situation before Pharsalus, in being forced to gamble the fate of his country on a single battle (Brut. 40.3). In both passages, the intratextual references refer to situations extensively covered in the corresponding Lives (Them. 9.3–10.6; Per. 33.4–34.2, 35; Pomp. 66.4–68.1).

14

Plutarch reinforces this viewpoint by noting Rome’s later experience with Mithridates, who suffered great defeats at the hands of Sulla and Fimbria but rose again at a similar age to fight against Lucullus (Flam. 21.5).

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table 14.3 Plutarch names heroes (who are subjects of other pairs) [refers to p. 228]

Ethical qualities and reputation; similar circumstances 1. Ages.15.4—Agesilaus is a fairer example of righteous obedience to authority than Alexander. 2. Ant. 6.3—Caesar and Alexander were both driven by love of power and desire to be first and greatest. 3. Arist. 6.2—Aristides’ surname “the Just” is compared with Demetrius’ “Besieger” and Pyrrhus’ “Eagle”. 4. Arist. 25.3—Themistocles’ exile, Pericles’ fine, and Aristides’ ostracism show bad treatment of leaders. 5. Comp. Arist. et Ca. Ma. 4.4—Aristides and Epaminondas are examples of the virtue of living simply. 6. Ca. Ma. 5.3–4—Cato’s dismissal of old servants is compared with Cimon’s burial of his mare. 7. Ca. Ma. 24.7—Cato’s service in old age is compared with retirements of Lucullus and Scipio Africanus. 8. Cim. 5.1—Cimon is compared with Themistocles in daring, sagacity and justice. 9. Cor. 4.3—Coriolanus’ dedication to his mother is compared to Epaminondas’ regard for his parents. 10. Comp. Cor. et Alc, 2.4—Alcibiades does what Aristides did in giving military advice to his political enemies while in exile. 11. Comp. Cor. et Alc, 4.5—Coriolanus’ anger at rejection is compared to the equanimity of Aristides and Epaminondas. 12. Comp. Dem. et Cic. 4.3—Demosthenes showed himself a far better citizen in exile than Themistocles or Alcibiades. 13. Comp. Dion et Brut 1.7—Brutus after Philippi faced adverse fortune with less resolution than Pompey after Pharsalus. 14. Fab. 27.2—Epaminondas’ burial at public cost is compared with voluntary offerings at burial of Fabius. 15. Lyc. 13.3—Epaminondas, like Lycurgus, believed that a simple lifestyle removes suspicion. 16. Comp. Lys. et Sull. 4.2–3—Lysander’s death in battle is compared to that of Epaminondas. 17. Comp. Nic. et Crass. 4.2–5—Crassus’ motives for his expedition to Parthia are compared with those of Alexander. 18. Phoc. 3.4—Differences in bravery of Alcibiades and Epaminondas, in practical judgment of Themistocles and Aristides and in the justice of Numa and Agesilaus. 19. Rom. 27.3—Romulus’ mysterious death is compared with that of Scipio Africanus.

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Table 14.3 Plutarch names heroes (who are subjects of other pairs) [refers to p. 228] (cont.)

Political policies or practices; oratory 1. Cim. 5.1—Cimon is judged to be superior to Themistocles in political virtues. 2. Lyc. 30.4–5—Lysander and Agesilaus are named as Spartan leaders who sought to bring order to other states. 3. Nic. 3.1—Pericles and Nicias are compared in terms of virtue, eloquence and wealth as roads to power. 4. Comp. Nic. et Crass. 1.2—Nicias’ spending on informers was necessary because he was not a Pericles or an Aristides. 5. Comp. Nic. et Crass. 3.3–4—Nicias’ willingness to relinquish power to inferior men is contrasted with efforts by Themistocles and Cato Minor to keep bad men out of office. 6. Sol. 22.2–4—Solon’s attitude to trade and mechanical arts compared with that of Lycurgus. 7. Pel. 4.2—Partnership of Pelopidas and Epaminondas is compared with the rivalries of Themistocles and Aristides, of Cimon and Pericles and of Nicias and Alcibiades. Military prowess or strategies 1. Comp. Ages. et Pomp. 4.4—Pompey’s generalship is compared with that of Fabius, Marius, Lucullus and Agesilaus. 2. Caes. 15.3—Caesar as a general is compared with Fabius, Scipio, Sulla, Marius, Lucullus and Pompey. 3. Cim. 5.1—Cimon is judged to be “not inferior” to Themistocles in military virtues. 4. Phil. 8.4—Philopoemen’s attributes as a general are compared to those of Aratus. 5. Phil. 14.2–3—Philopoemen’s failure at sea is compared to that of Epaminondas. 6. Pomp. 46.1—Pompey’s military accomplishments are compared with those of Alexander. 7. Sert. 1.5—Sertorius’ qualities as general are compared with those of Pompey and Sulla. 8. Tim. 36.1–4—Timoleon’s military exploits are compared with those of Agesilaus, Pelopidas and Epaminondas.

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Plutarch Names Heroes

Instances in which readers can deepen their understanding of an intratextual reference by seeking out Plutarch’s treatment of the same theme in the corresponding Life are especially prominent in the authorial comments. While Plutarch rarely refers specifically to other Lives, his references to subjects of Lives in making comparisons and drawing attention to parallel challenges suggests that he supposed his audience to have read the entire series. Table 14.3 shows thirty-four intratextual references which link over thirty of Plutarch’s subjects of Lives across generations or Greek and Roman cultures. Again, the ethical and pragmatic themes highlighted through comparisons of specific heroes are similarly emphasized in the Lives of those heroes. Regarding ethical traits, Epaminondas is named most often as a standard of comparison: seven times in six different pairs. However, the broadest links to other Lives are found in Phoc. 3.4, where Plutarch comments that virtues are manifested differently in different men, using Alcibiades and Epaminondas to exemplify different types of bravery (ἀνδρείας), Themistocles and Aristides types of practical judgment (φρονήσεως), and Numa and Agesilaus types of justice (δικαιοσύνης). Not only are these six leaders subjects of their own Lives, but the particular virtue tied to each leader is emphasized in Plutarch’s narratives. Broad ‘connectivity’ to other Lives is also found in comments on pragmatic themes. One of the most pervasive concerns across the Parallel Lives is addressed in Pel. 4.2: the nature of alliances and rivalries and their impact. At the same time, the importance of analyzing and comparing the conduct of past statesmen in this particular area is clearly illustrated: If one looks carefully at the careers of Themistocles and Aristides or Cimon and Pericles or Nicias and Alcibiades, so full of mutual disagreements (διαφορῶν), envy (φθόνων) and rivalry (ζηλοτυπιῶν), and then examines the goodwill and honor (εὐμένειαν καὶ τιμήν) that Pelopidas showed towards Epaminondas, he will rightly and justly call the latter men colleagues in government and command (συνάρχοντας καὶ συστρατήγους) rather than the others, who incessantly strove to be superior to one another rather than to the enemy. Here, the intratextual references reinforce the positive paradigm of cooperation (in Pelopidas’ treatment of Epaminondas) by contrasting it with the deterrent conduct of other heroes, whose Lives demonstrate the negative impact of excessive rivalry.15 The same theme of the benefits of cooperation or costs of

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rivalry is woven through the Lives of Agesilaus and Lysander, as well as through the Roman Lives.16 Another pragmatic challenge is highlighted in Comp. Nic. et Crass. 3.3–4: namely, how to keep bad men out of office and military command. At issue is Nicias’ decision to enable Cleon to take command: When Nicias suspected that the generalship involved great danger, he was content to betray the common good at the price of his own safety. And yet Themistocles … to prevent a worthless and senseless man from becoming general and ruining the city, bought him off from the office; and Cato, when he saw that the tribuneship would involve the greatest trouble and danger on behalf of the city, stood for the office. Nicias, on the other hand, … handed over to Cleon’s inexperience and rashness … a command requiring the utmost experience. Here, Plutarch compares three incidents presented in the Lives: Nicias relinquishing his generalship to Cleon (Nic. 7–8), Themistocles buying off Epicydes (Them. 6), and Cato turning back to seek a tribuneship to counter Metellus Nepos (Ca. Mi. 20–21). The substantive nature of the intratextual references is especially clear in this passage: the positive counter-examples to Nicias’ conduct are taken from the Lives of two statesmen of different cultures whose careers were separated by more than 400 years, but who nevertheless addressed a common challenge. Solon includes a definitive comparison of the public policies of two leaders. In discussing Solon’s decision to turn his citizens to trades (τὰς τέχνας) and to enact laws that encouraged, or even required, them to learn one (Sol. 22.1–4), Plutarch draws a contrast to the policy of Lycurgus, whose city, unlike Athens, had no throng of foreigners, enough land to support its population, and control over Helots who could perform necessary, laborious tasks (Sol. 22.2– 4): [Given these circumstances] it was well enough for Lycurgus … to set his citizens free from laborious and mechanical occupations and confine them to arms … But Solon, adapting (προσαρμόζων) his laws to the situation (τοῖς πράγμασι τοὺς νόμους), rather than the situation to the laws (τὰ 15 16

See Arist. (2.1–3.3, 5.1–2, 8.1–9.4), Comp. Arist. et Ca. Ma. (5.3–4), Cim. (15–16, 17.6), Nic. (7.1– 8.3, 9.1–11.4), Comp. Nic. et Crass. (2.1–4, 3.1–5). Cooperation and rivalry are central themes in Fabius and Marcellus, Marius and Sulla, and Pompey and Caesar.

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πράγματα τοῖς νόμοις), and observing that the land … could not support an idle and leisured throng, conferred dignity to all the trades. When Solon “adapts his laws to the situation,” he adheres to a central principle of pragmatic leadership found in the Lives: he chooses a policy that will work in his city’s particular circumstances. In military contexts, one of the most common pragmatic challenges for generals is how to handle opposition to their strategies. Plutarch emphasizes this problem in Comp. Ages. et Pomp. 4.4, when he criticizes Pompey for not looking to the examples set by four great generals of the past: There were many plains, countless cities and boundless earth that his great resources by sea afforded Pompey, had he wished to imitate (βουλομένῳ μιμεῖσθαι) Maximus or Marius or Lucullus or Agesilaus himself. The specific aspect of effective generalship at issue here—namely, withstanding outside pressure and choosing the time and place of battle—is emphasized in Plutarch’s accounts of key battles of these generals in their own Lives.17 In addition, this passage is especially illustrative of how Plutarch expected the leaders portrayed in the Lives to serve as pragmatic guides to action. Fabius Maximus, Marius, Lucullus and Agesilaus are clearly grouped as paradigms of competent generalship, rather than as exempla of particular moral qualities. In fact, their moral characters, as portrayed in their own Lives, greatly differed.18 The references to the subjects of other Lives as effective generals in comparable situations points to the similarity in the practical challenges faced by military commanders depicted throughout the Parallel Lives, supplying a second context, in addition to concern with ethical issues, that unites the series. By writing Lives that illustrate common problems faced by political and military leaders throughout history, Plutarch is able to use intratextuality both to better portray heroes as exempla of conduct to imitate or avoid and to help readers examine the ethical and pragmatic aspects of successful (or failed) leadership from multiple perspectives and in varied contexts.

17

18

Agesilaus’ actions in Sparta and Egypt (Ages. 31–34, 38–39, Comp. Ages. et Pomp. 3.3–4, 4.5– 6), Fabius’ contests with Hannibal (Fab. 5.1–6, 11–12, 19), Marius’ battles against Cimbri and others (Mar. 16–21 and 24–27) and Lucullus’ battles against Mithridates and Tigranes (Luc. 8.5–8. 24.1–5, 26–28). Character differences are evident in summaries at Fab. 1.3–5, Mar. 2.1–3.3, Luc. 1.3–2.1 and Ages. 1.1–2.3.

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Conclusion

This analysis of intratextual references leads to two important conclusions. First, Plutarch’s references to heroes of other Lives are not included casually, but form meaningful threads that unify the pairs in the Parallel Lives into a multifaceted exploration of the ethical and pragmatic dimensions of leadership. The passages listed in the Tables come from over thirty different Lives and synkriseis, and when the Lives of heroes named are also included, all twentytwo pairs are linked at least once to Lives of heroes of another era or the other culture. Secondly, Plutarch addresses the pragmatic and ethical dimensions of leadership in much the same way. The pragmatic, ‘problem-solving’ lessons do not involve definitive road-maps for precise action any more than his moral lessons do. Like his moralism, Plutarch’s treatment of the pragmatic dimension of leadership is descriptive and exploratory. His intratextual references help to clarify (1) the kinds of questions leaders must ask in assessing strategic options, (2) the pitfalls they should look out for and (3) the oversights that can threaten success. However, unlike the moral aspect—which induces the reader to ask whether a particular action or strategy is morally right or wrong—, the pragmatic aspect induces the reader to ask whether a particular action or strategy will work or not; will it solve the problem or not. The two broad dimensions of leadership— the ethical and pragmatic—are like two sides of a coin: the features on the two sides are unique, but together they form a unity. This chapter has attempted to show that Plutarch carefully integrated both perspectives into the narrative of each Life and used intratextuality to weave the entire Parallel Series together as pragmatic biographies, exploring both the ethical and pragmatic sides of effective leadership.

capítulo 15

Ejemplos de responsio gramatical en el Teseo-Rómulo de Plutarco Aurelio Pérez Jiménez

Resumen In recent years research on Plutarch’s Parallel Lives has insisted on the thematic comparison and intra-textuality (i.e. literary, ethical, political etc.) between paired biographies. The aim has been to confirm a unitary conception of each book (including the two Lives with the prologue and the synkrisis) by Plutarch. It is not common, however, to analyse other structural correspondences such as those reflected in the formal patterns of both biographies. Concerning the particular case of the Theseus and Romulus, the thematic relationships have already been brought to light with great competence by Larmour in his 1988 article. With this chapter I will try to complement Larmour’s study by highlighting the linguistic (mainly lexical) procedures of intra-textuality that can be detected in both Lives and that demonstrate Plutarch’s unitary awareness about them.

1

La Synkrisis como método literario en las Vidas

En su importante libro sobre Plutarco Timothy Duff,1 siguiendo las líneas trazadas por otros estudiosos como Stadter y Pelling,2 llama la atención sobre el valor 1 T.E. Duff, Plutarch’s Lives: Exploring Virtue and Vice (Oxford-New York: Oxford University Press, 1999). 2 P.A. Stadter, “Plutarch’s comparison of Pericles and Fabius Maximus,” GRBS, 16 (1975) 77– 85 [reprinted in B. Scardigli (ed.), Essays on Plutarch’s Lives (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995) 221–236]; id., “The Proems of Plutarch’s Lives,” ICS 13 (1988) 275–295; e id., “Paradoxical Paradigms: Plutarch’s Lysander and Sulla,” in P.A. Stadter, Plutarch and the Historical Tradition (London: Taylor & Francis, 1992) 41–55 [reprinted in P.A. Stadter, Plutarch and his Roman Readers (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015) 258–269]; C.B.R. Pelling, “Synkrisis in Plutarch’s Lives,” in F.E. Brenk & I. Gallo (eds.), Miscellanea Plutarchea (Ferrara: Giornale filologico ferrarese, 1986) 83–96 [reprinted in Pelling, C.B.R., Plutarch and History: Eighteen Studies (London: Duckworth, 2002) 349–363]; id., “Synkrisis revisited,” in A. Pérez Jiménez & F.B. Titchener (eds.), Historical and Biographical Values of Plutarch’s Works. Studies Devoted to Prof. Philip A. Stadter by the International Plutarch Society (Málaga-Logan: Universidad de MálagaUtah State University, 2005) 325–340.

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prioritario que Plutarco concede a la comparación interna, al ejercicio retórico del contraste y la semejanza, tanto en sus Moralia, cuando opone virtudes y vicios, analiza conductas humanas, o coloca en parangón con el ser humano comportamientos biológicos e históricos de especies animales distintas, como en las Vidas, donde la comparación es un principio metodológico básico de la estructura de cada obra. Para Duff el objetivo principal es el análisis del carácter de los héroes plutarqueos y, por consiguiente, le interesa sobre todo investigar cómo sus virtudes y vicios emergen de la comparación constante con sus antagonistas políticos y militares o con otros personajes secundarios, que colaboran o se enfrentan a ellos; pero también percibe, a partir de las gestas y actitudes particulares de cada héroe, lo que para nosotros es aquí objeto central de análisis: que la synkrisis, convertida por Plutarco en elemento estructural de su obra (cuya unidad se basa en un prólogo, las biografías de dos personajes confrontados y una valoración sistemática y comparada de ambas figuras a modo de conclusión) funciona siempre como criterio de organización, selección de materiales y referencia interna no sólo en el prólogo y la comparación final, sino también a lo largo de la narración particular de cada Vida. La percepción por parte de Duff de este hecho fundamental para comprender el enfoque real de las Vidas Paralelas se refleja en frases como estas: “The case studies of this book have demonstrated the importance of reading the two Lives of a pair together” o “The concern in the Parallel Lives is less to evaluate which protagonist was better than to explore the issues raised by both Lives” o “An appreciation of the importance of the synkritic structure of the Parallel Lives is vital if we are to understand the rationale behind Plutarch’s selection and deployment of the source material at his disposal” o la conclusión de este principio: “as we have seen, very often Plutarch is moulding one incident to form a parallel with an incident in the paired Life” y, por último, su aplicación a la espina dorsal del objetivo biográfico del Queronense: la ejemplaridad ética de las grandes figuras de la historia griega y romana: Furthermore, an appreciation of the synkritic structure is vital for our understanding of the way in which moral truth is conveyed or moral questions raised across paired Lives. By placing alongside each other Lives of two individuals, drawn from different periods and different cultures, attention is focused on the constants: the character and moral status of the two subjects. Ahora bien, aunque expresiones como estas evidencian la correcta interpretación que tenemos que hacer del principio literario de la synkrisis en cuanto criterio de correspondencia estructural recíproca entre las dos biografías empa-

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rejadas, en el libro en cuestión Duff no pretende ir más allá de su mera formulación y sólo esporádicamente lo aplica al análisis de las distintas biografías. Sus reflexiones teóricas sobre la synkrisis en el correspondiente capítulo del libro3 (del que hemos extraído esas frases4) analizan la estructura retórica de la última parte de las dos biografías comparadas y las explicaciones, cuando son posibles, de su ausencia ya sea porque se haya perdido (p. ej. en el caso del Alejandro-César) o por otras razones. O profundiza en la vinculación formal que tienen las distintas partes de cada par de biografías entre sí: el prólogo con el relato de la primera Vida, el final de ésta con el principio de la segunda y el de ésta con la comparación final, un tema sobre el que Duff y otros estudiosos han vuelto a menudo en los últimos años.5 Y, por último, sus reflexiones a propósito de este tema tienen por objeto el contenido de los tópicos tratados en la synkrisis ya sea en lo que se refiere a la valoración que Plutarco hace de ellos como indicio de su posición ante los dos personajes en contraste o a la presencia o ausencia, a la coherencia y a las contradicciones entre los temas sugeridos en esta parte y los que configuran el relato de las Vidas a las que sirve como conclusión. En cualquier caso, el interés evidenciado por Duff por las relaciones estructurales y literarias entre los pares de biografías elaborados por Plutarco, evidencia la vía correcta de análisis literario de las Vidas Paralelas formulada teóricamente por Pelling en un par de trabajos y aplicada por Stadter y otros a los tópicos morales, al enfoque de algunos hechos históricos de los personajes y, esporádicamente, a la organización literaria de los materiales biográficos en varios trabajos sobre pares de Vidas particulares.6

3 “8. Synkrisis and the Synkriseis in the Parallel Lives” (Duff, Plutarch’s Lives, 245–286). 4 Ibid., 250. 5 T.E. Duff, “Plutarchan Synkrisis: Comparisons and Contradictions,” in L. Van der Stockt (ed.), Rhetorical Theory and Praxis in Plutarch. Acta of the IVth International Congress of the International Plutarch Society, Leuven, July 3–6, 1996 (Leuven: Peeters, 2000) 141–161; id., “The Structure of the Plutarchan Book,” ClAnt 30.2 (2011) 213–278; y id., “L’articolazione interna del libro plutarcheo,” in G. Pace & P. Volpe Cacciatore, Plutarch’s Writings: Transmission, Translation, Reception, Commentary. Proceedings of the IX International Conference of the International Plutarch Society (Naples: Calata Trinità Maggiore, 2013) 143–161; F. Frazier, “A propos de la composition des couples dans les ‘Vies parallèles’ de Plutarque,”RPh 61 (1987) 65–75; y id., Histoire et morale dans les Vies parallèles de Plutarque (Paris: Belles Lettres, 1996); G.W.M. Harrison, “The Semiotic of Plutarch’s Συγκρίσεις: The Hellenistic Lives of Demetrius-Antony and Agesilaus-Pompey,” RBPh 73 (1995) 91–104; N. Humble, Plutarch’s Lives: Parallelism and Purpose (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2010); y S.C.R. Swain, “Plutarchan Synkrisis,” Eranos 90 (1992) 101–111. 6 Stadter, “Paradoxical Paradigms,” 41–55 [reprinted in Stadter, Plutarch and his Roman Readers, 258–269]; D. Larmour, “Plutarch’s Compositional Methods in the Theseus and Romulus,”

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A la vista de estos trabajos y de mis reflexiones sobre otras biografías de Plutarco,7 cada vez estoy más convencido de que el futuro del análisis literario sobre la estructura de las Vidas Paralelas tiene que orientarse en esa dirección y subrayar los indicios de comparación interna, la relación intratextual entre las dos Vidas de cada libro, síntoma de la conciencia unitaria que Plutarco tiene de ellas y que pretende transferir así a sus lectores en favor de su objetivo didáctico y propagandístico. Sin duda alguna esa interrelación afecta tanto a la disposición retórica de los materiales concernientes a una y otra biografía y al prisma bajo el que Plutarco enfoca los rasgos morales del héroe y la valoración de su conducta política y militar en constante comparación con su par, como en cuanto al uso de expresiones y términos lingüísticos similares. Es en estos detalles en los que se manifiesta de manera inequívoca la verdadera dimensión del método biográfico del Queronense, marcado por la synkrisis. Nuestra presentación aquí, centrada en el análisis del Teseo-Rómulo trata de demostrar con un ejemplo práctico esa hipótesis.

2

El prólogo

Hechas estas breves puntualizaciones metodológicas sobre nuestra propuesta y antes de analizar los ecos mutuos que establece Plutarco entre las dos biografías que hemos elegido a tal fin, veamos cuáles son los principios sobre los que el Queronense estructura la relación entre la historia de Teseo y de Rómulo, según están formulados en el prólogo y, después, en la comparación que, afortunadamente en el caso que nos ocupa, sí se han conservado; y observemos también si hay aspectos de la tradición concerniente a ambos personajes que se enuncian aquí y faltan en el relato principal o a la inversa. Dejando aparte la cuestión de los motivos que han llevado a Plutarco a escribir dos biografías en las que domina el componente mitológico sobre el histórico8 y que lo obligan a formular esa captatio benevolentiae con que se TAPhA 118 (1988) 361–375 y id., “Making parallels: synkrisis and Plutarch’s ‘Themistocles and Camillus’,” in ANRW II.33.6 (1992) 4154–4200; A. Pérez Jiménez, “La estructura literaria de la Vida de Teseo de Plutarco,” in A. Pérez Jiménez & F.B. Titchener (eds.), Historical and Biographical Values of Plutarch’s Works. Studies Devoted to Prof. Philip A. Stadter by the International Plutarch Society (Málaga-Logan: Universidad de Málaga-Utah State University, 2005) 341–354 y id., “Ensayo sobre dos Vidas comparadas: Alejandro y César,” in A. Consentino & M. Monaca (eds.), Studium Sapientiae (Soberia Mannelli: Rubbettino Editore, 2013) 189–199. 7 Cf., por ejemplo, Pérez Jiménez, “Ensayo sobre dos Vidas comparadas”. 8 Pretexto injustificado de Larmour (“Plutarch’s compositional,” 361–362: “the Theseus and Romulus may be expected to illustrate Plutarch’s modus operandi more clearly than most,

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dirige el escritor a sus lectores a propósito de ello, aspectos ambos marginales a nuestros objetivos y a nuestro planteamiento, veamos ya, en el caso del prólogo, los temas que inducen a Plutarco a la comparación entre ambos personajes, expuestos en el capítulo primero (1.4–5, su condición de fundadores de las principales ciudades del mundo antiguo, como justificación de los personajes elegidos para la comparación) y en el segundo (tópicos fundamentales con que se va a estructurar la composición):

5

σκοποῦντι δέ μοι· τοιῷδε φωτὶ (κατ’ Αἰσχύλον) τίς ξυμβήσεται;9 τίν’ ἀντιτάξω τῷδε; τίς φερέγγυος;10 ἐφαίνετο τὸν τῶν καλῶν καὶ ἀοιδίμων οἰκιστὴν Ἀθηνῶν ἀντιστῆσαι καὶ παραβαλεῖν τῷ πατρὶ τῆς ἀνικήτου καὶ μεγαλοδόξου Ῥώμης. Cavilando yo A tal varón (según Esquilo), ¿quién se comparará? ¿A quién enfrentaré con éste? ¿Quién su garante? decidí comparar y cotejar al fundador de la bella y cantada Atenas con el padre de la invicta y gloriosa Roma.11 2.1 Ἐδόκει δ’ οὖν ὁ Θησεὺς τῷ Ῥωμύλῳ κατὰ πολλὰς ἐναρμόττειν ὁμοιότητας; ἄμφω μὲν γὰρ ἀνεγγύω καὶ σκοτίω γενόμενοι δόξαν ἔσχον ἐκ θεῶν γεγονέναι, ἄμφω δ’ αἰχμητά, τό γε δὴ καὶ ἴδμεν ἅπαντες,12 καὶ μετὰ τοῦ δυνατοῦ τὸ ξυνετὸν ἔχοντες· 2 πόλεων δὲ τῶν ἐπιφανεστάτων, ὁ μὲν ἔκτισε τὴν Ῥώμην, ὁ δὲ συνῴκισε τὰς Ἀθήνας· ἁρπαγὴ δὲ γυναικῶν ἑκατέρῳ πρόσεστιν· 3 οὐδέτερος δὲ δυστυχίαν περὶ τὰ οἰκεῖα καὶ νέμεσιν ἐγγενῆ διέφυγεν, ἀλλὰ καὶ τελευτῶντες ἀμφότεροι λέγονται τοῖς ἑαυτῶν προσκροῦσαι πολίταις, εἴ τι τῶν ἥκιστα τραγικῶς εἰρῆσθαι δοκούντων ὄφελός ἐστι πρὸς ἀλήθειαν.

9 10 11

12

since, in dealing with two legendary figures, he was presumably less constrained than usual by the claims of widely-accepted and reliable historical data”) para su, por otra parte excelente, análisis de las relaciones entre las dos biografías, del que partimos aquí y completamos en muchos otros detalles que confirman nuestra hipótesis sobre el método sincretista de Plutarco. A. Sept. 435. A. Sept. 395–396. Las traducciones correspondientes a las Vidas de Teseo y Rómulo (cuerpo de texto principal) son las mismas que ya he publicado en A. Pérez Jiménez, Plutarco. Vidas Paralelas I (Madrid: Gredos, 2007, 2nd ed.). Hom. Il. 7.281.

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¿Parecía, en verdad, acomodarse Teseo a Rómulo en muchos puntos de semejanza? Efectivamente, nacidos ambos de un modo ilegítimo y oscuro, gozaron fama de que eran hijos de dioses, Y ambos guerreros, lo que por cierto ya también sabemos todos, y con la inteligencia asociada a la fuerza. 2 Además, de las ciudades más preclaras, aquél realizó la fusión de Atenas y éste fundó Roma. 3 Rapto de mujeres se atribuye también a uno y otro. Y ninguno de los dos logró escapar al infortunio en lo privado y a la venganza familiar; pero también se dice que, al final de sus vidas, ambos chocaron con sus propios conciudadanos, si es que alguno de los relatos que parecen tener menos aire de tragedia es útil para la verdad. Pues bien, formulados así estos principios en el prólogo, Plutarco declara sin ambages que su método es contrastar (ἀντιτάξω, ἀντιστῆσαι) y poner en paralelo (ξυμβήσεται, παραβαλεῖν) los dos personajes, de modo que la vida de uno sirva de testimonio para la vida del otro (φερέγγυος).13 Con ello nos pone en guardia, como lectores, frente a la tentación de una lectura individualizada y desconectada de ambas biografías. Y luego enumera los principales puntos de semejanza (κατὰ πολλὰς ἐναρμόττειν ὁμοιότητας) entre los dos héroes como elemento esencial de la estrecha ligazón entre ambas partes. Al hacer esto, el biógrafo propone a sus lectores los tópicos esenciales del esquema biográfico:14 1) El origen y la filiación: ἄμφω μὲν γὰρ ἀνεγγύω καὶ σκοτίω γενόμενοι δόξαν ἔσχον ἐκ θεῶν γεγονέναι. 2) La actividad militar (ἄμφω δ’ αἰχμητά). 3) Sus condiciones para la vida pública (política) aprovechando la caracterización que de Teseo da el propio Tucídides (μετὰ τοῦ δυνατοῦ τὸ ξυνετὸν ἔχοντες, “asociando a su poder la inteligencia”),15 siempre un referente histórico en el pensamiento biográfico de Plutarco.

13

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Un principio, este de la complementariedad y valoración de la vida de un personaje con relación a la del otro, que se repite en otros pares de Vidas, como, por ejemplo, la del Sol.Publ. (Comp. Sol. et Publ. 1.1: Ἆρ’ οὖν ἴδιόν τι περὶ ταύτην τὴν σύγκρισιν ὑπάρχει καὶ μὴ πάνυ συμβεβηκὸς ἑτέρᾳ τῶν ἀναγεγραμμένων, τὸν ἕτερον μιμητὴν γεγονέναι τοῦ ἑτέρου, τὸν ἕτερον δὲ μάρτυν; = “¿No es cierto que con esta comparación sucede algo especial que no se encuentra en ninguna otra de las que llevamos escritas, a saber, que uno fue imitador del otro y éste fedatario de aquél?”, trad. A. Pérez Jiménez, Plutarco. Vidas Paralelas II [Madrid: Gredos, 1996] 228). Para el que remitimos a Pérez Jiménez, “La estructura literaria”. Thes. 2.15.2: ἐπειδὴ δὲ Θησεὺς ἐβασίλευσε, γενόμενος μετὰ τοῦ ξυνετοῦ καὶ δυνατὸς … (= “una vez que Teseo se convirtió en rey, habiéndose hecho con su inteligencia también poderoso …”, trad. propia).

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La actividad política, concretada en este caso en su condición de fundadores y organizadores de estados (1.5, ἐφαίνετο τὸν τῶν καλῶν καὶ ἀοιδίμων οἰκιστὴν Ἀθηνῶν ἀντιστῆσαι καὶ παραβαλεῖν τῷ πατρὶ τῆς ἀνικήτου καὶ μεγαλοδόξου Ῥώμης = “decidí comparar y cotejar al fundador de la bella y cantada Atenas con el padre de la invicta y gloriosa Roma” y 2.2, πόλεων δὲ τῶν ἐπιφανεστάτων, ὁ μὲν ἔκτισε τὴν Ῥώμην, ὁ δὲ συνῴκισε τὰς Ἀθήνας = “de las ciudades más preclaras, aquél fundó Roma y éste realizó la fusión de Atenas”). Su actitud individual hacia las mujeres, centrada en los raptos (2.2, ἁρπαγὴ δὲ γυναικῶν ἑκατέρῳ πρόσεστιν = “rapto de mujeres se atribuye también a uno y otro”). La decadencia moral y política al final de su vida, que los hace incurrir en el desprestigio ante los conciudadanos y las circunstancias de su muerte (2.3, οὐδέτερος δὲ δυστυχίαν περὶ τὰ οἰκεῖα καὶ νέμεσιν ἐγγενῆ διέφυγεν, ἀλλὰ καὶ τελευτῶντες ἀμφότεροι λέγονται τοῖς ἑαυτῶν προσκροῦσαι πολίταις = “Y ninguno de los dos logró escapar al infortunio en lo privado y a la venganza familiar; pero también se dice que, al final de sus vidas, ambos chocaron con sus propios conciudadanos”).

Rúbricas en paralelo

Si este esquema, tal como aparece en el Prólogo, marca a grandes rasgos y sin demasiada precisión el esquema biográfico de las dos biografías (origen y nacimiento, vocación pública, actividad militar y política, crisis y muerte) la lectura en paralelo de ellas confirma la estructura intratextual de ambas, no sólo en cuanto a los temas principales formulados allí, sino también por lo que atañe a detalles que el escritor extrae del material de sus fuentes y a los que da especial relevancia precisamente debido a esa relación interna que aflora en la comparación. a) Primero nos habla del linaje y de las circunstancias del matrimonio de los padres y del nacimiento, insistiendo sobre los argumentos evhemerísticos de la pretendida paternidad divina de ambos héroes: Thes. 3 / Rom. 2. b) Hay detalles etiológicos en ambas biografías concernientes a la topografía de su infancia: Τhes. 5.1, nombre del lugar donde Teseo ofrece sus cabellos (καὶ τόπον ἀπ’ αὐτοῦ τὴν Θησείαν ἔτι νῦν ὀνομάζεσθαι λέγουσιν = “de él un lugar todavía hoy dicen que se llama la Tesea”) / Rom. 4.1, nombre del lugar a donde arriba la cesta con los niños (Ἦν δὲ πλησίον ἐρινεός, ὃν Ῥωμινάλιον ἐκάλουν, ἢ διὰ τὸν Ῥωμύλον ὡς οἱ πολλοὶ νομίζουσιν = “Había cerca un cabrahigo al que llamaban Rominalio, bien por Rómulo, como cree la mayoría”).

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Se ocultan por razones similares (peligro de los palántidas en el caso de Teseo y de Amulio en el de los gemelos) el nacimiento y la crianza: Thes. 6.1 (Τὸν μὲν οὖν ἄλλον χρόνον ἔκρυπτεν Αἴθρα τὴν ἀληθινὴν τοῦ Θησέως γένεσιν = “Pues bien, durante el tiempo anterior, Etra mantenía oculto el verdadero origen de Teseo”) / Rom. 6.1 (Τὰ δὲ βρέφη Φαιστύλος Ἀμουλίου συφορβὸς ἀνείλετο λαθὼν ἅπαντας, ὡς δ’ ἔνιοί φασι τῶν εἰκότων ἐχόμενοι μᾶλλον, εἰδότος τοῦ Νομήτορος καὶ συγχορηγοῦντος τροφὰς κρύφα τοῖς τρέφουσι = “A los pequeños los recogió Féstulo, porquero de Amulio, sin que nadie se enterara, pero, según algunos que se atienen más a lo verosímil, a sabiendas de Numítor y ayudando éste en los gastos de alimentación secretamente a los que los criaban”). Se interpreta la paternidad divina de los héroes como un expediente para mantener en secreto el verdadero origen: Thes. 6.1 (ἦν δὲ λόγος ὑπὸ τοῦ Πιτθέως διαδοθεὶς ὡς ἐκ Ποσειδῶνος τεκνωθείη = “y existía el rumor, corrido por Piteo, de que era hijo de Posidón”) / Rom. 4.2 (ὅθεν οὐχ ἥκιστα πίστιν ἔσχεν ἡ τεκοῦσα τὰ βρέφη τεκεῖν ἐξ Ἄρεως φάσκουσα = “Por eso, tuvo aún más crédito la que alumbró a los pequeños cuando dijo que los había tenido de Ares”). Cuando el biógrafo aborda la juventud del héroe, hace una descripción física y espiritual y vincula sus condiciones naturales (físicas y espirituales) al conocimiento de su verdadero origen: Thes. 6.2 (ἐπεὶ δὲ μειράκιον ὢν ἅμα τῇ τοῦ σώματος ῥώμῃ διέφαινεν ἀλκὴν καὶ φρόνημα μετὰ νοῦ καὶ συνέσεως βέβαιον, οὕτως αὐτὸν ἡ Αἴθρα πρὸς τὴν πέτραν προσαγαγοῦσα, καὶ φράσασα περὶ τῆς γενέσεως τἀληθές = “Mas cuando, ya adolescente, además del vigor de su cuerpo, daba muestras de valentía y de un talante asegurado con su buen juicio e inteligencia, entonces Etra lo condujo hasta la roca y, tras revelarle la verdad sobre su origen …”) / Rom. 6.3 (ἡ μὲν οὖν ἐν τοῖς σώμασιν εὐγένεια καὶ νηπίων ὄντων εὐθὺς ἐξέφαινε μεγέθει καὶ ἰδέᾳ τὴν φύσιν, αὐξόμενοι δὲ θυμοειδεῖς ἦσαν ἀμφότεροι καὶ ἀνδρώδεις καὶ φρόνημα πρὸς τὰ φαινόμενα δεινὰ καὶ τόλμαν ὅλως ἀνέκπληκτον ἔχοντες = “Pues bien, su buena constitución física, aunque todavía eran muy pequeños, descubría ya por la estatura y aspecto su naturaleza y, cuando crecieron, eran ambos ardorosos, valientes, decididos frente a lo que parecía terrible y, en general, dotados de un coraje inconmovible”) y 7.5, referido a Remo (θαυμάζων μὲν ἀπὸ τοῦ σώματος τὸν νεανίσκον, ὑπερφέροντα μεγέθει καὶ ῥώμῃ πάντας, ἐνορῶν δὲ τῷ προσώπῳ τὸ θαρραλέον καὶ ἰταμὸν τῆς ψυχῆς ἀδούλωτον καὶ ἀπαθὲς ὑπὸ τῶν παρόντων = “y admirando, de una parte, al jovencito por su cuerpo, ya que los aventajaba a todos en estatura y fuerza, observando, de otra, en su rostro la resolución y osadía de su espíritu, propia de hombre libre y no consternada por las circunstancias …”).

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Otro tópico presente es la vocación de servicio a la Humanidad (προαίρεσις) de ambos héroes como motor de su φιλοτιμία: Su vocación los lleva al afán de justicia en defensa de los oprimidos: Thes. 7.3 (Τοιούτῳ φρονήματι καὶ τοιούτοις λογισμοῖς ἐξώρμησεν, ὡς ἀδικήσων μὲν οὐδένα, τοὺς δ’ ὑπάρχοντας βίας άμυνούμενος = “Con tal talente y tales pensamientos partió, decidido a no hacer daño a nadie, pero a defenderse de quienes emprendieran actos de violencia”) / Rom. 6.5 (ἐχρῶντο δὲ διαίταις καὶ διατριβαῖς ἐλευθερίοις, οὐ τὴν σχολὴν ἐλευθέριον ἡγούμενοι καὶ τὴν ἀπονίαν, ἀλλὰ γυμνάσια καὶ θήρας καὶ δρόμους καὶ τὸ λῃστὰς ἀλέξασθαι καὶ κλῶπας ἑλεῖν καὶ βίας ἐξελέσθαι τοὺς ἀδικουμένους = “Se ocupaban en pasatiempos y ejercicios liberales, no considerando tal el ocio ni la comodidad, sino el deporte, la caza, las carreras, defenderse de los bandidos, capturar ladrones y librar de abusos a los que eran agredidos”). Hay una referencia a la institución de fiestas y rituales religiosos en Atenas y en Roma por parte de los héroes: Thes. 23.2–3 (Oscoforias), 24.3–4 (Panateneas), 25.5 (Juegos Ístmicos)/ Rom. 21.1 (Matronalia y Carmentalia), 21.4–10 (Lupercalia) y 22.1 (Vestales). También encontramos un paralelismo en lo que se refiere a la sucesión cronológica de la muerte de un familiar y la fundación: Thes. 24.1 (Μετὰ δὲ τὴν Αἰγέως τελευτὴν μέγα καὶ θαυμαστὸν ἔργον εἰς νοῦν βαλόμενος, συνῴκισε τοὺς τὴν Ἀττικὴν κατοικοῦντας εἰς ἓν ἄστυ, καὶ μιᾶς πόλεως ἕνα δῆμον ἀπέφηνε, τέως σποράδας ὄντας καὶ δυσανακλήτους πρὸς τὸ κοινὸν πάντων συμφέρον, ἔστι δ’ ὅτε καὶ διαφερομένους ἀλλήλοις καὶ πολεμοῦντας = “Después de la muerte de Egeo, se propuso una ingente y admirable empresa: reunió a los habitantes del Ática en una sola ciudad y proclamó un solo pueblo de un solo Estado, mientras que antes estaban dispersos y era difícil reunirlos para el bien común de todos e incluso, a veces, tenían diferencias y guerras entre ellos”) / Rom. 11.1 (Ὁ δὲ Ῥωμύλος ἐν τῇ Ῥεμωρίᾳ θάψας τὸν Ῥέμον ὁμοῦ καὶ τοὺς τροφεῖς, ᾤκιζε τὴν πόλιν, ἐκ Τυρρηνίας μεταπεμψάμενος ἄνδρας ἱεροῖς τισι θεσμοῖς καὶ γράμμασιν ὑφηγουμένους ἕκαστα καὶ διδάσκοντας ὥσπερ ἐν τελετῇ = “Rómulo, después de enterrar en la Remoria a Remo junto con quienes los criaron, se dispuso a fundar la ciudad haciendo venir de Tirrenia hombres que, con ciertas leyes y libros sagrados, interpretaban y explicaban cada rito igual que en una ceremonia religiosa”). Pese a la diferenciación entre el proceso de ‘fundación’ de ambas ciudades, el sinecismo de Atenas se proyecta tanto a la primera como a la segunda ‘fundación’ de Roma, implicada por la fusión entre romanos y sabinos (incluido el detalle sobre el nombre de la ciudad): Thes. 24.3 (οἱ δὲ τὴν δύναμιν αὐτοῦ δεδιότες, μεγάλην οὖσαν ἤδη, καὶ τὴν τόλμαν, ἐβού-

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λοντο πειθόμενοι μᾶλλον ἢ βιαζόμενοι ταῦτα συγχωρεῖν. 3 καταλύσας οὖν τὰ παρ’ ἑκάστοις πρυτανεῖα καὶ βουλευτήρια καὶ ἀρχάς, ἓν δὲ ποιήσας ἅπασι κοινὸν ἐνταῦθα πρυτανεῖον καὶ βουλευτήριον ὅπου νῦν ἵδρυται τὸ ἄστυ, τήν τε πόλιν Ἀθήνας προσηγόρευσε = “y a otros, temerosos de su poder, que ya era grande, y de su decisión, les parecía preferible aceptarlas por la persuasión mejor que por la fuerza. Derribó, por consiguiente, los pritaneos y consistorios y abolió las magistraturas de cada lugar y, construyendo un pritaneo y consistorio común para todos allí donde ahora se asienta la ciudad, al Estado le dio el nombre de Atenas”) / Rom. 19.9 (ἐκ τούτου συντίθενται, τῶν μὲν γυναικῶν τὰς βουλομένας συνοικεῖν τοῖς ἔχουσιν, ὥσπερ εἴρηται παντὸς ἔργου καὶ πάσης λατρείας πλὴν ταλασίας ἀφειμένας, οἰκεῖν δὲ κοινῇ τὴν πόλιν Ῥωμαίους καὶ Σαβίνους, καὶ καλεῖσθαι μὲν Ῥώμην ἐπὶ Ῥωμύλῳ τὴν πόλιν, Κυρίτας δὲ Ῥωμαίους ἅπαντας ἐπὶ τῇ Τατίου πατρίδι, βασιλεύειν δὲ κοινῇ καὶ στρατηγεῖν ἀμφοτέρους = “Después de esto, acordaron que las mujeres que lo desearan vivieran con los que las tenían, como ya se ha dicho, liberadas de cualquier trabajo y servicio, salvo el de la hilanza; que habitaran en común la ciudad romanos y sabinos; que la ciudad se llamara Roma por Rómulo y curenses todos los romanos por la patria de Tacio, y que ambos reinaran y fueran generales en común”). Organización política de ambas ciudades, ligada a su sinecismo: Thes. 25.1 (Ἔτι δὲ μᾶλλον αὐξῆσαι τὴν πόλιν βουλόμενος, ἐκάλει πάντας ἐπὶ τοῖς ἴσοις, καὶ τὸ ‘δεῦρ’ ἴτε πάντες λεῴ’ κήρυγμα Θησέως γενέσθαι φασί, πανδημίαν τινὰ καθιστάντος = “Con la pretensión de engrandecer todavía más la ciudad, invitaba a todo el mundo a la igualdad y el ‘aquí venid todas las gentes’ dicen que fue un bando de Teseo, cuando proyectaba la fundación de un pueblo universal”) / Rom. 13.1 (Κτισθείσης δὲ τῆς πόλεως, πρῶτον μὲν ὅσον ἦν ἐν ἡλικίᾳ πλῆθος εἰς συντάγματα στρατιωτικὰ διεῖλεν = “Fundada la ciudad, primero distribuyó en cuerpos de ejército a toda la gente que estaba en edad”). Encontramos un apartado especial para los raptos de mujeres y la valoración ética de los mismos: Thes. 29.1 (Εἰσὶ μέντοι λόγοι περὶ γάμων Θησέως καὶ ἕτεροι, τὴν σκηνὴν διαπεφευγότες, οὔτ’ ἀρχὰς εὐγνώμονας οὔτ’εὐτυχεῖς τελευτὰς ἔχοντες = “No obstante, existen otras historias distintas sobre casamientos de Teseo, que han escapado a la escena y que no cuentan con nobles principios ni felices desenlaces”) / Rom. 14.1 (Τετάρτῳ δὲ μηνὶ μετὰ τὴν κτίσιν, ὡς Φάβιος ἱστορεῖ, τὸ περὶ τὴν ἁρπαγὴν ἐτολμήθη τῶν γυναικῶν = “Al cuarto mes después de a fundación, según refiere Fabio, se emprendió la acción del rapto de las mujeres”). Formulación de la crisis personal y política del héroe, que tendrá su desenlace en la muerte: Thes. 35.4 (αὖθις δὲ βουλόμενος ὡς πρότερον ἄρχειν

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καὶ καθηγεῖσθαι τοῦ πολιτεύματος, εἰς στάσεις ἐνέπεσε καὶ ταραχάς, οὓς μὲν ἀπέλιπε μισοῦντας αὐτὸν εὑρίσκων τὸ μὴ φοβεῖσθαι τῷ μισεῖν προσειληφότας, ἐν δὲ τῷ δήμῳ πολὺ τὸ διεφθαρμένον ὁρῶν καὶ θεραπεύεσθαι βουλόμενον ἀντὶ τοῦ ποιεῖν σιωπῇ τὸ προσταττόμενον = “Pero en cuanto quiso nuevamente hacerse con el poder, como antes, y ponerse al frente del gobierno, cayó en medio de revueltas y desórdenes, encontrándose con que los que dejó odiándole habían añadido al odio el no tenerle miedo, y viendo que, en el pueblo, grande era la corrupción y el deseo de ser servido en vez de cumplir en silencio las órdenes”) / Rom. 26.1 (Τοῦτον ἔσχατον πόλεμον ὁ Ῥωμύλος ἐπολέμησεν. εἶθ’ ὃ πολλοί, μᾶλλον δὲ πλὴν ὀλίγων πάσχουσι πάντες οἱ μεγάλαις καὶ παραλόγοις ἀρθέντες εὐτυχίαις εἰς δύναμιν καὶ ὄγκον, οὐδ’ αὐτὸς διέφυγε παθεῖν, ἀλλ’ ἐκτεθαρρηκὼς τοῖς πράγμασι καὶ βαρυτέρῳ φρονήματι χρώμενος, ἐξίστατο τοῦ δημοτικοῦ, καὶ παρήλλαττεν εἰς μοναρχίαν ἐπαχθῆ καὶ λυποῦσαν ἀπὸ τοῦ σχήματος πρῶτον ᾧ κατεσχημάτιζεν ἑαυτόν = “Esta fue la última guerra que emprendió Rómulo. Luego, lo que muchos sufren o, más bien, excepto pocos, todos los que son elevados por grandes e inesperados éxitos a la cumbre del poder y del boato, tampoco él se libró de sufrirlo; sino que, plenamente confiado en los acontecimientos y dando muestras de un corazón cada vez más duro, fue abandonando su actitud democrática e inclinándose a una monarquía impopular y que, al principio, se hacía molesta por el aparato con que se rodeaba”). m) Muerte: Aunque las circunstancias son diferentes, Plutarco tiene in mente su falta de claridad, que, en el caso de Teseo, se concreta en la ignorancia de sus conciudadanos (Thes. 35.7: καὶ παραυτίκα μὲν οὐδεὶς ἔσχεν αὐτοῦ λόγον οὐδένα τεθνηκότος = “Entonces nadie dijo nada de su muerte”) y en el de Rómulo en la de su forma de muerte (Rom. 27.4: οὐδὲν εἰπεῖν βέβαιον οὐδ’ ὁμολογούμενον πυθέσθαι περὶ τῆς τελευτῆς ἀπολιπὼν … = “sin dejar ningún dato segura que permita hablar, ni en el que se esté de acuerdo para informarse sobre su muerte”). Pero que el biógrafo asocia ambos episodios, con transferencias lingüísticas del texto del Teseo al del Rómulo, lo demuestra el uso del mismo verbo (διαφθείρω) para indicar la autoría casi cierta de la muerte de Teseo a manos de Licomedes (Thes. 35.6: ὦσε κατὰ τῶν πετρῶν καὶ διέφθειρε = “lo empujó por los barrancos y lo mató”) y la presumible de la de Rómulo por una conspiración de los senadores (Rom. 27.6: οἱ μὲν εἴκαζον ἐν τῷ ἱερῷ τοῦ Ἡφαίστου τοὺς βουλευτὰς ἐπαναστάντας αὐτῷ καὶ διαφθείραντας … = “unos conjeturaban que, saltando sobre él los consejeros en el templo de Hefesto y dándole muerte …”). n) Por último, hay un cierto paralelismo en la reaparición de ambos después de la muerte, ya sea del cadáver en el caso de Teseo (acompañado de sus armas) o de la epifanía de Rómulo (también con sus armas), seguida de

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la instauración de fiestas en su honor: Thes. 36.2 εὑρέθη δὲ θήκη τε μεγάλου σώματος αἰχμή τε παρακειμένη χαλκῆ καὶ ξίφος = “Y fue encontrado el féretro de un cuerpo de gran tamaño y, a su lado, una lanza de bronce y una espada” / Rom. 28.1 καλὸς μὲν ὀφθῆναι καὶ μέγας ὡς οὔποτε πρόσθεν, ὅπλοις δὲ λαμπροῖς καὶ φλέγουσι κεκοσμημένος = “con aspecto tan bello y tan grande como nunca antes, y vestido con armas relucientes y flamantes”. Es evidente, a partir de la sola enumeración de estos tópicos y de muchos de los detalles en que Plutarco se fija a propósito de ellos, que la redacción del Rómulo se hace pensando en su paralelo con Teseo y, tal vez, también lo inverso. Naturalmente, las escasas alteraciones del orden en la exposición de los temas concretos están más que justificadas por las diferencias que introducen las distintas circunstancias míticas y pretendidamente históricas de ambas biografías; pero no es casual el recurso, siempre o casi siempre que hay ocasión para ello, a subrayar dichos temas paralelos. Sobre gran parte de estos paralelismos ha tratado ya Larmour, en el único trabajo específico que conozco donde se aborda la relación intratextual de ambas biografías.16 Larmour abunda en las relaciones temáticas y estructurales que he resumido hasta ahora, pero no va más allá. Mi aportación en este trabajo será gramatical, concretamente lexicográfica y a veces sintáctica. Pretendo demostrar con ello que las relaciones internas que Plutarco tiene en cuenta al redactar el texto de ambas biografías son más profundas de lo que se suele indicar, completando así el análisis precedente.

4

Terminología paralela concurrente

En efecto, la intratextualidad del Teseo con el Rómulo no se limita a los tópicos y a la disposición e introducción de los hechos de estos personajes. La evidencia de constantes interferencias textuales de una con otra baja al terreno de la expresión lingüística, ya se trate de determinadas palabras-clave iguales, del uso de sinónimos y antónimos en contextos literarios equivalentes o incluso de sintagmas y frases iguales o parecidas. También esto (o especialmente esto) forma parte del enfoque literario de ambas Vidas como una unidad cohesionada por parte de Plutarco. a) Los orígenes y la concepción de los héroes: En ambos casos tenemos una referencia al linaje, la mención de un oráculo que pone determinadas

16

Larmour, “Plutarch’s compositional”.

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restricciones a su concepción; una unión de la madre con el padre que contraviene las prescripciones divinas y el parto. Pues bien, todo ello está expresado con términos que implican esa interferencia textual interna en la estructura de ambas biografías, pese a las naturales diferencias temáticas, de extensión y de orientación. – γένος: Thes. 3.1 (Θησέως τὸ μὲν πατρῷον γένος = “De Teseo el linaje paterno”) / Rom. 2.2 (οὐ μὴν οὐδ’ οἱ Ῥωμύλον τῷ δικαιοτάτῳ τῶν λόγων ἀποφαίνοντες ἐπώνυμον τῆς πόλεως ὁμολογοῦσι περὶ τοῦ γένους [αὐτοῦ] = “ni siquiera los que, de acuerdo con la versión más correcta, presentan a Rómulo como epónimo de la ciudad, se ponen de acuerdo sobre [su] linaje”). – χρησμός: Thes. 3.5 (Αἰγεῖ δὲ παίδων δεομένῳ τὴν Πυθίαν ἀνελεῖν λέγουσι τὸν θρυλούμενον χρησμόν = “A Egeo, que deseaba hijos, la Pitia cuentan que le reveló el tan conocido oráculo”) / Rom. 2.4 (εἶναι δὲ Τηθύος ἐν Τυρρηνίᾳ χρηστήριον, ἀφ’ οὗ κομισθῆναι τῷ Ταρχετίῳ χρησμόν, ὥστε συμμεῖξαι τῷ φάσματι παρθένον = “Había en Etruria un oráculo de Tetis, del que se le trajo a Tarquecio la prescripción de unir con el falo una virgen”). – συγγενέσθαι: Thes. 3.5 (διακελευομένην μηδεμιᾷ γυναικὶ συγγενέσθαι πρὶν ἐλθεῖν εἰς Ἀθήνας, … Αἴθρᾳ συγγενέσθαι = “por el que le prohibía acostarse con mujer alguna antes de su llegada a Atenas, … para que se acostara con Etra”) / Rom. 2.4 (ἀφ’ οὗ κομισθῆναι τῷ Ταρχετίῳ χρησμόν, ὥστε συμμεῖξαι τῷ φάσματι παρθένον … συγγενέσθαι τῷ φαλλῷ = “del que se le trajo a Tarquecio la prescripción de unir con el falo una virgen … que se acostara con el falo”). – κύειν: Thes. 3.6 (κύειν αὐτὴν ὑπονοήσας = “como sospechaba que estaba encinta”) / Rom. 3.4 (φωρᾶται δὲ μετ’ οὐ πολὺν χρόνον κυοῦσα = “Mas, al cabo de no mucho tiempo, se descubrió que estaba embarazada”). – λανθάνειν: Τhes. 3.7 (ἀλλ’ ὡς ἔνεστι μάλιστα λανθάνοντα πάντας = “sino lo más a ocultas posible de todos”) / Rom. 6.1 (Τὰ δὲ βρέφη Φαιστύλος Ἀμουλίου συφορβὸς ἀνείλετο λαθὼν ἅπαντας = “A los pequeños los recogió Féstulo, porquero de Amulio, sin que nadie se enterara”). – τεκούσης: Thes. 4.1 (Τεκούσης δὲ τῆς Αἴθρας υἱὸν = “Dio a luz Etra un hijo”) / Rom. 2.6 (τῆς θεραπαινίδος τεκούσης δίδυμα = “la criada dio a luz gemelos”); 3.4 (ἔτεκε δὲ δύο παῖδας = “dio a luz dos niños”). El nombre, la crianza de los niños y la justificación racionalista del nacimiento divino: Para la infancia, y tal como es habitual en el esquema de Plutarco, los tópicos marcados en ambas biografías son los motivos (etimológicos) del nombre y la educación inicial de los personajes, adecuada a su origen real y al papel que les reserva la historia. Esto último, que es

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más claro en el caso de Teseo, para el que la tradición mítica aporta material, parece totalmente original en el caso de Rómulo, donde tanto el léxico como la justificación recuerdan a su paralelo: – ὀνομασθῆναι/κληθῆναι: Thes. 4.1 (oἱ μὲν εὐθὺς ὀνομασθῆναι Θησέα λέγουσι διὰ τὴν τῶν γνωρισμάτων θέσιν, οἱ δ’ ὕστερον Ἀθήνησι παῖδα θεμένου τοῦ Αἰγέως αὐτόν = “unos afirman que al punto recibió el nombre de Teseo, por la exposición de los objetos de reconocimiento, pero otros que más tarde, en Atenas, cuando Egeo lo adoptó como hijo”) / Rom. 6.2 (κληθῆναι δὲ καὶ τούτους ἀπὸ τῆς θηλῆς ἱστοροῦσι Ῥωμύλον καὶ Ῥέμον, ὅτι θηλάζοντες ὤφθησαν τὸ θηρίον = “Y cuentan, además, que éstos recibieron los nombres de Rómulo y Remo por la mama, ya que fueron encontrados mamando de la fiera”). Aunque los términos utilizados son diferentes, pero sinónimos, la estructura sintáctica es paralela en ambos casos: el tópico se abre con un infinitivo que marca directamente su inclusión en el esquema (ὀνομασθῆναι/ κληθῆναι), viene luego un verbo principal cuya realidad diversa (λέγουσι/ἱστοροῦσι) denota diferencias de tradición (mitológica en el caso de Teseo y escrita en el de Rómulo) y el referente etimológico sobre el que se insiste léxicamente con un sustantivo (θέσιν/θηλῆς) y un participio (θεμένου/θηλάζοντες). – τρέφω: Thes. 4.1 (τρεφόμενον δ’ ὑπὸ τοῦ Πιτθέως = “Criado a cargo de Piteo”) / Rom. 6.1 (συγχορηγοῦντος τροφὰς κρύφα τοῖς τρέφουσι = “ayudando éste en los gastos de alimentación secretamente a los que los criaban”). El mismo verbo se repite en ambas Vidas aunque se empleen formas diferentes (participio medio en el caso de Teseo y participio activo con un acusativo interno, en el de Rómulo). – κρύφ-: Thes. 6.1 (Τὸν μὲν οὖν ἄλλον χρόνον ἔκρυπτεν Αἴθρα τὴν ἀληθινὴν τοῦ Θησέως γένεσιν = “Pues bien, durante el tiempo anterior, Etra mantenía oculto el verdadero origen de Teseo”) / Rom. 6.1 (συγχορηγοῦντος τροφὰς κρύφα τοῖς τρέφουσι = “ayudando éste en los gastos de alimentación secretamente a los que los criaban”). En este caso se repite la misma raíz, para indicar el secreto en que queda el origen de los dos personajes (verbo para el de Teseo y adverbio para el de Rómulo). – διαφερόντως σέβονται: Thes. 6.1 (Ποσειδῶνα γὰρ Τροιζήνιοι σέβονται διαφερόντως = “Pues a Posidón principalmente veneran los trecenios”) / Rom. 4.2 (τὸν δὲ δρυοκολάπτην καὶ διαφερόντως Λατῖνοι σέβονται καὶ τιμῶσιν = “y al picoverde los latinos lo veneran y honran de un modo especial”). La interferencia es evidente por la repetición de la misma secuencia adverbio + verbo. – τεκεῖν/τεκνωθείη ἐκ + dios: Thes. 6.1 (ἦν δὲ λόγος ὑπὸ τοῦ Πιτθέως διαδοθεὶς ὡς ἐκ Ποσειδῶνος τεκνωθείη = “y existía el rumor, corrido por Piteo,

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de que era hijo de Posidón”) / Rom. 4.2 (ὅθεν οὐχ ἥκιστα πίστιν ἔσχεν ἡ τεκοῦσα τὰ βρέφη τεκεῖν ἐξ Ἄρεως φάσκουσα = “Por eso tuvo aún más crédito la que alumbró a los pequeños cuando dijo que los había tenido de Ares”). – περὶ τῆς γενέσεως: Thes. 6.2 (καὶ φράσασα περὶ τῆς γενέσεως τἀληθές = “y tras revelarle la verdad sobre su origen”) / Rom. 2.4 (Οἱ δὲ μυθώδη παντάπασι περὶ τῆς γενέσεως διεξίασι = “Otros ofrecen un relato completamente fabuloso sobre el nacimiento”). La pubertad de los héroes y sus condiciones físicas y espirituales que los hacen acreedores a la misión heroica que el destino les tiene reservada, culminando en sus primeras gestas hasta el reconocimiento de su verdadera identidad: – μειράκιον/νεανίσκος: Thes. 6.2 (ἐπεὶ δὲ μειράκιον ὢν = “mas cuando ya adolescente”) / Rom. 7.5 (θαυμάζων μὲν ἀπὸ τοῦ σώματος τὸν νεανίσκον = “y admirando, de una parte, al jovencito por su cuerpo”). – σώματος ῥώμη: Thes. 6.2 (τῇ τοῦ σώματος ῥώμῃ = “además del vigor de ssu cuerpo”) / Rom. 7.5 (θαυμάζων μὲν ἀπὸ τοῦ σώματος τὸν νεανίσκον, ὑπερφέροντα μεγέθει καὶ ῥώμῃ πάντας = “y admirando, de una parte, al jovencito por su cuerpo ya que los aventajaba a todos en estatura y fuerza”). – σύνεσις: Thes. 6.2 (φρόνημα μετὰ νοῦ καὶ συνέσεως βέβαιον = “un talante asegurado con su buen juicio e inteligencia”) / Rom. 6.3 (ὁ δὲ Ῥωμύλος γνώμῃ τε χρῆσθαι μᾶλλον ἐδόκει καὶ πολιτικὴν ἔχειν σύνεσιν = “Pero Rómulo parecía que usaba más el entendimiento y que tenía habilidad política”). – φρόνημα: Thes. 6.2 (διέφαινεν ἀλκὴν καὶ φρόνημα = “daba muestras de valentía y de un talante”), 7.3 (Τοιούτῳ φρονήματι καὶ τοιούτοις λογισμοῖς ἐξώρμησεν = “Con tal talante y tales pensamientos partió”) y 17.2 (καὶ τοῖς μὲν ἄλλοις τό τε φρόνημα θαυμαστὸν ἐφάνη = “A los demás les pareció admirable su decisión”) / Rom. 6.3 (καὶ φρόνημα πρὸς τὰ φαινόμενα δεινὰ … ἔχοντες = “decididos frente a lo que parecía terrible”). – λῃσταί: Thes. 6.3 (οὐδὲν μέρος καθαρὸν οὐδ’ ἀκίνδυνον ὑπὸ λῃστῶν καὶ κακούργων ἔχουσαν = “ya que no contaba con ningún tramo limpio y sin peligro por causa de ladrones y malechores”) / Rom. 6.5 (καὶ τὸ λῃστὰς ἀλέξασθαι = “defenderse de los bandidos”). – Ἡρακλῆς: Thes. 6.5 (τούτων Ἡρακλῆς τοὺς μὲν ἐξέκοπτε καὶ ἀνῄρει περιιών = “De éstos, Heracles a unos los había aniquilado y matado en sus viajes”) / Rom. 2.1 (Ἄλλοι δὲ Ῥώμην, Ἰταλοῦ θυγατέρα καὶ Λευκαρίας (οἱ δὲ Τηλέφου τοῦ Ἡρακλέους) = “Otros dicen que fue Roma, hija de Ítalo y Leucaria (para otros de Télefo el de Heracles)”), 5.1 (ὁ νεωκόρος τοῦ

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Ἡρακλέους ἀλύων ὡς ἔοικεν ὑπὸ σχολῆς, προὔθετο πρὸς τὸν θεὸν διακυβεύειν = “el guarda del templo de Heracles, que, al parecer, ya no sabía en qué entretenerse por causa de su tiempo libre, propuso al dios jugar a los dados”), 9.6 (Ἡρόδωρος δ’ ὁ Ποντικὸς ἱστορεῖ καὶ τὸν Ἡρακλέα χαίρειν γυπὸς ἐπὶ πράξει φανέντος = “Herodoro el Póntico refiere que también Heracles se alegraba cuando se le aparecía un buitre durante una empresa”). – γνωρίσματα: Thes. 7.2 (τῷ δ’ ὄντι προσφέρων γνωρίσματα πέδιλα καὶ ξίφος ἀναίμακτον = “y presentando en realidad como objetos de reconocimiento tan sólo unas sandalias y una espada sin sangre”) / Rom. 7.8 (ἔστι δ’ ἡ σκάφη καὶ σῴζεται, χαλκοῖς ὑποζώσμασι γραμμάτων ἀμυδρῶν ἐγκεχαραγμένων, ἃ γένοιτ’ ἂν ὕστερον ἴσως ἀνωφελῆ γνωρίσματα τοῖς τοκεῦσιν ἡμῶν ἀπολομένων = “Existe y se conserva la cesta, encontrándose grabadas en ella con remaches de bronce confusas letras que, tal vez, serían luego inútiles signos de reconocimiento para nuestros padres, después de muertos”). – εὐγένεια: Thes. 7.2 (οὐκ ἔργοις εὐθὺς ἀγαθοῖς καὶ πράξεσι παρέχων ἐμφανῆ χαρακτῆρα τῆς εὐγενείας = “en vez de, al punto, con nobles obras y hechos, ofrecer un claro sello de su buen linaje”) / Rom. 6.3 (ἡ μὲν οὖν ἐν τοῖς σώμασιν εὐγένεια καὶ νηπίων ὄντων = “Pues bien, el buen linaje evidente en su físico, aunque todavía eran muy pequeños”). – ἀδικεῖν: Thes. 7.3 (ὡς ἀδικήσων μὲν οὐδένα = “decidido a no hacer daño a nadie”) / Rom. 6.5 (καὶ βίας ἐξελέσθαι τοὺς ἀδικουμένους = “y librar de abusos a los que eran agredidos”). El acceso a la máxima dignidad pública seguida de la fundación de la ciudad después de la muerte de un familiar cercano y organización democrática de esa ciudad: – θάψας: Thes. 22.4 (Θάψας δὲ τὸν πατέρα = “Enterrado el padre”) / Rom. 9.4 (11.1 Ὁ δὲ Ῥωμύλος ἐν τῇ Ῥεμωρίᾳ θάψας τὸν Ῥέμον ὁμοῦ καὶ τοὺς τροφεῖς = “Rómulo, después de enterrar en la Remoria a Remo junto con quienes los criaron …”). – μετὰ δὲ …: Thes. 24.1 (Μετὰ δὲ τὴν Αἰγέως τελευτὴν μέγα καὶ θαυμαστὸν ἔργον εἰς νοῦν βαλόμενος = “Después de la muertte de Egeo, se propuso una ingente y admirable empresa”) / Rom. 17.1 (Μετὰ δὲ τὴν Καινινητῶν ἅλωσιν ἔτι τῶν ἄλλων Σαβίνων ἐν παρασκευαῖς ὄντων = “Después de la toma de los cecinetes, cuando todavía los demás estaban en los preparativos …”). – οἰκίζω, συνοικισμός: Thes. 24.1 (συνῴκισε τοὺς τὴν Ἀττικὴν κατοικοῦντας εἰς ἓν ἄστυ = “reunió a los habitantes del Ática en una sola ciudad”) / Rom. 9.4 (Ὁρμήσασι δὲ πρὸς τὸν συνοικισμὸν αὐτοῖς εὐθὺς ἦν διαφορὰ περὶ τοῦ

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τόπου = “Cuando se dispusieron a la concentración, ya entonces tuvieron diferencias sobre el lugar”) y 11.1 (ᾤκιζε τὴν πόλιν = “se dispuso a fundar la ciudad”). – δύναμις (asociada al miedo): Thes. 24.1 (οἱ δὲ τὴν δύναμιν αὐτοῦ δεδιότες, μεγάλην οὖσαν ἤδη, καὶ τὴν τόλμαν = “y a otros, temerosos de su poder, que ya era grande, y de su decisión”) / Rom. 23.5 (ἀλλ’ οἱ μὲν εὐνοίᾳ τῇ πρὸς αὐτόν, οἱ δὲ φόβῳ τῆς δυνάμεως = “sino que unos por su simpatía hacia él, otros por miedo de su poder”). – ἀβασίλευτος πολιτεία: Thes. 24.2 (ἀβασίλευτον πολιτείαν προτείνων = “con su propuesta de un Estado sin rey”) / Rom. 27.1 (ἐδίδαξε δὲ καὶ τοὺς ἐν Ῥώμῃ δυνατοὺς ἀβασίλευτον ζητεῖν καὶ αὐτόνομον πολιτείαν = “enseñó así a desear un Estado sin rey y autónomo”). – ἴσα: Thes. 25.1 (Ἔτι δὲ μᾶλλον αὐξῆσαι τὴν πόλιν βουλόμενος, ἐκάλει πάντας ἐπὶ τοῖς ἴσοις = “Con la pretensión de engrandecer todavía más la ciudad, invitaba a todo el mundo a la igualdad”) / Rom. 16.3 (ὡς πολίτας ἐπὶ τοῖς ἴσοις ἐσομένους = “para ser ciudadanos con igualdad de derechos”). – δῆμος, δημοκρατία: Thes. 25.2 (οὐ μὴν ἄτακτον οὐδὲ μεμειγμένην περιεῖδεν ὑπὸ πλήθους ἐπιχυθέντος ἀκρίτου γενομένην τὴν δημοκρατίαν = “No, por cierto, descuidó que la democracia no resultara en desorden y confusa por la muchedumbre que fue irrumpiendo sin criterio selectivo”) y 25.3 (μόνους Ἀθηναίους δῆμον προσαγορεύσας = “al llamar … pueblo solamente a los atenienses”) / Rom. 13.2 (ἔπειτα τοῖς μὲν ἄλλοις ἐχρῆτο δήμῳ = “Seguidamente, a los demás los consideró como pueblo”). – προσαγορεύω: Thes. 25.3 (μόνους Ἀθηναίους δῆμον προσαγορεύσας = “al llamar … pueblo solamente a los atenienses”) / Rom. 13.2 (τὸ δὲ σύστημα σενᾶτον προσηγόρευσεν = “y denominó … a la corporación Senado”). – πλῆθος: Thes. 25.2 (οὐ μὴν ἄτακτον οὐδὲ μεμειγμένην περιεῖδεν ὑπὸ πλήθους = “No, por cierto, descuidó que la democracia no resultara en desorden y confusa por la muchedumbre”) / Rom. 13.2 (ποπούλους ὠνομάσθη τὸ πλῆθος = “y su conjunto recibió el nombre de populus”). – τελετή: Thes. 25.5 (ὁ γὰρ ἐπὶ Μελικέρτῃ τεθεὶς αὐτόθι νυκτὸς ἐδρᾶτο, τελετῆς ἔχων μᾶλλον ἢ θέας καὶ πανηγυρισμοῦ τάξιν = “Pues los que allí se habían instituido en memoria de Melicertes se celebraban por la noche y tenían reglamentación de misterio más que de espectáculo y fiesta pública”) / Rom. 2.1 (rituales de fundación) y 28.10 (digresión teológica). Raptos de mujeres y crisis política – ἁρπαγή, ἁρπάζω: Thes. 29.1 (Ἀναξώ τινα Τροιζηνίαν ἁρπάσαι λέγεται = “Se dice que raptó a cierta Anaxo, una trecenia”), 29.2 (τὴν Ἑλένης ἁρπαγὴν = “el rapto de Helena”) / Rom. 14.1 (τὸ περὶ τὴν ἁρπαγὴν ἐτολμήθη = “se emprendió la acción del rapto”), 14.6 (ἥρπαζον τὰς θυγατέρας τῶν Σαβί-

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νων = “raptaron a las hijas de los sabinos”) y 15.7 (Ἐτολμήθη μὲν οὖν ἡ ἁρπαγὴ περὶ τὴν ὀκτωκαιδεκάτην ἡμέραν τοῦ τότε Σεξτιλίου μηνός = “Se emprendió el rapto, en fin, el dieciocho del mes sextilio de entonces”). – γάμοι: Thes. 29.1 (λόγοι περὶ γάμων Θησέως = “historias … sobre casamientos de Teseo”) / Rom. 14,1 (ἅτε δὴ πολέμου μᾶλλον ἢ γάμων δεόμενον = “como si efectivamente buscara más bien guerra que matrimonios”). – πολίτευμα: Thes. 35.4 (αὖθις δὲ βουλόμενος ὡς πρότερον ἄρχειν καὶ καθηγεῖσθαι τοῦ πολιτεύματος = “Pero, en cuanto quiso nuevamente hacerse con el poder, como antes, y ponerse al frente del gobierno”) / Rom. 20,2 (εἰς ὃ πολλοὶ καταφυγόντες ἀσυλίας δεδομένης τοῦ πολιτεύματος μετέσχον = “en que se refugiaron muchos que, al serles concedido el asilo, obtuvieron la ciudadanía”). – προστάττω: Thes. 35.4 (σιωπῇ τὸ προσταττόμενον = “en silencio las órdenes”) / Rom. 27.2 (σιγῇ προστάττοντος = “en silencio las órdenes”). Muerte de los personajes y honras póstumas: – διαφθείρω: Thes. 35.6 (ὦσε κατὰ τῶν πετρῶν καὶ διέφθειρε = “le empujó por los barrancos y lo mató”) / Rom. 27.6 (τοὺς βουλευτὰς ἐπαναστάντας αὐτῷ καὶ διαφθείραντας = “saltando sobre él los consejeros … y dándole muerte”). – μέγας: Thes. 36.2 (εὑρέθη δὲ θήκη τε μεγάλου σώματος = “Y fue encontrado el féretro de un cuerpo de gran tamaño”) / Rom. 28.1 (καλὸς μὲν ὀφθῆναι καὶ μέγας ὡς οὔποτε πρόσθεν = “con aspecto tan bello y tan grande como nunca antes”).

Conclusión

A la vista de los datos expuestos, debemos concluir que la comparación entre los dos personajes que configuran cada uno de los libros de las Vidas Paralelas supera los contenidos temáticos particulares de una y otra biografía. Más allá de eso, el nexo intratextual que establece la propia metodología de Plutarco para las dos Vidas supone frecuentes transferencias de una a otra. Esto demuestra que la selección de los materiales e incluso la ejecución literaria de ambas biografías se hace al mismo tiempo, transfiriendo temas y estructuras lingüísticas de una a otra. Se logra con ello una mayor unidad literaria que sirve a los objetivos didácticos del moralista. Encontramos, en efecto, los mismos tópicos en la organización de los esquemas particulares; y se eligen a menudo como fruto de esa intertextualidad usos léxicos y estructuras sintácticas parecidas. Las interferencias en la materialización textual de una y otra Vida sin duda inspiran también la competencia retórica del biógrafo cuando muestra

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preferencias rítmicas similares. En este sentido, y sugerimos este aspecto como campo de estudio para posibles profundizaciones posteriores en esta cuestión de las relaciones intratextuales, la Vida de Teseo y la Vida de Rómulo son coincidentes en la mayor o menor frecuencia de determinadas cláusulas. No creo que sea casualidad que dos biografías concebidas con un fuerte colorido épico presenten una abundancia tan grande y poco usual como significativa de cláusulas épicas (–⏑⏑––): Teseo: 3.2 σοφώτατος ἔσχεν (final de período) / 3.4: τὸν Πιτθέα δόξαν (final de período) / 5.1: ὠνομάσθη δι’ ἐκεῖνον (final de período) / 12.2: καλοῦσι, κατελθεῖν (final de período) / 13.1: διελόντες ἑαυτούς (final de colon) / 14.1: Δελφινίῳ κατέθυσε (final de período) / 19.5: συνεχώρησεν ὁ Μίνως (final de período) / 21.3: φοίνικα δοθῆναι (final de período y capítulo) / 23.4: ὀπώρας ἐπανῆλθον (final de período) / 24.1: καὶ πολεμοῦντας (final de período) / 25.6: οὐ δι’ ἐκεῖνον (final de período) / 26.3: καὶ Σολόεντα (final de período) / 27.1: πόλει προσέμειξαν (final de período) / 28.3: πεποιήκασιν ἅπαντες (final de período y capítulo) / 29.2: μηδὲ πρέπουσαν (final de período) / 30.3: συμπολεμοῦντος (final de período) / 31.2: θατέρῳ γάμον ἄλλον (final de período) / 31.5: καθείρξας ἐφύλαττεν (final de período y capítulo) / 33.2: τοῦτο καλοῦσιν (final de período) / 33.3: ἀνέκαθεν τὸ ἄνωθεν (final de período y capítulo) / 36.4: Κρήτης ἐπανῆλθεν (final de período). Rómulo: 3.2: βασιλείαν ὁ Νομήτωρ (final de período) / 6.3: ἀνέκπληκτον ἔχοντες (final de período) / 8.6: καὶ συνέπραττεν (final de período) / 8.9: παράδοξον ἔχουσαν (final de período y capítulo) / 11.4: ἢ μετὰ τεῖχος (final de período) / 13.4: ἐνομίσθη καὶ ἀγεννές (final de período) y οὖν περὶ τούτων (final de período y capítulo) / 14.8: ἀντιλέγοντας (final de período y capítulo) / 16.3: ὅπλοις ἀτρεμούντων (final de período) / 16.7: τρόπαια φέροντες (final de período) / 18.4: χαλεπὸν καὶ ὕπουλον (final de período) / 18.5: ἑαυτὸν ἔσῳζεν (final de período) / 21.3: κύριον αὐτῇ (final de período) / 21.6: τὴν ἀπόμαξιν (final de período) / 21.10: περισκυλακισμοῖς (final de período) y ὅταν περιθέωσι (final de período y capítulo) / 22.3: θύεσθαι χθονίοις θεοῖς (final de período) / 26.1: κατεσχημάτιζεν ἑαυτόν (final de período) / 26.3: ἀλλιγᾶρε καλοῦσιν (final de período) / 28.2: πένθει προλέλοιπας; (final de período) / 29.2: προσαγορευομένῳ δι’ ἐκεῖνον (final de período) y ἐκ πόλεως κατιόντας (final de período) / 29.6: ἔχειν ἐνόμιζον (final de período) / 29.8: Ῥωμαίοις κατάδηλον (final de período). Synkrisis: 1.4: Ἀμαζόνας παραβάλλειν (final de período) / 5.2: τινὸς θεραπείας (final de período y capítulo). En suma, hay 21 cláusulas de este tipo en la Vida de Teseo, de las que sólo una aparece al final de colon (las demás cierran período) y cuatro, además, se encuentran al final de capítulo; y, en la Vida de Rómulo, que tiene una extensión similar, he computado un número de cláusulas (todas final de período) parecido (24), de las que también cuatro cierran capítulo. A ello hay que añadir dos

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más en la synkrisis de las que una cierra igualmente capítulo. La coincidencia de algunas de estas cláusulas con nombres de gestas, lugares o de personajes míticos (Piteo, Delfinio, Minos, Solunte, Creta, Numítor, Amazonas, Antíope, Álico) confirma la intención épica del ritmo y tal vez la conciencia de asociación intratextual con que Plutarco concibe también en este nivel las dos biografías compraradas. Por último, aunque no es habitual considerar como cláusula el hemiepes masculino (–⏑⏑–⏑⏑–), sin embargo, no puede ser casualidad que Plutarco lo utilice con esta función rítmica en siete ocasiones (tres en el Teseo, tres en el Rómulo y una en la synkrisis): Thes. 22.4: μαντευομένῳ περὶ τῆς πόλεως (final de período)/ 26.1: Ἀντιόπην ἔλαβεν (final de período)/ 32.7: παρέχεται περὶ τοῦ Ἁλυκοῦ (final de período); Rom. 5.4: χωρίον εἰς ἀγοράν (final de período)/ 17.3: ἐδέξατο τοὺς Σαβίνους (final de período)/ 29.9: Ῥωμαίων ὀνομαζόμενον (final de período); Syncr. 4.4: ἐθριάμβευσε καὶ ἡγεμόνας (final de período y capítulo). En todas ellas, salvo un caso, su uso también coincide con la expresión de contenidos épicos o míticos, para presentar un oráculo o un testimonio histórico, o para dar mayor relevancia a determinados personajes y lugares (Antíope, Álico, Sabinos, Romanos) o logros institucionales.

chapter 16

Reading Plutarch through Plutarch (?): De sera numinis vindicta and the Commentary on Hesiod’s Erga Stefano Amendola

Abstract When studying the presence of Hesiod in Plutarch’s work, one notices a strong focus on the theme of justice, divine justice in particular. Investigating Hesiod’s citations within De sera numinis vindicta, this chapter aims, firstly, to evaluate the use and function of the Hesiodic verses in this pamphlet dedicated to divine justice and, secondly, to examine the theme of justice, as dealt with in De sera num., through an intertextual approach, in order to identify within the scholia on Hesiod’s Erga some sections that can be considered fragments of Plutarch’s Commentary on Hesiod’s Erga.

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Plutarch on Hesiod: An Intertextual Insight

Plutarch is an ‘encyclopedic’ author, whose vast interests are integrated into a cultural horizon that ranges from the ancient Greek world to his contemporary Roman context. His texts offer the modern reader a wealth of precious information about different aspects and topics of Greek (and Roman) historic culture and life. At the same time, his texts are full of more and less explicit quotations taken from Greek authors of different genres and ages. For this reason, Plutarch’s texts lend themselves better than others to an intertextual approach. Among the intertextual relationships between Plutarch’s works and the main genres of Greek literature, those with epic poetry are of particular interest, especially his textual relationship with his fellow regional citizen Hesiod.1 In

1 On the relationships between Hesiod and Plutarch—an extremely popular research topic among Plutarchan scholars—, cf. e.g. J.J. Sanches Pinheiro, “Referéncias a Hesíodo nos Moralia de Plutarco,” in J. Ribeiro Ferreira (ed.), Plutarco Educador da Europa (Porto: Fund. Eng. António de Almeida, 2002) 103–111; A. Pérez Jiménez, “El Hesíodo de Plutarco,” in I. Gallo (ed.), La biblioteca di Plutarco (Naples: D’Auria, 2004) 37–46; A. Ponzio, “Problemi di autenticità degli Erga in Plutarco,” in A. Pérez Jiménez & F. Titchener (eds.), Valori let-

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004427860_018

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this chapter, Plutarch’s relationship with Hesiod will be investigated through two levels of analysis: a strictly intertextual level, focused on the quotations of the Hesiodic poems in Plutarch’s De sera numinis vindicta, and an intratextual level, which deals with the relationships between De sera and the Commentary on Hesiod’s Erga. For those who wish to carry out an in-depth study of the not always univocal relationship between Plutarch and Hesiod, a good starting point may be found, however, in another of Plutarch’s works, i.e. De audiendis poetis: in chapter 14 (36A–B), the Chaeronean affirms the need to both confirm and enhance the genuineness and virtue of poetry, emphasizing its affinity with the teachings of philosophers. In this regard, he proposes two Hesiodic citations: νήπιοι, οὐδ’ ἴσασιν ὅσῳ πλέον ἥμισυ παντὸς καὶ τὸ ἡ δὲ κακὴ βουλὴ τῷ βουλεύσαντι κακίστη ταὐτόν ἐστι τοῖς Πλάτωνος ἐν Γοργίᾳ καὶ Πολιτείᾳ δόγμασι περὶ τοῦ “τὸ ἀδικεῖν κάκιον εἶναι τοῦ ἀδικεῖσθαι” καὶ τοῦ κακῶς πάσχειν τὸ ποιεῖν κακῶς βλαβερώτερον. Fools! They know not how much more than all a half is and Evil counsel is the worst for him who gives it are identical with the doctrines of Plato in the Gorgias and the Republic upon the principle that “to do wrong is worse than to be wronged” and “to do evil is more injurious than to suffer evil.”2 terari delle Opere di Plutarco (Malaga-Logan: Universidad de Málaga-Utah State University, 2005) 379–389; J.A. Fernández Delgado, “Trabajos y Días como hipotexto de las obras simposíacas de Plutarco,” in J. Ribeiro Ferreira et al. (eds.), Symposion and Philanthropia in Plutarch (Coimbra: Classica Digitalia, 2009) 19–29; id., “Plutarco comentarista de Hesíodo,” in J.M. Candau Morón et al. (eds.), Plutarco transmisor. Actas del X Simposio Internacional de la Sociedad Española de Plutarquistas (Sevilla, 12–14 de noviembre de 2009) (Sevilla: Universidad de Sevilla, 2011) 23–35; A. Pérez Jiménez, “Οὐ καθ’ Ἡσίοδον. Posiciones críticas de Plutarco ante el poeta de Ascra,” in A. Pérez Jiménez & I. Calero Secall (eds.), Δῶρον Μνημοσύνης. Miscelánea de Estudios Ofrecidos a Mª Ángeles Durán López (Zaragoza: Libros Pórtico, 2011) 221–232; R. Hunter, Hesiodic Voices: Studies in the Ancient Reception of Hesiod’s Works and Days (Cambridge-New York: Cambridge University Press, 2014); Z. Stamatopoulou, “Hesiodic Poetry and Wisdom in Plutarch’s Symposium of the Seven Sages,” AJPh 135 (2014) 533– 558. 2 Translated by F.C. Babbitt, Plutarch. Moralia, Volume I (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1927) 191.

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The two cited verses, both from Works and Days (403 and 2664), are compared by Plutarch to Platonic thought5 with regard to committing or suffering injustice, i.e. carrying out or bearing the brunt of an evil deed. In De audiendis, Plutarch would appear, therefore, to outline a continuation on the subject of justice that unites the poet from Ascra and the founder of the Academy.6 It seems plausible that Plutarch creates this ideal line to place himself as a possible successor.7 However, this potential lineage from Hesiod to Plato8 that finds confirmation in the Athenian philosopher’s doctrine seems to be easily ‘overturned’ by another citation of Op. 266 found in De sera numinis vindicta (553F–554A):9 τὰ λοιπὰ δ’ Ἡσιόδου χρὴ νομίζειν ἀκροᾶσθαι λέγοντος οὐχ ᾗ Πλάτων ‘ἀκόλουθον εἶναι τιμωρίαν ἀδικίας πάθην’, ἀλλ’ ἡλικιῶτιν ἐκ τῆς αὐτῆς ὁμόθεν χώρας καὶ ῥίζης συνυποφυομένην· ‘ἡ γὰρ κακή’ φησί ‘βουλὴ τῷ βουλεύσαντι κακίστη·’ καί ‘ὃς δ’ ἄλλῳ κακὰ τεύχει, ἑῷ κακὸν ἥπατι τεύχει.’ what remains to be said we must imagine we hear from Hesiod, who does not say with Plato that punishment is a suffering following upon injustice, but holds it to be coeval with injustice, springing up with it from the selfsame soil and root. Thus he says that The evil plan is worst for him that planned it and He that devises ill for other men For his own vitals does the ill devise.10 3 4 5 6

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On this verse see H.H. Koning, Hesiod: The Other Poet. Ancient Reception of a Cultural Icon (Leiden-Boston: Brill, 2010) 184–185. Hunter, Hesiodic Voices, 111–113. See e.g. Pl. Grg. 473a; 474c; R. 334d, 354a and 358a–e. For an overview of references to Hesiod in Plato, see G.W. Most, “Plato’s Hesiod: an acquired taste?” in G.R. Boys-Stones & J.H. Haubold (eds.), Plato & Hesiod (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010) 52–56; A. Ford, “Plato’s two Hesiods,” in G.R. Boys-Stones & J.H. Haubold (eds.), Plato & Hesiod (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010) 133–154. Cf. Hunter, Hesiodic Voices, 121: “Plutarch’s critical method here, which seeks (…) to harmonise Hesiodic and Platonic teaching, will not, of course, be the same as ours.” See also Koning, Hesiod, 99–100. See R. Hunter & D.A. Russell (eds.), Plutarch. How to study poetry (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press) 20, 202 ad loc.; see also C. Bréchet, “Le De audiendis poetis de Plutarque et le procès platonicien de la poésie,” RPh 73 (1999) 209–244; Pérez Jiménez, “Οὐ καθ’ Ἡσίοδον,” 226. In De sera num. the quotation appears to be completed also by the previous Op. 265; Plutarch—perhaps due to a lapsus memoriae—cites this verse in the form handed down by Lucilius (9.183). See also Call. Aet. fr. 2.5 Pfeiffer: cf. Koning, Hesiod, 181–182 (esp. notes from 101 to 103). Cf. Ponzio, “Problemi,” 386–388. Translated by P.H. De Lacy & B. Einarson, Plutarch. Moralia, Volume VII (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1957) 215.

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Contrary to what was highlighted in De audiendis, here, in this dialogue dedicated to theodicy, Plutarch seems to make a distinction between Hesiod’s and Plato’s views (cf. Lg. 728c) about when the wrongdoers’ punishment may have taken place: according to Plato, the punishment was inflicted after the evil deed had been carried out, whereas for Hesiod, it took place at the same time as the crime itself, starting at the exact moment when the injustice had occurred. Despite the difference between the two passages cited above—a difference that regards the relationship between Hesiod and Plato and does not refer to Plutarch’s judgement on Hesiod, which in both cases certainly seems to be positive—I want to note how the main themes capable of sparking Plutarch’s interest in Hesiodic poetry (e.g. astronomy, demonology, mythology)11 must necessarily include reflection on such concepts as justice and injustice as well as good and evil.

2

Hesiodic (Re)uses in De sera numinis vindicta

On the basis of the above observations, De sera numinis vindicta, a dialogue dedicated to both human and divine justice, might provide a privileged observatory for us to assess the presence and role played by Hesiod in Plutarchan ‘diceological’ reflections.12 The sheer numerical data of the citations of Hesiod in Plutarch, recorded by Helmbold & O’Neil,13 would seem to reject such a perspective: of the over 160 Hesiodic references,14 only three—all of which are from Works and Days—can be found in De sera num.15 In order to better highlight how Plutarch makes use of the Hesiodic text, I will discuss these three citations individually: 11 12

13

14 15

Cf. Pérez Jiménez, “El Hesíodo de Plutarco,” 37–39; Pérez Jiménez, “Οὐ καθ’ Ἡσίοδον,” 221. For Plutarch’s view of Hesiod in relation to divine justice and providence, see Koning, Hesiod, 170–172; P. Van Nuffelen, Rethinking the Gods. Philosophical Readings of Religion in the Post-Hellenistic Period (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011) 167– 168. See W.C. Helmbold & E.N. O’Neil, Plutarch’s Quotations (Baltimore: American Philological Association, 1959) 37–39. See also tab. 19 in T. Morgan, Literate Education in the Hellenistic and Roman Worlds (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011): Plutarch has 207 citations of Hesiod, ranked fifth in prominence behind Plato, Homer, Euripides, and Herodotus (the higher number of quotations compared to what I have obtained on the basis of Helmbold & O’Neil is due to the fact that the same passages of Hesiod are cited more than once in Plutarch’s works). The number of quotations is obviously ‘altered’ by the massive presence of fragments of the Plutarchan commentary to the Erga. In De sera num. Euripides, Pindar and Plato are quoted more than three times.

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1) 548D = Op. 413 καίτοι πρὸς οὐθὲν ἥκιστα δὲ πρέπει πρὸς τοὺς πονηροὺς ῥᾴθυμον εἶναι τὸν θεόν, οὐ ῥᾳθύμους ὄντας αὐτοὺς οὐδ’ ‘ἀμβολιεργούς’ τοῦ κακῶς ποιεῖν, ἀλλ’ ὀξυτάταις ὁρμαῖς ὑπὸ τῶν παθῶν φερομένους πρὸς τὰς ἀδικίας. least of all does it become him to be so in dealing with the wicked, who are not indolent themselves or ‘postponers of their work’ of doing wrong; nay, their passions drive them headlong to their crimes.16 Plutarch, without explicitly mentioning Hesiod, recovers only one term, ἀμβολιεργούς (postponers of their work) from Op. 413 (αἰεὶ δ’ ἀμβολιεργὸς ἀνὴρ ἄτῃσι παλαίει). In Works and Days, the adjective negatively brands the man who constantly postpones every kind of work, thus bringing disasters upon himself. Plutarch also used the Hesiodic proton legomenon, which echoes a key concept of De sera num.—the act of delaying—to classify ethically ‘negative’ men, whose worst aspect lies not in postponing things—as in the Hesiodic ἀνήρ— but, rather, consists of not hesitating in carrying out evil deeds. In fact, for Patrocleas, the true behavior that should be condemned is when a divine entity appears to be slow in punishing wrongdoers. 2) 553F–554A = Op. 266 and 265 This Hesiodic citation has already been discussed above in relation to De audiendis; therefore, I shall attempt to highlight the function this intertext performs within the context of the dialogue. The verses of Erga are situated at the opening of chapter 9, where there is a significant turning point in Plutarch’s first intervention, involving a reply to the doubts expressed by Patrocleas and Olympicus relating to delays in achieving divine retribution. At the beginning of that chapter, Plutarch starts by briefly referring to what has been said so far (553F) before continuing with his speech, yet the speech takes a decisive turn with regard to the previous argument mentioned: if in chapters 4–8 he highlighted several potential advantages deriving from a possible delay of the god in punishing the guilty, now the very existence of such a delay is entirely denied.17 Plutarch now states that wickedness itself causes pain, and therefore, 16 17

Translated by De Lacy & Einarson, Moralia, 183. J. Opsomer, “The Cruel Consistency of De sera numinis vindicta,” in J. Opsomer, G. Roskam & F.B. Titchener (eds.), A Versatile Gentleman: Consistency in Plutarch’s Writing. Studies Offered to Luc Van der Stockt on the Occasion of his Retirement (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2016) 47–50. See also R.M. Van den Berg, “A Problem Concerning Providence. Pro-

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wickedness itself ends up being a source of punishment to the wrongdoers, who immediately start to serve their sentence at the very moment they commit some kind of injustice. The death of the guilty parties, which may also occur long after the crime was committed, should not be considered simply as a single punishment, but as the end and completion of a sentence that, having been implemented immediately after the crime was committed, becomes gradually more severe over time. It is, indeed, the auctoritas of the Hesiodic citation that introduces this new idea of an immediate and no longer delayed punishment. The preference that Plutarch seems to give here is to the Boeotian poet rather than to Plato, which underlines that a change of perspective has taken place—the palinodia, as F. Frazier suggestively ‘entitled’ the text from chapter 9 onwards18—within an intervention that the author himself initially placed under the aegis of the Academy. However, Plutarch’s new argument appears to neither contradict nor nullify what is stated above, but rather to extend it. In the same way, the Hesiodic thought neither ‘overrides’ nor nullifies that of Plato; indeed, it completes it, as occurs in the passage of De audiendis (cf. supra). 3) 562A–B = Op. 735–736 ἢ κατὰ τοῦτο μὲν ὁ θεὸς οὐδὲν τοῦ Ἡσιόδου σοφώτερος διακελευομένου καὶ παρεγγυῶντος ‘μηδ’ ἀπὸ δυσφήμοιο τάφου ἀπονοστήσαντα σπερμαίνειν γενεήν, ἀλλ’ ἀθανάτων ἀπὸ δαιτός,’ ὡς οὐ κακίαν μόνον οὐδ’ ἀρετὴν ἀλλὰ καὶ λύπην καὶ χαρὰν καὶ πάνθ’ ὅσ’ ἀναδεχομένης τῆς γενέσεως ἱλαροὺς καὶ ἡδεῖς καὶ διακεχυμένους ἄγοντος πρὸς τὴν τέκνωσιν; ἐκεῖνο δ’ οὐκέτι καθ’ Ἡσίοδον οὐδ’ ἀνθρωπίνης ἔργον σοφίας ἀλλὰ θεοῦ. Or in this is God no wiser than Hesiod, who offers this exhortation and advice: Nor yet returning from a burial, That thing of evil omen, Sow thine offspring, But from a feast of the immortal gods, bringing men to procreation in a mood of gaiety and pleasure and cheerfulness, because their progeny receive from them not only vice or virtue,

18

clus and Plutarch on Inherited Guilt and Postponed Punishment,” in P. d’Hoine & G. Van Riel (eds.), Fate, Providence and Moral Responsibility in Ancient, Medieval and Early Modern Thought (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2014) 239–252. F. Frazier, Plutarque. Sur les délais de la justice divine (Paris: Belles Lettres, 2010) XIV.

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but sorrow, joy, and every kind of mood? There is another matter, however, no longer within Hesiod’s capacity, nor a task for human wisdom, but rather for God (…).19 The third Hesiodic citation, introduced, as in the previous case, by the name of the poet himself, can be found at the beginning of ch. 20 of De sera num., within Plutarch’s response to the question relating to the inheritance of guilt and to the punishments inflicted by the gods on the descendants of wrongdoers. This is one of the allegations made by Epicurus at the beginning of the dialogue and reported in the discussion thanks to the question put forward by Timon. Arguably, ch. 20 appears to be strictly linked to the previous one, which opens with the cynical Bion of Borysthenes (fr. 42 Mullach) attacking the god accused of being more ridiculous than an incompetent physician (561C) when he punishes the children of the guilty parties instead of the guilty parties themselves.20 Initially, this accusation is promptly refuted by Plutarch, by means of a broad comparison made between the art of medicine21 (the treatment of the body and general health) and the action of providence, which is later entirely overturned and rejected (561E–F). For Plutarch, if it is necessary to prevent physical illness (the disease) by treating bodies that descend from others that are either weaker or sicker, then it must be just as necessary for the god, the physician of the soul, to cure the ethos of younger people well before the wickedness perhaps inherited from their parents can clearly reveal itself. To confirm the possibility that not only purely physical features but also those of a moral nature may be handed down, from father to son, Plutarch refers to the Hesiodic precept regarding the moment of procreation in which the ‘two opposite poles,’ characterizing the verses of the Erga (the funeral and the banquet), embody the negative or positive elements that can be transmitted to the future child. If children can inherit either sadness (the result of the funeral) or happiness (the consequence of the banquet) at the exact moment of their conception, likewise, their genetic make-up might reflect not only the virtues and the goodness but also the vices and the wickedness of those who conceived them. The Hesiodic auctoritas that Plutarch uses here is strongly emphasized by both the comparative σοφώτερος and the comparison between the poet and the divine—a comparison of a clearly rhetorical nature, which can be found 19 20 21

Translated by De Lacy & Einarson, Moralia, 263. Opsomer, “The Cruel Consistency,” 41–42. On the medical metaphors in De sera num. see R. Hirsch-Luipold, Plutarchs Denken in Bildern. Studien zur literarischen, philosophischen und religiösen Funktion des Bildhaften (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2002) 225–281.

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in the incipit of chapter 20 and responds to Bion’s cynical provocation opening the previous chapter. In Plutarch’s opinion, Hesiod is surely wise, even if he is certainly no wiser than the god: the poet possesses wisdom that can be applied only within the human dimension of life and justice; however, the theodicy goes beyond this dimension, and the administration of justice, through which those who have inherited the wickedness of their ancestors are punished, is an exclusive task of the god. Of course, the action carried out by the divinity, as described in the Plutarchan text, does not contradict the Hesiodic thought, but once again completes it within a context of co-existence and collaboration between human/poetic (Hesiod) and divine knowledge. Having analyzed these three Hesiodic intertexts, I offer the following, provisional report on the presence of Hesiod in De sera num.: 1) the Hesiodic references to Works and Days show full agreement with the two main themes of the dialogue (the delay of divine retribution and the inheritance of guilt); 2) in both cases of direct and explicit citation, a substantial agreement between Plutarch and his fellow countryman Hesiod appears. Their agreement has two key components: first, a lineage that also connects both authors with Plato’s ideas of justice; second, an agreement in ideas of providential theodicy. Thus, the Hesiodic presence in De sera num. can be considered extremely relevant, not in terms of quantity, but of quality, given that references to the epic poet appear at significant moments in the treatise and constantly aim at emphasizing Plutarch’s ideas.22

3

Plutarch and the Hesiodic Dike: De sera numinis vindicta and the Commentary on Hesiod’s Erga

I hope that the reflection put forward at the end of the previous paragraph encourages further investigations into Hesiodic citations that are not as explicit as those considered up to now. Although some intertexts may be less evident, they are just as important, and they may include images, paraphrases, allusions, thematic references, or deeper meanings. Part of such a study could, in my opinion, be structured as an intertextual comparison between De sera

22

See Pérez Jiménez, “Οὐ καθ’ Ἡσίοδον,” 229; see also Hunter, Hesiodic Voices. Differently Stamatopoulou, “Hesiodic Poetry,” 555.

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num. and the already mentioned Plutarchan commentary dedicated to the Erga (the only Hesiodic work mentioned in the dialogue), which has been handed down to us only in fragments through indirect tradition. The issues relating to the transmission of this work—not mentioned in the Lamprias Catalogue but referred to by Aulus Gellius (20.8.7)—are extremely complex,23 yet its remains occupy most of the various editions of Plutarch’s fragments, from Wyttenbach to Sandbach.24 In fact, any possible Plutarchan contributions should be traced and extrapolated in the composite corpus of the Hesiodic scholia vetera, deriving from another commentary on Works and Days carried out by the neo-Platonist Proclus who, in turn, made ample use of the previous Plutarchan exegesis.25 If, on the basis of the studies conducted by Alberto Pertusi,26 the comments by Proclus can be easily distinguished from those carried out by Manuel Moschopoulos and John Tzetzes, it is a much more complex problem to identify which parts of the Proclian material could date back to Plutarch where explicit mentions of him are lacking. The choice of what is or what is not a Plutarchan fragment was therefore performed by the editors, guided by intertextual criteria, whose primary objectives included tracing points of contact with the surviving Plutarchan works. The footnotes accompanying Sandbach’s editions of the fragments bear witness to this research and to the selection activities conducted: all those passages of both the Moralia and the Lives that present some kind of reference to the text of the scholia are recorded here. However, De sera num. is very rarely featured in this repository of parallel loci and, indeed, is mentioned only twice: the first instance is

23

24

25

26

Hunter, Hesiodic Voices, 167–168: see also M.L. West, Hesiod, Works and Days (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1978) 67–68, and P. Marzillo, Der Kommentar des Proklos zu Hesiods ‘Werken und Tagen’ (Tübingen: Classica Monacensia, 2010), xlviii–li. For the Plutarchan fragments, see the following editions: D. Wyttenbach, Plutarchi Chaeronensis Moralia 5.2 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1800); F. Dübner, Plutarchi Fragmenta et spuria V (Paris: Didot. 1855); G.N. Bernardakis, Plutarchi Chaeronensis Moralia 7 (Leipzig: Teubner, 1896); F.H. Sandbach (ed.), Plutarchi Moralia, vol. VII (Leipzig: Teubner, 1967); F.H. Sandbach (ed.), Plutarch. Moralia, Volume XV (London-Cambridge, MA: HeinemannHarvard University Press, 1969). On the corpus of the Hesiodic scholia, see especially A. Pertusi, Scholia vetera in Hesiodi Opera et Dies (Milan: Vita e pensiero, 1955) and Marzillo, Der Kommentar des Proklos. Proclus is not only indebted to the Hesiodic commentator Plutarch, but also makes ample use of De sera numinis vindicta in his Ten questions on providence: more specifically, questions VIII and IX prove to be a paraphrasing of the Plutarchan dialogue: see C. Steel & J. Opsomer, Proclus, Ten Problems Concerning Providence (London: Bloomsbury Publishing, 2014) 42–48. A. Pertusi, “Intorno alla tradizione manoscritta degli studi di Proclo ad Esiodo IV. Proclo e non Proclo,” Aevum 25 (1951) 147–159, 267–278.

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an Aristotelian passage quoted in three different forms (fr. 90 Sandbach, De sera num. 550B, Cleom. 9.3–6 = Arist. fr. 539 Rose),27 while the second compares fr. 39 Sandbach to De sera num. 562D given that the two texts share the image of the god physician able to prevent the development of wickedness in the descendants of wrongdoers. However, it is also conceivable that other fragments attributable to the Commentary could be associated to De sera num. For example, in recording the quotation of Op. 735–736 in De sera num. 562A, Helmbold and O’Neil28 point out that it is possible to make a comparison with fr. 74 Bernardakis (not recognized as Plutarchan by Sandbach) containing the comment on the mentioned Hesiodic verses. Much more recently, Hunter re-proposed the link between fr. 46 Sandbach and De sera num. 553F–554A (cf. Hesiodic citation n. 2), texts that share the same Platonic citation of the Laws with regard to the definition of τιμωρία (cf. above).29 With regard to the parallels put forward by Helmbold and O’Neil and by Hunter, it is important to note how both proposals aim at integrating into the corpus of Plutarchan fragments either the comment (as is the case of fr. 74 Bern., scholium on Op. 735–736) or the allusion to the Hesiodic verses cited by De sera num. (fr. 46 Sandbach, which Hunter compares to De sera num. 553F–554A, where vv. 265– 266 of the Erga can be read). To discover what is of Plutarchan origin, it would appear reasonable to consider the scholia by commenting on Hesiodic verses that the Chaeronean quoted in his works. By limiting this study to De sera num., one notices that only the Proclian scholium on Op. 735–736 has made a brief appearance in the editorial history of the Plutarchan fragments and was accepted as such by Bernardakis (fr. 74) according to what was supposed by O. Westerwick. The latter was the first to attribute the comment to Plutarch based on the comparison with chapter 5 of Erotikos and Quaest. conv. 8.1.2; however, such parallels must not have convinced Sandbach, who rejected the attribution to Plutarch as claimed “on quite inadequate grounds.”30 Neither the Proclian scholia on Op. 265–266 nor Op. 413 were part of the Plutarchan fragments’ edition, but I would like to put forward a brief reflection specifically regarding the latter. Here is the text of the comment on Op. 413 (αἰεὶ δ’ ἀμβολιεργὸς ἀνήρ):

27

28 29 30

S. Amendola, “Gli Efori e i baffi degli Spartani. Nota esegetica a De sera num. vind. 4, 550B,” in J.R. Ferreira, D.F. Leão & Carlos A. Martins de Jesus (eds.), Nomos, Kosmos & Dike in Plutarch (Coimbra: Classica Digitalia, 2014) 121–135. Helmbold & O’Neil, Plutarch’s Quotations, 38. Hunter, Hesiodic Voices, 167–168. The parallelism between fr. 46 Sand. and De sera num. 553F–554A was previously highlighted by De Lacy & Einarson, Moralia, 215 n. a. Sandbach, Moralia XV, 106.

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Διὰ τούτου σαφηνίζει τὶ καλεῖ ἔργον, ὅτι τὸ ὠφελοῦν […] εἴπερ ὁ ἀμβολιεργὸς ἀνὴρ ἀεὶ ἐν ταῖς ζημίαις ἄλλαις ἐξ ἄλλων γίνεται. Διότι γὰρ πᾶν ἔργον ὠφέλιμον, ὅστις ἀναβολαῖς μὴ ἐπὶ τούτῳ χρῆται, τῆς ἀπ’ αὐτοῦ ὠφελείας οὐ στέρεται· τῶν δὲ μοχθηρῶν ἔργων αἱ ἀναβολαὶ χρήσιμοι. With this he clarifies what he calls work, that is, what is useful […] if it is true that the man who delays his commitment is always condemned by different punishments of different nature. Therefore, every job is useful: anyone who delays his work, deprives himself of the advantage that derives from it. But the delays of evil deeds are useful.31 For the scholiast, postponing work damages any man, since he deprives himself of the advantage that derives from ἔργον. However, the last line, which alludes to the utility of delaying evil deeds, is somewhat unexpected as it appears rather distant from the Hesiodic text, where the adjective ἀμβολιεργός has an exclusively negative value. This comparison between delay (ἀμβολιεργός /ἀναβολαί) and crimes (μοχθηρῶν ἔργων) can be found in the passage of De sera num. (548D: cf. supra) where the Hesiodic ἀμβολιεργούς refers to one who does not hesitate in committing evil deeds and who, instead, should be deterred through immediate punishment by the god. It seems likely that at least the last phrase of the scholium could be considered similar to both the Plutarchan thought and the text of the dialogue. Even more significant is the choice made by F. Frazier; her editio singularis of De sera numinis vindicta is accompanied by a brief anthology of ancient texts, selected for their content-related similarity to the Plutarchan treatise. Noteworthy among these, in a section entitled The Dike of poets: divine retribution and human responsibility, are both Op. 225–247, 263–273 and, above all, fr. 38 Sandbach (dedicated to Op. 270–272),32 which says a great deal about Plutarch as a reader and scholar of Hesiod.33 The text is as follows: [Τὸ μὲν λεγόμενον φανερόν· εἰ μὴ ἔστι δίκη καὶ τιμωρία κατὰ τῶν ἀδίκων, μηδ’ ἕξουσί τι πλέον οἱ δίκαιοι τῶν ἀδίκων ἐν τῷδε τῷ παρόντι ὃ ἐφορᾷ ὁ Ζεύς, μήτ’ αὐτὸς εἴην δίκαιος μήτε παῖς ἐμός· δίκης γὰρ οὐκ οὔσης, ὄνομα μόνον ἔσται τὸ δίκαιον.] 31 32 33

My translation from Pertusi’s text. Frazier, Plutarque, 109–111. Hunter, Hesiodic Voices, 167–168. See also Fernández Delgado, “Plutarco comentarista,” 26– 27; P. Volpe Cacciatore, “La giustizia del saggio: una polemica di Plutarco contro gli Stoici,” in J.R. Ferreira, D.F. Leão & C.A. Martins de Jesus (eds.), Nomos, Kosmos & Dike in Plutarch (Coimbra: Classica Digitalia, 2014).

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εἰ δὲ δὴ τὸ δίκαιον αἱρετόν, κἂν μὴ ᾖ πρόνοια, καὶ φευκτὸν τὸ ἄδικον, δῆλον ὅτι πᾶς οὗτος ὁ λόγος περιττός. διόπερ ὁ Πλούταρχος τοὺς ἑπτὰ τούτους στίχους ἐκβάλλει […] ὡς ἀναξίους τῆς Ἡσιόδου περὶ δικαίων καὶ ἀδίκων κρίσεως. [The meaning is plain: if there is no justice and punishment for the wicked, and the just are not going to have any advantage over the wicked in this world that Zeus watches over, may neither I nor son of mine be just, for if there is no Justice, to be just is no more than a word.]34 But if justice ought to be chosen, even if there is no such thing as Providence, and injustice avoided, it is clear that all this argument is beside the point. Hence Plutarch expels these seven lines […] as being unworthy of Hesiod’s views on justice and injustice.35 The structure of the comment is fairly simple and similar to that of other fragments:36 the first part contains a kind of paraphrase of the Hesiodic verses and is followed by an ethical-paideutical consideration that leads (1) to a consideration of an exegetical/interpretative kind (… if justice is to be preferred, even when there is no providence, and injustice is to be avoided, it is obvious that this entire discussion would have been carried out in vain …), from which, in turn, derives (2) the Plutarchan ecdotic choice of athetizing seven verses of the Hesiodic work (Op. 267–273). The fragment emphasizes how the radical ecdotic choice made by Plutarch (the deletion of seven Hesiodic verses) does not depend on stylistic, linguistic or literary considerations, but only on a moral evaluation (the rejected verses are judged unworthy of Hesiod’s discernment between what is right and wrong). In fact, it is Plutarch the moralist who considers the text of the Erga and intervenes in it.37 Moreover, the final judgement, by means of which the verses to be rejected are branded, shows what mastery Plutarch possessed with regard to Hesiodic thought on the subject of justice (and injustice). While, on the one hand, such profound knowledge encourages the Chaeronean to radically operate on the text of the Erga, on the other hand, the re-use of the poet’s 34 35 36

37

Sandbach, Moralia XV, puts this section between square brackets, considering that there are doubts as to the Plutarchan origin of such. Translated by Sandbach, Moralia XV, 123. See Hunter, Hesiodic Voices, 122 ss. See e.g. T. Raiola, “Plutarco e non Plutarco. Sul frammento 81 Sandbach,” in G. Zanetto & S. Martinelli Tempesta (eds.), Plutarco: lingua e testo. Atti dell’XI Convegno plutarcheo della International Plutarch Society—Sezione Italiana, Milano, 18–20 giugno 2009 (Milan: Cisalpino, 2010) 263–279. See Fernández Delgado, “Plutarco comentarista,” 34; Pérez Jiménez, “Οὐ καθ’ Ἡσίοδον,” 226.

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dike is facilitated—as F. Frazier puts it—in a dialogue on justice such as De sera num. Additionally, a lexical element of the fragment also seems to recall De sera num., specifically the part that Sandbach doubted was of Plutarchan origin. The syntagma δίκη καὶ τιμωρία, which appears in the first line of the scholium, combining justice and punishment, almost acts as if these terms formed a synonymous pair, in which it seems that the dike of the god must be carried out right in the middle of the punishment inflicted (or not) on the wrongdoers. It is perfectly obvious how the concept of punishment (whether it be late, effective, inherited, preventative etc.) represents a key element of De sera num. right from the very title of the dialogue. I believe, therefore, that it is no coincidence that the noun τιμωρία, attested in fr. 38 to complete the idea of dike/justice, is (almost) entirely absent in the Hesiodic lexis,38 while it appears 29 times in Plutarch’s dialogue. In addition to this, in the δίκη/τιμωρία pair, Plutarch’s hand and thought can be clearly seen, more specifically those of the Plutarch of De sera num. Finally, fr. 36 Sandbach, a Proclian comment on Op. 240 (πολλάκι καὶ ξύμπασα πόλις κακοῦ ἀνδρὸς ἀπηύρα) may also be associated with De sera num.: Τοῦτο δοκεῖ μὲν οὐκ εἶναι κατὰ δίκην, τὸ ἑνὸς ἕνεκα πονηροῦ πόλιν ὅλην διδόναι ποινήν. * δύναται δὲ λέγειν ὅτι μοχθηροῦ ἑνὸς ὄντος ὥσπερ νοσήματος ἡ πόλις παραπολαύουσα πολλάκις εἰς ὅλην ἑαυτὴν ἀναμάττεται τὴν πονηρίαν ἐξομοιουμένη τῷ ἑνί *. δύναται δὲ κἀκεῖνο σημαίνειν ὅτι ἑνὸς ὄντος πονηροῦ δίδωσιν ἡ πᾶσα πόλις δίκην, ὡς ἐξὸν κωλύειν μὴ κωλύουσα τὴν τοῦ ἑνὸς πονηρίαν. οὕτω καὶ τοῦ Ἀγαμέμνονος αὐθαδῶς τῷ ἱερεῖ προσενεχθέντος, εἰς πάντας Ἕλληνας διέτεινεν ὁ λοιμός, ὡς παρέντας βοηθῆσαι τῷ ἱερεῖ· καὶ τοῦ Αἴαντος ἀσεβήσαντος περὶ τὸ τῆς Ἀθηνᾶς ἱερόν, πάντες ἔνοχοι τῇ δίκῃ γεγόνασιν, ὡς μὴ ἀγανακτήσαντες ἐπὶ τῷ ἀσεβήματι. This is taken to be unjust—that a whole city should be punished for one bad man. *But it may mean that if there is one bad man in it the city often becomes like that individual and is contagiously affected throughout by his wickedness, as if catching a disease.*It may also mean that if there is one bad man the whole city is punished because it does not restrain his wickedness, although it could do so. Thus when Agamemnon had dealt with the priest as he pleased, the plague spread to all the Greeks, because they had failed to support the priest, and when Ajax committed an act

38

Only one occurrence of the noun τιμωρία is present in one of the fragments of the poem Astronomia attributed to Hesiod.

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of impiety at Athena’s shrine, they were all liable to punishment because they had expressed no indignation at the act.39 Sandbach did not suggest any Plutarchan parallel for the fragment; however, he mentioned that the attribution to the Chaeronean was put forward by Patzig, “thinking it in Plutarch’s manner to adduce the example of Agamemnon.”40 In this respect, Hunter opportunely pointed out that the description of Agamemnon’s behavior, given by the scholiast, finds a stringent parallel in De aud. poet. 19C.41 To this valid parallel, I would not hesitate to add the strong thematic proximity between the Hesiodic verse and its comment in chapter 15 of De sera num., dedicated to what could be defined as the collective responsibility of the polis. It is important to highlight that, immediately before this, Plutarch had referred to the punishments inflicted on the inhabitants of Delphi and Sybaris for crimes committed by their ancestors, two historical-mythical anecdotes cited by Timon in his indictment against the inheritance of guilt, and of the consequent punishments. However, it must be pointed out how, among the various ‘cases’ referred to by Timon, there is also an atonement requested from the Locrians (the sending of maidens to Troy to serve at the temple of Athena) due to Ajax’s dissoluteness (De sera num. 557D: “… for the wantonness of Ajax”), which is a reference to the same episode quoted by the Hesiodic scholiast and which may represent (as Agamemnon with De aud. poet.) a valid link between the fragment and De sera num. The reference to the Delphians and the Sybarites (an abbreviated form to allude to the entire case illustrated previously by Timon, including Ajax) urges Plutarch to explain the reason for these collective punishments in cities in which descendants inherited the sins of their ancestors:42 before going into further detail in his explanation, Plutarch felt the need to point out how this divine ire, offloaded onto entire poleis, possessed a fully understandable logic of justice (558F–559A: Nevertheless, the visitations of entire cities by divine wrath are readily justified …). This immediate clarification, at the beginning of chapter 15, could refer to the opening statement of fr. 36, where the paraphrased Hesiodic verse is preceded by the concern that it may appear against justice (This is taken to be unjust): this is the same fear that Plutarch immediately removes in De sera num., reaffirming—once again, totally in agreement with Hesiod—the full justice of the punishments that the gods inflicted on the cities. 39 40 41 42

Translated by Sandbach, Moralia XV, 121. Sandbach, Moralia XV, 121. Hunter, Hesiodic Voices, 169. See also Marzillo, Der Kommentar des Proklos, 88. Opsomer, “The Cruel Consistency,” 52–53.

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In conclusion, the intertextual connection between Hesiod’s poetry and Plutarch’s De sera shows Hesiodic quotations and thematic allusions and references that appear in crucial moments of the Plutarchan treatise to constantly emphasize Plutarch’s statements or thoughts. At the same time, an intertextual and comparative reading of De sera and the Proclian scholia on Works and Days could lead scholars to identify with greater certainty, within the Neoplatonic philosopher’s annotations, texts or parts of texts that can be attributed to the Plutarchan commentary on the Erga. Such an intertextual and intratextual comparison could, on one hand, update the corpus of fragments attributed to a lost Plutarchan work, and, on the other, create a sort of continuous critical and reflective connection between Plutarch’s theodicy and the Hesiodic ideas and topics devoted to the theme of justice.

chapter 17

Demetrius of Phalerum in Plutarch: A Multimodal Expression of Intertextuality and Intratextuality Delfim F. Leão

Abstract Plutarch mentions Demetrius of Phalerum quite a few times, both in the Lives and in the Moralia. In these references, Plutarch often discusses Demetrius alongside historical figures that Demetrius was politically and intellectually involved with, along with characters and historical figures that Demetrius discusses in his own works. But at other times, it is the very activity and personality of Demetrius (as ruler or as an intellectual in exile) that is examined by Plutarch, wherein Demetrius is presented as an exemplum. It is the purpose of this chapter to analyze, on the one hand, the way Plutarch refers to Demetrius as his own source and, on the other, as an intellectual character and statesman per se, in order to discuss the multimodal approaches deriving from the dynamics of intertextuality and of intratextuality.

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Preliminary Considerations

The importance of Plutarch for understanding Greek and Roman culture and for insight into a wide gallery of key figures from antiquity is a universally accepted fact that does not need to be emphasized. Despite this, we may feel tempted to question the reason why he decided to leave aside (unfortunately for us) some characters that we would really appreciate having more detailed information about.* Questioning Plutarch’s choice of characters would be a quite unfruitful operation, but to analyze them can, in fact, be helpful in order to glean a better understanding of what might have been his motivations for the choices he made. This is not the place to take up this issue in detail, although the methodology used for the discussion of this subject can eventually have much in common with the topics of intertextuality and intratextuality, and the * All the dates presented throughout this work are BC. This research was developed under the project UID/ELT/00196/2013, funded by the Portuguese FCT—Foundation for Science and Technology.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004427860_019

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way Plutarch selected and used his sources. It is enough to illustrate his way of working by briefly evoking the work of C. Colonnese, which is devoted precisely to studying Plutarch’s selection of characters and more specifically the ‘unwritten Lives,’ so to speak, of some illustrious Greek statesmen.1 As Colonnese pertinently underlines, “la raccolta di aneddoti e di detti di un determinato personaggio sembra costituire quasi il primo passo per la formazione di una Vita”; for although this kind of material happens to be often neglected by historiography, it becomes instead very significant to the biographer, because of the way it allows him “di restituire un’immagine fresca e immediata dei suoi personaggi, che in tal modo si presentano in prima persona ai lettori.”2 Her attention is essentially devoted to Philip II, Dionysius I and II, Demades, and Antigonus Monophthalmus. Although Colonnese makes two very brief allusions to Demetrius, in both cases the Phalereus is recalled only because of other statesmen (Antigonus Monophthalmus and Demetrius Poliorcetes) and not because of Demetrius himself.3 This should not, however, be interpreted as an indication that the same kind of material that Colonnese studied for her (selected) unwritten bioi is not abundant throughout the Lives and the Moralia in what regards Demetrius of Phalerum.4 On the contrary, even if Plutarch did not write a biography of Demetrius, he nevertheless proves to be quite well acquainted with the personal upheavals, the political deeds, and the intellectual work of the Phalereus. Most of the relevant passages can be found in the Lives (fourteen).5 The number of occurrences in the Moralia is slightly smaller (nine references), even including a reference from the Consolatio ad Apollonium (104A–B = T 83 SOD) and another from the Vitae decem oratorum (850B–C = T 9B SOD), which provide some insight into Demetrius’ ethical and factual details.

1 C. Colonnese, Le scelte di Plutarco. Le vite non scritte di greci illustri (Rome: L’Erma di Bretschneider, 2007). 2 Colonnese, Le scelte di Plutarco, 100. 3 Colonnese, Le scelte di Plutarco, 79 and 87. 4 For the collection of the texts pertaining to the works and life of Demetrius, see W.W. Fortenbaugh & E. Schütrumpf (eds.), Demetrius of Phalerum. Text, Translation and Discussion. Rutgers University Studies in Classical Humanities, vol. IX (New Brunswick: Transaction Publishers, 2000). Throughout this chapter, the original version and the translations of these texts (abbreviated as T) will follow the edition of Fortenbaugh & Schütrumpf (indicated as SOD, in accord with the abbreviation criteria established by them on p. 10). 5 There is another reference in Dem. 28.3 (= T 164 SOD), but it regards most probably Demetrius of Magnesia and not Demetrius of Phalerum, and therefore will not be considered in this reckoning. Fortenbaugh & Schütrumpf, Demetrius of Phalerum, 273, place this passage among the references that are “not accepted” as referring to the Phalereus.

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Factual information regarding Demetrius or other personalities and events appears more regularly in the Lives than in the Moralia, with preference given in the latter to ethical considerations regarding the Phalereus or other figures. Even so, it cannot be said that there is a clear dividing line between the Lives and the Moralia in terms of factual and ethical content. Therefore, the multimodal expressions of intertextuality (and sometimes of intratextuality) will become more obvious if the relevant passages are grouped according to the connections that they stimulate between the work of Plutarch and of Demetrius. Considered in this way, and even accepting that factual or ethical information is not used as a defining criterion, it becomes possible to establish a typology of four different kinds of intertextuality: (a) Plutarch uses Demetrius as his explicit textual source; (b) Plutarch mentions Demetrius, without using him as his explicit textual source; (c) Plutarch mentions Demetrius in a context of criticism, either using him or not as an explicit source; (d) Plutarch mentions Demetrius as an exemplum, using him as both an explicit and implicit source.

2

Plutarch Uses Demetrius as His Explicit Textual Source

The references to Demetrius’ writings, which fall within the scope of this typology, are the most abundant in number (eight) and they all occur in the Lives, providing information for the characterization of Aristides, Demosthenes, Lycurgus and Solon. References to Aristides are the most extensive and provide a clear example of how Plutarch used the contributions of his sources. It is worth recalling the most expressive of them (Arist. 1.1–4; 6; 7; 8–9 = T 102 SOD), in order to illustrate the pattern, although I will only quote brief selections of the text. At the opening of the biography, Plutarch starts by considering the tradition of poverty relating to Aristides, noting diverging accounts. He recalls the anecdote that Aristides left two daughters unmarried for a long time, owing this to a lack of material resources, and he evokes more extensively the way Demetrius argued against that version (Arist. 1.2–4; 9): (2) πρὸς δὲ τοῦτον τὸν λόγον ὑπὸ πολλῶν εἰρημένον ἀντιτασσόμενος ὁ Φαληρεὺς Δημήτριος ἐν τῷ Σωκράτει χωρίον τε Φαληροῖ φησι γινώσκειν Ἀριστείδου γενόμενον ἐν ᾧ τέθαπται, καὶ τεκμήρια τῆς περὶ τὸν οἶκον εὐπορίας ἓν μὲν ἡγεῖται τὴν ἐπώνυμον ἀρχήν, ἣν ἦρξε τῷ κυάμῳ λαχὼν ἐκ τῶν γενῶν τῶν τὰ μέγιστα τιμήματα κεκτημένων, οὓς πεντακοσιομεδίμνους προσηγόρευον, ἕτερον δὲ τὸν ἐξοστρακισμόν· οὐδενὶ γὰρ τῶν πενήτων, ἀλλὰ τοῖς ἐξ οἴκων τε μεγάλων καὶ διὰ γένους ὄγκον ἐπιφθόνοις ὄστρακον ἐπιφέρεσθαι· (3) τρίτον δὲ καὶ τελευταῖον, ὅτι νίκης ἀναθήματα χορηγικοὺς τρίποδας ἐν Διονύσου καταλέλοιπεν, οἳ καὶ

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καθ’ ἡμᾶς ἐδείκνυντο, τοιαύτην ἐπιγραφὴν διασῴζοντες “Ἀντιοχὶς ἐνίκα, Ἀριστείδης ἐχορήγει, Ἀρχέστρατος ἐδίδασκε.” τουτὶ μὲν οὖν καίπερ εἶναι δοκοῦν μέγιστον, ἀσθενέστατόν ἐστι. […] (9) ἀλλὰ γὰρ ὁ μὲν Δημήτριος οὐ μόνον Ἀριστείδην, ἀλλὰ καὶ Σωκράτη δῆλός ἐστι τῆς πενίας ἐξελέσθαι φιλοτιμούμενος ὡς μεγάλου κακοῦ· καὶ γὰρ ἐκείνῳ φησὶν οὐ μόνον τὴν οἰκίαν ὑπάρχειν, ἀλλὰ καὶ μνᾶς ἑβδομήκοντα τοκιζομένας ὑπὸ Κρίτωνος. This story, which is told by many, is countered by Demetrius of Phalerum in his Socrates. He says that he knows the land in Phalerum which belonged to Aristides, and where he is buried. He takes as proofs of the affluence of (Aristides’) house (the following). First, there is the office of eponymous archon, which is obtained by lot among the families with the highest property tax assessments, those called ‘five-hundred-cornmeasurers’. Second, there is the ostracism. For it is not the poor who are subjected to ostracism but those from great houses, who incur envy owing to the prestige of their family. Third and last, he has left in the temple of Dionysus tripods, dedicated in recognition of a prize-winning chorus production. These, which were still shown in our own time, preserve the following inscription: “the (tribe) of Antiochis won; Aristides was the sponsor; Archestratus was the producer”. Now, although this last argument appears to be very strong, it is in fact quite weak. […] Clearly, however, Demetrius is eagerly striving to exonerate not only Aristides but Socrates too from poverty as from a great evil: he says that Socrates too not only owned the house (he lived in) but also seventy minas, which were put out at interest by Crito. Plutarch recognizes that Demetrius’ arguments are strong, especially the last one, but he maintains nevertheless that they turn out, in fact, to be weak (τουτὶ μὲν οὖν καίπερ εἶναι δοκοῦν μέγιστον, ἀσθενέστατόν ἐστι), and so Plutarch challenges them one by one. By doing so, he is adopting, with reverse effects, the same methodology used by his source, whose opinions he tries to discredit. The final stroke comes when he gives an explanation for the perspective sustained by the Phalereus: according to the biographer, Demetrius merely intends to free Aristides and Socrates from the state of poverty, as if it were a great evil (δῆλός ἐστι τῆς πενίας ἐξελέσθαι φιλοτιμούμενος ὡς μεγάλου κακοῦ). It is possible that, with this statement, Plutarch is indirectly rebuking Demetrius’ fondness for fame and honors (see infra Praec. ger. reip. 820E = T 25B SOD). Although at this point such a claim is not explicitly asserted, it may nevertheless represent an elusive kind of intratextuality. The reference to Demetrius’ work Socrates or Apology of Socrates is, on the other hand, confirmed by Diogenes Laertius

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(9.15; 9.57; 9.37 = T 106, 107, 108 SOD), as well as references that the Phalereus made to other philosophers. In another passage of the same biography (Arist. 5.9–10 = T 103 SOD), Plutarch again questions the account of Aristides by Demetrius, who retained that the former was eponymous archon after the battle of Plataea, hence shortly before his death (ἄρξαι τὸν ἄνδρα μικρὸν ἔμπροσθεν τοῦ θανάτου μετὰ τὴν ἐν Πλατοιαῖς μάχην). Plutarch argues instead that Aristides held the office immediately after the battle of Marathon, therefore in 489/8, grounding his perspective in the information displayed at the “public records” (ἐν δὲ ταῖς ἀναγραφαῖς). Plutarch mentions Demetrius’ opinion a third time in the same biography, although with a mixed attitude regarding the information provided (Arist. 27.3–5 = T 104 SOD). He associates the Phalereus with Hieronymus of Rhodes, the musicologist Aristoxenus of Tarentum, and possibly Aristotle, who all sustain that Aristides’ granddaughter Myrto lived in wedlock with Socrates (Σωκράτει τῷ σοφῷ συνοικῆσαι), who, although being married already, took her in his house, because she remained widow due to her poverty and lacked the necessities of life. Plutarch does not bother to argue directly against this tradition, saying simply that Panaetius had already adequately answered these authors in his chapters on Socrates (πρὸς μὲν οὖν τούτους ἱκανῶς ὁ Παναίτιος ἐν τοῖς περὶ Σωκράτους ἀντείρηκεν). More significant is the fact that those who were said to sustain the opposite opinion are all members of the Aristotelian school.6 This may explain why Plutarch is so hostile to Demetrius’ views in this particular biography: he seems to be reacting more broadly against the positions held by the Peripatos.7 Despite this, Plutarch does not seem to contradict Demetrius who says in this passage that, when he himself was a legislator (νομοθετῶν), he awarded to the mother and aunt of Aristides’ grandson (Lysimachus), who lived in misery, a daily support of one drachma.8 In the biography of Demosthenes, Plutarch evokes the testimony of Demetrius three times, but now always in a positive mode and even as a special

6 H. Baltussen, The Peripatetics. Aristotle’s Heirs 322BCE–200 CE (London: Routledge, 2016) 165– 166. 7 On the question of the two wives of Socrates (Myrto and Xanthippe), see also Ath. Deipnos. 13.2. 555D–556B (= T 105 SOD). 8 See A. Banfi, Sovranità della legge. La legislazione di Demetrio del Falero ad Atene (317–307 a.C.) (Milan: Giuffrè, 2010) 59–60, on the importance of this passage for the attribution of the designation nomothetes to Demetrius. On the scanty evidence regarding nomothesia procedures after the Lamian war, see M. Canevaro, “The twilight of nomothesia: legislation in early-Hellenistic Athens (322–301),” Dike 14 (2011) 55–85, who rightly stresses the importance of both Demetrius of Phalerum and of Demetrius Poliorcetes in providing the last examples of what he calls the “twilight of nomothesia” in early Hellenistic Athens.

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authoritative voice. In fact, the biographer recalls the Phalereus, among other sources, when he is discussing the brilliance of Demosthenes as orator (Dem. 9.1–4 = T 135A SOD), and he identifies Demetrius as the source of a famous metrical oath pronounced by the orator: ὁ δὲ Φαληρεὺς τὸν ἔμμετρον ἐκεῖνον ὅρκον ὀμόσαι ποτὲ πρὸς τὸν δῆμον ὥσπερ ἐνθουσιῶντα· “μὰ γῆν, μὰ κρήνας, μὰ ποταμούς, μὰ νάματα.”9 Later in the same biography (Dem. 11.1–3 = T 137 SOD), Demetrius is used again as an authoritative testimony, because he claimed to have heard Demosthenes in his old age (ὡς ὁ Φαληρεὺς Δημήτριος ἱστορεῖ, λέγων αὐτοῦ Δημοσθένους ἀκοῦσαι πρεσβύτου γεγονότος), and thereby was acquainted with his training methods in order to improve the quality of his voice, which by nature was very feeble. In asserting this, Plutarch highlights the weight carried by Demetrius’ opinion, for he is ranked among the “connoisseurs” (οἱ δὲ χαρίεντες) and thereby as someone with good taste (Dem. 11.3): οὕτως ᾤετο μέγα πρὸς πίστιν εἶναι τὸν τόνον καὶ τὴν ὑπόκρισιν τῶν λεγόντων. τοῖς μὲν οὖν πολλοῖς ὑποκρινόμενος ἤρεσκε θαυμαστῶς, οἱ δὲ χαρίεντες ταπεινὸν ἡγοῦντο καὶ ἀγεννὲς αὐτοῦ τὸ πλάσμα καὶ μαλακόν, ὧν καὶ Δημήτριος ὁ Φαληρεύς ἐστιν. This shows how important for persuasion he [Demosthenes] considered the pitch (of voice) and delivery to be of those who speak. The majority were wonderfully pleased with his delivery but connoisseurs, Demetrius of Phalerum among them, found his style base, ignoble and feeble. Plutarch mentions, a third time, the name Demetrius as his explicit source in this same biography (Dem. 14.1–2 = T 156 SOD), but the attribution of the registered statement to the Phalereus is uncertain. Although the opinion expressed is unfavorable to Demosthenes (who is accused of lacking courage in fight and of not being wholly immune to bribery), Plutarch does not question his source, probably because, in this context, he wants to enhance the qualities of Phocion over those of Demosthenes. In the biography of Lycurgus (Lyc. 23.1–2 = T 113 SOD), Plutarch mentions the opinion of Hippias the sophist (and of Philostephanus), who attributed to Lycurgus a patent warlike character (πολεμικώτατον), experienced in many military expeditions (πολλῶν ἔμπειρον στρατειῶν). But then Plutarch cites Deme9 “And Demetrius says that he once swore before the people as if in a rapture the well-known metrical oath ‘By the earth, by the springs, by the rivers, by the streams.’” On the use of tragic meters in this context, see M. Várzeas, Plutarco. Vidas Paralelas: Demóstenes e Cícero. Tradução do Grego, introdução e notas (Coimbra: Imprensa da Universidade, 2012) 45 n. 25.

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trius as holding a very different view: in fact, the Phalereus maintained, on the contrary, that Lycurgus did not engage in armed conflicts (οὐδεμιᾶς ἁψάμενον πολεμικῆς πράξεως) and that the Spartan constitution had been established in times of peace (ἐν εἰρήνῃ καταστήσασθαι τὴν πολιτείαν). Plutarch is again inclined to agree with Demetrius, adducing in his turn the example of the Olympic truce, which he reckons to be the work of a mild person who appreciated peace. The last reference in this category appears in the Life of Solon, at a time when Plutarch evokes the legislation on the price of sacrificial animals (Sol. 23.3–4 = T 117 SOD): (3) εἰς μέν γε τὰ τιμήματα τῶν θυσιῶν λογίζεται πρόβατον καὶ δραχμὴν ἀντὶ μεδίμνου, τῷ δ’ Ἴσθμια νικήσαντι δραχμὰς ἑκατὸν ἔταξε δίδοσθαι, τῷ δ’ Ὀλυμπιονίκῃ πεντακοσίας, λύκον δὲ τῷ κομίσαντι πέντε δραχμάς, λυκιδέα δὲ μίαν, ὧν φησιν ὁ Φαληρεὺς Δημήτριος τὸ μὲν βοὸς εἶναι, τὸ δὲ προβάτου τιμήν. (4) ἃς γὰρ ἐν τῷ ἑκκαιδεκάτῳ τῶν ἀξόνων ὁρίζει τιμὰς τῶν ἐκκρίτων ἱερείων, εἰκὸς μὲν εἶναι πολλαπλασίας, ἄλλως δὲ κἀκεῖναι πρὸς τὰς νῦν εὐτελεῖς εἰσιν. ἀρχαῖον δὲ τοῖς Ἀθηναίοις τὸ πολεμεῖν τοῖς λύκοις, βελτίονα νέμειν ἢ γεωργεῖν χώραν ἔχουσι. With respect to the valuation of sacrifices he [Solon] reckons a sheep and one drachma as the equivalent to one bushel (of grain); he fixed the prize to be awarded to a victor at the Isthmian Games at one hundred drachmas, for one at the Olympic Games at five hundred, for bringing in a wolf five drachmas, and a wolf-whelp one drachma, the first being the price of an ox and the second of a sheep according to Demetrius of Phalerum. These prices for select sacrificial animals specified by him in the sixteenth of his Tables are naturally many times as high (as those for ordinary animals), and even so these (prices) are affordable compared to current ones. The Athenians have been fighting wolves from days immemorial, their land being better suited to pasture than to agriculture. This passage of the biography transmits significant information regarding several different laws enacted by Solon: regulations for offerings, prizes for victors in games, and rewards for bringing in a wolf or a wolf’s cub.10 Demetrius’ testimony is adduced specifically in connection with the legislation mentioned last, by establishing a direct correspondence between the compensation attributed 10

D.F. Leão & P.J. Rhodes, The Laws of Solon. A New Edition with Introduction, Translation and Commentary (London: I.B.Tauris, 2015) frgs. 80/2, 81, 89/1a and 92, with commentary.

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to those who hunted wolves and the price of choice victims, by the time of Solon, thus making it possible to compare values and different realities. Plutarch adds the very important detail that Solon specified these prices in the sixteenth of his Tables (ἐν τῷ ἑκκαιδεκάτῳ τῶν ἀξόνων), although he does not make it clear whether this information is provided by Demetrius himself or by another source. Either possibility is acceptable, because there are good reasons to concede that the axones could be seen and studied during the fourth century, even if only meager fragments survived until the time of Plutarch.11 Therefore, this kind of material was available to Demetrius and could have been used by him. In fact, the titles of his works transmitted by Diogenes Laertius (5.75–83 = T 1 SOD, especially 5.80–81) strongly suggest that he might have read this kind of material, in such works as On Legislation in Athens (5 books), On Constitutions in Athens (2 books), and On Laws (1 book). Taken as a whole, this set of passages where Plutarch expressly uses Demetrius as his source strongly suggests that this kind of explicit intertextuality is usually positive or even very positive, with the exception of his writings on Aristides, in which Plutarch seems to be globally criticizing the Peripatos, by questioning Demetrius’ opinions in what pertains particularly to Aristides and Socrates in those moments where their existences are somehow related.

3

Plutarch Mentions Demetrius without Using Him as Explicit Textual Source

In a second set of passages (five in total), Plutarch mentions the Phalereus, mostly to discuss events that deal with the upheavals of Demetrius’ life, but without naming Demetrius as his explicit source for the information provided. This pattern corresponds to a kind of intertextuality different from the one analyzed in the previous section. At any rate, the possibility that the Phalereus is the ultimate source of information cannot be entirely ruled out, especially in the case that shall be analyzed first, significantly the sole one that does not deal with the existence of Demetrius or of his family and associates (Thes. 23.1 = T 114 SOD): Τὸ δὲ πλοῖον ἐν ᾧ μετὰ τῶν ἠιθέων ἔπλευσε καὶ πάλιν ἐσώθη, τὴν τριακόντορον, ἄχρι τῶν Δημητρίου τοῦ Φαληρέως χρόνων διεφύλαττον οἱ Ἀθηναῖοι, τὰ μὲν παλαιὰ τῶν ξύλων ὑφαιροῦντες, ἄλλα δ’ ἐμβάλλοντες ἰσχυρὰ καὶ συμπηγνύν-

11

For further details, see Leão & Rhodes, The Laws of Solon, 7–9.

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τες οὕτως, ὥστε καὶ τοῖς φιλοσόφοις εἰς τὸν αὐξόμενον λόγον ἀμφιδοξούμενον παράδειγμα τὸ πλοῖον εἶναι, τῶν μὲν ὡς τὸ αὐτό, τῶν δ’ ὡς οὐ τὸ αὐτὸ διαμένοι λεγόντων. The ship on which he [Theseus] sailed with his young men and returned home again safe, the one with thirty oars, was preserved by the Athenians down to the times of Demetrius of Phalerum. They regularly removed old timbers, put in other strong ones and fastened them, in such a way that for philosophers the ship was a (much) debated example in the growing controversy in which some argued that it [the ship] remained the same and others that it did not remain the same. The information that the ship of Theseus was preserved “down to the times of Demetrius of Phalerum” (ἄχρι τῶν Δημητρίου τοῦ Φαληρέως χρόνων) may simply be a way of establishing a general terminus ad quem, broadly equivalent to “the last quarter of the fourth century BC.” But here there may also be an indirect mark of intertextuality, i.e. a suggestion that Demetrius provided that information in his work. A possible hint in this direction may be detected in the allusion to the controversy that arose as a result of the continual renewal of the ship, to the point of turning the question into a topic of debate (παράδειγμα) among philosophers (τοῖς φιλοσόφοις). It is not possible to ascertain whether Demetrius participated in the debate and, in the case he did, in which work he might have done it. At any rate, in terms of implicit intertextuality, this possibility is not improbable in this context. The other four implicit passages all deal with aspects of Demetrius’ life and deeds, especially before he came to power. The longest passage (Demetr. 8.4–9.3 = T 29 SOD) is the sole one that considers the downfall of the Phalereus (in 307), as a result of the offensive approach of Demetrius Poliorcetes, who quickly won the city and—as Plutarch seems to imply—also the hearts of most of the Athenians, who welcome his disembarkation by “addressing him [Poliorcetes] as benefactor and savior” (εὐεργέτην καὶ σωτῆρα προσαγορεύοντες). This statement may reflect the opinion of a source hostile to the Phalereus, or simply the very opinion of Plutarch who, elsewhere in the same biography (Demetr. 10.2 = T 18 SOD) commented that “the constitution had been oligarchical in name but monarchical in fact, owing to the power of the Phalerean” (λόγῳ μὲν ὀλιγαρχικῆς, ἔργῳ δὲ μοναρχικῆς καταστάσεως γενομένης διὰ τὴν τοῦ Φαληρέως δύναμιν). This would be in accord with what Plutarch says about the feelings that the Phalereus nurtured after his downfall, by stating that he feared his fellow citizens more than his enemies (Demetr. 9.3 = T 29 SOD: τοῦ δὲ Φαληρέως διὰ τὴν μεταβολὴν τῆς πολιτείας μᾶλλον τοὺς πολίτας ἢ τοὺς πολεμίους δεδοικότος).

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Conversely, it should also be taken into consideration that, in the Life of Pericles, Plutarch mentions, several times, the “monarchical” or “aristocratic” power of Pericles: 9.1. λόγῳ μὲν οὖσαν δημοκρατίαν, ἔργῳ δ’ ὑπὸ τοῦ πρώτου ἀνδρὸς ἀρχήν (here quoting directly from Thucydides 2.65.9, cited also at Praec. ger. reip. 802C).12 However, this does not prevent Plutarch from recognizing, at the end of the biography, that the insinuations regarding Pericles’ monarchical or tyrannical power corresponded, in fact, to the expression of his great responsibilities in defending the politeia.13 Plutarch does not make a similarly explicit statement regarding Demetrius of Phalerum, but the implicit suggestion is present. In fact, the picture of Demetrius’ departure to voluntary exile is permeated with positive overtones, which insinuate that Plutarch may have been too harsh in his global appreciation of the Phalereus’ regime. In fact he depicts Demetrius Poliorcetes as recognizing the value of his adversary: it was “out of respect for both his reputation and his virtue [that he] helped him to get away to Thebes in safety as he wished.”14 The other three references in this section all detail events prior to the instauration of the regime of Demetrius of Phalerum. In the biography of Demosthenes (Dem. 28.4 = T 13B SOD), Plutarch states that Himeraeus, the brother of the Phalereus, was killed (in 322) during the opposition to Antipater, a piece of information that is confirmed as well by Arrianus (apud Phot. Bibl. 92.69b34– 40 = T 13A SOD). In the biography of Phocion (Phoc. 35.4–5 = T 15A SOD), Plutarch mentions Demetrius’ association with Phocion and his death sentence in absentia (in 318), a biographical and political detail that is confirmed by Nepos (Phoc. 3.1–2 = T 15B SOD), although the latter does not mention explicitly his condemnation to death while he was absent from Athens (statim duces aduersariae factionis capitis damnatos patria propulit, in his Phocionem et Demetrium Phalereum15). 12 13

14 15

See also Per. 11.1 (in the context of the division of the polis into two political tendencies); 16.1–2 (citing Thucydides and the comic writers). Per. 39.4: ἡ δ’ ἐπίφθονος ἰσχὺς ἐκείνη, μοναρχία λεγομένη καὶ τυραννὶς πρότερον, ἐφάνη τότε σωτήριον ἔρυμα τῆς πολιτείας γενομένη (“that objectionable power of his, which they had used to call monarchy and tyranny, seemed to them now to have been a saving bulwark of the constitution”). As pointed out by P.A. Stadter, A Commentary on Plutarch’s Pericles (Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press, 1989) 349, “in the grandness of the final sentences, monarchy is no longer a charge to be avoided, but a boast.” The English translation of Pericles’ biography is that of Bernadotte Perrin, available at the Perseus Digital Library. Demetr. 9.3 (= T 29 SOD): καὶ τὴν δόξαν αἰδεσθεὶς καὶ τὴν ἀρετὴν τοῦ ἀνδρός, εἰς Θήβας αὐτὸν ὥσπερ ἐβούλετο μετ’ ἀσφαλείας συνεξέπεμψεν. Phoc. 3.2: “They at once sentenced the leaders of the opposite party to death and expelled them from the fatherland. Phocion and Demetrius of Phalerum were among them.”

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Finally, in the Lives of the Ten Orators (850B–C = T 9B SOD) it is said that Demetrius was a pupil of Theophrastus, with whom he was associated, together with other fellow students from the Peripatos. The same details are confirmed by several other sources,16 but it may carry some importance that it is only in the Moralia that the question of his philosophical background is clearly addressed, even if an indirect allusion to it may perhaps also be detected in the passage of the Life of Theseus discussed first in this same section (Thes. 23.1 = T 114 SOD). If this really were the case, it would constitute a subtle manifestation of intertextuality and intratextuality, involving the work and possibly the scholarly formation of Demetrius.

4

Plutarch Evokes Demetrius in Contexts Marked by Bitter Criticism

There are some passages in which intertextuality is expressed in terms of criticism, directed mainly at Demetrius’ government. The passage in which this happens most strikingly comes from the biography of Demetrius Poliorcetes (Demetr. 10.2 = T 18 SOD), evoked already in the previous section, where Plutarch expressed an apparently very hostile view regarding the political experience under the leadership of the Phalereus, whose regime he (or his sources) considered to be oligarchical in name but monarchical in fact. This is not the place to discuss in detail the nature of Demetrius’ regime and the way it is perceived by ancient sources and modern scholars,17 especially taking into consideration that in both cases opinions vary widely from openly negative to quite positive. For the present purposes, it is more useful to consider the way Plutarch situates himself in this debate, and how this may consubstantiate a form of intertextuality. As indicated above, although Plutarch characterizes the Phalereus in this passage with what prima facie seems to be a negative overtone, it is also important to note that, through the lens of his adversary Poliorcetes, he recognizes that the Peripatetic statesman nevertheless attracted public fame, in recognition of his virtues (Demetr. 9.3 = part of T 29 SOD: καὶ τὴν δόξαν αἰδεσθεὶς καὶ τὴν ἀρετὴν τοῦ ἀνδρός). If in this case the judgement is somewhat ambivalent, Plutarch is nonetheless unequivocal in his reproach of Demetrius’ praise of honors in a passage from the Praecepta gerendae reipublicae, which is worth quoting at length (820E = T 25B SOD): 16 17

See Fortenbaugh & Schütrumpf, Demetrius of Phalerum, 38–41 (T 8–11 SOD). S.V. Tracy, “Demetrius of Phalerum: who was he and who was he not?” in Fortenbaugh & Schütrumpf, Demetrius of Phalerum, 331–345, especially 331–333, provides a pertinent introduction to the main questions of the debate.

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οὐ γὰρ μισθὸν εἶναι δεῖ τῆς πράξεως ἀλλὰ σύμβολον τὴν τιμήν, ἵνα καὶ διαμένῃ πολὺν χρόνον, ὥσπερ ἐκεῖναι διέμειναν. τῶν δὲ Δημητρίου τοῦ Φαληρέως τριακοσίων ἀνδριάντων οὐδεὶς ἔσχεν ἰὸν οὐδὲ πίνον, ἀλλὰ πάντες ἔτι ζῶντος προανῃρέθησαν. For honor should be awarded not in payment for the action performed but as a symbol, in order that it may also last a long time, as the honors mentioned earlier have lasted. Of the three hundred statues of Demetrius of Phalerum not one became rusty or dirty; rather all were pulled down in his lifetime. Plutarch is not arguing against the general right to receive public recognition, but he is in favor of moderation: thereby, an inscription or honorary decree would be enough for a sensible person, who would not feel the need to have a statue dedicated to himself. Therefore, the ethical considerations of the biographer move around the balanced correlation of “honor” (τιμή) and of the “payment” (μισθός) that it may stimulate, thus establishing a discrete intratextual relation with the aforementioned passage from the Life of Demetrius, where he recognized the benefits of the good reputation (δόξα) and virtue (ἀρετή) of the Phalereus. Moreover, the passage in the Praecepta is probably directed against disproportionate and megalomaniac aspirations for public distinctions, which is something that Demetrius was said to have cultivated, erecting to himself hundreds of statues all over Athens. In fact, according to the sources (T 24A– 25C SOD), the number of bronze statues ranged from three hundred up to fifteen hundred. Those figures encouraged the idea that Demetrius behaved in a lavish way, but they are far from certain in historical terms.18 Be that as it may, in the Consolatio ad Apollonium,19 a very interesting exercise of intertextuality can be detected, in the way the traditions of the auto-

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As Tracy, “Demetrius of Phalerum,” 334, pertinently argues: “Furthermore, if this really happened, and in the huge numbers reported, the stone bases of these statues would surely have been reused and some of them at least should have survived. Yet, as we shall see, not a single one has with certainty.” There is a long-lasting debate regarding the authenticity of the Consolatio ad Apollonium, with the majority of scholars sustaining that it is not a work of Plutarch, mainly because of the different way some anecdotes appear here and in other Plutarchan works, of the lack of emotion, of differences in style and in vocabulary. However, J. Defradas, J. Hani & R. Klaerr, Plutarque. Oeuvres Morales. Tome II (Paris: Belles Lettres, 1985) 3–12, in revising the question, think that it may be authentic, arguing that (10) “la Consolation à Apollonios est, ou bien un écrit rédigé à la hâte et qu’ il n’ a peut-être pas envoyé sous cette forme, ou le dossier de notes qui lui servait pour rédiger ses Consolations.”

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cratic regime of Demetrius and his fondness for honors are combined by Plutarch with passages from Euripides’ tragedy, and finally turned into a moral statement (104A–B = T 83 SOD): (A) ὅθεν ὀρθῶς ὁ Φαληρεὺς Δημήτριος εἰπόντος Εὐριπίδου “ὁ δ’ ὄλβος οὐ βέβαιος ἀλλ’ ἐφήμερος” καὶ ὅτι “μικρὰ τὰ σφάλλοντα, καὶ μί’ ἡμέρα τὰ μὲν καθεῖλεν ὑψόθεν τὰ δ’ ἦρ’ ἄνω” (B) τὰ μὲν ἄλλα καλῶς ἔφη λέγειν αὐτόν, βέλτιον δ’ ἄν ἔχειν, εἰ μὴ μίαν ἡμέραν ἀλλὰ στιγμὴν εἶπε χρόνου. (A) This is why Demetrius of Phalerum was correct in his response to Euripides when he said “Bliss does not last beyond one day,” E. Phoen. 558

and that “little things are enough to cause one’s fall, and a single day has brought one down from high above an raised the other.” E. Ino (TrGF V 420)

(B) Demetrius said that Euripides was right about the rest but would have done better to say not “one day” but “one point in time.” The context does not make it clear in which work Demetrius might have made these considerations, although the work On Fortune (Περὶ Τύχης) would be a fitting candidate (cf. Plb. 29.31; D.S. 31.10 = T 82A–B SOD). And if it were true that he composed that piece during his exile in Thebes,20 then the Phalereus would express ethical considerations sustained by his personal experience. This possibility opens the path to another kind of intertextuality that I shall now deal with in the final section of this chapter.

5

Plutarch Evokes Demetrius as an exemplum

In several passages, Plutarch mentions Demetrius as an exemplum of rise and fall, which may consequently illuminate others, either when he is the source of 20

As is sustained by H.B. Gottschalk, “Demetrius of Phalerum: a politician among philosophers and a philosopher among politicians,” in Fortenbaugh & Schütrumpf, Demetrius of Phalerum, 367–380, at 374.

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information or when others evoke his figure. The passages ranked under this typology are clearly characterized by an ethical motivation; therefore, it is not surprising that they all occur in the Moralia. In the De exilio (601F–602A = T 35 SOD), Plutarch mentions Demetrius as a constructive paradigm to show that it is possible to endure the hard experience of exile and to be again successful as he was in Alexandria with Ptolemy. In fact, after his voluntary exile in Thebes, Demetrius went to Alexandria, where he is said to have given assistance to Ptolemy I Soter, perhaps even playing an active role in the founding of the Alexandrian Library, although this is not stated explicitly by Plutarch (cf. Reg. et imp. apophth. 189D = T 38 SOD).21 The same paradigmatic dimension may be perceived in a passage from the Quomodo adulator ab amico internoscatur (69C–D = T 32 SOD), where Plutarch comments on what is being told (λέγεται) about the way the Phalereus appreciated a kindly word from friends when he was banished from his country and had to live near Thebes in obscurity. In the De tuenda sanitate praecepta (135C = T 67 SOD), Plutarch compares pairs of figures (Xenocrates and Phocion, Theophrastus and Demetrius) in order to illustrate the statement that being quiet is not better for health than being committed to an activity, especially political activity. In the Praecepta gerendae reipublicae (818C–D = T 50 SOD), Plutarch aligns Demetrius side by side with Pericles and Cimon, whose “political acts” (politeumata22) are presented as examples of measures involving communal distribution of benefits, as is the case with the promotion of public festivals. This is a curious, and at first glance surprising, choice of characters, because the Phalereus is grouped with well-known personalities from the golden times of democratic Athens, a decision that is somewhat difficult to reconcile with the idea that Plutarch saw Demetrius as a simple autocrat. As remarked before in discussing the way Plutarch characterized the government of the Phalereus (Demetr. 10.2 = T 18 SOD), the implication is rather that Pericles and Demetrius were both powerful and charismatic leaders and both prone to public largess, in order to secure political favor.23 Demochares (apud Plb. 12.13.10–12 = T 89 SOD) attributes to his political opponent, Demetrius, a policy of panem et circences, but Cicero maintains (Off. 2.17.60 = T 110 SOD), contrariwise, that Demetrius disapproved of the excessive costs involved in the

21 22 23

For the other substantial testimonia dealing with Demetrius as director of the Alexandrian Library, see T 58A–66 SOD. On the wide range of meanings covered by the term politeuma in Plutarch’s work, see D.F. Leão, “Politeuma in Plutarch,” Synthesis 23 (2016) 87–99. L. O’Sullivan, The Regime of Demetrius of Phalerum in Athens, 317–307BCE. A Philosopher in Politics (Leiden: Brill, 2009) 127–128, shares this same perspective.

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construction of the Propylaea by Pericles. Additionally, the idea that he was rather moderate in terms of public constructions seems to be confirmed by other sources (D.L. 5.75; Vitr. 7, praef. 16–17 = respectively T 1 and 54).24 In the above mentioned cases, there is no indication that Demetrius may have been Plutarch’s textual source for the declarations made, but at least in one case the Phalereus seems to be the source of inspiration. This concerns a passage from the De gloria Atheniensium (349A–B = T 115 SOD), where a reproach is made on the resources spent by the Athenians in promoting dramatic contests (or at least in celebrating their victories25). Although no particular work is mentioned, Demetrius is clearly said to be the author of this statement (349B): καὶ τούτων τοῖς μὲν ἡττηθεῖσι περιῆν προσυβρίσθαι καὶ γεγονέναι καταγελάστους· τοῖς δὲ νικήσασιν ὁ τρίπους ὑπῆρχεν, οὐκ ἀνάθημα τῆς νίκης, ὡς Δημήτριός φησιν, ἀλλ’ ἐπίσπεισμα τῶν ἐκκεχυμένων βίων καὶ τῶν ἐκλελοιπότων κενοτάφιον οἴκων. τοιαῦτα γὰρ τὰ ποιητικῆς τέλη καὶ λαμπρότερον οὐδὲν ἐξ αὐτῶν. For those of them [i.e. the choregoi] who were beaten, there was nothing left but to be the object of scorn and ridicule; but for those who won, there was the tripod, this being, as Demetrius says, not a votive offering to celebrate their victory, but a last libation of their spilt livelihood and an empty memorial of their bankrupt states. For such were the rewards of the art of poetry and nothing more splendid (ever) came from them. There may be a historical background for this statement, because social and fiscal measures were taken by Demetrius and aimed at controlling the dissipation of wealth, whether they were caused by public indulgence or by private profligacy. Despite the possible Peripatetic inspiration26 of those changes, in this particular case, Plutarch seems not to disagree with him. 24 25

26

See also Banfi, Sovranità della legge, 188–189. O’Sullivan, The Regime of Demetrius of Phalerum, 178–177, sustains that Demetrius’ hostility is not directed against choragic liturgies in general, but more specifically against the excesses of the choregoi in building the monuments in which the victory tripod was installed. P. Wilson & E. Csapo, “From chorêgia to agônothesia: evidence for the administration and finance of the Athenian theatre in the late fourth century BC,” in D. Rosenbloom & J. Davidson (eds.), Greek Drama IV: Texts, Contexts, Performance (Oxford: Aris & Phillips, 2012) 300–321, at 301, express the same opinion. On the possible influence in Demetrius of the teachings of Aristotle and Theophrastus, see Gottschalk, Demetrius of Phalerum, 378.

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Final Considerations

Although Plutarch did not feel sufficiently motivated to write a specific biography on Demetrius of Phalerum, he nevertheless proves to be well acquainted with Demetrius’ life and his political and intellectual work, which inspired Plutarch to create a very interesting and multimodal expression of intertextuality (and sometimes also intratextuality). This happens more obviously in those passages in which Plutarch uses the work of the Phalereus as his explicit source, especially dealing with factual incidents approached mainly in other Lives. On other occasions, Plutarch mentions him mostly in relation to factual events surrounding the upheavals of Demetrius’ life, but quite often without declaring the Phalereus as his explicit source for the information: in those cases, he is more the subject than the actual source of intertextuality. Finally, Plutarch also mentions Demetrius—directly or implicitly—in order to challenge his opinions or to criticize openly his political choices. But sometimes, on the contrary, especially in the Moralia, Plutarch refers to Demetrius as an exemplum of rise and fall, which may consequently illuminate others. Taken as a whole, those instances of intertextuality and intratextuality provide a very elucidative pattern of the way Plutarch dealt with his sources, especially with those that were also prone to work as impacting characters in their own right.

Acknowledgements I wish to thank Manuel Tröster, who read an earlier version of this chapter and whose comments helped me to improve it, especially at the linguistic level.

chapter 18

“As Each Came to Mind”: Intertextualizing Plutarch’s Mentality of Intricacy in the Table Talk and Questions Michiel Meeusen

Abstract In the preface to the second book of Table Talk (Quaestiones convivales), Plutarch writes that he simply jotted down the conversations from the first book “at random, without any distinction, as each came to mind.” Scholars have taken this statement to be highly programmatic for the work’s underlying writing process and method of composition more generally, including the structuring principles that guide it, however idiosyncratic they may be. Other miscellanistic authors (like Aelian, Athenaeus, Gellius, and Pamphila) also emphasize the artless and haphazard organization of their writings, so that we can rightfully speak of a genuine miscellanistic topos. The aim of this chapter is to examine how this miscellanistic strategy takes effect as an intertextual phenomenon in Plutarch’s other collections of Questions, where there is no obvious structuring principle either, except from the overarching thematic rubrications (we have collections of Roman, Greek, Platonic and Natural Questions). How unstructured are these collections really, and how does this relate to the miscellanistic organization of the materials in Table Talk? Examining how Plutarch’s mentality of intricacy takes effect in these collections is particularly worthwhile, since they stand relatively close, from a compositional perspective, to the author’s personal notes (ὑπομνήματα). As we will see, aspects of inquisitive spontaneity and specificity seem to far outweigh the demand for a clear organization of the contents. It is this mind-set that lies at the basis of Plutarch’s project of wide learning (πολυμάθεια), which he aims to communicate to his reader.

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A Versatile Gentleman

Structural analysis is an important aspect of textual hermeneutics. It is an interpretive strategy aimed at improving our understanding of source texts based on their underlying organization. But when there is no clear structure, interpretation is complicated. This is the case with ancient miscellanistic texts. Plutarch’s Table Talk (Quaestiones convivales) is a good example of this type of literature.

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The text discusses a wide range of piecemeal problems (προβλήματα, ζητήματα, ἀπορίαι, αἰτίαι) without too much concern for structural coherence or thematic unity. The work yields a lively image of how Plutarch enacted his wide learning (πολυμάθεια) concerning several intellectual disciplines (including history, literature, philosophy, science, and theology) at sympotic events and dinner parties, in the presence of his friends and intellectual peers. In so doing, he crossbred the symposium genre, as known from Plato’s and Xenophon’s Symposium, with that of the Aristotelian Natural Problems, a work in 38 thematic ‘books’ in which a large amount of questions (typically introduced with “Why?”, Διὰ τί;) succeed each other in a largely unsystematic way. The same problem-format recurs in Plutarch’s thematically arranged collections of Questions, namely the Roman, Greek, Platonic, and Natural Questions (to name only those that have been preserved at a considerable length).1 In these collections, Plutarch gathers a vast range of problems relating to cultural history, Platonic philosophy and natural science respectively. These are the same kind of questions that we know from Table Talk, where they appear in full sympotic garb, albeit deprived of any such thematic rubrications. What the Questions and Table Talk have in common, despite their differences, is that they lack any obvious structuring principle in the succession of their problems. The aim of this chapter is to evaluate the miscellanistic nature of Table Talk and to examine how the same writing technique takes effect as an intertextual phenomenon in Plutarch’s other collections of Questions. How unstructured are these collections really? And how does this relate to the miscellanistic organization of the materials in Table Talk? What is the precise intertextual and text-genetic relationship between Table Talk and the Questions, and what does this tell us about their associative style of arrangement?2

1 The Lamprias Catalogue lists a significant number of collections of Αἰτίαι among Plutarch’s writings, several of which are still extant today, while others are now lost or partially preserved in fragmentary form: Αἰτίαι τῶν Ἀράτου Διοσημιῶν (nr. 119 = frs. 13–20 Sandbach); Αἰτίαι Ρωμαϊκαί (nr. 138 = Roman Questions); Αἰτίαι βαρβαρικαί (nr. 139); Αἰτίαι τῶν περιφερομένων Στωικῶν (nr. 149); Αἰτίαι καὶ τόποι (nr. 160); Αἰτίαι ἀλλαγῶν (nr. 161); Αἰτίαι Ἑλλήνων (nr. 166 = Greek Questions); Αἰτίαι γυναικῶν (nr. 167); Αἰτίαι φυσικαί (nr. 218 = Natural Questions). Table Talk is not recorded in the Lamprias Catalogue (perhaps to be identified with nr. 125: Ἀπομνημονεύματα?). The Πλατωνικὰ ζητήματα (nr. 136 = Platonic Questions) and Ἀπορίων λύσεις (nr. 170) can be added. 2 On the aspect of intertextuality (and more specifically the presence of a medical intertext) in Table Talk, see M. Vamvouri Ruffy, Les Vertus thérapeutiques du banquet: Médecine et idéologie dans les Propos de Table de Plutarque (Paris: Belles Lettres, 2012) 12–15.

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Sympotic Miscellanism in Table Talk: Setting the Record Straight

In the preface to the second book of Table Talk, Plutarch states that he simply jotted down the conversations from the first book “at random, without any distinction, as each came to mind” (Quaest. conv. 629D: σποράδην δ’ ἀναγέγραπται καὶ οὐ διακεκριμένως ἀλλ’ ὡς ἕκαστον εἰς μνήμην ἦλθεν). Scholars have taken this statement to be highly programmatic for the work’s underlying writing process and method of composition more generally, including the structuring principles that guide it, however idiosyncratic these may be.3 Other miscellanistic authors—like Aelian, Athenaeus, Gellius, and Pamphila—also emphasize the artless and haphazard organization of their writings, so that we can legitimately speak of a genuine miscellanistic topos.4 Plutarch may very well be playing along with this miscellanistic convention, possibly even intentionally, but still, it would be wrong, in my opinion, to claim that he is ‘posing,’ as Jason König has influentially claimed a decade ago in his study of the complex dynamics of structural coherence and fragmentation in Table Talk (and the same may well be true for those other miscellanistic authors). After all, a topos is not necessarily a pseudos:5 Many ancient miscellanists […] gesture towards thematic order, drawing us into a search for patterns while also at the same time disrupting and frustrating that search. On that argument, the claim that many miscellanists make, that they are composing at random, turns out, at least in some cases, to be a matter of convention, a miscellanistic pose which can hide careful structuring beneath it […].6 3 See J. König, “Fragmentation and coherence in Plutarch’s Sympotic Questions,” in J. König & T. Whitmarsh (eds.), Ordering Knowledge in the Roman Empire (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007) 43–68; T. Morgan, “The Miscellany and Plutarch,” in F. Klotz & K. Oikonomopoulou (eds.), The Philosopher’s Banquet. Plutarch’s Table Talk in the Intellectual Culture of the Roman Empire (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011) 49–73. 4 See e.g. Gel. Praef. 2 (Usi autem sumus ordine rerum fortuito, quem antea in excerpendo feceramus); Pamphila in Phot. Bibl. 175.119b (οὕτως εἰκῇ καὶ ὡς ἕκαστον ἐπῆλθεν ἀναγράψαι, ὡς οὐχὶ χαλεπὸν ἔχουσα, φησί, τὸ κατ’ εἶδος αὐτὰ διελεῖν, ἐπιτερπέστερον δὲ καὶ χαριέστερον τὸ ἀναμεμιγμένον καὶ τὴν ποικιλίαν τοῦ μονοειδοῦς νομίζουσα); Ael. NA Epil. 43–46 (οἱονεὶ λειμῶνά τινα ἢ στέφανον ὡραῖον ἐκ τῆς πολυχροίας, ὡς ἀνθεσφόρων τῶν ζῴων τῶν πολλῶν, ᾠήθην δεῖν τήνδε ὑφᾶναί τε καὶ διαπλέξαι τὴν συγγραφήν). For further references, see König, “Fragmentation and coherence,” 44, n. 3. 5 In positing that ancient miscellanists were earnestly interested in variety and that they were serious about their own miscellanism, I follow W. Fitzgerald, Variety: The Life of a Roman Concept (Chicago-London: University of Chicago Press, 2016) ch. 5. 6 König, “Fragmentation and coherence,” 44 (my italics). S. Teodorsson, A commentary on

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To be clear: Plutarch is no ‘poser’—or otherwise, he is extremely good at it. Indeed, with the emphasis on the adjunct σποράδην (“at random”, “scatteredly”), Plutarch primarily intends to capture the text’s obvious lack of structural organization, rather than to proclaim his own allegedly pseudo-nonchalant writing technique. In the end, there is no obvious, general structure discernible in the succession of the questions that might indicate a clear-cut organization of the problems, even if it would be intentionally complex or subtle. Nowhere does Plutarch explicitly formulate that intention, perhaps least of all in the passage at hand. Another point is that the adjunct σποράδην indeed signals random structuring, yet applies to a very specific differentiation in content matter. The same is true for the claim that the talks were written down “without any distinction” (οὐ διακεκριμένως).7 Plutarch is referring to the subtle distinction he is introducing between, what he calls, “sympotic” and “symposiac” topics for conversation (i.e. συμποτικά and συμποσιακά). The category of συμποτικά covers problems concerning the symposium, whereas the συμποσιακά are topics generally treated at the symposium. The first category is a sub-category of the latter, because it consists of meta-symposiac debates about the proper course and organization of a symposium, which were also discussed at the symposium, such as whether philosophy is a fitting topic for conversation at a drinking party (Quaest. conv. 612E), or whether the host should arrange the placing of his guests or leave it to the guests themselves (615C). Examples of symposiac (c.q. non-sympotic) topics are why is it held that “love teaches a poet” (622C), and why is the chorus of the phyle Aiantis at Athens never judged last (628F). Plutarch notes that both categories can be discussed at the symposium and can, therefore, be considered συμποσιακά, which probably explains the wording in the title of the work (Συμποσιακῶν βιβλία Θ).8 Although this can be read as a suggestion towards thematic unity—in the sense that all the problems collected in Table Plutarch’s Table Talks, vol. 1 (Göteborg: Acta universitatis Gothoburgensis, 1989) 169 says that we may be dealing with “a literary device to announce unconnected disposition.” 7 A little earlier, Plutarch refers to the discussions from the first book as being “mixed” in kind (Quaest. conv. 629D: μεμιγμένα δείγματα). 8 H. Bolkestein, Adversaria critica et exegetica ad Plutarchi quaestionum convivalium librum primum et secundum (Amsterdam: H.J. Paris, 1946) 7 has shown, however, that Plutarch is not always very consistent in distinguishing between συμποτικά and συμποσιακά (cf. e.g. Quaest. conv. 645C; 660D vs. 686E; 717A; 736C). He adds that the distinction may be of Stoic origin, because these philosophers were very fond of grammatical issues and specifically of making subtle terminological distinctions. The Stoic Persaeus of Citium may have been the first to draw this distinction in his Συμποτικοὶ διάλογοι/Συμποτικὰ ὑπομνήματα (SVF 1, 100–101, frs. 451–453). See also F. Fuhrmann, Plutarque. Œuvres morales. Tome IX, 1e partie (Paris: Belles Lettres, 1972) xv, with n. 3; König, “Fragmentation and coherence,” 61.

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Talk are essentially ‘symposiac’—, Plutarch avows his miscellanistic authorship, attributing it to the randomness of his memory.

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The Symposium as lieu de mémoire

As Katerina Oikonomopoulou has rightly shown, the common denominator ancient miscellanists use in explaining their unordered writing, “is the link drawn between the order of the textual product and a cognitive process (such as memory, or mental association) or work method (such as reading, excerpting) from which it emerged.”9 In Table Talk, Plutarch relates his miscellanistic writing to his own recollection, acknowledging that he wrote down the talks “as each came to mind” (ὡς ἕκαστον εἰς μνήμην ἦλθεν). But this is not so exceptional. In fact, the same point is made in the Bravery of Women, where Plutarch again links his miscellanistic writing to a mental process, more precisely by use of the verb ἔπειμι, which, when constructed with a dative (in our case an ellipse of ἡμῖν), has a cognitive implication (“come into one’s head”, “occur to one”).10 So there is reason to assume that Plutarch’s ‘mentality of intricacy’ is a real thing (not a mere pose), and that it takes effect both as an intertextual topic and as an intertextual phenomenon in several of his writings: “We will write down the cases of individual bravery at random, as they come to us, because we believe that the following record does not at all require a chronological order.”11 The author’s caveat that what is to follow is an anachronistic disposition of individual cases of female bravery is relevant, not only because anachronism is what the reader eventually gets, but also because it relates randomness of content to the chronologically distorted/distorting framework of recollection and commemoration. Something similar is happening in Table Talk, where recollec-

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K. Oikonomopoulou, “Plutarch’s corpus of quaestiones in the tradition of imperial Greek encyclopaedism,” in J. König & G. Woolf (eds.), Encyclopaedism from Antiquity to the Renaissance (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013) 129–153, at 148–149. She adds: “In texts like Plutarch’s QC and Athenaeus’ Deipnosophistae, this is meant to reflect the associative twists and turns of sympotic conversation. In texts like Gellius’ Attic Nights, it is meant to reflect the author’s own associative leaps at the moment of composition.” See also J.P. Small, Wax Tablets of the Mind: Cognitive Studies of Memory and Literacy in the Ancient World (London: Routledge, 1997) 179–181. See LSJ, s.v. ἔπειμι (B); literally: “come upon.” Mul. virt. 253E–F: τὰς δὲ καθ’ ἑκάστην (sc. τὴν γυναῖκα) ἀρετάς, ὅπως ἂν ἐπίῃ, σποράδην ἀναγράψομεν, οὐδὲν οἰόμενοι τῆς κατὰ χρόνον τάξεως δεῖσθαι τὴν ὑποκειμένην ἱστορίαν. See Teodorsson, A commentary, 169. Cf. also Bolkestein, Adversaria critica, 36; Fuhrmann, Plutarque, xi.

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tion is linked to the work’s purpose qua memoranda. In the preface to the first book, Plutarch personally addresses Sossius Senecio (the dedicatee and a fellow symposiast in some talks),12 and in so doing he notes that the discussions he recorded took place σποράδην πολλάκις, “in various places, frequently with you in Rome and among us in Greece,”13 which suggests a sense of chronotopic ubiquitousness if not, indeed, randomness. In the preface to the second book, Plutarch explains the intellectual benefit Senecio may have of being reminded of his own conversations: And the readers should not be surprised if we, in addressing you, also record some of the things you have once said, since even if recollections do not produce (new) knowledge, the act of recollecting often leads to the same result as learning.14 Some scholars have read this as a veiled allusion to Plato’s theory of anamnesis as known from the Meno (whereas others have not).15 What Plutarch is probably suggesting is that by fixating and writing down these talks he aims to save them from falling into oblivion. In other words, reading Plutarch’s recollections helps Senecio recover his knowledge on a number of points (πολλάκις).16 This also counts, mutatis mutandis, for the implied readers of Table Talk, in that they can also draw intellectual benefit from the author’s recollections. Plutarch gains much inspiration from his predecessors, especially the Socratic Symposia of Plato and Xenophon, which served as his literary model and, thus, add an extra intertextual layer to the discourse.17

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Senecio is staged as an interlocutor in talks 1 and 5 of the first book. Quaest. conv. 612E: σποράδην πολλάκις ἔν τε Ῥώμῃ μεθ’ ὑμῶν καὶ παρ’ ἡμῖν ἐν τῇ Ἑλλάδι. Quaest. conv. 629D–E: οὐ δεῖ δὲ θαυμάζειν τοὺς ἀναγινώσκοντας, εἰ σοὶ προσφωνοῦντές τινα τῶν ποτε ῥηθέντων καὶ ὑπὸ σοῦ συνηγάγομεν· καὶ γὰρ [ἂν] εἰ μαθήσεις ἀναμνήσεις μὴ ποιοῦσιν, πολλάκις εἰς ταὐτὸ τῷ μανθάνειν τὸ ἀναμιμνήσκεσθαι καθίστησιν. I follow the text and interpretation of Teodorsson, A commentary, 170–171. See Fuhrmann, Plutarque, 63 n. 1 (pro) vs. Teodorsson, A commentary, 171 (con). Teodorsson, A commentary, 170. In the preface to the sixth book, Plutarch says that “still today the Socratic symposia are open to men of letters for participation and pleasure, as it was to the diners themselves back then” (Quaest. conv. 686C–D: ὅπου καὶ νῦν τῶν Σωκρατικῶν συμποσίων μετουσία καὶ ἀπόλαυσίς ἐστι τοῖς φιλολόγοις, ὥσπερ αὐτοῖς ἐκείνοις τοῖς τότε δειπνοῦσι). A similar point is made in the preface to the first book (Quaest. conv. 612D–E).

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289

Fuelling the Debate: Questions and Hypomnematic Beginnings

Table Talk thus serves as a sympotic mnemohistory, vividly portraying (presumably in a dramatised and idealized fashion) the intellectual practice of sympotic debate as held in Plutarch’s milieu with the goal of fixating past knowledge and making it accessible to posterity. It is not unimaginable that Plutarch intended to bring some kind of an intellectual tribute to his sympotic colleagues and intellectual peers by staging them in the debates and by labelling the explanations to the questions with their proper names. In a way he, thus, immortalized his friends in this learned Festschrift, this sympotic liber amicorum.18 There is much reason to assume that Plutarch’s other collections of Questions (i.e. the Roman, Greek, Platonic and Natural Questions) probably provided the fuel for such debates: that is, not the practice but the theory.19 By their generally depersonalized approach, Plutarch’s Questions are very much the distilled versions of ‘real-life’ conversations as recorded in Table Talk. They collect a type of knowledge that is fit for further discussion, as is specifically marked by the open-ended structure of the explanations at hand. In line with the Aristotelian Natural Problems, the explanations are typically phrased interrogatively rather than assertorically, thus occasioning further debate. Interestingly, Plutarch informs us that there is a certain sympotic protocol that guests should prepare themselves intellectually to participate in the discussion at table.20 Whether this implies that such problems were intended to be per-

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Plutarch often also stages his own literary alter-ego as a character in the debates. On his authorial self-presentation (as a complex mean between self-promotion and selfeffacement), see. F. Klotz, “Portraits of the Philosopher: Plutarch’s Self-Presentation in the Quaestiones Convivales,” CQ 57 (2007) 650–667; J. König, “Self-promotion and selfeffacement in Plutarch’s Table Talk,” in F. Klotz & K. Oikonomopoulou (eds.), The Philosopher’s Banquet. Plutarch’s Table Talk in the Intellectual Culture of the Roman Empire (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011) 179–203. Cf. e.g. L. Van der Stockt, “Some aspects of Plutarch’s view of the physical world. Interpreting Causes of Natural Phenomena,” in J.M. Candau Morón, F. González Ponce & A. Chávez Reino (eds.), Plutarco transmisor. Actas del X Simposio Internacional de la Sociedad Española de Plutarquistas (Sevilla, 12–14 de noviembre de 2009) (Sevilla: Universidad de Sevilla, 2011) 453: “QN offers philosophical fuel for the philosophical discussion […].” See e.g. Sept. sap. conv. 147E–F: ἦ γὰρ οὐκ οἴει, καθάπερ ἑστιάσοντος ἔστι τις παρασκευή, καὶ δειπνήσοντος εἶναι; κτλ. In Quaest. conv. 629C, the sympotic conversation is considered part of τὰ εἰς τὰ δεῖπνα καὶ τὰ συμπόσια παρασκευαζόμενα. Similarly, Gellius reports that his teacher L. Calvenus Taurus often invited some of his students (viz. the iunctiores) to dinner at his house and that each diner was obliged to prepare a light and entertaining topic for discussion, “suitable for a mind enlivened with wine” (7.13: Quaerebantur autem

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formed tels quels, or rather provided the kind of themes and argumentative strategies deployable in discussions on similar topics, remains uncertain. Scholars generally agree that a complex embroidery and reorganization of personal notes lies beneath the text of Table Talk. These are the ὑπομνήματα Plutarch famously refers to in the preface to On Tranquillity of Mind, where he says that he extracted the material for the treatise from the notes that he took for himself.21 Based on the high number of parallel accounts throughout the Corpus Plutarcheum, scholars have considered Plutarch’s reliance on these ὑπομνήματα as a standard method of composition both in the Lives and the Moralia, including Table Talk.22 Arguably, this hypomnematic material contained the author’s own recollections of the symposia he attended, probably supplemented with further readings and research.23 Unfortunately, we do not know with any certainty what Plutarch’s personal notes looked like exactly, in terms of their level of composition and elaboration. Luc Van der Stockt is inclined to conceive of a Plutarchan ὑπόμνημα “as a more or less elaborate train of thought, involving material previously gathered and certainly written in full syntactical sentences: we are beyond the stage of heuristics.”24 Regarding its level of composition, he believes that a ὑπόμνημα

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non grauia nec reuerenda, sed ἐνθυμημάτια quaedam lepida et minuta et florentem uino animum lacessentia). This contribution to the discussion is considered the “tax” or συμβολή, that is, some kind of an intellectual entrance-fee to the dinner (cf. LSJ, s.v. iv). The same imagery recurs passim throughout Plutarch’s Table Talk (cf. 664D; 668D; 682A; 694B; 719E– F). De tranq. an. 464F: ἀνελεξάμην περὶ εὐθυμίας ἐκ τῶν ὑπομνημάτων ὧν ἐμαυτῷ πεποιημένος ἐτύγχανον (“I extracted the topic of tranquility from the notes that I took for myself”). It is very tempting to interpret Plutarch’s statement that he wrote down Table Talk “as each came to mind” (ὡς ἕκαστον εἰς μνήμην ἦλθεν) as an implicit allusion to his reliance on the ὑπομνήματα he took for himself. For Plutarch’s reliance on his ὑπομνήματα in the Moralia, see e.g. L. Van der Stockt, “A Plutarchan Hypomnema on Self-Love,” AJPh 120 (1999) 575– 599; M. Meeusen, “Matching in Mind the Sea Beast’s Complexion. On the Pragmatics of Plutarch’s Hypomnemata and Scientific Innovation: the Case of Q.N. 19 (916BF),” Philologus 156 (2012) 234–259; for the Lives, C.B.R. Pelling, “Plutarch’s Method of Work in the Roman Lives,” JHS 99 (1979) 94–95. For Table Talk, see e.g. J. Sirinelli, Plutarque de Chéronée: Un philosophe dans le siècle (Paris: Fayard, 2000) 380–385 and 386: “On est tenté de donner comme sous-titre à cet ouvrage: un homme se penche sur son fichier!” On the use of notes as a standard practice of literary composition in Antiquity, see Small, Wax Tablets of the Mind, 169–176; T. Dorandi, Le stylet et la tablette: dans le secret des auteurs antiques (Paris: Belles Lettres, 2000) 28–50. Cf. Teodorsson, A commentary, 170: “Presumably Plut. depended to a large extent upon reminiscences of real talks, which he completed with material from literary sources or, for some talks, inversely.” Van der Stockt, “A Plutarchan Hypomnema,” 595. Plutarch’s assembling and compiling (συνάγειν, συντάττειν) of material as a preparatory phase for the composition of his texts

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“does not yet display literary finish” but “probably took the form of a rough draft.”25 This brings us relatively close to the compositional level of Plutarch’s Questions, which themselves come in the form of rough drafts without literary finish. Even still, considering their level of elaboration, it seems unlikely that these Questions are the actual ὑπομνήματα used in composing Table Talk.26 This is seen, for instance, in the author’s ample collection of content matter and also by such formal characteristics as the use of full syntactical sentences with hypotactic structures, the presence of rhetorical elements, including emphatic addresses to the reader, the global structuring of the explanations along a principle of increasing plausibility, and, at times, the thematic clustering of problem chapters around specific topics (see further). Moreover, Plutarch occasionally references his collections of Questions in other writings, which suggests that they were made accessible to interested readers.27 The Questions may well stand closer to the ὑπομνήματα than Table Talk, but there are still many reasons to assume that they were meant for publication as well, and were not just composed for personal use.28 We saw that except from the thematic rubrications in the Questions, there is no general plan in the succession of the problem chapters collected therein—

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is explicitly marked e.g. in Cons. ad Apoll. 121E; Con. praec. 138C; De coh. ira 457D; De an. procr. 1012B; Nic. 1.5. At any rate, “we are not entitled to view hypomnemata as sources” (576). Similarly, K. Ziegler, “Plutarchos von Chaironeia,” RE XXI.1 (1951) 787 argues that the term ὑπομνήματα in De tranq. an. 464F “ja nicht nur Auszüge aus Quellenschriften, sondern mindestens in gleichem Maße auch Niederschriften eigener Gedankengange bezeichnet”. This is not, of course, to reject the doxographical interest of Plutarch’s notes. In De coh. ira 457D–E, Fundanus—who is considered Plutarch’s porte-parole—states that he collects and peruses sayings and deeds of both philosophers and kings and tyrants. The sayings and deeds of tyrants are collected in Plutarch’s collections of Apophthegmata; those of philosophers are no longer extant. Pace e.g. K. Hubert, “Zur Entstehung der Tischgespräche Plutarchs,” in Χάριτες, Friedrich Leo zum sechzigsten Geburtstag dargebracht (Berlin: Weidmannsche Buchhandlung, 1911) 174–176 and 180; Bolkestein, Adversaria critica, 27; Fuhrmann, Plutarque, xiii. See M. Meeusen, Plutarch’s Science of Natural Problems: A Study with Commentary on Quaestiones Naturales (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2017) 148–150. Cf. e.g. J. Opsomer, “Ζητήματα: Structure et argumentation dans les Quaestiones Platonicae,” in J.A. Fernández Delgado & F. Pordomingo Pardo (eds.), Estudios sobre Plutarco: Aspectos formales. Actas del IV simposio español sobre Plutarco, Salamanca, 26 a 28 de Mayo de 1994 (Salamanca: Universidad de Salamanca, 1996) 83: “Les Questions Platoniciennes ont une structure bien organisée et élaborée et il serait incorrect de penser qu’elles ne contiennent que le matériel brut. En outre, elles sont plus que de simples notes personnelles (ὑπομνήματα). La structuration et la construction méticuleuses des différentes Questions nous indiquent qu’ elles ont été préparées pour être publiées.”

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a miscellansitic feature shared with Table Talk. Nevertheless, specific recurrent themes do lie scattered throughout several collections, with no obvious reason why they are not presented one after the other. Some chapters focus on or include comments about, for instance, wine and drinking in the Natural Questions,29 whereas considerations of the topic of marriage are recurrent in the Roman Questions.30 Even in these cases, however, there is no overarching organization of the chapters. In some occasions, two or more problem chapters cluster together (a phenomenon that occurs more often in one collection than in the other)31 and sometimes an explicit back-reference is found to a previous chapter.32 The same structuring techniques recur in Table Talk, where sometimes two or more problems cluster together in one and the same sympotic context. The first three problems of book six, for instance, concern hunger and thirst,33 and

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Quaest. nat. 10; 27; 30–31; see Meeusen, Plutarch’s Science of Natural Problems, 95. Quaest. rom. 1–2; 29–31; 65; 85–87; 105; 108; discussed by J. Boulogne, “Les ‘Étiologies romaines’: une herméneutique des mœurs à Rome,” in P. Payen (ed.), Plutarque: Grecs et Romains en Questions (Saint-Bertrand-de-Comminges: Musée archéologique départemental de Saint-Bertrand-de-Comminges, 1998) 32: “Cette dispersion thématique a pour effet d’ unifier l’ ensemble du texte comme un fil de chaîne, un mode de composition correspondant exactement à l’ importance qu’ accorde Plutarque au couple dans la cohésion du tissu social romain.” For instance, the order of the Natural Questions is less disturbed than that of the Roman Questions (see already J. Schellens, De hiatu in Plutarchi Moralibus (Bonn: Carthaus, 1864) 18–19: “Naturalium denique quaestionum ordinem minus quam romanarum esse turbatum, tibi epigrammata quaestionum celeriter perlegenti patebit.”). Oikonomopoulou, “Plutarch’s corpus of quaestiones,” 152 rightly speaks of “an incipient classificatory scheme” in the Natural Questions. Regarding the thematic rubrications in the Aristotelian Natural Problems, she rightly notes: “If […] the re-organization of this text into thematic units took place at the end of the 2nd century CE, the thematic clusters offered by the QN might be taken as a hint that thematic versions circulated as early as Plutarch’s time”. The following scheme gives a tentative overview of the thematic clusters in the Greek problems: Quaest. nat. 1–13 (salt and water); 14–16 (wheat and barley); 17–19 (sea animals and fishing); 20–28 (land animals and hunting); 30–31 (viniculture). See Meeusen, Plutarch’s Science of Natural Problems, 367. E.g. Quaest. nat. 915E (ὡς εἰρήκαμεν); 917F (διὰ τὴν εἰρημένην αἰτίαν). Quaest. conv. 6.1 (686E–687B): “Why those who fast are more thirsty than hungry” (opening with a simple: “It appeared illogical that […].”); 2 (687B–689A): “Whether hunger and thirst are caused by deficiency or by a change in shape of the passages” (opening with “At this point in the discussion, Philo and the other physicians attacked the original premise […].”); 3 (689A–690B): “Why hunger is appeased by drinking, but thirst increased by eating” (opening with: “At this point in the discussion our host said that this was a fair statement, and besides, the theory of the emptying and filling of passages might help us to answer another question […].”).

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the following three, cold water and snow.34 Sometimes two problems merge under one and the same heading, presumably in order to maintain the principle of ten problems per book.35 But at the same time, this is also a logical consequence of the natural development of such intellectual discussions, where the solution to one problem may spontaneously provoke the formulation of a new one that is closely related to it.36 Thematic overlap is not, however, a prerequisite to procure sympotic unity. Most notably, in book nine of Table Talk, Plutarch reports on conversations held at Athens during the socalled festival of the Muses. There, the symposiasts discuss a wide variety of themes on a singular occasion, each raising a problem from a different field of expertise, including geometry, literature, music, rhetoric, etc. (Quaest. conv. 737D–E). It is impossible to determine—and this counts for both Table Talk and the Questions—whether these aspects of structural coherence and fragmentation rely on Plutarch’s associative memory or his use of personal notes (or both). In other words, whether these miscellanistic features emerge from real-life discussions that once took place and/or from the author’s deliberate, editorial interventions, so as to resemble real-life dialogues, is difficult to say.37 In any case, it 34

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36 37

Quaest. conv. 6.4 (690B–690E): “Why water drawn from a well becomes cooler if it is kept overnight in the very air of the well”; 5 (690E–691C): “Why pebbles and lumps of lead thrown into water serve to make it cooler”; 6 (691C–692A): “Why snow is covered with straw and cloth to preserve it”. E.g. Quaest. conv. 664A; 684E; 700B–C; 706E; 717A; 723A; 725F; 727A; 740F. The most basic ordering principle in Table Talk is the well-known organization of the content into nine βιβλία, each containing ten problem chapters each, with the deliberate exception of the last book, which, under the pretext of bringing an appropriate tribute to the nine Muses on their own festival, contains fifteen (for the explicit formulation of this decimal system, see Quaest. conv. 612E; 629E; 660D; 697E; 736C: G.W.M. Harrison, “Problems with the Genre of Problems: Plutarch’s Literary Innovations,” CPh 95 (2000) 197, n. 21). The same point is made regarding the Aristotelian Natural Problems by H. Flashar, Problemata physica (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1962) 301–302. On the dialogical aspects of Plutarch’s Questions, see K. Oikonomopoulou, “Ancient question-and-answer literature and its role in the tradition of dialogue,” in S. Föllinger & G.M. Müller (eds.), Der Dialog in der Antike. Formen und Funktionen einer literarischen Gattung zwischen Philosophie, Wissensvermittlung und dramatischer Inszenierung (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2013) 37–64. As to Table Talk, Frances Titchener is probably right that “the QC do not need to be authentic to be real and true”: “What the QC present us with is something a little in between: what at least conveys the texture of what MIGHT have happened, COULD have happened, and periodically HAD in fact happened. For Plutarch’s purposes, this is really all the same thing […]” (in F.B. Titchener, “The role of reality in Plutarch’s Quaestiones Convivales,” in J.R. Ferreira, D. Leão, M. Tröster & P. Barata Dias (eds.), Symposion and Philanthropia in Plutarch (Coimbra: Classica Digitalia, 2009) 398– 399; see also F.B. Titchener, “Plutarch’s Table Talk: Sampling a Rich Blend. A Survey of

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seems that the aspects of inquisitive spontaneity and specificity far outweigh the demand for a clear organization of the contents. The discussions recorded in Table Talk often arise very spontaneously from the sympotic settings and circumstances at hand (e.g. recent festivals, served meals or beverages, etc.).38 At other occasions, Plutarch does not even remember how the debate started off exactly. For instance, in Quaest. conv. 734D, we read that the problem (of dreams being unreliable or false especially in the fall months) came up “one way or another” (οὐκ οἶδ’ ὅπως) after the host Favorinus had finished a discourse on other topics.39 There is sometimes, indeed, an apparent lack of sympotic circumstantiality when it comes to historical detail or literary liveliness of the debates. The description of the sympotic setting does not receive a great deal of dramatic substantiation in these cases, and the portraits of the symposiasts, who are normally characterized by their personal interests, convictions, occupations and idiosyncrasies, remain rather vague (Plutarch simply uses such generic situational markers as οἱ μέν, οἱ δέ, ἔνιοι, ἐδόκει, ἐλέχθη, ποτέ etc.).40 By putting the main focus on the development of the arguments, these talks give the impression of being short expositions, much in the style of the Questions, rather than the condensations of real-life discussions. Even still, the author attempts to maintain the illusion of reality by creating an artificial setting and evoking “un air de vérité.”41 This all gives the impression of intellectual spontaneity and randomness, where all-around trivial topics serve to trigger playful debate of philosophical caliber (philosophy not without reason being dubbed “the art of life”).42 The same aspect of inquisitive specificity and spontaneity is present, but in a more condensed way, in Plutarch’s Questions, and it can also

38 39

40

41

42

Scholarly Appraisal,” in F. Klotz & K. Oikonomopoulou (eds.), The Philosopher’s Banquet. Plutarch’s Table Talk in the Intellectual Culture of the Roman Empire (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011) 39). See Vamvouri Ruffy, Les Vertus thérapeutiques du banquet, 18. The same phrase functions as trigger-point for the discussion in De soll. an. 960A (cf. also De def. or. 435A). Notably, the level of dramatic liveliness is not the same for each and every discussion in Table Talk (see Fuhrmann, Plutarque, xix). See E.L. Minar, F.H. Sandbach & W.C. Helmbold, Plutarch. Moralia, Volume IX (Cambridge, MA-London: Harvard University Press, 1961) 2. Sometimes Plutarch does not mention the name of any of the symposiasts, but simply lines up a number of arguments anonymously without attributing them to specific persons (e.g. Quaest. conv. 619B–F; 625A–C). Fuhrmann, Plutarque, xvii. It may well be, of course, that these artificial talks are simply rendered in summary or paraphrase due to selective or faulty recollection of the author (thanks are due to Katerina Oikonomopoulou for this suggestion). Some symposia perhaps do have that effect on a person’s recollections. Quaest. conv. 613B: τέχνην περὶ βίον. On intellectual spontaneity in Table Talk, see Vamvouri Ruffy, Les Vertus thérapeutiques du banquet, 20–21.

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be found in the Aristotelian Natural Problems, making it a generic marker of miscellanistic problem writing.43

5

Characterizing Plutarch’s Miscellany

Arguably, Plutarch’s all-around intellectual project not only requires a playfully digressive structure but also generates it. It is this miscellanistic mind-set that lies at the basis of his ideal of wide learning (πολυμάθεια), which he aims to communicate to his reader.44 The intended readers of such miscellanies—that is, the all-around pepaideumenoi—were interested in the broad field of ancient learning. In Table Talk, they can now read something on literature, then something on natural science, then something on music, history, and so on. As I have tried to show, the same writing method is deployed in the Questions, even if the chapters therein are generally confined to one intellectual discipline only.45 As such, Plutarch’s miscellanistic mind-set is an intertextual phenomenon that is very central to his digressive writing technique more generally (it is discernible in his other writings also, but this goes beyond the scope of this chapter). Such a miscellanistic writing technique certainly complicates a linear reading (making a coherent interpretation a demanding task), but it does not make such a reading impossible. In fact, read in this way (i.e. linearly), Plutarch’s miscellanies offer the reader an opportunity to focus, divert, and refocus her/his attention from time to time.46 As such, the lack of tangible structure in such miscellanistic texts is very deliberate.

43

44

45

46

See e.g. P. Louis, Aristote, Problèmes, vol. 1 (Paris: Belles Lettres, 1991) xxix: “Le style est révélateur de ce genre d’ écrits. Les phrases sont souvent mal construites. Certaines sont incomplètes. Elles sont tantôt très courtes, tantôt exagérément longues, avec parfois plusieurs incises qui les rendent difficiles à comprendre. Il arrive même qu’elles se contredisent. N’ est-ce pas là la marque de phrases rédigées ou copiées à la hâte? Mais ce qui fait justement l’ intérêt de la plupart de ces problèmes, c’est la spontanéité du premier jet.” Cf. Sirinelli, Plutarque de Chéronée, 364: “Plutarque est véritablement un intellectuel au sens où nous l’ entendons aujourd’hui, c’ est-à-dire un homme qui réfléchit sur les problèmes qu’ il rencontre ou qui lui sont soumis. C’est sans doute cette image-là qu’il faut garder à l’ esprit plutôt que celle d’ un érudit parcourant méthodiquement tous les domaines du savoir.” Yet, for thematic overlaps in Plutarch’s Questions, see M. Meeusen, “Crossing Borders: Aetiological Overlap in Plutarch’s Αἰτίαι Φυσικαί,” in A. Wessels & J. Klooster (eds.), Inventing Origins: The Function of Aetiology in Antiquity (London-New York: Routledge, forthcoming). Pace Harrison, “Problems with the Genre of Problems,” 197, who proposes a fragmentary,

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Although psychological readings of ancient texts are destined to remain hypothetical, I am tempted to discern Plutarch’s own intricate intellectual mentality in his miscellanistic writing. It somehow reveals how the author’s mind worked precisely—at the very least in its faculty of recollection (that is to say, in a highly idiosyncratic fashion)—, so that we can speak of an intertextual phenomenon that reflects the versatile person that Plutarch once was himself. piecemeal reading. For further criticism, see Meeusen, Plutarch’s Science of Natural Problems, 100–101 (proposing a ‘staccato reading process’).

capitolo 19

Un ‘galateo’ intertestuale del simposio: le raccomandazioni di Plutarco personaggio dei Moralia Paola Volpe Cacciatore

Abstract Plutarch’s Moralia describe topics and behaviors that appear to be more appropriate for the symposium. An integrated analysis of the Quaestiones convivales, also through a series of references and parallels with other Plutarchan treatises, seems to create a kind of ‘intertextual etiquette’ of the symposium, which is configured as the result of a multiple creative process, and explained through some interesting intertextual connections.

L’esame del corpus dei Moralia contribuisce a descrivere un Plutarco molto attento a delineare modi e temi di discussione più appropriati al simposio. Sembra proprio che il Cheronese, partendo da alcuni passi delle Quaestiones convivales integrati tramite una serie di rimandi e paralleli ad altri opuscoli morali, riesca a creare una sorta di ‘galateo intertestuale’ del simposio, che si configura come frutto di un processo creativo molteplice, ma cementato da interessanti legami intertestuali. Gli interventi in tal proposito messi a punto da Plutarco in qualità di personaggio e situati in differenti trattati, sotto il profilo narratologico, hanno anche la particolarità di connotare un Plutarco muto, che ascolta e prende nota, un Plutarco che raccoglie le idee per poi intervenire o permettere ad altri di esporre il proprio pensiero, oppure un Plutarco che tramite la prima persona (io / noi) o la terza persona racconta come protagonista o introduce un tema che altri al suo posto discuteranno.1 Punto di partenza per l’allestimento di una sorta di ‘documento programmatico’ del simposio sono alcuni passi delle Quaestiones convivales ove sono esplicitate alcune idee-chiave del Cheronese.

1 Si tratta di ciò che retoricamente si indica come omodiegesi o come eterodiegesi.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004427860_021

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Plutarco, nella sua veste di autore espressamente dichiarata, appare in Quaest. conv. 612C–D allorquando, dopo aver ricordato a Sossio Senecione il detto “Detesto un convitato archivista”2 e dopo averne discusso il significato, annuncia: “Io, dedicatomi a questo compito, ti invio già ora tre volumi, che ospitano ognuno dieci temi di dibattito e mi riprometto di farti pervenire gli altri presto”.3 Allora, contestualmente, viene subito da chiedersi quali possano essere i temi di una discussione degni di un simposio e se ad un simposio si addicano temi inerenti alla filosofia. Partecipano alla discussione Sossio Senecione, Aristone, Cratone, Plutarco ed altri. Il primo a parlare è Aristone, che si dice meravigliato che ci sia qualcuno che nega ai filosofi spazio, e a costui risponde Plutarco stesso: “Ce ne sono di certo, amico mio, e con una ironia tutta seriosa pretendono che la filosofia, come la οἰκοδέσποινα (“massaia”, o “padrona di casa”), non debba proferire parola durante il simposio”.4 Sempre in Quaest. conv. 716D–E la difesa della filosofia è pronunciata da Plutarco ancora con più forza: Οἱ φιλοσοφίαν, ὦ Σόσσιε Σενεκίων, ἐκ τῶν συμποσίων ἐκβάλλοντες οὐ ταὐτὸ ποιοῦσι τοῖς τὸ φῶς ἀναιροῦσιν, ἀλλὰ χεῖρον, ὅσῳ λύχνου μὲν ἀρθέντος οἱ μέτριοι καὶ σώφρονες οὐδὲν ἔσονται κακίους, τὸ αἰδεῖσθαι τοῦ βλέπειν ἀλλήλους μεῖζον ἔχοντες, ἀμαθίας δὲ δὴ καὶ ἀμουσίας σὺν οἴνῳ παρούσης οὐδ’ ὁ τῆς Ἀθηνᾶς χρυσοῦς λύχνος ἐκεῖνος εὔχαριν ἂν πότον καὶ κόσμιον παράσχοι. Coloro che vorrebbero bandire la filosofia dai simposi (…) non si comportano come quelli che spengono la luce ma anche peggio: perché se viene tolta la lampada, i temperanti ed i saggi non saranno peggiori, perché ritengono che l’aver rispetto sia più importante che vedersi reciprocamente; quando, invece, nel banchetto sia presente l’ignoranza e l’inciviltà, neppure la famosa lucerna dorata di Atena potrebbe fornire un simposio gradevole e composto. Dopo alcuni interventi che vedono da parte di taluni la volontà di allontanare dal simposio ogni discorso filosofico, è ancora Plutarco a prendere la parola (ἔφην ἐγώ “io dicevo”) cercando in qualche modo un ‘compromesso’ tra le

2 Cf. CPG 533.761 Leutsch, che, in realtà, potrebbe considerarsi un frammento lirico anonimo, ossia fr. 1002 Page. 3 A.M. Scarcella, Plutarco. Conversazioni a tavola. Libro I (Napoli: D’Auria, 1998) 260: “Le conversazioni sono indagini (προβλήματα o ζητήσεις) non narrazioni e la loro riproduzione grafica risulterà un dialogo o un dibattito, non un trattato”. 4 Per il termine οἰκοδέσποινα cf. Con. praec. 140C e 141D–F.

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diverse opinioni: è necessario individuare il carattere dei commensali (Quaest. conv. 613D) e la loro cultura ed evitare un commensale molesto e rozzo5 “perché ⟨mentre⟩ un cibo cattivo si può rifiutare, e se il vino è scadente, si può ricorrere all’acqua di fonte (ἐπὶ τὰς Νύμφας)”.6 Il simposio, cioè, non deve in nessun modo “degradare ora ad una assemblea popolare ora alla classe di un maestro di scuola o peggio ad un teatro” (621B). Successivamente, sempre in Quaest. conv. (708D) il convito è definito una comunicazione, che potrà aver luogo solo se gli invitati non sono quelli che si incontrano per strada, ma, piuttosto, quelli che vicendevolmente provano sentimenti di affetto. Bisogna considerare che chi si reca ad una cena non lo fa solo per condividere il cibo, il vino, i dolci, ma per partecipare a discorsi, a giochi, e a quella “allegria” (φιλοφροσύνη) da cui può nascere l’amicizia. Infatti proprio il vino, mescolandosi con il logos, aiuta la nascita dell’amicizia, come ricordato – altro esempio di intertestualità – in Quaest. conv. 660B–C:7 “Il logos assieme al vino, infatti, partendo dal corpo (dalle labbra e dalla bocca) e giungendo fino all’anima, ispira in essa ciò che è cortese ed onesto” (λόγος γὰρ αὐτῷ τὸ φιλάνθρωπον καὶ ἠθοποιὸν ἐπὶ τὴν ψυχὴν ἐκ τοῦ σώματος ἐποχετεύει καὶ συνδίδωσιν). Ed il convivio quale occasione ideale per discutere e bere in compagnia ed instaurare amicizie diviene un tramite intertestuale multiplo in quanto propone un triplo legame architestuale, prima con l’opuscolo che alla gestione dell’amicizia è consacrato, il De amicorum multitudine, successivamente con il Septem Sapientium Convivium, che risulta completamente incentrato sulla situazione simposiale, ed infine con il De garrulitate, opera dedicata ai modi della conversazione. “Il conversare, infatti, dà gioia all’amicizia” (De am. mult. 94F e 97A) e della cena, così come della mensa, il più divino condimento è l’amico (…) “non perché mangi e beva in nostra compagnia ma perché partecipa dei nostri discorsi e comunica se in essi risplendano utilità grazia e giovamenti” (Quaest. conv. 697D: οὐ τῷ συνεσθίειν καὶ συμπίνειν, ἀλλ’ ὅτι λόγου μεταλαμβάνει καὶ μεταδίδωσιν, ἄν γε δὴ χρήσιμον ἐνῇ τι καὶ πιθανὸν καὶ οἰκεῖον τοῖς λεγομένοις).8 Vero è che 5 Il tema è ripreso ed ampliato in Sept. sap. conv. 147F. 6 L’espressione avrebbe il significato letterale di “cercare rifugio presso le ninfe”, ma cf. anche Quaest. conv. 613D, ove è detto metaforicamente che “Dioniso (il vino) si può mescolare con le Muse non meno che con le Ninfe mentre un convitato che dà il mal di testa (…) rovina e guasta il piacere di qualsiasi vino e vivanda”. 7 Cf. Quaest. conv. 643A. 8 Φιλοφροσύνη ricorre anche in De tuenda 128D ove si ribadisce quanto una gioia possa essere inopportuna nel caso che ἐπίκωμοι μεθύοντες “buontemponi ubriachi irrompono in una casa colpita dal lutto”.

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in un simposio è difficile trattenere la lingua perché Dioniso “scioglie l’animo da ogni cruccio (…) allentando il morso della libertà e concedendo alla parola la più ampia libertà” (Quaest. conv. 613D) e, “ammorbidendo con il vino i caratteri come metallo alla fiamma e inumidendoli, dà l’avvio al reciproco contatto e all’amicizia” (Sept. sap. conv. 156D). Ma Dioniso è anche Λύσιος (“liberatore”) e concede libertà e coraggio (Sept. sap. conv. 150B–C), anche se – aggiunge Plutarco in De gar. 503E – spesso il vino lascia sfuggire parole che sarebbe meglio non dire. Così le raccomandazioni plutarchee circa il simposio disseminate nei Moralia vanno a creare un testo-base ibrido che parte dalle Quaestiones convivales per poi svilupparsi in maniera intertestuale in altre opere di contenuti ed occasione affine, rinsaldando il collegamento della sequenza composta da convito, vino, conversazioni ed amicizia con la relativa successione di grazia, libertà, utilità e giovamento che fonde la costruzione estetica con il suo intrinseco fine pedagogico-morale. Ma allora qual è il genere di discorsi particolarmente adatto ad un simposio? È Plutarco stesso a rispondere (Quaest. conv. 614A–B): οἶμαι δὲ ⟨καὶ⟩ διηγήσεων εἶναί τι συμποτικὸν γένος, ὧν τὰς μὲν ἱστορία δίδωσι, τὰς δ’ ἐκ τῶν ἀνὰ χεῖρα πραγμάτων λαβεῖν ἔστι, πολλὰ μὲν εἰς φιλοσοφίαν παραδείγματα πολλὰ δ’ εἰς εὐσέβειαν ἐχούσας, ἀνδρικῶν τε πράξεων καὶ μεγαλοθύμων ἐνίας δὲ χρηστῶν καὶ φιλανθρώπων ζῆλον ἐπαγούσας. Credo che esista un genere di discorsi particolarmente adeguato ai simposi: alcuni sono forniti dalla storia, altri si possono ricavare dall’esperienza quotidiana. Vi sono poi racconti che possono considerarsi insegnamenti filosofici, che attestano sentimenti di pietà religiosa, che riguardano azioni che splendono per dignità e che spingono a comportamenti dettati dall’altruismo. Lo “stare insieme” (τὸ συμφοιτᾶν), allora, può preservare da comportamenti sbagliati e può spingere a quel sentimento del pudore che nasce anche dalla conoscenza di sé stessi,9 sicché, al pari degli amici, gli invitati ad un simposio dovranno ricercare costumi, affetti, studi, disposizioni d’animo che li accomunino. E allora, quali possono essere gli argomenti di discussione oltre la filosofia? Dopo aver discusso nel libro I delle Quaestiones convivales di δείγματα μεμιγμένα, ossia di συμποτικά (“argomenti simposiali”) e di συμποσιακά (“argomenti

9 Cf. Stob. 2.31.82 (p. 215 Wachsmuth = fr. 159 Sandbach).

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conviviali”), nel II libro ci si chiede quali possano essere le domande e i motteggi da fare e non fare durante un simposio. Anche qui è Plutarco a dare l’avvio all’argomento, facendo riferimento a coloro che rispondono con piacere a quelle domande che pongono argomenti noti, mostrando un certo disagio se, invece, non ne sono a conoscenza. Poi, a proposito dei temi e dei modi della conversazione simposiale, focalizzandosi sulle questioni inerenti all’ascolto, si può individuare una relazione intertestuale di matrice architestuale nella corrispondenza di natura antitetica con l’opuscolo plutarcheo che all’ascolto è dedicato, il De audiendo. Infatti, proprio in De aud. 43B si raccomanda di interloquire tenendo conto dell’esperienza e delle conoscenze dell’interpellato, poiché diversamente sarebbe soltanto un volersi mettere in evidenza.10 In De aud. 40B l’autore aveva anche raccomandato all’oratore di suscitare il desiderio di compiere “azioni lodevoli” (φιλοδοξία) nell’ascoltatore, il quale comunque deve essere animato da spirito “benevolo e affabile”.11 Soffermandosi poi soprattutto sugli argomenti trattati nella fase della conversazione, a proposito del frequente vezzo egocentrico degli interlocutori, lampante risulta il rimando intertestuale di tipologia architestuale al complesso ideologico alla base del De laude ipsius plutarcheo, che alla pratica dell’autoelogio è completamente dedicato. Infatti le domande, così come le risposte,12 spesso sono dettate dalla mania di raccontare le proprie gesta e i propri successi per lodare sé stessi, e tale περιαυτολογία (“vanto”) – cui Plutarco dedica un opuscolo – spinge ad usare espedienti inutili al discorso filosofico, che, invece, deve mirare al contenuto evitando “il molto e il vacuo” di uno stile che può indurre ad interpretazioni errate e a fraintendimenti. Ancora in riferimento all’atteggiamento da tenere ed i temi da toccare durante la narrazione e l’ascolto si possono identificare delle connessioni intertestuali multiple concretizzate tramite lo strumento della citazione eraclitea nel De audiendis poetis e della citazione socratica contenente una metafora narrativa all’interno del De garrulitate. Accanto a questa forma di βασκανία, di “fascinazione” rappresentata dall’ autoelogio, vi è anche il comportamento di coloro che applaudono facilmente, ma anche questo è da evitare ed ha ragione Eraclito secondo il quale è stupido

10 11 12

Cf. Quaest. conv. 621E–F. Cf. Reg. et imp. apophth. (= Epist. ad Tr. 172D–E). In De gar. 513A Plutarco individua tre generi di risposte alle domande, una prima strettamente necessaria, una seconda cortese, la terza superflua.

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chi si stupisce ad ogni parola:13 “Il racconto delle imprese riuscite felicemente e realizzate secondo i propri piani, spinge molti, sia pure inconsapevolmente, per il compiacimento che provano alla superbia e alla vanteria” (De se ipsum laud. 546D: δεύτερον αἱ τῶν εὐτυχῶς καὶ κατὰ νοῦν πεπραγμένων διηγήσεις λανθάνουσι πολλοὺς εἰς μεγαλαυχίαν ὑπὸ χαρᾶς ἐκφέρουσαι καὶ κόμπον). Questo atteggiamento crea irritazione in coloro che ascoltano ed anche invidia, tanto che si cerca di interrompere le narrazioni su sé stessi (Quaest. conv. 639D). Forse, sarebbe preferibile seguire l’insegnamento di Socrate esplicitato in De gar. 513D: ἐκέλευε φυλάττεσθαι τῶν σιτίων ὅσα μὴ πεινῶντας ἐσθίειν ἀναπείθει καὶ τῶν πομάτων ὅσα πίνειν μὴ διψῶντας, οὕτω χρὴ καὶ τῶν λόγων τὸν ἀδολέσχην, οἷς ἥδεται μάλιστα καὶ κέχρηται κατακόρως, τούτους φοβεῖσθαι καὶ πρὸς τούτους ἐπιρρέοντας ἀντιβαίνειν. Quando non si ha fame ⟨egli⟩ consigliava di astenersi da quei cibi che stuzzicano l’appetito e di evitare, quando si ha sete, quelle bevande che invogliano a bere e così ogni persona loquace deve cercare di evitare quei discorsi dei quali particolarmente si compiace o che suole usare in modo eccessivo. Appunto, lo strumento intertestuale della metafora invita chi discorre ad evitare discorsi ed argomenti fin troppo percorsi e prediletti proprio come chi non desidera mangiare o bere deve astenersi da cibi o bevande che stuzzicano il palato e la sete per evitare la tentazione sottesa alla ripetitività e alla discussione di questioni semplici da discettare nuovamente per svariate motivazioni. Insomma, come si evince da Quaest. conv. 631B–C, “chi vuole dilettare gli altri piuttosto che affliggerli propone domande tali che le risposte non suscitano biasimo, ma lode, non odio o rivalsa, ma benevolenza e riconoscenza in chi ascolta” (ὅλως δ’ οἱ θέλοντες εὐφραίνειν μᾶλλον ἢ λυπεῖν τοιαύτας ἐρωτήσεις προφέρονται, ὧν ταῖς ἀποκρίσεσιν οὐ ψόγος ἀλλ’ ἔπαινος, οὐδὲ μῖσος ἢ νέμεσις ἀλλ’ εὔνοια καὶ χάρις ἕπεται παρὰ τῶν ἀκουσάντων). Anche discorrendo sul contesto di utilizzo dei motteggi ricorre un interessante rimando intertestuale che connette le Quaest. conv. con i Praec. ger. reip. in quanto, oltre alla conversazione fatta di domande e risposte, durante il simposio è necessario usare misura e cautela quando si fa uso di σκώμματα, di “motteggi”.

13

Il concetto è pure in De aud. poet. 28D.

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Difatti risulta veramente facile scivolare su un terreno sdrucciolevole, perché gli σκώμματα spesso colpiscono più delle λοιδορίαι (“ingiurie”). I primi, infatti, nascono da un animo “tracotante e maligno”, le seconde da un momento di ira, passato il quale, tutto ritorna a posto. Certo, il motteggio può assumere anche carattere politico, come si dice in Praec. ger. reip. 803B, citando tra gli altri Cicerone e Catone il Vecchio, ma, anche in questo caso, è necessaria la misura, in modo che non sorga il sospetto di malignità.14 In un simposio, durante il quale si beve e si crea un clima di euforia, è bene che “alle parole, ai gesti agli scherzi sia dato spazio solo alla fine della riunione” (Quaest. conv. 621C); pur tuttavia, può succedere che si arrivi ad eccessi, come quando si ordina di pettinarsi ai φαλακροί (“i calvi”), o di ballare ai χωλοί (“zoppi”). Pertanto, chi vuole scherzare deve tener conto del carattere delle persone e della loro natura in modo da non apparire fastidioso anche quando si parla di amore, sentimento per sua natura ποικιλώτατος (“dalle molteplici sfaccettature”), dal momento che “il migliore tesoro tra gli uomini è la discrezione della lingua cui il giudizio sia in grado di assegnare il tempo giusto di movimento”, come recita per l’appunto il fr. 89 Sandbach. Dunque è possibile, partendo dalle enunciazioni plutarchee delle Quaestiones convivales e passando per altri opuscoli dei Moralia,15 rintracciare e ricostruire una sorta di ‘galateo intertestuale’ del simposio che Plutarco ha avuto cura di esplicitare a proposito di temi, etica e linguaggio ritenuti appropriati al convivio ed agli interlocutori, avvalendosi anche di citazioni e metafore. Inoltre, le relazioni architestuali e metatestuali compongono il quadro di un autore sempre intento a dispensare utili suggerimenti di natura pedagogico-morale da fruire durante la vita quotidiana, offrendo, intrecciati e miscelati nelle varie fasi ed occasioni descritte dai rapporti intertestuali, delle raccomandazioni preziose per il modello filosofico-simposiale che intende elaborare. 14 15

Cf. anche De ad. et am. 67F, ove si parla di franchezza che viene sciupata dalla insolenza, dalla sguaiataggine, dall’arroganza. I già citati De aud. poet.; De am. mult.; Sept. sap. conv.; De gar.; Praec. ger. reip.; De se ipsum laud.

part 4 Through the Lens of Interdiscursivity

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chapter 20

Sympotic Intertextuality in Plutarch’s Maxime cum principibus philosopho esse disserendum Craig Cooper

Abstract Plutarch begins his little essay Maxime cum principibus philosopho esse disserendum by comparing the philosopher, who converses with a man in a position of power, to an erastes courting an eromenos: “To embrace Sorcanus to your bosom, and to prize, purse, welcome and cultivate his philia” … is characteristic of those who love beauty, are politically-minded and generous. This opening statement (776B), which sets the tone for the whole essay, is tinged with homoerotic language. The context, where the encounter between the philosopher and the man of power takes place and their philia is given expression, is the symposium. In the essay there are varying degrees of intertextuality at play. In some cases we are looking at quotations or allusions from other genres, like epic, philosophy, tragedy and comedy, that are interwoven into the text, the kind quotations or allusions which one would expect to find in a rhetorical display piece. But the intertextuality goes deeper almost to the point of intergenericity. To demonstrate this, I will trace the sympotic imagery that is woven through the essay to see whether there is any generic influence from Plato’s or Xenophon’s Symposium, and, second, to examine some of language and metaphors that we find repeated elsewhere in the Moralia and the Lives in order to understand more fully what Plutarch means when he calls his philosopher politikos.

Plutarch’s Maxime cum principibus philosopho esse disserendum begins by comparing the philosopher who converses with a man in a position of power to an erastes courting an eromenos (776B): To embrace (ἐγκολπίσασθαι) Sorcanus to your bosom, and to prize, purse, welcome and cultivate his philia (φιλίαν τιμᾶν καὶ μετιέναι καὶ προσδέχεσθαι καὶ γεωργεῖν), which will prove useful and fruitful to many in private and to many in public, is characteristic of those who love beauty (φιλοκάλων), are politically-minded (πολιτικῶν) and generous (φιλανθρώπων), and not, as some believe, characteristic of those who love a reputation (οὐχ ὡς ἔνιοι

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νομίζουσι φιλοδόξων). But it is just the opposite, the one who loves reputation and is afraid of whispers (φιλόδοξός ἐστι καὶ ψοφοδεής) is the one who shuns and fears being called a persistent and servile attendant (θεραπευτικός) of those in power. Since what does a man who is a servile attendant and in need of philosophy (θεραπευτικὸς καὶ φιλοσοφίας δεόμενος) say? “Let me change from Pericles or Cato into Simon the cobbler or Dionysius the schoolteacher, so that Socrates can converse with me and sit beside me, as he did with them”. The opening statement, which sets the tone for the whole piece, is tinged with homoerotic language. The context, where the encounter between the philosopher and the man of power takes place and their philia is given expression, is the symposium. What we learn is that the encounter involves like-minded men. Both the philosopher, who pursues the man of power, and the powerful man, who welcomes the advances of the philosopher, must be politikoi for the relationship to be most fruitful. It has been noted that this work is less polished than some of Plutarch’s others, and scholars tend to think that the work was not published by Plutarch in its present form: there are undue repetitions, no formal conclusion and the logic breaks down from time to time.1 But, as Roskam points out, the repetitions are the rhetorical means by which Plutarch reinforces his argument.2 I may add that the various forms of inter- and intratextuality add another layer in the rhetorical richness of the piece. Roskam has made a convincing case that Maxime cum principibus began its life as a lecture, a philosophical discourse or διάλεξις, with a protreptic character.3 In that case, the work had its start as an oral presentation, which perhaps was never fully revised for publication. In the piece, there are varying degrees of intertextuality at play. In some cases, we are looking at quotations or allusions from other genres—epic, philosophy, tragedy and comedy—that are interwoven into the text, the kind of quotations or allusions which one would expect to find in a rhetorical display

1 See G. Roskam, Plutarch’s Maxime cum principibus philosopho esse disserendum (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2009) 23–24 with earlier bibliography. 2 Roskam, Plutarch’s Maxime cum principibus, 24, 132–133. As L. Van der Stockt, “Aspects of the Ethics and Poetics of the Dialogue in the Corpus Plutarcheum,” in I. Gallo & C. Moreschini (eds.), I generi letterari in Plutarco. Atti del VIII Convegno plutarcheo. Pisa, 2–4 giugno 1999 (Naples: D’Auria, 2000) 100 points out, several of Plutarch’s dialogues end abruptly, inviting the reader to reflect further on the topic; Roskam (24) suggests that this and the other infelicities in the essay may point to the genre of the work. 3 Roskam Plutarch’s Maxime cum principibus, 25–28.

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piece or a lecture. But, the intertextuality goes deeper, almost to the point of intergenericity. To demonstrate this, I will trace the sympotic imagery that is woven through the piece to see whether there is any generic influence from Plato’s or Xenophon’s Symposium (are the two kinds of logoi talked about by Plutarch meant to recall the two kinds of erotes?), and, second, to examine some of the language and metaphors that we find repeated elsewhere in the Moralia and the Lives to understand more fully what Plutarch means here when he calls his philosopher politikos.

1

Intratextuality: Two Kinds of Lovers: politikos and philodoxos

The first sentence of the essay establishes the sympotic context in which a meeting of the minds between the philosopher and the statesman can take place. The homoerotic imagery is clear. The readers are told to embrace (ἐγκολπίσασθαι) Sorcanus;4 not only are they to esteem his philia (φιλίαν τιμᾶν), but also to actively pursue, receive, and cultivate it (μετιέναι καὶ προσδέχεσθαι καὶ γεωργεῖν).5 The language evokes an image of the courtship between an erastes (lover) and his eromenos (beloved). The philosopher is to assume the role of the erastes, who actively and openly pursues the eromenos, who might coyly flee. Such behavior, on the part of the philosopher toward the man of power, is, we are told, the mark of someone who is philokalos, politikos, and philanthropos; it is not the mark of someone who is philodoxos, as some critics might think (ὡς ἔνιοι νομίζουσι).6 Sorcanus is obviously the powerful one to be courted, as his friendship will prove to be useful to many—both in the private and public sphere. There are two types of ‘lovers’ imagined here. On the one hand, there is the philosopher, who demonstrates three characteristic features: not only is he politikos, but he is also philokalos and philanthropos. These two virtues go hand in

4 Bernadakis following Page would prefer Soranus. See H.N. Fowler, Plutarch. Moralia, Volume X (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1936) 28 n. 1. Cf. the apparatus criticus of the Budé for details on the manuscript. See the commentary of Roskam, Plutarch’s Maxime cum principibus, 147–150. 5 Roskam, Plutarch’s Maxime cum principibus, 71–72 argues that this philia should be understood as eunoia, which is fitting in a political context: see Quaest. conv. 660A. In the passage from Praec. ger. reip., which we use as a parallel to the present passage, at 806F eunoia and philia are linked. However true that may be, it does not deny the erotic context in which Plutarch frames this kind of friendship and goodwill. 6 ἔνιοι might be Epicureans or perhaps even Cynics; see Roskam, Plutarch’s Maxime cum principibus, 76–83.

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hand with political activity.7 In Praecepta gerendae reipublicae 806C, Plutarch notes, just as some trees will not support the grape-vine, which attempts to entwine itself around them, but instead will stifle its growth, “so in cities, those who are not philokaloi (“lovers of beauty”), but only philotimoi (“ambitious”) and philarchoi (“lovers of office”) will not afford young men opportunities for political activities, but will, out of envy, repress and cause them to wither away, by depriving them of their doxa or glory (ἑαυτῶν τὴν δόξαν ἀφαιρουμένους) as it were nourishment.” Obviously, those who are philokaloi will share their doxa with the young and actively encourage them to participate in politics; it is not that the philokaloi do not value philotimia, but ambition does not stand on its own: it is accompanied by other virtues, whereas those who are only philotimoi reserve doxa for themselves alone and prevent the young from sharing in their glory. They are, so to speak, the philodoxoi of our piece. In Praec. ger. reip. (806D–E) Plutarch provides the examples of Marius and Sulla to illustrate his point. After the capture of Jugurtha by Sulla, Marius cast aside his younger colleague, as Sulla had a seal-ring made to commemorate the surrender; because “being such an ambitious young man, who has just recently tasted glory, he did not bear his good-fortune moderately.” By contrast, Sulla promoted Pompey from the time of his youth; he showed deference by rising and uncovering his head whenever Pompey approached. By providing other young men opportunities for political leadership, Sulla filled his armies with ambition and zeal. He controlled everyone “by not wanting to be the only great man but by being the first and greatest among many great men.”8 Sulla’s political actions demonstrate his philokalia. The other virtue of the politically-minded philosopher is philanthropia.9 In An seni respublica gerenda sit (791C), Plutarch links it with philokalia. What is interesting here is that Plutarch sees political-mindedness as a way of life, much like any other philosophical orientation. He argues that those who think that engaging in politics is like going to sea or war, which is done for some specific object and then given up once the object is obtained (τὸ πολιτεύσασθαι πρὸς ἄλλο τι πραττόμενον, εἶτα καταλῆγον ἐν τῷ τυχεῖν ἐκείνου), are simply mistaken. Political activity (ἡ πολιτεία) is not some kind of liturgy that ends once the need

7 On this point see Roskam, Plutarch’s Maxime cum principibus, 73. In particular, see An seni 791C. 8 Earlier at 806B, almost as a contrast to Sulla’s lack of moderation in his youth, Plutarch points to Africanus, who, though he had an expectation of being consul, when Pompey was promoting others for the office, relinquished his philotimia. 9 For a full discussion of philanthropia, see Roskam, Plutarch’s Maxime cum principibus, 75–76; again, I have restricted myself to one comparison passage.

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has been met, “but a way of life of civilized, political, social living, naturally disposed for the whole of one’s allotted time to live politically, devoted to honor and to mankind” (ἀλλὰ βίος ἡμέρου καὶ πολιτικοῦ καὶ κοινωνικοῦ ζῴου καὶ πεφυκότος ὅσον χρὴ χρόνον πολιτικῶς καὶ φιλοκάλως καὶ φιλανθρώπως ζῆν). Those who have made political activity a way of life live their whole life in such a way that they are always acting as politikoi, philokaloi and philanthropoi. For this reason, Plutarch goes on to note, “it is fitting to be engaged politically and not to have been engaged, just as it is fitting to be truthful and not to have been truthful, to act justly, not to have acted justly, to love and not to have loved your fatherland and its citizens.” Political-mindedness does not end when political office ends; it is ongoing, and thus an innate habit, like telling the truth, acting justly, and loving your fellow citizens. It is like the politically engaged old men, mentioned shortly before by Plutarch (791B): their political engagement is not only in word but also in actions, free of ostentation and a desire for glory (τῆς δὲ πρεσβυτικῆς πολιτείας οὐ τῷ λόγῳ μόνον ἀλλὰ καὶ ταῖς πράξεσιν ἀπηλλαγμένης πανηγυρισμοῦ καὶ δοξοκοπίας) and done for the sake of the young. Their political engagement extends beyond the limit of any office that they might hold. By contrast, for those whom political-mindedness is not a way of life, accompanied by the innate virtues of philokalia and philanthropia, political activity is simply something that is pursued for a time and for a specific purpose; they are like those of the Praec. ger. reip. passage above, who are not philokaloi, but only philotimoi;10 their goal is simply holding office, which they step aside from once they have held it. Thus, they are characterized as philarchoi. It is this kind of political-mindedness, an innate virtue and way of life, which Plutarch has in mind when he describes the philosopher who courts and pursue the powerful, as politikos, philokalos and philanthropos—he obviously also has the good of the young in mind—, whereas those who shun such pursuit of the powerful are simply philodoxoi. As Plutarch notes, “but quite the contrary, the one who avoids, and fears being called a greasy and servile attendant of those in power (λιπαρὴς τῶν ἐν ἐξουσίᾳ καὶ θεραπευτικός) is philodoxos and frightened of any noise” (φιλόδοξός ἐστι καὶ ψοφοδεής).11

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For a general discussion on philotima in Plutarch’s Lives, see T.E. Duff, Plutarch’s Lives: Exploring Virtue and Vice (Oxford-New York: Oxford University Press, 1999) 83–89; A. Wardman, Plutarch’s Lives (London: Elek Books Limited, 1974) 115–124; D.A. Russell, Plutarch (London: Duckworth, 1973) 136–151. Fowler translates λιπαρή as “persistent,” but the basic meaning is oily with extended meanings of “comfortable,” “easy.” See LSJ, s.v. Cf. Comp. Alc. et Cor. 4.5, where λιπαρή is likewise juxtaposed with θεραπευτικόν.

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Further Intratextuality: The Sympotic Context of Philosophical Learning

With this last statement, Plutarch also begins to establish contrasting approaches, which we find more fully articulated later in his discussion of two types of logoi, that are adopted by the two types of erastai: the politikos, on the one hand, and the philodoxos, on the other. Whereas the philodoxos, the ambitious man, who is afraid of any kind of whispering, avoids and fears being called a servile attendant (θεραπευτικός) of the powerful, the politikos, by contrast, actively and openly pursues and cultivates the philia of a powerful man, not fearful of being characterized as a persistent, servile attendant, because he recognizes the very need for philosophy. As Plutarch asks rhetorically at the end of 776B: “what does the man who is θεραπευτικός and in need of philosophy say?” (ἐπεὶ τί φησιν †ἀνὴρ θεραπευτικὸς καὶ φιλοσοφίας δεόμενος;) in response, we assume, to accusations that he is an abject panderer. “Let me change from Pericles or Cato into Simon the cobbler or Dionysius the schoolteacher, so that Socrates can converse with me and sit beside me, as he did with them.”12 With this response, Plutarch returns to the imagery of the symposium, which for him becomes an important metaphor for philosophical learning, both within this piece and elsewhere in the Lives and the Moralia. So, for instance, at the beginning of the prologue to Timoleon-Aemilius Paulus (1–2), Plutarch remarks that he began to work on the Lives for others but has continued for his own sake, using historia (historical research) as a mirror to adorn and conform his life to the virtues of those men (found in history).13 The result is, as Plutarch states, like spending time together and living with each man; as his “guest” (ἐπιξενούμενον), he “invites” (ὑποδεχόμενοι) and welcomes each one in turn through his historia and thereby observes carefully how great and what sort of man each one was, taking from their deeds the most important and finest things to know.14 In De profectibus in virtute (85D) Plutarch advises

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Scholars have recognized that the passage is corrupt, and the second θεραπευτικός, which is found in the manuscripts, is a dittography for which several possible corrections have been suggested, some close to the text and others further afield. See the discussion of Roskam, Plutarch’s Maxime cum principibus, 152 with past scholarship. As Duff, Plutarch’s Lives, 32 notes, the mirror image sets Plutarch’s work in the tradition of moralizing literature. Likewise, in De prof. in virt. (85A–B), Plutarch notes that those who can find something noble to admire and emulate even in bad circumstances make it their habit, when embarking on any enterprise to ask what great men of the past would have done, “adorning themselves as it were before a mirror.” By historia, Plutarch may mean research: Duff, Plutarch’s Lives, 33. Elsewhere, Plutarch uses the word in that sense; see Thes. 1.2; Per. 2.5, 13.16. See also, Duff, Plutarch’s Lives,

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the young man, who is seeking to improve his character, to take pleasure in the presence of good and honorable men (καλοῖς κἀγαθοῖς ἀνδράσιν ἐγκαλλωπίσασθαι) and offer his home and table to them (παρασχεῖν οἰκίαν αὑτοῦ καταφανῆ, τράπεζαν), among other things. Earlier in the same essay (84E–F), Plutarch remarks that a young man knows that he is progressing when he begins to love good men in a way that “arouses a passion to love and caress the disposition of those whose deeds he seeks to emulate” (καὶ γὰρ τοῦτο προκοπῆς ἀληθοῦς ἴδιόν ἐστι πάθος, ὧν ζηλοῦμεν τὰ ἔργα τὴν διάθεσιν φιλεῖν καὶ ἀγαπᾶν). Not only that, he does not limit his admiration of the good to when they are prospering, “but just as lovers fondly adore the lisping and pale complexion of those in their youth” (ἀλλ’ ὥσπερ οἱ ἐρῶντες καὶ τραυλότητας ἀσπάζονται τῶν ἐν ὥρᾳ καὶ ὠχρότητας), “believing that virtue, even when accompanied by such afflictions, is worthy of love, he gets close to it” (ἀλλὰ καὶ μετὰ τούτων ἀξιέραστον ἡγούμενοι τὴν ἀρετὴν ὁμόσε χωρῶμεν αὐτῇ). Throughout this passage, the homoerotic images are clear: the one pursuing virtue hangs on the words of a good man; he admires and caresses his habit, gait, look and smile, as it were, eager to be joined and glued together. All this is to say, philosophical learning takes place both figuratively and literally within the context of the symposium, where the lover and the beloved come together.

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More Intratextuality: Sympotic Discourse between Lovers

To return to Maxime cum principibus, while it is within the symposium that the philosopher and powerful meet, for that meeting to be truly productive, the discourse between them must be of a certain kind. According to Plutarch, the words that are spoken must be of a kinetic nature; they must be “words that stir to virtue” (λόγων κινητικῶν πρὸς ἀρετήν: 776C). And Plutarch concludes this part of his discussion by quoting the philosopher Ariston of Chios, who when accused of conversing with everyone and anyone who wished to, replied, “Would that even the wild beasts would understand words that incite to virtue.” “Shall we,” Plutarch asks rhetorically, “avoid becoming intimate with the powerful and rulers as if they were wild and savage.”15

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18; Wardman, Plutarch’s Lives, 5 and C.R. Cooper, “Appearance of History: Making Some Sense of Plutarch,” in R.B. Egan & M.A. Joyal (eds.), Daimonopylai (Winnipeg: University of Manitoba Center for Hellenic Civilization, 2004) 46–47. The quotation may go back to Ariston’s Protrepticus (D.L. 7.163). See Roskam, Plutarch’s Maxime cum principibus, 154.

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In the next section of essay (776C–777B), Plutarch goes on to describe the nature of the kinetic discourse that should take place in the context of the symposium. According to Plutarch (776C), philosophical discourse (ὁ τῆς φιλοσοφίας λόγος) is not like a sculptor who makes lifeless statues that stand idle on their pedestals,16 but rather it strives to make whatever it touches, active (ἐνεργά), effective (πρακτικά), and alive (ἔμψυχα); it instills “kinetic impulses” (κινητικὰς ὁρμάς), “judgments that lead to what is useful” (κρίσεις ἀγωγοὺς ἐπὶ τὰ ὠφέλιμα), and “choices that love virtue” (προαιρέσεις φιλοκάλους), and a greatness of mind mixed with gentleness and steadfastness. The image of the sculptor is echoed in the prologue (1–2) to Pericles, where Plutarch uses similar kinetic language to compare the affects that great works of art and historical research have on their respective viewers.17 There, we are told that deeds of virtue implant in those who “have done historical research” (ἱστορήσασιν) “a zeal and desire that leads to imitation” (ζῆλόν τινα καὶ ποθυμίαν ἀγωγὸν εἰς μίμησιν); (that is to say they make active and alive what they touch), but, in the case of other works of art, “an impulse” (ὀρμή) to action does not immediately follow the admiration of what has been created (1.4). Though a work of art may bring delight, it does not necessarily follow that the one who has crafted it is worth emulating. Such things do not benefit the viewers, because, as Plutarch states, they “create no zeal to imitate, or stir up a desire and impulse to equal them” (πρὸς ἃ μιμητικὸς οὐ γίνεται ζῆλος οὐδὲ ἀνάδοσις κινοῦσα προθυμίαν καὶ ὀρμὴν ἐπὶ τὴν ἐξομοίωσιν). By contrast, virtue immediately disposes one both to admire the deeds and emulate the doers (2.2).18 According to him, the good that one sees “actively stirs” (πρακτικῶς κινεῖ) and immediately implants “an active impulse” (πρακτικὴν ὀρμήν), “fashioning the spectator’s character” (ἠθοποιοῦν τὸν θεατήν), not so much by imitation as “by historical investigation of the deed, providing him with a choice” (τῇ ἱστορίᾳ τοῦ ἔργου τὴν προαίρεσιν παρεχόμενον) (2.4).19 Examples of virtuous actions from the past, thus, have a “character-changing effect,” producing in its listeners a moral choice.20 Lifeless works of art, however, do not have that kind of kinetic effect. And so it is here in our short piece. The kind of discourse that Plutarch envisions taking

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Here Plutarch cites Pindar (N. 5.1–2), who claims he is no sculptor, who carves idle statues, but a poet, whose song speeds from Aegina. Here, Plutarch is thinking of statues as later (2.1) he refers to Zeus at Olympia created by Pheidias and Hera at Argos by Polycleitus. Cf. Duff, Plutarch’s Lives, 34–45. On the notion of προαίρεσις in Plutarch, see Wardman, Plutarch’s Lives, 107–115; Duff, Plutarch’s Lives, 37–40. Duff, Plutarch’s Lives, 39.

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place between the politically-minded philosophers and the powerful, within the context of the symposium, has the same kind of an animating and kinetic effect. This much is also suggested by Plutarch in De prof. in virt. (84D). According to Plutarch, we know we are making little progress, “so long as we possess admiration for the successful that is idle and does not from within itself stir us towards imitation” (ἄχρι οὗ τὸ θαυμάζειν τοὺς κατορθοῦντας ἀργὸν ἔχομεν καὶ ἀκίνητον ἐξ ἑαυτοῦ πρὸς μίμησιν). He goes on to note, “love of a person is not active unless it exists with emulation” (οὔτε γὰρ ἔρως σώματος ἐνεργός, εἰ μὴ μετὰ ζηλοτυπίας ἔνεστιν), “nor is praise of virtue fiery or active” (διάπυρος καὶ δραστήριος) unless it pricks and goads and creates “emulation for the noble that strives to be filled” (ζῆλον ἐπὶ τοῖς καλοῖς ἀναπληρώσεως ὀρεγόμενον). The context that Plutarch envisions, where this love will become enlivened and goad the beloved to emulate the good, is the symposium. For he immediately continues, by alluding to Alcibiades’ remark in Plato’s Symposium (215e): “for not only, as Alcibiades used to say, must the heart be tortured by the words of the philosopher and shed tears, but the one truly progressing in virtue must also […].” In Plutarch’s mind, however, the kind of emotional reaction that Alcibiades describes is not enough if one is truly making progress; not only should the heart stir at the philosopher’s words, it should also lead one to actively emulate the good that he sees. As Plutarch goes on to point out, one truly knows he is making progress when, comparing himself to the deeds and actions of a good and perfect man, he finds himself “simultaneously pricked by an awareness of his shortcomings, rejoicing through hope and yearning, and being filled with an impulse that does not keep still” (ἅμα τῷ συνειδότι τοῦ ἐνδεοῦς δακνόμενος καὶ δι’ ἐλπίδα καὶ πόθον χαίρων καὶ μεστὸς ὢν ὁρμῆς οὐκ ἠρεμούσης). There is a kinetic effect on the one making progress. Not only is his heart stirred from within, it is also filled with an active impulse to emulate the good it sees. The words of the philosopher have, thus, had a “character-changing effect” on him. Now, to circle back to Maxime cum principibus, what we learn here is that philosophical discourse, which is of a kinetic nature in that it activates in the listener a desire for virtue, to embrace judgments that will prove beneficial and to make choices that show a love of virtue, comes only from the politicallyminded philosopher, who in possessing these qualities himself actively seeks out and pursues the powerful: as Plutarch goes on to say (776D), “because of these things (those qualities just enumerated) politikoi are more eager to converse with the prominent and the powerful.” In Plutarch’s thinking, the politikos is the philosopher best able and most willing to approach and seduce the powerful. He says that much in the next sentence: as a high-minded physician (ἰατρὸς φιλόκαλος) will be better pleased to heal the eye which sees for

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many and watches over many, so “the philosopher will be more eager to attend up the soul which he sees is looking out for many and is obliged to be wise, temperate and just on behalf of many.” Moreover, the philosopher who is a politikos will seek out those who are like-minded to himself, since the discourse between them will be productive. As Plutarch goes on to note (776F–777A), if the discourse of the philosopher takes hold only of a single, private man, who enjoys abstaining from political activity (χαίροντα ἀπραγμοσύνῃ) and circumscribes himself according to his bodily needs and is not distributed to others but creates calm and quiet in that one man, it will dry up and disappear. But if it touches a man who is a ruler, a politikos, praktikos, and fills him with goodness (ἂν δ’ ἄρχοντος ἀνδρὸς καὶ πολιτικοῦ καὶ πρακτικοῦ καθάψηται καὶ τοῦτον ἀναπλήσῃ καλοκαγαθίας), it will benefit many through the one, as Anaxagoras did by associating with Pericles, Plato with Dion, and Pythagoras with the leading men of Italy. With the verb καθάψηται, Plutarch alludes back to the analogy of the sculptor with which he began this section of the essay; the implication to be drawn from this verbal cross-reference is that philosophical discourse of a politikos-philosopher can only enliven and make active what it touches, when it specifically touches the man who is himself politikos and active. When discourse touches a man who is not active, it simply dries up and withers away. The inactive man remains, as it were, a lifeless statue.

4

Intertextuality: Xenophon’s Symposium and Plutarch’s Two logoi

In the next section of the essay (777B–778B), Plutarch turns to a discussion of the two kinds of logoi—one that characterizes the discourse of the politikos, and the other, the discourse of the philodoxos, both of whom pursue the attention and affection of the powerful: But the statement that there are two logoi, one residing in the mind (ἐνδιάθετος), the gift of Hermes, the Leader (ἡγεμόνος), and the other residing in utterance, a messenger and instrument (ὁ δ’ ἐν προφορᾷ διάκτορος καὶ ὀργανικός), is stale and should fall under the heading: “I knew this before Theognis was born”. But that would not trouble us because philia is the end of logos in the mind and logos in utterance (τοῦ ἐνδιαθέτου λόγου καὶ τοῦ προφορικοῦ φιλία τέλος ἐστί), the former toward oneself and the latter toward another. For the former ending through philosophy in virtue makes a man harmonious with himself, free of reproach from himself, full of peace and cheerfulness (φιλοφροσύνης) toward himself. 777B–C

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Here, Plutarch was undoubtedly influenced by the two kinds of erotes discussed in the Symposia of Plato and Xenophon. Plutarch was certainly acquainted with both works, since he cited them frequently21 and in this essay (778C) makes specific reference to Xenophon’s Symposium (3.8), when he alludes to Antisthenes’ small plot of land, which Antisthenes claimed was barely adequate for Autolycus to dust himself in. In Plato’s Symposium, Pausanias distinguishes a Heavenly (Ourania) Aphrodite, who is older, motherless, and born of Uranus, from a Common (Pandemos) Aphrodite, who is younger and born of Zeus and Dione (180d). The eros who is the accomplice of the Common Aphrodite is also common in nature, directing men to love women no less than boys, the body more than soul, and, wherever possible, the senseless. Those who are inspired by the Eros (Ouranios) associated with the Heavenly Aphrodite, who only has a share of the male and is older, are attracted to the male and love what naturally has intellect (181d). In Xenophon’s Symposium, Socrates, though less categorical than Pausanias, suggests the possibility of two Aphrodites, a Common and Heavenly. The former inspires physical love; the latter love of the soul, (and significantly for our discussion) friendship, and noble deeds (8.9–10). Like the two erotes of the Symposia, Plutarch’s two logoi also have a divine ancestry that determines their nature. The one resides in the mind (ἐνδιάθετος) and is the gift of Hermes Hegemonos; the other logos, residing in utterance, is a messenger and instrument (ὁ δ’ ἐν προφορᾷ διάκτορος καὶ ὀργανικός). Diaktoros is an epithet of Hermes suggesting, as in the case of the two Aphrodites, that there are two distinct Hermes, to each of whom a different sort of logos is associated.22 And, indeed, later in this section we hear of the Common Hermes, who is venal and open for hire (777D). But this statement that there are two logoi, is, however, stale and old, Plutarch tells us, as it was known before Theognis’ birth, and by implication it requires some serious updating. The comic reference to Theognis here is intended to allude to the trite aphorism of that poet, quoted by Socrates in Xenophon’s Symposium, in response to Lycon’s query what should those who are too old for gymnasia smell of. Socrates responds kalokagathia, an unguent

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For references to Plato’s Smp. and Xenophon’s Smp., see W.C. Helmbold & E.N. O’Neil, Plutarch’s Quotations (Baltimore: American Philological Association, 1959) 61 and 76 respectively. On the epithet Diaktoros see Roskam, Plutarch’s Maxime cum principibus, 169. L. Van der Stockt, “Plutarch on Language,” in P. Swiggers & A. Wouters (eds.) Le langage dans l’Antiquité (Leuven: Peeters, 1990) 189 suggests the terms διάκτορος καὶ ὀργανικός go back to Plato, Cra. 388b–c.

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that comes not from a perfume stall but from associating with good men, as Theognis states (2.4): “You will learn good from the good and if you associate with the bad, you will lose even your good sense.” The dichotomy envisioned in Xenophon’s Symposium between a Common and Heavenly Aphrodite, each of whom inspire a different sort of love, one toward the physical and the other toward the soul and philia, is not maintained here in our essay. The object and the end of both logos in the mind and logos in speech is philia, the one toward oneself and the one toward another. Logos of the mind, which ends in virtue through philosophy, makes a man harmonious with himself, free of reproach from himself, and full of peace and cheerfulness (φιλοφροσύνης) toward himself. This image of the calm philosopher, who is cheerful and at peace with himself, may be meant to compare with the picture of Callias that greets us at the beginning of Xenophon’s Symposium (1.10); there we are told that Callias is not like those, who under the influence of other gods, become fearsome in their appearance, fearful in their speech, and generally more violent, but he is like those, who inspired by discreet love, carry a more cheerful expression (τά τε ὄμματα φιλοφρονεστέρως ἔχουσι), speak with a gentler voice, and carry themselves in a manner more befitting a free man. Here in our piece, the man under the influence of logos of the mind, which through philosophy ends in virtue, has an internal calm; there is no conflict within; everything is gracious and friendly. As Plutarch remarks (777D), “there is no passion disobedient to reason, no war of impulse with impulse, no opposition of argument to argument, no rough confusion and pleasure, as it were on the border between desire and repentance, but everything is gracious, friendly, making each man obtain the most good and be pleased with himself.” If this kind of logos, that is the philosophical kind of the mind, controls a man, it will influence the other kind of logos that resides in speech. And the philosopher, who is politikos, will see the value of both. This seems to be the implication of what Plutarch says next (777D–E), when he begins his examination of the other kind of logos by quoting Pindar (Isthm. 2.6).23 According to 23

777D–E: “But Pindar says that ‘the Muse of utterance was not greedy nor laborious’ formerly, but through lack of education and good taste the Common Hermes has become venal and open for hire … But it seems to me that the works and gifts of the Muses are more conducive to philia (φιλοτήσια) than those of Aphrodite. For esteem (τὸ ἔνδοξον) which some consider the end of speech (τοῦ λόγου τέλος), is admired as the beginning and seed of philia; the majority rather bestow reputation (τὴν δόξαν) completely by goodwill, believing that we only praise those we love. But these people, like Ixion slipping into a cloud in pursuit of Hera, are seizing upon what is an illusory, ostentatious, shifting phantom instead of philia. But the man of sense, if he is engaged in political matters (ὁ δὲ νοῦν ἔχων, ἂν ἐν πολιτείαις καὶ πράξεσιν ἀναστρέφηται), will realize the importance of reputation

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Pindar, the Muse of logos of speech was formerly not greedy or laborious, nor does he believe she is now, but “through lack of education and good taste the Common Hermes has become venal and open for hire.” But that need not be the case and may explain why Plutarch believes that “the works and gifts of the muses are more conducive to philia (φιλοτήσια) than the gifts of Aphrodite.”24 Whereas only the Heavenly Aphrodite of Xenophon’s Symposium inspires men to love philia, the object of both kinds of logoi, the one that emanates from Hermes the Leader and the other from Hermes the Messenger, the Common Hermes, is philia. And should a man be possessed of the former (logos of the mind) and have obtained philia with himself, he will better perceive the right use of the latter, whose object is friendship with another. However, those not touched by logos of the mind will simply see flattery and praise as the object of speech and the means to obtain the external kind of friendship. As Plutarch goes on to say, “esteem (ἔνδοξον) which some consider the end of speech (τοῦ λόγου ποιοῦνται τέλος), is admired as the beginning and seed of friendship (ὡς ἀρχὴ καὶ σπέρμα φιλίας ἠγαπήθη); the majority rather bestow reputation completely by goodwill, believing that we only praise those we love.” The politikosphilosopher, however, does not see it that way. He will realize that these people who confuse philia and doxa and use speech as simply a means to flatter their way into friendship are just like Ixion slipping into a cloud in pursuit of Hera; what they are seizing upon is “an illusory, ostentatious, shifting phantom instead of philia.”

5

Ixion Myth: philia and doxa

The reference to the Ixion myth adds an interesting intra-intertextual layer. Given that Plutarch has already twice cited Pindar, he may have Pindar’s version (Pyth. 2.21–48) of the myth in mind, though that is not obvious. There are two points of intersection that the Ixion myth speaks to here: the relationship between philia and doxa. We get some sense of what Plutarch has in mind here by his use of the myth elsewhere. At Agis 1.1, Plutarch agrees with those “who suppose the myth of Ixion applies to lovers of ambition” (πρὸς τοὺς φιλοδόξους ὑπονοοῦσι τὸν ἐπὶ τῷ Ἰξίονι μῦθον). These men, who consort with reputation as if it were a kind of phantom of virtue, produce nothing genuine (οὗτοι τῆς ἀρετῆς

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for what it is, to help him achieve power. He will ask for as much reputation as will grant him power in public matters from the confidence that it inspires in him”. Roskam, Plutarch’s Maxime cum principibus, 173, in φιλοτήσια, sees a veiled allusion to Odyssey 11.246, which Plutarch quotes more fully at Quaest. conv. 654C.

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ὥσπερ εἰδώλῳ τινὶ τῇ δόξῃ συνόντες, οὐδὲν εἰλικρινὲς οὐδ’ ὡμολογημένον … πράττουσιν). At Amatorius 766A, Ixion represents for Plutarch (both the writer and the interlocutor) those who pursue in boys and women a phantom-image of beauty that appears in mirrors (ἀλλ’ οἱ πολλοὶ μὲν ἐν παισὶ καὶ γυναιξὶν ὥσπερ ἐν κατόπτροις εἴδωλον αὐτοῦ φανταζόμενον διώκοντες). What they see is simply a refraction of true beauty. In the Agis text, fame is simply a phantom-image of true virtue, and consorting with it, as one with a lover, is like Ixion pursuing Nephele, the phantom Hera; in the Amatorius text (766A–B), we learn that the object of love is beauty, but the pursuit of physical beauty, whether in boys or women, is merely a refracted image of true beauty, and men and women, who are only in love with the pleasures of the body, are not true lovers. The true lover, we learn, is noble and sensible, and has a different bent (εὐφυοῦς δ’ ἐραστοῦ καὶ σώφρονος ἄλλος τρόπος); he regards physical beauty as an instrument of memory, and when he encounters it, he is refracted toward divine, intelligible beauty. He welcomes and delights in physical beauty, but the pleasure of its company only inflames his spirt all the more for the divine form. The true lover does not dismiss physical beauty out of hand, but neither does he confine his activities to it alone. So, similarly, here in our piece, as Plutarch notes, the man of sense, if he is engaged in political matters, will realize the importance of reputation for what it is—to help him achieve power. He will not dismiss it out of hand, but will ask for as much reputation as will grant him power in public matters from the confidence that it inspires in him (δεήσεται δόξης τοσαύτης, ὅση δύναμιν περὶ τὰς πράξεις ἐκ τοῦ πιστεύεσθαι). He does not, however, confuse reputation with virtue or with friendship, but simply uses doxa as the means to achieve a greater good: as Plutarch notes, “it is neither pleasant nor easy to benefit the unwilling, but confidence (that is achieved through reputation) makes them willing.” Like the true lover of the Amatorius, who not only delights in physical beauty but also sees it as a means of recalling the divine form, so the man of sense, who is engaged in political affairs, embraces reputation as a means of achieving a good beyond himself. By contrast, Plutarch tells us, “the individual, who has withdrawn from public affairs, converses with himself, and considers the good that which comes in quiet and abstention from public affairs, ‘being chaste, worships’, as Hippolytus did of Aphrodite, ‘from afar’ the reputation that is pandemos and widespread in crowds and theatres.”25 Here, Plutarch is obviously thinking of an Epicurean 25

777F–778A: “But the individual, who has withdrawn from public affairs (ὁ δὲ ἀπηλλαγμένος τοῦ τὰ κοινὰ πράττειν), converses with himself, and considers the good that which comes in quiet and in abstention from public affairs (ἐν ἡσυχίᾳ καὶ ἀπραγμοσύνῃ), ‘being chaste, worships’, as Hippolytus did of Aphrodite, ‘from afar’ (E. Hipp. 102) the reputation that

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philosopher, who distances himself from public life and those engaged in it, in contrast to the politikos-philosopher, who actively seeks out the powerful and pursues them. Although this kind of Epicurean philosopher, we are told, does not despise reputation when it is found in those who are fair and notable, he does not actively pursue wealth—“the reputation suited for leadership and the power in friendships” (δόξαν ἡγεμονικὴν καὶ δύναμιν ἐν φιλίαις); nor, however, does he avoid these qualities when they are present in a temperate character. He does not pursue those who are good looking and in the bloom of youth but those who are teachable, well behaved, and love learning. Nor does the beauty of those endowed with these qualities frighten the philosopher, scare him off, and drive him from those deserving of his attention. Although with these last words Plutarch seems to still be speaking of the Epicurean philosopher, as he has not signaled otherwise, I think by this point, however, his train of thought has imperceptibly shifted to the politikos-philosopher, who, in fact, is the one not put off in his pursuit of those deserving of his attention, namely the powerful, who are themselves politikoi.26 As Plutarch goes on to conclude, “so then, if dignity that befits leadership and power are present in a moderate and cultured man, the philosopher will not hold off from loving and cherishing him nor will he be afraid to be called courtier and servile attendant” (οὐκ ἀφέξεται τοῦ φιλεῖν καὶ ἀγαπᾶν οὐδὲ φοβήσεται τὸ αὐλικὸς ἀκοῦσαι καὶ θεραπευτικός).27 Again, Plutarch has returned to the language of the sympotic courtship and is clearly thinking of the politikos-philosopher, who was characterized earlier in

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is pandemos and widespread in crowds and theatres, and he does not despise reputation when it is found at least in those who are fair and notable; but he does not pursue wealth, the reputation suited for leadership (δόξαν ἡγεμονικήν) and the power in friendships (δύναμιν ἐν φιλίαις), nor does he for that matter avoid these qualities when they are present in a temperate character. And he does not pursue the youths that are good looking and, in their bloom, but those who are teachable, well behaved and love learning. Nor does the beauty of those endowed with youth, charm and the bloom of youth frighten the philosopher, scare him off and drive him from those deserving of his attention. Thus, if dignity suited for leadership and power are present in a moderate and cultured man, the philosopher will not hold off from loving and cherishing him, nor will he be afraid to be called a courtier and servile attendant (θεραπευτικός).” I think this is one of those passages that reflect a lack of revision on Plutarch’s part, as the logic of his argument breaks down, since it clearly seems that he has shifted from talking about the Epicurean to talking about the politikos. Plutarch follows up this statement by quoting at 778B from Euripides Hippolytus Veiled (TrGF V I fr. 426): “For those men who shun (φεύγοντες) Cypris too much they are equally as mad as those who pursue her too much (τοῖς ἄγαν θηρωμένοις).” Cf. Stob. 4.20.3. Roskam, Plutarch’s Maxime cum principibus, 177 notes that the participles φεύγοντες and θηρωμένοις reference Hippolytus’ favorite sport. I would also suggest that the language of the hunt can also allude to the sympotic context of our piece.

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our piece as θεραπευτικός. If we recall, it was the philodoxos, who avoided and feared being called the θεραπευτικός, not the philosopher, who is encouraged to embrace Sorcanus. As Plutarch concludes (778B), “whereas the philosopher who abstains from public affairs (ὁ μὲν ἀπράγμων φιλόσοφος) will not avoid such men, the politikos will enfold his arms around them (ὁ δὲ πολιτικὸς καὶ περιέξεται αὐτῶν), not annoying them against their will nor pitching his tent at the doors of their ears with inopportune and sophistical discourses, but only when they are willing, will he gladly converse, spend his leisure and eagerly associate with them.” Whereas the Epicurean is somewhat indifferent to erotic pursuits, and certainly will not go out of his way to court the affection of the powerful, the politically-minded philosopher will actively pursue the powerful, openly express his affection, but will not become bothersome, like some love-sick erastes, who camps outside his beloved’s door and serenades him with song. The reason the politikos is so active in his pursuit of the powerful is that he realizes the benefit that will come should such a relationship be consummated. The philosopher’s words will have their greatest impact when they are internalized by the powerful, and their value is then transmitted and translated by the powerful to the masses he leads. As Plutarch notes toward the end of the essay (779B), “What do you think the philosopher considers about his teaching when he reflects that the man who is a politikos and leader, who has accepted his teaching, will be a common blessing, dispensing justice, making laws and punishing the wicked … And indeed, the teachings of philosophers, if they are firmly inscribed in the souls of men who are leaders and politikoi and control them, they assume the power of laws.” Through the enactments and actions of leaders, the teachings of the philosopher assume the very power of the law, since they are able to direct, guide, and correct the lives of many men. For Plutarch, then, there is a corporate value in a philosopher pursuing the powerful, as a lover would a beloved. In this short piece, Plutarch uses homoerotic language to describe the relationship that should develop between a man in a position of power and the politically-minded philosopher. The latter is encouraged to pursue and cultivate the friendship of former. Embrace and love him as one would a young eromenos. At the symposium, where their philia is given full expression, the words of the philosopher, who is himself politicallyminded, will have a kinetic effect upon the beloved statesman: they will stir in him a desire to emulate the good that he sees. And that good, once it has taken hold of him, in turn, will become a blessing to the wider citizen body. Because of the ultimate good that comes from associating with the powerful, the politically-minded philosopher does not fear being called a θεραπευτικός, a servile attendant, by those who might suspect his motives. Because he is controlled by logos of the mind, he can rightly use logos of speech, whose aim is

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friendship, not in a venal way to flatter the powerful, but in a way that wins his affection, earns his friendship, and eventually influences his civic actions. Plutarch makes these points with a degree of artistic richness that comes from introducing, throughout the piece, various forms of inter- and intra-textuality. The kind of language that Plutarch uses to describe the politically-minded philosopher and the kinetic discourse that he employs at the symposium is repeated and echoed in a number of passages of the Lives and the Moralia. Interspersed throughout the Maxime cum principibus are intertextual references taken from various genres of literature, but the most sustained intertextual display comes in his discussion of the two logoi. Here, Plutarch plays on the Symposia of Plato and Xenophon, but more particularly Xenophon’s Symposium, whose arguments he seeks to update and improve upon. If we can imagine this segment of essay (777B–778B) as part of a larger display piece set in a sympotic context, then Plutarch has assumed the role of a Pausanias from Plato’s Symposium, or better yet, the Socrates of Xenophon’s Symposium, at which point the intertextuality has reached the level of intergenericity.

chapter 21

Aesopic Wisdom in Plutarch Philip A. Stadter

Abstract This chapter studies Plutarch’s use of the life and fables of Aesop as an intertext in both his Moralia and Lives. The use of fables to make a point was recommended by ancient rhetoricians, and there seems to have been a revival of interest in Plutarch’s time, as witnessed by the fables of Babrius and Phaedrus as well as by the fictional Life of Aesop. In his Banquet of the Seven Sages, Plutarch used the character Aesop to contrast with and debunk the sages. In other passages his intertextual references to Aesopic low discourse in the form of maxims and fables convey vividly simple truths concerning family life, politics, and tyranny. The use of these nuggets of the earthy and plebeian wisdom of Aesop allowed Plutarch to exploit the fruitful tension between high philosophy and popular insight. Moreover, by recalling fables familiar from childhood, Plutarch found an additional means of creating that easy dialogue with his readers which explains so much of his success.

Few ancient figures could be more different than Plutarch and Aesop, so it is of some interest that the former chooses to use the latter’s work as a significant intertext in his own writings. Plutarch, eloquent, sophisticated, a philosopher, friend of the great, and, toward the end of his life, perhaps an honorary consul, would have graced any symposium with his dignified composure and fluent conversation. Aesop, according to the anonymous Life of Aesop, was pot-bellied, snub-nosed, dwarfish, and squint-eyed—a slave who fought constantly with his philosopher master. And yet, Plutarch found it useful and appropriate to weave references to Aesop and his fables as an intertext in both his Lives and the Moralia. He makes Aesop a significant figure in his Banquet of the Seven Sages, and in addition he employs maxims and fables attributed or attributable to Aesop intertextually in a number of passages. This chapter examines how and why Plutarch did this.1 1 Plutarch also refers several times to Aesop as a historical personage, a slave who was at Sardis with Croesus and was unjustly killed at Delphi: Sol. 28.1, Sept. sap. conv. 150A, De sera num. 556F.

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Fables constituted a standard part of the orator’s repertory of techniques. Aristotle, in the Rhetoric, considered fable as a useful means of offering persuasive examples (Rhet. 2.20, 1393a). Quintilian and the imperial authors of progymnasmata recommended that students learn to compose or refashion fables at an early stage of their rhetorical education, and Plutarch himself refers to students reading Aesop.2 Several works demonstrate the popularity of fables in Plutarch’s day. The fabulist Babrius was probably an elder contemporary of Plutarch, writing his verse fables in Greek in the latter half of the first century. He composed some two hundred fables, of which one hundred forty three survived. Another, somewhat earlier fabulist, Phaedrus, a freedman of Augustus who lived into the reign of Claudius or Nero, wrote five books of fables in Latin, though many fables have been lost from the collection. In addition, there was the anonymous Life of Aesop, of which we have various recensions, the earliest of which perhaps belongs to the second century of our era. Not surprisingly, a number of the fables mentioned by Plutarch are also found in these sources.3 Undoubtedly, Plutarch read and heard fables at an early age and, following common educational practices, as a youth adapted or invented fables in his own compositions. In maturity Plutarch explored a wide variety of issues— philosophical, historical, moral—, which might seem far removed from the

2 Cf. Arist. Rh. 1393a–1394a, 2.20; Quint. Inst. 1.9.1, 5.11.19–21; Theon Prog. 3; Hermog. Prog. 1; Aphthonius, Prog. 1 (= B. Perry, Aesopica [Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1952] 239–240, Testimonia 103, 101, 102); Plu. De aud. poet. 14E, cf. R. Hunter & D.A. Russell (eds.), Plutarch. How to Study Poetry (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011) 72, ad loc. Cf. also the bilingual fables, used for learning Latin, found in the Hermeneumata Leidensia (E. Dickey, The Colloquia of the Hermeneumata Pseudodositheana [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012–2015] I 24–25). See G.-J. Van Dijk, “Esopo, Plutarco, Platón y Aristóteles. La función de la fábula y el arte de la alusión,” in A. Pérez Jiménez, J. García López, & R.M. Aguilar (eds.), Plutarco, Platón y Aristóteles. Actas del V Congreso Internacional de la I.P.S. (Madrid-Cuenca, 4–7 de mayo de 1999) (Madrid: Ediciones clásicas, 1999) 141–156. For an overview of the Greek fable, see N. Holzberg, The Ancient Fable. An Introduction (Bloomington-Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 2002); for analysis of the early reception of Aesopic fables, L. Kurke, Aesopic Conversations. Popular Tradition, Cultural Dialogue, and the Invention of Greek Prose (Princeton-Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2011). 3 Ten are found in Phaedrus (De fortuna 98D ≈ Appendix 3; Sept. sap. conv. 149CE ≈ 3.3; Con. praec. 141D ≈ 3.8; Con. praec. 143E ≈ 1.18; De gar. 508D ≈ 4.20; Quaest. conv. 614EF ≈ 1.26; De comm. not. 1067F ≈ 1.20; Ages. 36.9 ≈ 4.24; Crass. 32.5 ≈ 4.10, also in Babr. 66; Arat. 38.9 ≈ 4.4). Eight are found in Babrius (Con. praec. 139D ≈ B18; Sept. sap. conv. 150AB ≈ B62; Reg. et imp. apophth. 174F and De gar. 511C ≈ B47; De frat. am. 490C ≈ B121; Quaest. conv. 645B ≈ B59; De vit. aer. 831C ≈ B34; Dem. 23.5 ≈ B93, also found in Vita Aesopi 97; Crass. 32.5 ≈ Babr. 66, also found in Phaed. 4.10). Two are found in the Vita Aesopi (Sept. sap. conv. 151AC ≈ Vita Aesopi 69; Dem. 23.5 ≈ Vita Aesopi 97 also found in Babr. 93). For the texts of Babrius and Phaedrus, I use B. Perry, Babrius and Phaedrus (Cambridge, MA-London: Harvard University Press, 1965).

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earthy wisdom of Aesop. However, in his works he refers frequently to Aesopic fables and maxims. Aesop is named some 43 times, and many Aesopian fables are used without attribution. The greater part of these references (20) appear in the Banquet of the Seven Sages, where Aesop is a character.4 Seventeen other named references are distributed widely throughout the Moralia, while the Lives name Aesop rarely: there are four references in the Parallel Lives and two in Aratus (Sol. 6.7, 28.1; Pel. 34.5; Crass. 32.5; Arat. 30.8, 38.9). As an admirer of Plato, Plutarch certainly would have been influenced in his appreciation of Aesop by the passage at the beginning of Plato’s Phaedo, where Socrates, awaiting his own execution, first suggests a fable of his own that might be suitable for Aesop, then speaks of his attempt to versify some of Aesop’s fables (Phd. 60c–d, 61b).5 Even for Plato, it would seem, the simplicity of a fable could convey understanding in the most dire circumstances. Perhaps Plato was hinting that the Phaedo itself should be read as a fable. Fables, with their common-sense narratives, can complement and illuminate much more abstract or noble-sounding arguments. In what follows, I shall examine how Plutarch used Aesopian fables to strengthen or illustrate observations concerning three main areas: self-knowledge, daily life, and politics and tyranny.

1

Know Thyself

Fables often echo the Apollonian maxim, “Know thyself.” A good example appears at the end of Crassus, after the Parthian commander, Surena, had defeated Crassus’ invading army. As Surena returned triumphantly to Seleucia, he mocked the licentiousness of the Romans, one of whom had brought along in his baggage a collection of sexually explicit Milesian tales (Crass. 32.4–6).

4 De aud. 14E, 16C; De prof. in virt. 79A; De Pyth. or. 401A; De frat. am. 490C; Animine an corp. 500C; De sera num. 556F, 557A (bis); Cons. ad ux. 609F; Quaest. conv. 614E, 645B (bis); An seni 790C; Praec. ger. reip. 806E; De Her. mal. 871D; De comm. not. 1067E. In this chapter I discuss only a few passages from Banquet of the Seven Sages. Full treatment and bibliography may be found in S. Jedrkiewicz, Il convitato sullo sgabello. Plutarco, Esopo ed i Sette Savi (Pisa-Rome: Istituti editoriali e poligrafici internazionali, 1997) and F. Lo Cascio, Plutarco. Il convito dei sette sapienti (Naples: D’Auria, 1997). See also C. García Gual, “Esopo en Plutarco,” in M. García Valdés (ed.), Estudios sobre Plutarco: ideas religiosas (Madrid: Ediciones clásicas, 1994) 605– 614. 5 Cf. M.L. McPherran, “Socrates and Aesop in Plato’s Phaedo,” Apeiron 45 (2012) 50–60 and Kurke, Aesopic Conversations, 201, 251–260, with important comments on the generic associations of Plato’s Socratic dialogues with Aesop’s fables.

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However (Plutarch writes), the people of Seleucia thought Aesop a wise man, seeing Surena wearing the knapsack of Milesian indecencies in front, and behind dragging along a Parthian Sybaris of so many wagons of concubines. The reference6 is to the tale of the Two Packs, in which Prometheus gave men two knapsacks, one worn in front, full of other men’s faults, the other worn behind, filled with one’s own failings, so that men would see others’ faults, but not their own.7 Surena could not see his own debauchery, but only that of the Romans. The fable was well known in Rome, found also in Phaedrus and Babrius, and alluded to by Catullus (22.21), Horace (S. 2.3.298–299), Persius (4.24), and Seneca (De ira 2.28.8). Plutarch’s decision to mention it here diminishes the Parthians’ victory. At the same time the fable leads the reader to consider Crassus’ own lack of self-knowledge, which had led him to his reckless expedition and ultimate defeat. In the Banquet of the Seven Sages, Aesop comments on another man’s vanity by recounting the fable of the Mule, also found in Babrius: the mule, proud of the beauty and size of his body, began to run and toss his mane like a horse. Then the mule remembered that he was the offspring of an ass and abandoned his spirited whinnying.8 Another fable urging self-knowledge appears as an anecdote recording Themistocles’ snappy reply when his accomplishments were challenged. To a brash commander who boasted to be his equal, Themistocles told the fable of the Feast and the Day After, with its conclusion, “You would not exist without me.”9 The fable reminds the boastful commander of his dependence on Themistocles’ achievement.

6 I cite Aesopian fables using Perry, Aesopica, and F. Rodríguez Adrados & G.-J. Van Dijk (eds.), History of the Graeco-Latin Fable, vol. 3, suppl. (Leiden: Brill, 2003). For an English translation of the Life of Aesop, see W. Hansen (ed.), Anthology of Ancient Greek Popular Literature (Bloomington-Indianapolis: University of Indiana Press) 1998, 111–162; for the Greek text, Perry, Aesopica, 1–208. 7 Perry, Aesopica, 424, nr. 266; Rodríguez Adrados & Van Dijk, History, 290, nr. 229; Babr. 66, Phaed. 4.10. 8 Sept. sap. conv. 150A, similar to Perry, Aesopica, 446, nr. 315; Rodríguez Adrados & Van Dijk, History, 351, nr. 285; Babr. 62. 9 Them. 18.6; Perry, Aesopica, 497, nr. 441; Rodríguez Adrados & Van Dijk, History, 440, nr. 97, cf. Quaest. rom. 270 BC; De fort. Rom. 320 F, Bellone an pace 345 C.

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Daily Life

Plutarch also employs Aesop’s fables when speaking of daily life. Leaving aside the many Aesopian quips and fables found in the Banquet of the Seven Sages,10 two fables in Table Talk consider behavior at banquets. The fable of the Fox and the Crane11 illustrates the danger of inviting incompatible people to a banquet (Quaest. conv. 614E). Plutarch writes: The fox offered the crane a clear broth on a flat stone, so that the crane not only went without dinner but appeared ridiculous, as the broth slipped out of her bill. Then the crane invited the fox and served the dinner in a jar with a long and narrow neck; from which she enjoyed the meal, but the fox couldn’t eat and was paid back. This fable appears in the very first question of Table Talk and establishes the ground rules for the dinners that follow: shared company and compatible natures, with good will shared among them all. The preface to Book 3 of Table Talk addresses another issue: the role of wine. Plutarch criticizes Aesop’s wish for windows through which one man could see another’s mind. He alludes to the fable called Zeus, Prometheus, Athena, and Momus, according to which Prometheus created man, but Momus criticized his work, because he had left no window in man to see his inner thoughts.12 Plutarch rejects this opinion, because wine, as shared in a symposium, “reveals us” and allows men to know each other’s thoughts. On Fraternal Affection treats the importance of good relations with one’s brother, with suggestions on how to maintain them. One important step is to lay aside old quarrels, a point Plutarch reinforces with Aesop’s fable of the Hen and the Cat, also found in Babrius. When the cat solicitously asked after the hen’s health, she replied, “It’s fine, as long as you stay away.”13 Similarly,

10

11 12 13

In Banquet of the Seven Sages cf. 149C–E, Aesop and the Peasant (Rodríguez Adrados & Van Dijk, History, 401, nr. 37; Phaed. 3.3); 152E, the Fox and the Monkey (Rodríguez Adrados & Van Dijk, History, 110, nr. 83; Perry, Aesopica, 353, nr. 81); 155B, the Fox and the Leopard (Rodríguez Adrados & Van Dijk, History, 21, nr. 12; Perry, Aesopica, 326, nr. 12); 156A, the Wolves and the Shepherds (Rodríguez Adrados & Van Dijk, History, 499, nr. 194; Perry, Aesopica, 501, nr. 453). Perry, Aesopica, 489, nr. 426; Rodríguez Adrados & Van Dijk, History, 387, nr. 17. 645B; Perry, Aesopica, 360, nr. 100; Rodríguez Adrados & Van Dijk, History, 131, nr. 102; Babr. 59. De frat. am. 490C; Perry, Aesopica, 324, nr. 7; Rodríguez Adrados & Van Dijk, History, 13, nr. 7; Babr. 121.

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Plutarch states, one should reject any person trying to revive old grievances between brothers. Guidance on marriage is perhaps hardest to give, so that we find Plutarch softening his words to a newly-wed couple with the help of fables. In Advice on Marriage, he reminds the new husband, Pollianus, of the story of the North Wind and the Sun, when each tried to take away a man’s cloak. The North Wind’s blowing and raging only made the man hold his cloak tighter, but under the hot sun the man took off not only his cloak but his shirt as well.14 In this way a husband can peaceably convince his wife to give up extravagance, when anger or force will only make her cling to it more tightly. The fable reveals a fundamental point of psychology—we say, “you catch more flies with honey than vinegar.” Shortly after, Plutarch recalls Socrates’ advice to look in a mirror, either to compensate ugliness with virtue or not to disfigure beauty with vice (Con. praec. 141D). In Phaedrus, the advice comes in the form of a fable (Sister to Brother), but others, including Plutarch, give it as a maxim.15 Plutarch also refers to the story of The Woman Giving Birth, also found in Phaedrus.16 The woman in labor kept saying to those trying to get her to lie down in bed, “How could the bed cure the troubles which fell upon me in bed.” The fable, of course, refers to sexual intercourse leading to pregnancy and labor pains; Plutarch shifts the point of the anecdote to urging couples to avoid quarrels in the marital bed. Yet another fable, The Fugitive, included in Advice on Marriage, is known only from Plutarch. It tells of a runaway slave who in his flight took refuge in a mill—prompting the owner to say, “Where would I have preferred to find you than here?”17 Plutarch suggests that a jealous wife should consider whether her rival might actually be happy that her lover’s wife was considering divorce. The Advice on Marriage teems with anecdotes, maxims, and illustrative stories of every sort; the fables I have listed are a small part of the whole. These fables illustrate well their use as didactic or rhetorical tools. Plutarch sometimes has to twist their meaning to fit his context, as he does with The Woman

14 15 16 17

Con. praec. 139D; Perry, Aesopica, 339, nr. 46; Rodríguez Adrados & Van Dijk, History, 64, nr. 46; Babr. 18. Perry, Aesopica, 570, nr. 499; Rodríguez Adrados & Van Dijk, History, 558, nr. 288; Phaed. 3.8. D.L. 2.33 ascribes a version to Socrates—another Aesopic figure. Con. praec. 143E; Perry, Aesopica, 559, nr. 479; Rodríguez Adrados & Van Dijk, History, 516, nr. 220; Phaed. 1.18. Con. praec. 144A; Perry, Aesopica, 497, nr. 440; Rodríguez Adrados & Van Dijk, History, 432, nr. 87.

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Giving Birth and The Fugitive. Yet their simple, earthy wisdom skirts philosophical discourse so that any reader would immediately understand the message.

3

Politics and Tyranny

Finally, political issues can also be clarified or refocused with an Aesopian fable or maxim. A famous example is reported in the Life of Coriolanus,18 the fable of The Limbs and the Stomach told by Menenius Agrippa. The story, usually called The Stomach and the Feet and best known from the speech of Menenius in Livy (2.32.9–12), illustrates the need for unity in the body politic, where it is called “a fable of the Aesopian type.”19 Two incidents from the Life of Aratus that concern tyranny name Aesop explicitly. The first concerns Lydiadas, the tyrant of Megalopolis, who after renouncing his tyranny and joining forces with the Achaeans was elected their general several times. However, when he tried to challenge Aratus’ leadership, the Achaeans began to fear his ambition. Plutarch goes on: And just as Aesop says that when the cuckoo asked the smaller birds why they kept flying away from him, they replied that he might prove to be a hawk, in the same way it appears that suspicion derived from his tyranny weakened [the Achaeans’] faith in Lydiadas’ change of heart.20 The Life of Aratus eulogizes its hero for his opposition to tyranny. Here, the fable of the cuckoo comments on a former tyrant’s tendency to assert himself once more, and contrasts his ambition with Aratus’ steadfast commitment to community leadership and opposition to tyranny. As much as he admires Aratus, Plutarch attacks the Achaean leader for reversing himself and helping to reinstall Macedonian tyranny in Greece by surrendering Acrocorinth to Antigonus Doson in 226. Aratus needed an ally to oppose the expansionist thrust of Cleomenes of Sparta, but, in the biographer’s mind, his fear of Cleomenes led to even worse consequences than being defeated by the Spartan king. Plutarch alludes to the fable through his vocabulary (Arat. 38.9–10), which conveys the folly ridiculed by Aesop: 18 19 20

6.3–5; Perry, Aesopica, 371, nr. 130; Rodríguez Adrados & Van Dijk, History, 170, nr. 132. Cf. D.H. Ant. Rom. 6.86.1–3, and 6.83.1. Arat. 30.8; Perry, Aesopica, 499, nr. 446; Rodríguez Adrados & Van Dijk, History, 466, nr. 138. The small birds’ fears might have been motivated by a belief that hawks and cuckoos were different variants of the same bird: cf. Arist., H.A. 563f14–15.

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Antigonus, even though he had been proclaimed sole commander by sea and by land, did not accept these offices before he had been granted Acrocorinth as the payment for his command, precisely imitating Aesop’s hunter. For he did not mount (οὐ … ἐπέβη) on the Achaeans, who were begging and offering their backs (ὑποβάλλουσιν αὑτούς) through their embassies and decrees, before they submitted to receiving bridle and bit (χαλινουμένους) with a garrison and hostages. The words “mount,” “offering their backs,” and “receiving a bridle and bit” all sketch a picture of a horse that allows the hunter to mount him. The oldest version of the story, known as The Horse and the Hunter, is given in Aristotle as an example of a fable used to instruct and persuade. Stesichorus, he reports, told it in an attempt to dissuade the Himerans from granting bodyguards to Phalaris (Rh. 1393b8–22, 2.20 = Stesich. F104):21 A horse had a meadow to himself. When a stag came and quite damaged the pasture, the horse, wanting to avenge himself on the stag, asked a man if he could help him. The man said he could, if the horse were to take a bridle and he himself mount on him, holding javelins. When the horse agreed and the man mounted, instead of getting vengeance the horse found himself a slave to the man. The application to Aratus’ decision to turn over Acrocorinth is painfully clear. Aratus and the Achaeans are the horse, frustrated with the depredations of the stag, Cleomenes, in his pasture. The stag can only be defeated with the help of Antigonus, the hunter, who insists that Aratus surrender Acrocorinth, which is the bridle and bit that can control the Peloponnese. Earlier in the Life, Plutarch described the significance of Acrocorinth, quoting Philip V as calling it one of “the fetters of Greece” (Arat. 16.6). Aratus’ greatest accomplishment was capturing the citadel from the Macedonians (Arat. 16–24). Now, by surrendering it, he was allowing Achaea to be enslaved once more. This oft-cited fable very directly demonstrates the foolishness of the move, slicing through all the explanations that Aratus, in his memoirs, used to defend himself. Using the fable, Plutarch explicates that surrendering to a tyrant is blind foolishness, whatever the goal.22 21 22

Perry, Aesopica, 425, nr. 269(a); Rodríguez Adrados & Van Dijk, History, 299, nr. 238; Phaed. 4.4. For a more complete account of Plutarch’s aims and methods in Aratus, see P.A. Stadter, “ ‘The Love of Noble Deeds’: Plutarch’s Portrait of Aratus of Sicyon,” in R. Ash, J. Mossman

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In another case, a fable places Alexander the Great in the role of a tyrant. When he demanded that the Athenians surrender Demosthenes and other anti-Macedonian orators, Demosthenes, Plutarch reports, told the fable of the wolves and the sheep (Dem. 23.5). Again Plutarch suggests the story without giving a detailed account: When Demosthenes told the story (λόγος) of the sheep which gave the dogs to the wolves, he compared himself and those with him to dogs fighting for the demos, and he named Alexander of Macedon the fiercest wolf (μονόλυκον). The fable that the orator is said to have used is well known, found in both the Life of Aesop and Babrius.23 Here, the “fiercest wolf” is the bitter enemy of Demosthenes and the Athenians. When speaking of Alcibiades, whom many Athenians feared wished to become tyrant, the biographer cannot pass up the fable of The Man and the Lion Cub, famous from Aeschylus and recalled by Aristophanes (Alc. 16.3).24 To illustrate the popular ambivalence, Plutarch quotes Aristophanes’ verses: It’s best not to raise a lion in the city, but if you do raise him, serve his moods. As Plutarch observes, the comic poet’s expression is stronger because of the unspoken implication of the fable to which he alludes.25 Political wisdom figures often in the Life of Solon. Although there are no direct references to Aesop’s fables, the wisdom of the slave sage appears in several contexts. Plutarch’s rewriting of Herodotus’ famous story of Solon’s advice to Croesus (Sol. 27) includes an additional scene. When Solon leaves Croesus’ presence, having completely failed to convince him of the fragility of human affairs and the true nature of happiness, he meets “the storyteller Aesop” (ὁ λογοποιὸς Αἴσωπος) at Croesus’ door (Sol. 28.1). Aesop has been an honored guest at Croesus’ palace and would like Solon to be treated equally well, so he

23 24 25

& F. Titchener (eds.), Fame and Infamy. Essays for Christopher Pelling on Characterization in Greek and Roman Biography and Historiography (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015) 161–175. Perry, Aesopica, 380, nr. 153; Rodríguez Adrados & Van Dijk, History, 212, nr. 158; Vita Aesopi 97; Babr. 93. Rodríguez Adrados & Van Dijk, History, 827, nr. 18; A. Ag. 717–736; Ar. Ra. 1431–1432. Plutarch introduces the citation with “He criticizes more severely because of the implied meaning” (ἔτι δὲ μᾶλλον τῇ ὑπονοίᾳ πιέζων).

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offers a bit of advice: “Solon, with kings, one should either deal as seldom or as pleasantly as possible.” The unspoken premise is that those in power do not listen gladly to unpleasant advice, a cynical view of human nature, which has just been confirmed in Solon’s preceding interview. Solon, however, firmly replies, “No, by Zeus, but as seldom or as nobly.” Plutarch’s Solon, if he must speak, will insist on speaking truth, whether he is heard or not. Plutarch’s insertion of this Aesopic, plebeian wisdom, at this point, directs the reader to the realities of dealing with power, complementing Herodotus’ focus on the truths of the human condition. In his Dion, Plutarch shows that even Plato had himself suffered when trying to educate the tyrant Dionysius in Syracuse. Aesop’s common sense advice reminds the high-minded of this world about the stubbornness of human nature. Its introduction into this famous story expresses Plutarch’s own sensitivity, living in a time of revolution, dictatorship, and assassination, to the distance between philosophical ideals and political realities.26 In a second case, the Life of Solon cites a passage from the lawgiver’s own poetry that carries an Aesopian allusion. Solon’s criticism of those who permitted Peisistratus to come to power in F11 West, lines 5–7, which contains an echo of the fable of The Lion and the Fox,27 is quoted by Plutarch at Sol. 30.3. Another example from the Life of Solon, the story of Thales’ deception of the Athenian (Sol. 6), is not directly political, but speaks to the risks we all face in both political and personal life. Thales, by convincing Solon that his son has died in his absence, demonstrates to the him the danger of having children, because they can be the cause of enormous grief. The story, Plutarch tells us, was recounted by a certain Pataikos, apparently a fabulist, who “used to say that he had the soul of Aesop.” There are no talking animals, but Pataikos’ invention—for surely it is that—conveys the same Aesopian sense of human truths: realistic, even cynical. Interestingly, in the following paragraph, Plutarch passionately rejects the message of the story that one should not pursue a good for fear of losing it. Like Solon in his desire to speak truthfully, Plutarch insists on living without fear, even in the knowledge of possible loss. Apparently, he has introduced this episode purposely to set up the opposition between Aesopian ‘common sense’ and a philosophical perspective on human life and commitments. Returning to the difficulty of speaking to power, there are several other occasions when Plutarch invokes Aesopian common sense to question or high26

27

I consider Plutarch’s treatment of the Croesus story more fully in P.A. Stadter, “Re-imagining Herodotus: Plutarch on Solon’s Encounter with Croesus,” in T.E. Duff & L. Fletcher (eds.), Herodotus and Plutarch (forthcoming). Perry, Aesopica, 376, nr. 142; Rodríguez Adrados & Van Dijk, History, 194, nr. 147; Babr. 103.

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light philosophical attitudes toward, power. In the Banquet of the Seven Sages, Periander, the tyrant of Corinth, has invited the famous seven sages of archaic Greece—Solon, Chilon, Thales, and the others—to a banquet. Aesop is also present, but as a former slave and a servant of Croesus he sits on a stool beside Solon, rather than on a couch with the others (Sept. sap. conv. 150A).28 At a certain point, the sages are invited to advise the Egyptian king Amasis on how to make his government desirable to his subjects, and Periander warmly approves the exercise (151D–E). However, the sages’ noble suggestions lead Periander to comment unhappily “these bits of advice would lead any man with sense to resign from rule” (152B). At this point Aesop interjects his own comment, “The discussion should have been among yourselves (that is, among the sages). Now you have made yourselves accusers of those who rule, while presenting yourselves as friends and advisers.” Here, Plutarch uses Aesop to highlight the tension between the objectives of most rulers and the prescriptions of the sages. The role of sage, or in Plutarch’s day that of a philosopher, runs contrary to normal human desires, especially the desires of those in power: Aesop’s advice as a common man, an ex-slave and ugly to boot, serves to bring out this tension. Periander was a tyrant, and a nasty one, yet he was sometimes counted among the sages. In Plutarch’s dialogue, Aesop’s intervention helps bring out this inherent contradiction.29 To conclude, Plutarch, following rhetorical practice, occasionally employs Aesopic fables and maxims as an intertext to reinforce his points. Some were well known, while others seem more obscure. These nuggets of earthy and plebeian wisdom from Aesop suggest that Plutarch wished to create a fruitful tension between high philosophy and popular insight. Furthermore, by intertextually recalling fables familiar from childhood, Plutarch finds an additional means of creating that easy dialogue with his readers, which explains so much of his success. 28

29

Phaedo, in Plato’s homonymous dialogue, also sits on a low chair near but below Socrates’ couch (Phd. 89b, ἐπὶ χαμαιζήλου τινός). I do not know whether Plutarch intends to allude to that passage; in Plutarch, Aesop sits on a δίφρος. D.F. Leão, “Anacharsis: la sagesse atypique de l’ étranger avisé,” in id., Figures de sages, figures de philosophes dans l’ oeuvre de Plutarque (forthcoming), studies the role of Anacharsis in Plutarch’s Banquet of the Seven Sages and concludes that Plutarch employs this ‘barbarian’ to suggest an alternative wisdom that challenges aspects of Greek culture, in a mode similar to the role that I ascribe to Aesop’s fables here.

chapter 22

Plutarch’s Proverbial Intertexts in the Lives Alessio Ruta

Abstract This chapter examines Plutarch’s intertextual engagement with proverbial expressions in the Lives, an aspect only occasionally studied, by focusing on those proverbs attested in the so-called recensio Athoa by Zenobius, which shows the authentic ordo proverbiorum of Lucillus’ Περὶ παροιμιῶν (first century CE). A similar paroemiographical collection could have been used by Plutarch. As I suggest, this could be deduced from the Life of Pericles (27.3–4), where proverbs 63 and 64 from the first book of the recensio Athoa are quoted in the same order by Plutarch. Moreover, it is explored how and to what end(s) Plutarch readapts the proverbs in the Lives. In some cases, proverbs allude to specific literary contexts that are of crucial importance for our understanding of Plutarch’s techniques of characterizing and moralizing. This is especially evident in the Life of Gaius Gracchus, particularly 33.8, where the adjective Σαρδόνιος used to describe how Gaius laughed at his opponents may recall the laughter of Odysseus (Hom. Od. 20.300–302) and the haughtiness of Thrasymachus towards Socrates (Pl. R. 337a), but Plutarch is likely alluding to a meaning explained by the paroemiographers only (Zen. Ath. 1.68). Likewise, in the Life of Cato Maior (16.7), the expression Ὕδραν τέμνειν (Zen. Ath. 1.10), referring to the difficulties of moralistic reformation, may echo the Platonic context in the Republic (426e) concerning the illusive attempt to improve the laws.

If we consider the taxonomic classification for cases of partial intertextuality that can be found in the works of Plutarch, as carefully outlined by Gennaro D’Ippolito, one can easily see how proverbs share many of the characteristics typical of literary quotations.1 Proverbs usually remain intact within the

1 G. D’Ippolito, “Plutarco e la retorica della intertestualità,” in L. Van der Stockt (ed.), Rhetorical Theory and Praxis in Plutarch. Acta of the IVth International Congress of the International Plutarch Society, Leuven, July 3–6, 1996 (Leuven: Peeters, 2000) 543–562, at 548–549. This chapter has benefited from fruitful discussions with M. Beck, E.L. Bowie, J.A. Fernández Delgado and C.B.R. Pelling. All translations from the Life of Pericles come from R. Waterfield’s Plutarch. Greek Lives. A Selection of Nine Greek Lives (Oxford-New York: Oxford University Press, 1998).

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original textual structure, as can be inferred from the comparison with the paroemiographic collections or other texts where they are mentioned. But Plutarch sometimes enriches the quotation of a proverb with additional information about its origin and/or meaning, whose source, whilst not always traceable, often dates back to an erudite Hellenistic author or collector. Studies concerning rhetorical and linguistic analysis of proverbial expressions2 found in Greek authors developed at the dawn of the twentieth century, on the basis of new discoveries in the field of paroemiography and the renewed interest— especially arising from German positivism—in the forms and expression of popular wisdom. Within this flourishing field of research, the contributions dedicated to imperial and late-antique authors are certainly not lacking, as the detailed studies focused on Lucian,3 Synesius,4 Libanius5 and fictional epistolography6 prove. But it is also true that from such inquiry Plutarch has been entirely neglected. This is despite the fact that the proverbial element is well attested in his works, and it is elsewhere demonstrated that he was able to make proper use of proverbs’ expressiveness as a distinctive feature of his stylistic χάρις and γλυκύτης7 within his particular brand of Kunstprosa.8 For example, the index of Plutarch’s quotations edited by William Helmbold

2

3 4 5 6 7

8

Other translations from Lives and Moralia are taken from the Loeb editions of Bernadotte Perrin and F.C. Babbitt. Translations from Zenobius and other paroemiographical testimonia are my own. In designating the single testimonia of the paroemiographical tradition, I have used the sigla of W. Bühler, Zenobii Athoi proverbia, V (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1999) 35–40. Following the excellent definition of R. Tosi, “Introduzione,” in E. Lelli (ed.), ΠΑΡΟΙΜΙΑΚΟΣ. Il proverbio in Grecia e a Roma (Pisa-Rome: Fabrizio Serra, 2010) 13, by ‘proverbial expression’ I mean a brief and lapidary traditional expression which, by means of images and metaphors, often contains an ethical precept whose roots go back to popular wisdom. T.W. Rein, Sprichwörter und sprichwörtliche Redensarten bei Lucian (Tübingen: H. Laupp. jr., 1894). P.R. Sollert, Die Sprichwörter bei Synesios von Kyrene, I–II (Augsburg: Ph.J. Pfeiffer, 1909– 1910). E. Salzmann, Sprichwörter und sprichwörtliche Redensarten bei Libanios (Tübingen: H. Laupp. jr., 1910). D. Tsirimbas, Sprichwörter und sprichwörtliche Redensarten bei den Epistolographen der zweiten Sophistik (Speyer am Rhein: Pilger, 1935). On the rhetorical proprieties of the παροιμία, cf. Arist. Rh. 1412a19–1413b1, [Aristid.] Rh. 1.90.1– 2 and [Demetr.] Eloc. 156, 232. See A.M. Ieraci Bio, “Il concetto di ΠΑΡΟΙΜΙΑ: testimonianze antiche e tardoantiche,” RAAN 54 (1979) 190. For the rhetorical and decorative aspects of Plutarch’s proverbial quotations, see W.A. Beardslee, “Plutarch’s Use of Proverbial Forms of Speech,” Semeia 17 (1980) 101–112, which deals more widely with the meaning and function of maxims and proverbs in the context of Plutarch’s moral stance.

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and Edward O’Neil provides a list of proverbs that is, however, “very incomplete, particularly for the Vitae.”9 In two recent surveys that cover the paragraphs 1A–748F of the Moralia, José Antonio Fernández Delgado has found a remarkable number of proverbial quotations that are missing from the index of Helmbold and O’Neil. He further emphasizes some aspects that proverbs and literary quotations have in common within Plutarch’s compositional technique, paying attention to the question of both his sources and the exegetical meaning of each proverb that is employed.10 Given that the recognition of many proverbial expressions established in literature is not always immediate, it is appropriate to enquire whether the author recalled the proverbial quotation from memory or a direct source, or otherwise used repertories and compendia prepared for rhetoric and scholastic purposes. In the case of Lucian, the expressiveness of proverbs and the technique of proverbial quotation were closely examined by Jacques Bompaire, who provided an interesting outline of the presence of a shared tradition relating to the reception of proverbs in rhetoric schools during the imperial period.11 Bompaire touched on the difficulties of reconstructing a particular literary source from the proverbial expressions used by Lucian as a rhetorical author, since there is no way of telling whether his proverbial allusions were extrapolated from contemporary paroemiographical collections. One notable contemporary collection was Zenobius’ Epitome, a rhetorician who lived in the age of Hadrian and who summarized the earlier collections of proverbs by Didymus of Alexandria and Lucillus of Tarrhae.12 According to Bompaire’s well-chosen formulation, it was plausible to think that Aelius Aristides, Aelianus and already Plutarch “utilisaient les recueils des parémiographes” (420). This is a conjecture that I consider absolutely valid. Therefore, I will focus on the relation between the paroemiographical collections and the proverbs attested in Plutarch that

9 10

11 12

W.C. Helmbold & E.N. O’Neil, Plutarch’s Quotations (Baltimore: American Philological Association, 1959) 64. J.A. Fernández Delgado, “Los proverbios en los Moralia de Plutarco,” in G. D’Ippolito & I. Gallo (eds.), Strutture formali dei Moralia di Plutarco. Atti del III Convegno plutarcheo, Palermo, 3–5 maggio 1989 (Naples: D’Auria, 1991) 195–212; id., “Nueva contribución al estudio de los proverbios en Moralia,” in J. García López & E. Calderón (eds.), Estudios sobre Plutarco: paisaje y naturaleza. Actas del II Simposio Español sobre Plutarco, Murcia 1990 (Madrid: Ediciones Clásicas, 1991) 257–267. J. Bompaire, Lucien écrivain. Imitation et création (Paris: de Boccard, 1958) 405–425. See S. Fein, Die Beziehungen der Kaiser Trajan und Hadrian zu den litterati (StuttgartLeipzig: Teubner, 1994) 281–300.

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could directly refer to them, in order to determine how and how far Plutarch can be considered a likely user of these proverbial collections.13 A good number of proverbs quoted by Plutarch in the Lives indeed show certain characteristics which, as I will argue, show a possible derivation from a paroemiographical treatise similar to the one by Zenobius, given the similarity between the Plutarchan context of the quotation or Plutarch’s ratio interpretandi and the information about a proverb’s origin and precise meaning found in such erudite works. The great quantity of aetiological information available in these sylloges—at least in their form before the abridgement of Zenobius— offered a vast repertory of mythological, historical and religious exempla. In the Lives, for example, it is clear that when Plutarch uses a proverb that refers to an historical or mythical character, he can enhance his biographical depiction by adding the usual ‘detail’ which, in accordance with Plutarch’s well-known literary theorization (cf. e.g. Alex. 1.2), is fundamental to delineate an exhaustive biographical sketch, as well as to reveal his Fortleben, not only within the historical tradition but also in the light of his popular perception. Although in the Lives it is possible to find a great variety of expressions that are generally characterized by a gnomic, sententious or even a proverbial tone, I have limited my study to the proverbial sayings that are also attested in Zenobius’ recensio Athoa, whose arrangement of lemmata probably adheres to the structure of an earlier and larger paroemiographical collection that Plutarch could have used as a scholarly tool and not as a mere instrumentum artis. I will then discuss some significant cases attested in the Lives of Theseus, Pericles, Cato the Elder and Gaius Gracchus. I believe that such an investigation can play a decisive role in recognizing sources, models and possible re-adaptations of proverbial lemmata, and thus helpfully contribute to our understanding of Plutarch’s compositional praxis and allusive techniques. In the Life of Theseus (26–27), Plutarch narrates the events relating to Theseus’ war against the Amazons, in which he seems to have used mythographical accounts by Philochorus (FGrHist 328 F 110), Herodorus (FGrHist 31 F 25a), Hellanicus (FGrHist 323a F 16) and Pherecydes (FGrHist 3 F 151). While the first, along with generic ‘others,’ explicitly refers to the fact that Theseus had completed the expedition together with Heracles, Herodorus, Hellanicus and Pherecydes deny this eventuality and say that the hero had led the deed alone, a circumstance that Plutarch considers more reliable. In the following chapter, after having touched upon the erotic adventures of Theseus, Plutarch asserts 13

In the Life of Aratus (1.1–2) Plutarch explicitly distinguishes two different forms of the same proverb, citing as his sources Dionysodorus of Troezen and Chrysippus of Soli, both of whom were authors of works on proverbs.

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that he did not participate in numerous heroic deeds as other heroes did, but that meanwhile he was engaged in a battle against the Centaurs under the lead of Peirithoos, in the hunt for the Calydonian boar together with Meleager, and in the expedition in Colchis in the suite of Iason only. From this episode, the proverb “not without Theseus” became established to denote someone who could accomplish remarkable deeds with the help of other comrades (Thes. 29.3): “But others say that he was not only with Iason at Colchis, but helped Meleager to slay the Calydonian boar, and that hence arose the proverb ‘not without Theseus’” (ἕτεροι δὲ καὶ μετ’ Ἰάσονος ἐν Κόλχοις γενέσθαι καὶ Μελεάγρῳ συνεξελεῖν τὸν κάπρον, καὶ διὰ τοῦτο παροιμίαν εἶναι τὴν ‘οὐκ ἄνευ Θησέως’). The excursus of this heroic exploit, fulfilled together with other heroes, is amplified through the mention of a proverbial expression that is particularly suitable in signifying the universal acknowledgement of Theseus as a comes who should not be left out of consideration for the success of every action undertaken. Now, one could think that Plutarch had drawn the information concerning the origin of the proverb οὐκ ἄνευ Θησέως from one of the mythographical sources consulted about the history of Theseus’ deeds. Indeed, if we assume that the link between Theseus’ valentia and the creation of the proverbial form was already treated by this earlier mythographer, this is a plausible hypothesis. But a more solid and noteworthy parallel is offered from the exegetical section of the proverb οὐκ ἄνευ γε Θησέως, which is attested in both the direct (Zen. Ath. 1.21 ≅ Zen. vulg. 5.33 ≅ rec. B 731) and the indirect (Suid. ο 849) paroemiographical tradition, in which it is noted to refer to the same mythological events cited by Plutarch, with the exception of the expedition in Colchis. The paroemiographers14 did not invent that Theseus took part in many expeditions, but the link between the fame of the hero and the origin of the proverb occurs exclusively in the Life of Theseus and in Zenobius. If we accept that the final consideration on the origin of the proverb is not an addition of Plutarch (as it implies the infinite εἶναι depending on the unexpressed φασί, which also governs both γενέσθαι and συνεξελεῖν), then the information reported by him would substantially coincide with the report of Zenobius, with the exception of Jason’s expedition in Colchis. Trying to identify conjecturally who could hide behind ἕτεροι, the information on the expedition against the Amazons would induce us to exclude Herodorus, Hellanicus and Pherecydes, since for these authors Theseus fought alone. On the contrary, Philochorus is mentioned by 14

See C. Robert, Die Griechische Heldensage, II (Berlin: Weidmannsche Buchhandlung, 1921) 676–756; H. Herter, “Theseus,” RE Suppl. XIII (1973) 1157–1212; F. Brommer, Theseus. Die Taten des griechischen Helden in der antiken Kunst und Literatur (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1982) 124–141.

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Plutarch together with ἄλλοι as an auctoritas for the other version (26.1) in order to explain that the hero had accompanied Theseus, just as is attested in Zenobius.15 Among the sources of the Life of Theseus, there is also Demon (19.3 [FGrHist 327 F 5]; 23.5 [FGrHist 327 F 6]), who is the author of a Περὶ παροιμιῶν: the matter is completely consistent with its collection and its presence is capillary in the Epitome of Zenobius.16 There are no definitive elements, but it would not surprise me if, in the future, a papyrus would have the name of Demon referring to the information on the origin of our proverb, as happened in the case of Zen. Ath. 1.67 with the commentary of Didymus to Demosthenes (P.Berol. inv. 9780).17 In the subsequent paragraph, the proverb ἄλλος οὗτος Ἡρακλῆς (“this man [sc. is] another Heracles,” Zen. Ath. 1.6 = Zen. vulg. 5.48) is used to refer to Theseus and indicates his great valor, because he is capable of equaling even Heracles in his heroic deeds. The correlation between the proverb ἄλλος οὗτος Ἡρακλῆς and Theseus can only be found in some paroemiographical testimonia, which probably go directly back to Zenobius’ Epitome.18 Zenobius’ anepigraphic tradition is represented by two groups of manuscripts, which show almost the same text: φασὶ δὲ ὅτι ἐπὶ Θησεῖ ἐλέγετο δι’ ἅπερ καὶ αὐτὸς κατώρθωσεν.19 This is very close to the explanation of the proverbial lemma attested in Phot. α 1011, Suid. α 1338 and Eust. Hom. Il. 2.162 Van der Valk; these three indirect testimonia are probably derived from Lucillus of Tarrhae, who was one of Zenobius’ sources, rather than Zenobius himself.20 I think that this con15 16 17 18

19 20

The name of Philochorus occurs in Zen. Ath. 2.76 and in the indirect tradition of Zen. Ath. 2.78 and 3.153. See O. Crusius, Analecta critica ad paroemiographos Graecos (Leipzig: Teubner, 1883) 132– 150; W. Bühler, Zenobii Athoi proverbia, IV (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1982) 52. See A. Ruta, “Le tracce dell’esegesi paremiografica di Didimo nella tradizione scoliastica,” ARF 18 (2016) 81–86. Both Zen. Ath. 1.6 and Zen. vulg. 5.48 show nearly the same text, where only Clearchus’ explanation (fr. 67 W.2) is preserved. This refers the proverb to a response from the Delphic oracle (probably fictitious, see Bühler, Zenobii Athoi proverbia, V, 492) given to the Heracles Tyrius, after which another Heracles, here called “Briareus”, came to visit the same oracle (the identification of the hero with an otherwise unknown Briareus is not to be excluded, since his name once served as an appellation for the so-called columns of Heracles, as Ael. VH 5.3 [= Arist. fr. 790 G.] reports). Following the version reported in the Καινὴ ἱστορία of Ptolemaeus Chennus (5.21 Chatzis), which is preserved in Phot. Bibl. 190.151a34–37, the proverb would derive from a fight between Heracles and Theseus that ended without a winner. Rec. B 46 and Par. suppl. 676: “Some say that the proverb is referred to Theseus because of the deeds which he accomplished too.” The paroemiographical glosses of Photius, Suda and Eustathius can be traced back to Pausanias, a lexicographer of the second century who probably used the paroemiogra-

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spicuous amalgamation of sources about the proverb cannot be attributed to coincidence, but must rather imply an interrelation between the paroemiographical testimonia and the specific use of the proverb by Plutarch. If, as I believe, Plutarch really used a paroemiographical collection, it should necessarily bear information that is similar to that which is preserved in a branch of Zenobius’ anepigraphic tradition and in the testimonia that can be traced back to Lucillus. Moreover, Plutarch uses the infinitive κρατῆσαι to refer to the growing agreement about this particular meaning of the proverb, just as it is used in Zenobius’ exegetical section (albeit with reference to another explanation). This sense of the verb κρατέω is also typical of its use in the paroemiographers.21 In his introduction to his commentary on the Life of Pericles, Philip Stadter includes the scholiasts in the list of the antiquarian sources used by Plutarch, from whom he frequently borrowed exegetical material for texts. For Stadter, it is likely that these sources were consulted by Plutarch to enrich his work with additional information. Although it is very difficult to establish the exact origin of each informative detail, I think that in some cases it is highly plausible to assume a direct derivation from a paroemiographical source, which has the same learned status as the works of a grammarian or the commentaries on ancient authors such as Homer or the Attic dramatists. Some traces of this particular relationship, which has been far from fully explored,22 can be fruitfully recognized in the Life of Pericles. The following case shows a correspondence that offers meaningful clues for us about Plutarch’s compositional technique. In Per. 27.4, Plutarch describes Samos’ siege of the year 439 BCE, which culminates with the seizure of the city by an Athenian army headed by Pericles. The entire narration follows quite faithfully the account that is reported in chapters 115–117 of Thucydides’ first book, but Plutarch adds two details whose anecdotal character corresponds with a distinctive feature of the Lives’ narrative structure.23 First, Pericles intends to avoid unnecessary bloodshed and

21 22

23

phers abridged by Zenobius as a source for his work. This was determined by G. Wentzel, “Zu den atticistischen Glossen in dem Lexikon des Photios,” Hermes 30 (1895) 376 (see I.C. Cunningham, Synagoge. ΣΥΝΑΓΩΓΗ ΛΕΞΕΩΝ ΧΡΗΣΙΜΩΝ, Texts of the Original Version and of MS. B [Berlin-New York: De Gruyter, 2003] 53). Then H. Erbse, Untersuchungen zu den attizistischen Lexika (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1950) 54–57, argued that such paroemiographical information could go back directly to Lucillus of Tarrhae, thanks to the comparison with the paroemiographical scholia Platonica. E.g. Zen. Ath. 1.5, 1.6, 1.50, 1.51, 2.20, 2.24, Zen. vulg. 2.28, 5.4, 5.64. P.A. Stadter, A Commentary on Plutarch’s Pericles (Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press, 1989) lxxviii: “The precise nature of Plutarch’s relation to this world of learning is still to be investigated.” See C.B.R. Pelling, “Plutarch and Thucydides,” in P.A. Stadter, Plutarch and the Histori-

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therefore opts for a cautious strategy, but he needs to find a way to keep his soldiers at bay, who are eager for combat. He decides then to divide the army into eight parts and urges each group to draw a colored bean: the group who draws the white bean would abstain from the battle. To the meticulous description of this decision, there follows a concise excursus on the origin of the proverbial saying λευκὴ ἡμέρα, which is used to describe a happy day, and is here mentioned by virtue of its close correlation with the λευκὸς κύαμος (“white bean”). According to the αἴτιον attested in the exegetical section of the proverb τῶν εἰς τὴν φαρέτραν (Zen. Ath. 1.63), the proverbial saying should be attributed to an ancient custom of the Scythians: every evening they put a little stone inside their quivers whose color—white or black—must reflect the quality of the day that has just gone by. After the death of each man, the quiver was then emptied and, once the beans were counted up, they believed that those with a majority of white stones had enjoyed a fortunate life. At the end of the explanation, Plutarch mentions the very alternative form λευκὴ ἡμέρα, as used by Menander in the Leucadia (fr. 8 Austin), as the paroemiographer reports. It seems clear that Plutarch’s etymology is the same as that of the paroemiographers, besides the lack of any other evidence regarding it except for a brief mention in Pliny’s Naturalis Historia.24 The entire paroemiographical interpretation is ascribed to Phylarchus (FGrHist 81 F 83), an author often quoted by Plutarch:25 even if it could be appealing to think that in this case the information was directly taken from the Alexandrian historian, in the next paragraph there is a clue that, in my opinion, clarifies every doubt in this respect.

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25

cal Tradition (London: Taylor & Francis, 1992) 20: “Plutarch evidently knew Thucydides’ insistence on Pericles’ cautious strategy during the war itself, but in Pericles he prefers to develop the caution theme rather earlier, in treating his pre-war foreign policy.” Plin. Nat. 7.131. An etymological variant appears in Hor. Carm. 1.36.10, but it is however prudent to distinguish between “white mark” and “white day” (see R.G.M. Nisbet & M. Hubbard, A Commentary on Horace. Odes, Book I [Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1978] 403). The τόπος of the “white day” is indeed inspired by the positive value and the unequivocal symbolic characterization of the color white in antiquity (see A. Hermann & M. Cagiano de Azevedo, “Farbe,”RAC VII [1979] 375–381; A.M. Addabbo, “Albus an ater esse,”A&R 41 [1996] 16–23), attested already in Hippon. fr. 51 Dg.2, and thoroughly widespread in Attic drama (A. Pers. 301; Ag. 668; S. TrGF 6; E. Tr. 848–850; Eup. fr. 182 K.-A.), until the re-adaptation of Call. fr. 178.2 and 193.37 Pf. and the rewriting of Latin authors, which are properly based upon the albus calculus (Catull. 68.148; Pers. 2.1; Mart. 12.34; Plin. Ep. 6.11.3). See further A. Otto, Die Sprichwörter und sprichwörtlichen Redensarten der Römer (Leipzig: Teubner, 1890) 64–65. Them. 32.4; Pyrrh. 27.8; Agis 9.3; Cleom. 5.3 (26.3), 28.2 (49.2), 30.3 (51.3); Dem. 27.4; Arat. 38.12; De Is. et Os. 362B; Quaest. conv. 680D. See M.T. Schettino, “The Use of Historical Sources,” in M. Beck (ed.), A Companion to Plutarch (Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2014) 420–421.

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The following anecdote, which Plutarch attributes to Ephorus (FGrHist 70 F 194), refers to the last phases of the battle. The inventor of siege machines was also there—a certain Artemon nicknamed περιφόρητος (“he who is carried around”) because he was lame and needed to be carried on a litter to move around.26 Plutarch also adds the contradictory version of Heraclides Ponticus (fr. 60 W.2), according to whom this Artemon περιφόρητος was already quoted in the verses of Anacreon (fr. 16 Page = 9 G.) and lived much earlier than Pericles’ times (27.5).27 If we carefully examine the ordo proverbiorum of Zenobius’ recensio Athoa, which reflects the original redaction in which the lemmata do not follow a systematic arrangement κατὰ στοιχεῖον (this is rather due to a later revision aimed at optimizing the accessibility of these sylloges), it is possible to notice that the exegetical section of proverbs 63–64 of the first book deals respectively with the origin of the sayings λευκὴ ἡμέρα and ὁ περιφόρητος Ἀρτέμων. It is on the exegesis of these two proverbs that the two brief anecdotal digressions concerning the siege of Samos are based, being placed in consecutive chapters by Plutarch. It is even more interesting that the connection between the two distinct interpretations of Artemon appears only in Plutarch and in the above-mentioned exegetical section of Zenobius,28 where, however, the mention of the two sources expressly quoted by Plutarch is absent, namely Ephorus and Heraclides Ponticus. In this case we can come to two different conclusions. Either (1) Plutarch has taken this information respectively from both Phylarchus and Ephorus and has then placed the two brief excursus consecutively, without following any criterion,29 or, as the aforementioned evidence suggests, (2) it should be assumed that he does not choose such successive proverbial references accidentally, but rather had a paroemiographical collection at hand, which shows the same ordo 26

27

28

29

In D.S. 12.28 (a description of the siege of Samos) the invention of battering-ram and testudo is attributed to Artemon of Klazomenai, just like in Plin. Nat. 7.201 (a list of inventors of war instrument) the invention of the testudo is attributed to Artemon of Clazomene: see O. Toeppfer, “Artemon (1),” RE II (1896) 1445. The περιπόνηρος Ἀρτέμων of Ar. Ach. 850 is referred to Cratinus, alluding to the frivolousness of the anacreontean Artemon: see S.D. Olson, Aristophanes. Acharnians. Text and Commentary (Oxford: Clarendon Press 2002) 284. The scholion to v. 850 of Aristophanes’ Acharnians, where information is preserved which corresponds to Zen. Ath. 1.64, could either have been drawn from the same sources of the paroemiographers, or it could have been derived directly from a paroemiographical collection. Concerning the anecdote about Artemon, H. Sauppe, Die Quellen des Plutarchs für das Leben des Perikles (Göttingen: Dieterichsche Buchhandlung, 1867) 10, thinks that Plutarch relies on Ephorus, while Stadter, A Commentary on Plutarch’s Pericles, lxxviii, talks about “learned literature”.

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proverbiorum of Zenobius’ recensio Athoa, without the abbreviated contents to which these sylloges are notoriously subject and which still preserve the mention of Phylarchus and Ephorus. As was said above, the cases in which Zenobius’ exegetical section shows explanations that refer to such Hellenistic historians as Duris, Timaeus and Ephorus himself are not so rare at all, and these references can be found by means of the collation of the indirect tradition.30 One other charming hypothesis is that Plutarch consulted the sylloge in order to find some information about the proverbial saying λευκὴ ἡμέρα, then read the following lemma and decided to add the anecdote on Artemon as a suitable close to his narration. It must be observed, however, that Plutarch does not associate the epithet περιφόρητος with Artemon, implying some proverbial meaning, and that, in the subsequent paragraph, Ephorus appears among the sources who are consulted to verify the truthfulness of Duris’ affirmation of Pericles’ presumed brutality towards the Samians after the capitulation of their city. In spite of this, the precious evidence given by the ordo proverbiorum of Zenobius’ recensio Athoa should not be underestimated, since it can constitute another proof of the thesis for which I have been arguing so far, with reference to the unequivocal congruence between the information contained there and what was written by Plutarch in the Life of Pericles 27.4–5. There are some cases in which the citation is explicit and is used intentionally to state a comparison with the author who had last used the proverb. Plutarch uses the proverbial saying Ὕδραν τέμνειν (Zen. Ath. 1.10) twice in the Lives. In the first instance, it is used to describe the impracticability of what one is longing for, and it is readapted by Plutarch metaphorically to refer to the attempts of social and political reformation of the State. This is probably a deferential nod to paragraph 426e of Plato’s Republic, in which Socrates compares the attempt to improve the legal system of the πόλις by introducing continuous and insignificant changes to the act of cutting the Hydra’s heads, an action that is vain and destined not to achieve any useful result. In the Life of Cato the Elder (16.7), before his imminent election to the censorship, the old senator “thought he could cut and sear to some purpose the hydra-like luxury and effeminacy of the time,” whereas his opponents “sought the favour of the multitude with promises of mild conduct in office, supposing, forsooth, that it wanted to be

30

Cf. e.g. Zen. Ath. 1.5 (Duris FGrHist 76 F 93); Zen. Ath. 1.68 (Tim. FGrHist 566 F 64); Zen. Ath. 2.75 (Mnaseas fr. 59 Cappelletto = FHG III 157 fr. 49); Zen. Ath. 1.51 (Ephor. FGrHist 70 F 27). For the forms and functions of citations from historians in Plutarch, see P. Desideri, “Citazione letteraria e riferimento storico nei Precetti politici di Plutarco,” in G. D’Ippolito & I. Gallo (eds.), Strutture formali dei Moralia di Plutarco. Atti del III Convegno plutarcheo, Palermo, 3–5 maggio 1989 (Naples: D’Auria, 1991) 222–233.

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ruled with a lax and indulgent hand.” The proverbial saying adds a certain hint of irony—as if it was an utopian purpose—to the aim of Cato, and the same hint is used again with greater emphasis in the Comparison between Agis and Cleomenes and Tiberius and Gaius Gracchus (2). Here the Spartan king Agis claims that the virtue produced a change “which was able to transform and get rid of all evils at once,” just because Agis knew that “the application of trifling and partial remedies and excisions to the disorders of the state was nothing more than cutting off one of the Hydra’s heads, as Plato says” (2.2). Here Plato’s quotation is explicit and in all probability refers to the aforementioned passage of the Republic. In CG 33.8, we find a similar intertext whose particular nuance in meaning might induce us to think differently about Plutarch’s presumed models and may even imply a direct knowledge of a paroemiographical source. To his opponents mocking him because he failed to be elected for the third time as a tribune, Gaius audaciously reproached them that they “laughed with a Sardonic laugh,” because they did not understand that his plan of political reformation, on the contrary, overshadowed them. A similar proverbial saying is attested in the Odyssey (20.300–302)31 and in Plato’s Republic (337a), where the adjective σαρδάνιος properly indicates “bitter or scornful smiles or laughter” and is perhaps connected with σεσηρώς (“grinning, sneering”). This is a proper way to describe, respectively, the scorn of Odysseus after he had dodged an ox shin thrown against him by Ctesippus, and the haughtiness of Thrasymachus towards Socrates, who refused to answer his question on the essence of what is τὸ δίκαιον. However, the adjective used by Plutarch to describe the laughter of Gaius’ opponents is not σαρδάνιος but Σαρδόνιος, which is etymologically connected to the isle of Sardinia where, according to the explanation of the paroemiographers—namely Lucillus of Tarrhae, who distinguishes between the two adjectives—, it refers to a poisonous plant that is capable of provoking spasms and contractions in facial muscles, causing the consumers’ faces to resemble an unnatural laughter that is followed by death (Schol. in Pl. R. 337a = Lucill. fr. 2 Linnenkugel). Thus, the ‘sardonic smile’ has a totally different meaning in comparison with the, as it were, ‘sardanic (i.e. scornful, ridiculing) smile’ of Homer and Plato: the laughter preludes the death of those who are laughing. Furthermore, Gabriele Marasco proposed an identification with another interpretation attested in the paroemiographical tradition and attributed to Timaeus (FGrHist 566 F 64), Demon (FGrHist 327 F 18) and Clitarchus (FGrHist

31

On the origin and development of the proverbial saying, see G. Broccia, “Riso sardanio e riso sardonio da Omero a Nonno. Una storia di destini incrociati,” AFLM 34 (2001) 9–54.

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137 F 9), which is variably connected to the practice of human sacrifices among the Sardinians and inherited from their Carthaginian ancestors. In this etymology, they used to sacrifice men aged over seventeen or prisoners, which simulated a sort of ritual laughing.32 Marasco thinks that Gaius’ good knowledge of Sardinian customs (he lived in Sardinia in the years 126–125 BCE) and the fact that his political program, as rejected by the opponents, was essentially focused on the foundation of a new colony in Carthage could justify Gaius’ allusive and cutting reply. As he writes, “referring to the tradition of human sacrifices attributed to Carthaginians, Gaius takes up a threatening attitude towards his rivals, pointing out the same destiny that was reserved by Carthaginians to the enemies or the old men considered not useful.”33 With respect to the other cases shown, here, the direct knowledge of a paroemiographical source is not provable by specific textual references, but it must be stressed that, besides Homer and Plato, even Polybius (18.6) and Lucian (Iupp. trag. 16) used the expression σαρδάνιος γέλως (using the spelling a for o—i.e. as it were again, “scornful”), but Plutarch is the first to present people who are sardonically laughing (that is, “preluding their own ruin”). So the comparison with the mentioned verses of Homer, which are recorded among the loci similes by Lindskog and Ziegler and recalled in notes by Holden,34 Underhill,35 Perrin36 and Valgiglio,37 should be treated with extreme caution. The evidence pointed out in this inquiry can be useful to broaden the outline of Plutarch’s known sources along with existing scholarly examinations concerning the way in which he uses them. If, as I have tried to demonstrate, Plutarch really had at his disposal a paroemiographical collection and consulted it in order to obtain various information that is essentially of an anecdotal nature to be used for the digressive enrichment of the Lives, then his global structure must be quite different from what we have learned from the direct manuscript tradition. Such a modus operandi can easily be adapted to the well-known πολυμάθεια of Plutarch, which appears throughout the great quantity of literary citations in his works, and which can be manageably reconciled with the practice of proverbial citations.38 It is hardly surprising that 32 33 34 35 36 37 38

G. Marasco, “Una battuta di Gaio Gracco sul riso sardonio,” Africa Romana 3 (1991) 1675– 1681. Ibid., 1681. H.A. Holden, Plutarch’s Lives of the Gracchi (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1885) 130–131. G.E. Underhill, Plutarch’s Lives of the Gracchi (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1892) 60. B. Perrin, Plutarch. Lives, Volume X (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1921) 225. E. Valgiglio, Plutarco, Vita dei Gracchi (Rome: Signorelli, 1957) 153. For a useful survey of the enormous number of authors quoted by Plutarch, see E.L. Bowie,

plutarch’s proverbial intertexts in the lives

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Plutarch’s employment of proverbial sayings even became paradigmatic in late antique rhetorical treatises, as is testified by Menander Rhetor 2.392 (122.28– 33 R.-W.), who describes the Lives as being “very useful for the ‘talk,’” because “they are full of stories, apophthegms, and proverbs.” But what distinguishes and characterizes Plutarch, in the selection and integration of proverbs in the narrative structure of his works, is undoubtedly the addition of erudite information to complete and amplify each proverbial citation—information which, as I have tried to demonstrate, very frequently shows a manifest affinity with those proverbs that are attested in the paroemiographical testimonia. From a philological point of view, it is not only plausible that we should consider Plutarch as a reader of paroemiographical collections intended not as mere instrumenta artis but as true scholarly tools, as the sylloges of Didymus and Lucillus must have been, full of learned references and chiefly dedicated to the literary exegesis. It is also appropriate to better contextualize Plutarch’s peculiar stylistic and narrative choices concerning the forms of proverbial citations in the versatile cultural environment which precedes the coming of the so-called Second Sophistic. The canonization of the παροιμία in rhetorical texts written during this period developed as a distinctive element of the ornatus. Moreover, it extended from Aelius Aristides and Lucian to Libanius, Themistius and Synesius, all of whom largely use plain proverbial sayings without the copiousness of the additional information found in Plutarch. Hence, the paroemiographical collections gradually change into a form of repertory, that is as reference books ad usum rhetorum et scholarum. This can be perceived from the continuous process of abridgement that starts with Zenobius and that ends in the extremely concise Byzantine collections (such as those of Macarius and Gregorius of Cyprus), through which authors’ citations and their contrasting explanations are the first to be excised. Plutarch combines the subtlety of proverbial citation with the digressive element offered advantageously by the copiousness of learned information, to the extent that in some cases we can even find contrasting explanations just like those in the exegetical sections of paroemiographical lemmata. The παροιμίαι and their explanations were harmoniously inserted within the narration of the Lives, with the intention being now epideictic, then illustrative, sometimes with a light ironic nuance—in a way not dissimilar to what happens in Aelius Aristides39 and to what we usually find in writers of late antiquity,

39

“Poetry and Education,” in M. Beck (ed.), A Companion to Plutarch (Chichester: WileyBlackwell, 2014) 177–190. Cf. e.g. 1.241 L.-B. (= Zen. Ath. 1.7); 2.406 L.-B. (= Zen. Ath. 1.5); 3.672 L.-B. (= Zen. Ath. 1.2); 29.17 K. (= Zen. Ath. 1.27); 37.21 K. (= Zen. Ath. 1.22). Leaving out of consideration the incom-

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above all Libanius. It is in such a sense that the centrality of Plutarch should be understood in the reception of the cultural heritage with regard to the tradition and exegesis of proverbs. His works stand as a fundamental Vermittler between the presence of proverbial wisdom in the classical and Hellenistic authors/commentators, and the rhetorical recodification of the stylistic features of the παροιμία that occurred from the middle of the second century. From this perspective, the complex intertextual intertwining that connects the single proverbial quotations and the short notes that clarify the earlier meaning appears to be subject to a double stratification: on the one hand, the ancient (or universal) reference, which is the proverb itself; and on the other, the paroemiographic source from which it—and the information supplied to it—is taken. Considering the proverbs attested within the Lives as a particular typology of literary quotation, as has been emphatically suggested by José Antonio Fernández Delgado,40 is therefore absolutely plausible and may sometimes allow us to establish that the citation technique of Plutarch presupposes the reading of an intermediate source rather than a simple reference to an universally known proverb.

40

plete lists compiled by W. Schmid, Der Atticismus in seinen Hauptvertretern von Dionysius von Halikarnass bis auf den zweiten Philostratus, II (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1889) 263–267, and by J.E. Harry, “On the Authorship of the Leptinean Orations Attributed to Aristeides,” AJPh 15 (1894) 69 n. 2, it is notable that no exhaustive inquiry concerning proverbial forms of speech in Aristides’ Orations has been completed to date. J.A. Fernández Delgado, “Los proverbios en los Moralia de Plutarco,” 195–196.

chapter 23

Who Is the Best Prophet? The ‘Manifold’ Character of a Quotation in Plutarch Elsa Giovanna Simonetti

Abstract In this chapter, I will analyze the different meanings attributed to the probably Euripidean (fr. 973 Nauck) quotation μάντις ἄριστος ὅστις εἰκάζει καλῶς, cited twice in the Delphic dialogues. The nature of this specific, external reference, employed with radically divergent aims in two different dialogical contexts, makes this case-study a notable and effective example of Plutarch’s use of intertextuality and intratextuality. First, I will briefly consider other significant passages in which this maxim also appears (Arrian, An. 7.16.6.4; Appian, BC 2.21.153.13; Cicero, Div. 2.12.5). Then, I will focus on its two instances in Plutarch’s Delphic dialogues and propose a comparative analysis of their different contexts, thus showing the radically divergent roles that the phrase performs. In De def. or. 432C, Lamprias employs Euripides’ verse to prove the irrational character of inspired divination, within the wider framework of his passionate defense of oracular mantic. In De Pyth. or. 399A, instead, the quotation serves the entirely different aim of sustaining the harsh criticism of the Epicurean Boëthus against divination and its gnoseological efficacy. The aim of this chapter is to show Plutarch’s ability to bend one single authoritative sentence for different philosophical intentions and to prove that this technique challenges the readers to envisage philosophical problems under multiple points of view.

1

Introduction

In the present chapter, I intend to analyze an interesting case of inter- and intratextuality in Plutarch’s writings. I will concentrate on one particular quotation that appears in his dialogues: a verse ascribed to Euripides, which qualifies as an external, intertextual reference. This quotation appears twice in his Delphic dialogues—thus the way in which these two significant Plutarchan loci relate to one another qualifies as a case of intratextuality. My analysis will shed light on the role that external and internal references play in Plutarch’s writings and on his technique of bending one single authori-

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004427860_025

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tative sentence towards different, and in this case complementary, explicative aims, while challenging the readers to assume varied perspectives on one single philosophical issue. In what follows, by relying on Plutarch’s conceptual apparatus of divination, I will analyze the meaning that the Euripidean maxim acquires in his works. Then, I will take into account other selected passages of Plutarch’s writings that show important conceptual affinities with the first two places. Finally, I will try to illustrate the argumentative force of the Euripidean verse as inscribed within precise dialogical frameworks, and its theoretical relevance within the wider context of Plutarch’s philosophical agenda. The dialogues considered here will be De defectu oraculorum and De Pythiae oraculis, which are characterized by an apologetic tone: their main objective is to provide a philosophical justification for the decline of the oracular activity at the Delphic shrine, from a qualitative and quantitative point of view, respectively. In order to do so, Plutarch aims to convince his readers that divination is merely one among many physical phenomena that occur in the material world and that, exactly like all earthly dynamics, it is governed by natural laws. Therefore, the mantic activity performed in Delphi, despite being admittedly divine in origin,1 is necessarily involved in processes of alteration. The fluctuations of oracular production are to be ascribed to the material factors involved in its mechanism, which is captured itself in the same perpetual flow of change that overwhelms the entire sensible cosmos. This implies that in no way the changes and even failures that affect divination should ever lead to any undermining of faith in the god, who gives us the gift of mantic, among many others, thus proving his constant “goodness,” “care” and “providence,” which Plutarch indicates with the very recurrent terms φιλανθρωπία, ἐπιμέλεια, and πρόνοια. In the two distinct passages from De def. or. and De Pyth. or. that I am going to analyze,2 we find the same Euripidean quotation,3 in two slightly different versions, but both translatable as: “the best prophet is the one who guesses well.” This sentence reportedly came into common use as a proverb among

1 Cf. De def. or. 436Ε. 2 The passages are the following: De def. or. 432C: οὐ γάρ, ὡς ὁ Εὐριπίδης φησί, ‘μάντις ἄριστος ὅστις εἰκάζει καλῶς’; De Pyth. or. 399A: μᾶλλον δ’ ὁ μὲν ‘εἰκάζων καλῶς’, ὃν ‘ἄριστον μάντιν’ ἀνηγόρευκεν ἡ παροιμία. 3 Fr. 973 Nauck. Despite a scholium attributing this verse to Menander (Aristid. Or. 2, Σ AB Oxon. p. 403, 16 Dindorf), scholars tend to agree that this is Euripidean authorship, and many scholars connect it with another verse, analogous in meaning: E. Hel. 757: γνώμη δ’ ἀρίστη μάντις ἥ τ’ εὐβουλία (“Sound judgement and prudence are the best seer”).

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the Greeks, as also attested in the historical works of Arrian and Appian. They both report that Alexander the Great pronounced this saying to express his skepticism against the prophecy of some Chaldaean seers, who suggested that he stayed away from Babylon, particularly its eastern side.4 In the proverb the verb εἰκάζειν is intended as “to make a guess,” and thus has a clear demeaning and sarcastic connotation and was accordingly employed to disprove the soperceived treacherous activity of seers. In the context of Plutarch’s dialogues, this sentence seems to acquire a rather different meaning, which is better conveyed by Cicero’s translation of this same Euripidean verse in the second book of De divinatione. There, Cicero aims at dismissing the cognitive claims of diviners, and states: “I will call the best seer the one who makes the right conjecture.”5 In this context, the verb conicere expresses the activity of “drawing a conclusion from collected particulars.”6 Also, while this position denies the validity of divination, it does not devalue the diviners, but instead it places the focus on the correct methodology for prognostics, which is founded on rationality and logical reasoning.

2

The Quotation in Plutarch’s De def. or. and De Pyth. or.

In Plutarch’s Delphic dialogues, our Euripidean quotation is pronounced by two different characters, who embody two radically contrasting worldviews. These are: Lamprias in De def. or. and Boëthus in De Pyth. or. Lamprias represents a quite-reliable source for understanding Plutarch’s own stance (he is sometimes even defined as Plutarch’s ‘spokesperson’ in this dialogue7), whereas Boëthus is a follower of Epicureanism, which—as is well known to Plutarch’s readers—has been a privileged and constant polemical target for the Chaeronean, throughout his philosophical and literary production. I will start with the analysis of Euripides’ quotation in De def. or. The dialogue revolves around a central question concerning the cause of the dramatic 4 Cf. Arr. An. 7.16.6.4: ἔχει δὲ τὸ ἔπος Εὐριπίδῃ ὧδε· Μάντις δ’ ἄριστος ὅστις εἰκάζει καλῶς; App. BC 2.21.153.13: τοῦ δὲ τὸ ἰαμβεῖον εἰπόντος, ὅτι ‘μάντις ἄριστος, ὅστις εἰκάζει καλῶς’. Both authors report that Alexander died because he disregarded the Chaldeans’ prediction. 5 Cf. Cic. Div. 2.12.5: Vide, igitur, ne nulla sit divinatio. Est quidam Graecus vulgaris in hanc sententiam versus: Bene qui coniciet, vatem hunc perhibebo optimum. (“So, you see that divination is nothing. There is indeed a famous Greek verse supporting this opinion: the one who makes the right conjecture, that I will call the best seer”). 6 Cf. Lewis&Short s.v. ‘cōnĭcĭo’. 7 Cf. J.M. Dillon, The Middle Platonists, 80 BC to AD 220 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1996) 209 and 219.

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decrease of oracular production and prophetic shrines in Greece, which is also affecting the Delphic site. The context in which the quotation is reported is the following: we are in the final part of the dialogue, and Lamprias is developing his conclusive explanation of the dynamics of divination at Delphi, expressed in a long monologue (431D–438D), which is interrupted only by the two brief interventions of Demetrius (434D–F) and Ammonius (434F–435E). Plutarch seems to value Lamprias’ account of oracular mantic as the most accurate, rigorous and correct among all those presented in the dialogue by the other characters. The passage goes as follows (432C–D): It is not, as Euripides says, that ‘the best prophet is the one who guesses well’, but it is the intelligent man (ἔμφρων ἀνήρ) the one who is guided by the rational component of his soul (νοῦς) along the lines of correct conjecture, and according to verisimilitude (μετ’ εἰκότος). My translation intends to stress what I think is the most plausible meaning of this quite controversial locus. I take oὗτος to refer to ὅστις εἰκάζει καλῶς, which, against other interpretations,8 makes Euripides’ definition of the best prophet as a rational and wise individual fundamentally wrong for Lamprias. This view, as we will see, is also shared by Plutarch, who endorses and supports an idea of oracular divination as disengaged from rational deduction. In other words, Lamprias recalls the Euripidean quotation precisely in order to reject its content: it is not true that, as Euripides said, the best prophet is the one who conjectures in a correct way and reaches for plausible conclusions. Instead, the one who makes the right inference (the “best seer”) is the intelligent man: this individual formulates an accurate prediction by following step by step the best part of his soul, while keeping his rational understanding strictly bounded to the principles of likelihood and probability.

8 The following translations, certainly remarkable under many other respects, give a quite inaccurate meaning to this passage: F. Ildefonse, Plutarque. Dialogues pythiques. L’E de Delphes, Pourquoi la Pythie ne rend plus ses oracles en vers, La disparition des oracles (Paris: Belles Lettres, 2006) and F.C. Babbitt, Plutarch. Moralia, Volume V (Cambridge-London: Harvard University Press, 1936). Better versions are instead provided by: R. Flacelière, Plutarque. Œuvres morales. Tome VI (Paris: Belles Lettres, 1974) and A. Rescigno, Plutarco. L’eclissi degli oracoli. Introduzione, testo critico, traduzione e commento (Naples: D’Auria, 1995). It is worth noting that all these editions rely on the same Greek edition/text: οὐ γάρ, ὡς ὁ Εὐριπίδης φησί, ‘μάντις ἄριστος ὅστις εἰκάζει καλῶς,’ ἀλλ’ οὗτος ἔμφρων μὲν ἀνὴρ καὶ τῷ νοῦν ἔχοντι τῆς ψυχῆς καὶ μετ’ εἰκότος ἡγουμένῳ καθ’ ὁδὸν ἑπόμενος, τὸ δὲ μαντικὸν ὥσπερ γραμματεῖον ἄγραφον καὶ ἄλογον καὶ ἀόριστον ἐξ αὑτοῦ, δεκτικὸν δὲ φαντασιῶν πάθεσι καὶ προαισθήσεων, ἀσυλλογίστως ἅπτεται τοῦ μέλλοντος, ὅταν ἐκστῇ μάλιστα τοῦ παρόντος.

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As Lamprias explains just a few lines below (432C–D), in prophecy the apprehension of the future happens in an imaginative, irrational way (ἀσυλλογίστως). The mantikon, which is the faculty of the soul in charge of divination, is like a tabula rasa: it is empty and indeterminate, ready to receive impressions and presentiments, and works in a way that is utterly extraneous to logical reasoning. The mantikon awakens when the body is affected by that radical change of status and modification (μεταβολή), which is called “prophetic inspiration” (ἐνθουσιασμός). The distinction between irrational-prophetic inspiration and rational analysis of divinatory signs (be they revealed, natural, provoked) is ingrained in Greek culture: on this very principle lies the notorious Platonic distinction between the prophet (captured in a state of enthusiasm) and the interpreter of the prophetic revelation (who maintains instead a sound mind).9 Lamprias thus rejects Euripides’ definition of the seer (μάντις) as the person who is in control of his rational power and employs the Euripidean quotation as a ‘negative example’ to prove what prophecy is not. According to Lamprias’ implicit distinction, prophecy is at odds with rational understanding. While prophetic inspiration is based on the detachment of the rational part of the soul (called λογιστικὸν καὶ φροντιστικόν) and on the alogical and imaginative apprehension of the future, rational understanding implies, instead, the analysis of the causal links between phenomena, and, according to Plutarch’s epistemological criteria, it is necessarily founded on the principles of caution and verisimilitude.10 Few lines below, Lamprias himself resorts to another Euripidean quotation, but in this case Euripides is endorsed: he is brought into the narrative since he provides a useful and positive example for demonstrating the peculiar, irrational and inspired character of divination (432E–F, transl. Babbitt): For Bacchic rout And frenzied mind contain much prophecy,11 according to Euripides, when the soul becomes hot and fiery, and throws aside the caution (ἀπώσηται τὴν εὐλάβειαν) that human intelligence (θνητὴ

9 10

11

Cf. Pl. Ti. 72a–b and Phdr. 244b–245c. For Plutarch’s ‘skeptical’ tendencies, cf. J. Opsomer, “Divination and Academic ‘Scepticism’ according to Plutarch,” in L. Van der Stockt (ed.), Plutarchea Lovaniensia: A Miscellany of Essays on Plutarch (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1996) 164–194; id., In Search of the Truth. Academic Tendencies in Middle Platonism (Brussels: Koninklijke Academie voor Wetenschappen, Letteren en Schone Kunsten, 1998). Cf. E. Ba. 298.

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φρόνησις) lays upon it, and thus often diverts and extinguishes the inspiration (ἐνθουσιασμόν). As we can see, Euripides is rejected and approved in just a few lines all by the same character, Lamprias, whose main aim is to defend the irrationality of oracular divination in order to demonstrate its divine nature. The verses “For Bacchic rout / And frenzied mind contain much prophecy” are drawn from Euripides’ Bacchae, precisely from the section where Tiresias explains to Pentheus that Dionysus is a prophet, and that Bacchic madness also provides some prophetic skills. Indeed, he reveals that the god Dionysus, when entering a human body, renders the possessed able to foretell the future. In this second quotation Euripides is thus endorsed and approved, since what he expresses helps sustain Lamprias’ (and Plutarch’s) main point. It is also worth dwelling on the second part of this text, where, after Euripides’ quotation, Lamprias affirms that inspiration is fundamentally incompatible with human intelligence and caution. What I believe is especially important in this passage is precisely the presence of the concept of rational caution (εὐλάβεια)—a pivotal notion within Plutarch’s philosophy: this meaningful, recurring word condenses his reverential respect towards the divine and represents the hallmark of his Academic spirit and his skeptical epistemological stance. Plutarch is convinced that inquiries about the physical world should be guided by “reasonable probability,” “plausibility” and “caution” (ἀσφάλεια). He conceives the Socratic-aporetic attitude as central to philosophical reflection, and he values suspension of judgment (ἐποχή) as a precious tool for identifying a wise and balanced ‘middle path’ between atheism and superstition.12 The presence of the word eulabeia (“throws aside the caution”, ἀπώσηται τὴν εὐλάβειαν) is extremely meaningful in this context, i.e. right after the second Euripidean quotation. Lamprias is expressly warning us that when human reasoning (θνητὴ φρόνησις) takes control of the soul, which implies the imposition of rational caution (εὐλάβεια), then the power of prophetic inspiration is shut off. The role of eulabeia, which is of crucial importance in scientificphilosophical investigation, represents, instead, a major hindrance for prophecy: not only does it prevent mantic inspiration, but it also has the power immediately to turn off the enthusiastic, irrational condition necessary for the prophetic state to arise.

12

Cf. De def. or. 430B–431A.

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Now we can go back to the main Euripidean quotation that identifies the “best prophet” with the one “who makes the right conjecture,” and move on to its second occurrence, which is found in De Pyth. or. In this case, the quotation is pronounced by the Epicurean Boëthus,13 whose main objective is to deprive divination of any gnoseological efficacy and abolish its divine origin, thus to invalidate the conviction—shared by all the other characters in the dialogue and ultimately by Plutarch himself—that oracular mantic is a divine gift bestowed to humans, which is embedded into an intelligent, provident design. Boëthus’ hyper-rationalistic Epicurean stance is radicalized by the fact that, in the context of De Pyth. or., he is counteracting the antithetical position of the Stoic poet Sarapion who—in line with his philosophical background— believes that the deity has an immediate and complete control of oracles, which are instruments of a nearly direct communication between the god and humankind, through the divinely beautiful and accurate utterances of the Pythia.14 Boëthus, instead, intends to discard any deterministic connection between the upper and the lower world, and he even tries to refute any perspective involving the action of superior beings. He states (399A, transl. Babbitt): Much more—is it true that the ‘good guesser,’ whom the proverb has proclaimed ‘the best prophet,’ is like unto a man who searches the ground over, and tries to track the future by means of reasonable probabilities (διὰ τῶν εὐλόγων). These prophets of the type of the Sibyl and Bacis toss forth and scatter into the gulf of time, as into the ocean depths with no chart to guide them, words and phrases at haphazard, which deal with events and occurrences of all sorts; and although some come to pass for them as the result of chance (ὡς ἔτυχε), what is said at the present time is equally a lie, even if later it becomes true in the event that such a thing does happen. Boëthus aims at showing that the activity performed by inspired diviners is useless and inconsistent: prophets simply throw random, inconsiderate words into the infinite flow of time, which brings with itself all sorts of events. It is merely

13

14

Boethus is presented in De Pythiae oraculis as a mathematician, in the process of joining Epicureanism. Since the views that he expresses in the passages analysed here have a strong Epicurean character, and considering that he is called ‘Epicurean’ in Plutarch’s Quaestiones convivales (673C), for ease of exposition he will be considered ‘Epicurean’ in the present chapter. Cf. De Pyth. or. 396D; 396F–397B; 399B–D.

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due to fortune (τύχη) and chance (αὐτόματον) that sometimes their so-called ‘predictions’ happen to be accurate and to run into real facts, thus matching the right outcome among infinite possibilities. The Epicurean also resorts to logic in order to show that methodologically groundless predictions are not only incorrect, but openly false—a radical position, founded on the rejection of Stoic determinism and on the dismissal of the Stoic conception of earthly events as chained together in a sympathetic relationship.15 Every assertion regarding future events is false (ψεῦδος) even if it is eventually confirmed by the facts: this is because the words of prophets are not “predictions” but just “sayings” (οὐδὲ προειπεῖν ἔστιν ἀλλ’ εἰπεῖν) that refer to things that are not present (τὰ μὴ ὑπάρχοντα).16 This quite peculiar kind of logical argument might surprise modern readers, but it becomes clearer when considering that ancient divination looked at, and perceived, future events as if they were present. As we can see, in his polemical intervention, Boëthus traces a clear line of demarcation between rational prediction and prophecy: the only possible model of prediction that he admits (albeit uncertain, and depending on human faculties and capabilities) consists in a well-grounded conjecture—in a rational interpretation of signs that leads to a cautious conclusion. A good example of this might be the specific semiotic methodology that experts adopt in their own disciplinary field (such as medicine, astronomy, etc.).17

3

Reason and Prophecy in Plutarch

The texts analyzed so far show that, in Plutarch’s Delphic dialogues, Euripides’ quotation is intended, and employed, in two very divergent ways. It is also

15 16

17

Cf. Cic. Div. 1.125–128. Cicero in his account of Stoic divination excludes scientific predictions from the domain of prophecy. Cf. De Pyth. or. 398F. The logical soundness of this passage, in light of ancient Epicurean logic, has been proved by F. Ferrari, “La falsità delle asserzioni relative al futuro: un argomento epicureo contro la mantica in Plut. Pyth. Orac. 10,” in M. Erler & R. Bees (eds.), Epikureismus in der späten Republik und der Kaiserzeit. Akten der 2. Tagung der Karl-undGertrud-Abel-Stiftung vom 30. September–3. Oktober 1998 in Würzburg (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2000) 149–163. This can be resumed from the discussion on ‘inferring big results from small data,’ conducted in the beginning of De defectu oraculorum, taking the cue from the episode of the ‘Ammon lamp.’ In this regard, cf. E. Simonetti, “La lampada di Ammone come eikôn dell’universo,” in S. Amendola, G. Pace & P. Volpe Cacciatore (eds.), Immagini letterarie e iconografia nelle opere di Plutarco (Madrid: Ediciones Clásicas, 2017) 223–230.

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uttered by two radically different characters, who bend it towards two opposite aims: while Lamprias intends to defend oracular divination, and in particular its inspirational character, Boëthus, by totally dismissing the prophetic virtues of seers, defines divination not only as useless and unreliable, but as ultimately non-existent. Nevertheless, in both cases Plutarch appears in the background, pointing us to the significant gap between two antithetical ways of knowledge acquisition: the one rational-scientific, the other irrational-inspired. In the context of Plutarch’s writings, this distinction, I believe, cannot be traced back to the one—mentioned above—between natural and artificial divination, the former based on the enlarged, divinely inspired faculties of individuals (as in dreams or oracles), and the other founded on the decipherment of mysterious signs (as in haruspicy or augury).18 More generally, Plutarch seems to incline towards inspired divination, and he leaves little space for discussion of the artificial one. This not only happens in the Delphic dialogues (the simplest reason for this might be that artificial divination was not practiced in Delphi), but also his other extant writings all lack an equally wide and profound treatment of artificial divination as compared to oracular divination. One notable exception is De genio Socratis, where it is said that a higher race of human beings receive divine messages directly, through a demonic light, while ordinary mortals are forced to resort to a tentative, indirect, and inductive kind of divination, founded on the rational decoding of god-sent oblique messages like signs (σημεῖα, μαντεύματα) and riddles (αἰνίγματα).19 Nevertheless, this work, for its literary dialogical form, its enigmatic mythical section, and its blurred philosophical content (as it is often the case when Plutarch deals with the thorny topic of demonology) fails to answer the difficult question as to whether Plutarch believed in artificial divination. For these reasons, I will concentrate my analysis on some passages of Plutarch’s writings that attest to his distinction between rational and inspired knowledge, and I will leave aside the one between natural and technical divination.20 I will start by recalling a short section of De sollertia animalium, where Plutarch praises the startling prophetic power of crocodiles. The passage presents the same opposition between rational and divinely inspired predictions: crocodiles have a special, inexplicable capacity to foresee the exact limit until which the Nile will overflow, which helps them identify a safe and dry place 18 19 20

For an ancient, clear distinction between divinatio naturalis and artificiosa, cf. Cic. Div. 1.72; 2.26. Cf. De genio Socr. 577D; 593B. I would like to thank Professor Christopher Pelling, who called my attention on this problem.

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to lay down their eggs. The crocodiles’ prophetic power goes beyond any rational guess or inference (local farmers, unable to reach the same results of the crocodiles, rely indeed on the animals’ prediction), and its cause cannot even be explained by human mind (De soll. an. 982C, transl. Goodwin): But such is its skill in choosing a place for breeding, that no man can explain it by reason or conjecture (ὁ στοχασμὸς ἐπίνοιαν ἀνθρώπῳ τῆς αἰτίας οὐ δίδωσιν οὐδὲ συλλογισμόν). Whence it comes that the foreknowledge of this creature is imputed more to divinity than reason (ὅθεν οὔ φασι λογικὴν ἀλλὰ μαντικὴν εἶναι τὴν παρὰ τούτου τοῦ θηρίου πρόγνωσιν).21 As this interesting example proves, even in the case of crocodiles, we find the same distinction: on the one hand, we see rational abilities referred to humans (ἐπίνοια, συλλογισμός) and to animals (λογική), and, on the other, the irrational prophetic power (μαντική) whose very mechanism escapes our rational understanding. If we move to the Lives, we find a similar hiatus for instance in the biography of Aratus. Plutarch draws our attention on a divine omen given to Aratus, through signs in sacrifice. Nevertheless, Aratus is said to have not believed in the sign, since (Arat. 43.7–8, transl. Perrin): At the time, then, Aratus paid no heed to the utterance, since in general he put little faith in victims and divinations (πίστεως ἱεροῖς καὶ μαντεύμασιν), and trusted rather to his reasoning powers (τῷ λογισμῷ). This passage also indicates that a faith in sacrifices and in mantic practices (ἱεροῖς καὶ μαντεύμασιν) is opposed to rational reasoning (λογισμός). This is a particularly interesting example, since it shows that—as pointed out above—the distinction between rational and irrational knowledge acquisition, and the distinction between artificial and natural divination, do not follow the same lines. Similarly, in the Life of Alcibiades, we find (Alc. 17.4, transl. Perrin): Meton—whether his fear of the future arose from mere calculation or from his use of some sort of divination (ὁ δὲ Μέτων εἴτε δείσας ἐκ λογισμοῦ τὸ μέλλον, εἴτε μαντικῆς τινι τρόπῳ χρησάμενος)—feigned madness, and seizing a blazing torch, was like to have set fire to his own house. 21

For an analysis of the argumentative structures employed in this dialogue, see J. Mossman, “Plutarch on animals: rhetorical strategies in De sollertia animalium,” Hermathena 179 (2005) 141–163.

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These examples, by displaying that it is possible to find some cursory references to the division between divination and rationality, might corroborate the assumption that Plutarch conceived irrational prediction and rational inference as two radically opposite ways of knowledge acquisition. Nevertheless, the importance that this opposition acquires in the context of the Delphic dialogues—as expressed by the notable case of the inter- and intratextuality of Euripides’ quotation—is particularly striking.

4

Plutarch’s Use of Euripides’ Quotation

I will now go back to the two passages of the Delphic dialogues analyzed above (De def. or. 432C–D and De Pyth. or. 399A), which contain our Euripidean quotation and place the focus on Plutarch’s intention, thus transcending those of his characters. As we have seen, in the Delphic dialogues, not only is the rigid demarcation between two ways of knowledge acquisition—the one rational and the other inspired—independent from the one between natural versus technical divination; but also the entire discussion is mainly confined within the boundaries of natural divination (performed by inspired seers in an altered state of mind) and excludes technical divination (based on observation, conjecture and rational decipherment). So why does Plutarch resort to the same Euripidean quotation twice? Is this in order to radically exclude rational investigation from the domain of oracular mantic activity? I believe that by shifting the focus to Plutarch’s polemic agenda, we can discover something concerning his argumentative strategy, and thus the reasons for this interesting case of inter- and intratextuality. In order to do so, I propose to consider the following Stoic fragment, attributed to Chrysippus (SVF 3.605): The sage is the only diviner (καὶ μαντικὸν δὲ μόνον εἶναι τὸν σπουδαῖον). He has the science (ἐπιστήμη) that helps him to decipher the signs coming from the gods or demigods (διαγνωστικὴν σημείων τῶν ἐκ θεῶν ἢ δαιμόνων), concerning human life. For this reason he is in charge of all the different kinds of mantic: dream interpretation, augury, sacrifice, and all other similar—if there are. This passage condenses important ideas regarding the way in which the old Stoics held and explained divination as associated with a sound scientific methodology that is regulated by the law of universal sympathy. In particular, the Stoics conceived divination as the practice of observing and decoding the signs sent

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from above by means of causal reasoning, and they claimed divination as a science that required expertise and could be developed through practice. By keeping this in mind, we can perhaps find an answer for Plutarch’s insistence on the irrational character of divination in the Delphic dialogues— brought to the surface by the analysis of these notable intra- and intertextual links. Plutarch’s double insertion of the Euripidean quotation is part of his critical attitude against the Stoics: he wants to be sure that the reader excludes any view of divination as connected to its Stoic definition, i.e. as a conjecture, as a common sense inference from evidence. The root of Plutarch’s contrast with the Stoics is found in his own dualistic ontological and epistemological conception. In the context of the Delphic dialogues, he intends to prove the ineradicable, irrational component within divination. For Plutarch, the concept of being ‘irrational’ is associated with ‘material’ and ‘disordered,’ as chiefly explained in De animae procreatione in Timaeo. His aim is to prove that oracular practice, exactly like any other phenomenon, depends on its internal material components and factors, and that it thus has a contingent, fallible character—nevertheless, its superior, transcendent cause is always ascribable to god.22 According to Plutarch’s epistemology—as attested in his scientific treatises and quaestiones—, causal explanation is not sufficient to decode the profound meaning that phenomena hide under their mere physical appearance: the knowledge of material causes is only the first step for humans to take when ascending the research path, which necessarily finds its completion in the discovery of the supreme, intelligible, and transcendent causes (τὰ πρῶτα).23

5

Conclusion

The case of intertextuality that I have analyzed, therefore, points right to the core of Plutarch’s metaphysical and epistemological stance, which constitutes the heart of the argumentative strategy and of the thematic structure of the Delphic dialogues. In the end, readers are led to believe that the numerical decline of oracles (as discussed in De def. or.) and the formal bad quality of the Pythia’s utterances (as dealt with in De Pyth. or.) have nothing to do with the god’s existence and providence, since divine and material elements are located 22 23

I explained this in E. Simonetti, A Perfect Medium? Oracular Divination in the Thought of Plutarch (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2017). Cf. in this regard M. Meeusen, Plutarch’s Science of Natural Problems: A Study with Commentary on Quaestiones Naturales (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2017) 316–318.

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on two different plans and follow two distinct orders of causation. And surprisingly, in this endeavor, Plutarch does not have only Lamprias, his own brother, as an ally, but even the Epicurean Boëthus is on his side.

Acknowledgements I am very grateful to my audience at the Plutarch conference, and in particular to Judith Mossman, Christopher Pelling and Michiel Meeusen, whose comments helped me improve my paper in the making of this chapter.

capitolo 24

Aspetti e funzioni dell’intertestualità nei De tuenda sanitate praecepta di Plutarco Fabio Tanga

Abstract The chapter examines Plutarch’s De tuenda sanitate praecepta as a work where intertextuality may be observed in some of its aspects and functions. In De tuenda Plutarch’s educational goal seems to be the creation of a balance between soul and body, helping the readers to become good doctors of their body and to achieve the virtue through health. In this treatise philosophy, literature and medicine interact through intertextual devices and intratextual references, sometimes showing the interdiscursivity with the medical discourse and the intergenericity with other different literary genres. Through the example of previous authors, philosophers, rulers and famous or normal citizens, Plutarch contaminates and integrates his literary models, creating a discourse that seems to be at the same time complete, useful and pleasant for the readers. And the self-exploration appears to be the best direction towards a moralistic vision of the intellectual and social community.

I De tuenda sanitate praecepta trattano il tema medicale in maniera complessivamente vasta e organica sotto l’aspetto igienico, preventivo1 e occasionalmente anche diagnostico e terapeutico, e presentano caratteristiche di stile, pensiero ed equilibrio etico e teoretico che sembrano indice di solida maturità compositiva.2 Plutarco intende ampliare l’orizzonte della medicina integrandolo attraverso filosofia, precetti suggeriti dal buon senso popolare e considerazioni

1 Diversamente dalle Quaest. conv., dove temi fisiologici, patologici e naturalistici sono strutturalmente ordinati senza un principio discriminante ed un criterio sistematico (cf. 629D). 2 Invece il De esu, pur avendo attinenza con la medicina greca sul piano dietologico, propone una concezione vegetariana intransigente connotata da un rigorismo di impostazione eticoreligiosa e di ascendenza pitagorica (cf. De esu 995A; 995C; 995E) di un Plutarco probabilmente poco più che trentenne; L. Senzasono, Plutarco. Precetti igienici (Napoli: D’Auria, 1992) 10–11.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004427860_026

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morali, ma senza intaccare il platonismo di fondo che contraddistingue il complesso dei Moralia. Da medio-platonico eclettico, il Cheronese intreccia psicologia platonica, etica epicurea e tradizione fisio-patologica ippocratica,3 articolando nell’opuscolo la conformità alla natura e la strenua lotta dell’anima con il corpo per l’equilibrio psico-fisico in ordine all’esercizio della virtù tramite la supremazia dell’anima nella sua parte più elevata.4 In contrapposizione ai gretti ed avari che si dedicano solo al lavoro, trascurando la decadenza e devastazione del proprio corpo causate da insonnie ed andirivieni, i destinatari dell’opuscolo sono gli uomini di studio ed i politici. E a costoro sono rivolte indicazioni prescrittive in uno stile familiare e con un tono generalmente compatto che non rifugge dall’appeal paradigmatico e sublimante esercitato da aneddoti storici, citazioni5 poetiche e prosastiche e figure retoriche, spesso mutuati da altri trattati presenti nel corpus dei Moralia e che talora sembrano entrare quasi in concorrenza con i modelli fisiopatologici di ispirazione. Nel complesso, dunque, i De tuenda sanitate praecepta paiono un vero e proprio microcosmo di intertestualità, non soltanto nella metatestualità del

3 In proposito, cf. anche G. Böhm, Plutarchs Dialog Ὑγιεινὰ παραγγέλματα analysiert und auf seine Quellen untersucht (Diss. Giessen, 1935); M. Smith, “De Tuenda Sanitate Praecepta (Moralia 122B–137E)”, in H.D. Betz (ed.), Plutarch’s Ethical Writings and Early Christian Literature (Leiden: Brill, 1978) 32–50; R. Klaerr, Plutarque. Œuvres Morales. Tome II (Paris: Belles Lettres, 1985) 94–97; A. Tirelli, “Etica e dietetica nei De tuenda sanitate praecepta”, in I. Gallo (ed.), Plutarco e le scienze. Atti del IV Convegno Internazionale plutarcheo, Genova-Bocca di Magra, 22–25 aprile 1991 (Genova: Sagep editrice, 1992) 385–404; L. Senzasono, “Health and politics in Plutarch’s de tuenda sanitate praecepta”, in J. Mossman (ed.), Plutarch and his Intellectual World (London: Duckworth, 1997) 113–118; A. Jori, “Divulgazione medica e terapia morale nel trattato De tuenda sanitate praecepta di Plutarco”, Medicina nei secoli 3 (2007) 667–704; L. Van Hoof, “La ‘diet-etica’ di Plutarco. L’autopromozione d’autore nei Precetti Igienici”, Ploutarchos n.s. 8 (2010/2011) 147–171; M. Vamvouri Ruffy, Les Vertus thérapeutiques du banquet: médecine et idéologie dans les Propos de Table de Plutarque (Paris: Belles Lettres, 2012); M. Meeusen, Plutarch’s Science of Natural Problems: A Study with Commentary on Quaestiones Naturales (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2017) 196–199. 4 Senzasono, Plutarco. Precetti igienici, 25–29; cf. M. Vamvouri Ruffy, “Symposium, Physical and Social Health in Plutarch’s Table Talk”, in F. Klotz & K. Oikonomopoulou (eds.), The Philosopher’s Banquet. Plutarch’s Table Talk in the Intellectual Culture of the Roman Empire (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011) 130–157. Per l’influenza del principio dell’ ἐγκύκλιος παιδεία nei De tuenda cf. G. Wöhrle, Studien zur Theorie der antiken Gesundheitslehre (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 1990) 241. 5 Cf. L. Senzasono, “Significato e valore delle citazioni nei De tuenda sanitate praecepta”, in G. D’Ippolito & I. Gallo (eds.), Strutture formali dei Moralia di Plutarco. Atti del III Convegno plutarcheo, Palermo, 3–5 maggio 1989 (Napoli: D’Auria, 1991) 247–255.

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rapporto critico/riflessivo con i modelli di cui si riconosce la presenza effettiva in intere sezioni, ma anche nel rapporto architestuale con altre opere dai connotati comuni contenenti prescrizioni composte dal medesimo autore, e soprattutto nell’ipertestualità dell’inserimento di testi provenienti dal background biografico e dossografico. Nel dettaglio, a veicolare l’intertestualità, sviluppandone aspetti e funzioni, molto spesso è la similitudine, strumento retorico esemplificativo adoperato a profusione6 da Plutarco in questo opuscolo. Sistematicamente, i paragoni ricorrono in quasi tutti i capitoli, nei paragrafi cruciali delle spiegazioni e delle dimostrazioni, a volte con strutturazione individuale o multipla, isolata oppure in sequenza immediata. Inoltre, le similitudini, quale parte di una consolidata topica moraleggiante che attinge a svariati campi di riferimento, sono spesso riconducibili ad alcuni nuclei tematici intratestuali ricorrenti, che discendono da una sorta di sostrato ipertestuale di cui disporre, costantemente ma sottotraccia. E le tipologie variano: dal semplice inciso, alle più complesse similitudini di tipologia etico-morale, che chiamano in causa comportamenti deplorevoli, ridicoli o paradossali, o vanno ad incorporare citazioni o elementi aneddotico-biografici. Se a 122C Zeusippo ritiene le competenze di filosofia e medicina lontane “come i confini di Misi e Frigi”7 citando un detto proverbiale, a 122E, con un rimando all’agricoltura, invita a chiudere la discussione sulle differenze tra medici e filosofi esortandoli a dedicarsi ai loro nobili studi in comune, proprio come se si trovassero “in un terreno unico” ove appunto coltivare la passione per le questioni della salute. Circa i cibi da somministrare ai malati, poi, a 123B Plutarco suggerisce di gustarli anche quando si è sani, senza detestare puerilmente tale dieta “come fanno i bambini”, e senza avere ripugnanza per i cibi “come se fossero medicine” cui avvicinarsi con sospetto e senza familiarità alcuna. Anche a proposito dell’intemperanza nei banchetti ufficiali, a 123E l’autore ricorre ad un linguaggio immaginifico mutuato dal campo della navigazione, ricordando che solo una sana lungimiranza alimentare consente di predisporre l’organismo già “durante la bonaccia”, al fine di “renderlo agile e leggero al sopraggiungere di venti e flutti” per combattere gli eccessi e le sregolatezze impreviste. Inoltre, per opporre ai pasti e alle bevute in compagnia un garbato rifiuto condito da spontanea auto-ironia, l’autore prende a prestito il lessico religioso, invitando ad offrire un banchetto “come un sacrificio le cui carni non 6 Se ne contano, infatti, più di quaranta all’interno dell’opuscolo. 7 I passi citati dei De tuenda sanitate praecepta sono nella traduzione italiana di Senzasono in id., Plutarco. Precetti igienici.

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possono essere gustate” (124B–C), al fine di risultare ai commensali ancor più gradito ed urbano di chi prende parte alle gozzoviglie stesse. Quindi a 124D–E, in riferimento alla massima socratica di guardarsi con moderazione da cibi e bevande superflue, limitandole solo ai casi di bisogno, l’autore propone una similitudine tratta dalla prassi politica, esortando a subordinare il piacere alla necessità, “come fanno quelli che nell’ambito dello stato convertono ad impieghi militari il denaro destinato a pubblici spettacoli”.8 Continuando, Plutarco ricorda anche che nutrirsi di focacce e dolciumi per cibo e pasto arreca un danno minore, proprio “come anche a Socrate la danza riusciva un esercizio per nulla spiacevole”, richiamando chiaramente il passo senofonteo dove Socrate, dichiarando di voler danzare, rispose con atteggiamento serio all’ilarità suscitata nei convitati dalla sua affermazione.9 In riferimento ai danni gravi e agli stimoli inconsistenti arrecati dai desideri che scendono dall’anima al corpo turbandolo (125C–D), Plutarco sostiene che tali piaceri sono estranei alla natura e provocano squilibrio e turbamento, proprio come “il solletico alle ascelle procura all’anima un riso che non è schietto, né dolce, né lieto, ma spasmodico e sgradevole” in quanto atto forzoso ed innaturale. Perciò, occorre rinunciare alle occasioni rinomate di godimento e, proprio come Simonide di Ceo affermava di “non essersi mai dovuto pentire per aver taciuto ma spesso per aver parlato”,10 così bisogna ambire alla rinuncia più che al godimento, perché accade più spesso di pentirsi per aver ceduto ad un manicaretto o ad un vino Falerno, piuttosto che di averli rifiutati. In questa circostanza il riso per costrizione ed il silenzio deliberato danno un’idea piuttosto plastica del concetto espresso dall’autore, rappresentando, tramite l’impulso ad aprire o chiudere la bocca (per ridere o tacere), anche la capacità di contenere gli eccessi alimentari attraverso uno sforzo intellettuale. Riguardo ai gretti ed avidi, capaci di esercitare la continenza, ma solo a fasi intermittenti, a 125E Plutarco li descrive fermi a casa propria, mortificati e repressi nei desideri di gola, mentre quando si recano a casa altrui si rimpinzano di cibi costosi, come “se si rifornissero senza risparmio di vettovaglie in territorio nemico”. E per questo l’abbuffata li lascia in cattive condizioni, costringendoli a sopportare un’indigestione che durerà tutto il giorno successivo, quale “provvista accumulata dalla loro insaziabilità”. Digiunare a casa pro8 9 10

Cf. anche D. Ol. 3.11 e, più in generale, i precetti dell’Ad principem ineruditum. Cf. anche X. Smp. 2.17–20; Plu. De tuenda 130E–F; Quaest. conv. 711E. Risulta tuttavia difficile stabilire se Plutarco si riferisse ad un passo di Simonide in particolare o ad un’affermazione attribuitagli da tradizioni biografiche forse radicate nella sua opera; cf. Simon., PMG, 582 Page e Senzasono, Plutarco. Precetti igienici, 152 n. 35.

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pria e abbuffarsi senza misura in casa d’altri, in quanto i pasti sono gratuiti ma soltanto di natura temporanea, è paragonato all’avidità parassitaria e all’ingordigia senza quartiere del soldato in territorio nemico in tempo di guerra, che sgraffigna ogni tipo di cibo reperibile, poiché spinto da fame precedentemente repressa unita ad un’ostilità bellica che rende le provviste quasi un goloso trofeo di guerra.11 Inoltre, deprecando come un’indiscriminata lascivia la consuetudine di mangiare piatti prelibati e ben conditi dalle arti culinarie di cuochi che “spostano continuamente in avanti i limiti del piacere fuorviando la valutazione dell’utile”, e poco manca che i cibi li “manipolino con artifici magici e droghe”, l’autore non trova alcuna differenza tra eccitare ed esasperare la lascivia con afrodisiaci per raggiungere il piacere e l’abitudine di stimolare il palato con aromi e intingoli (126A–B). Chi, infatti, abusa di afrodisiaci, poi si ritrova come conseguenza a sentire continuamente “il bisogno di grattarsi e titillarsi come chi ha la scabbia”, rendendo così la perdurante perversione per le delizie gastronomiche simile ad una contagiosa malattia cutanea, che infetta la pelle causando intenso prurito, escoriazioni e conseguente inquietudine nell’infermo.12 Quindi a 126C–D, parlando dei piaceri corporei sorti in stato di malattia, Plutarco li ritiene in grado di suscitare sensazioni che si rivelano solo in parte specifiche e soprattutto impure, poiché contaminate nella loro natura da molti elementi estranei, e segnate “come dall’uragano e dalla bufera”, indicando dunque dei fenomeni meteorologici disastrosi a simbolo di sconquasso negativo di una situazione di pregressa stabilità o integrità. Una similitudine afferente al campo della natura, ma di segno volutamente e diametralmente opposto, è adoperata subito dopo, quando l’autore ricorda che è la salute a procurare ai piaceri una nascita sicura e felice della prole, proprio come “la quiete marina agli alcioni”. Dunque, passando dai postumi della tempesta alla bonaccia favorevole alla covata degli alcioni, Plutarco si serve di termini di paragone mutuati dalla natura allo scopo di colorire la discussione moralistica. In tal modo punta a rendere i precetti esemplari e indimenticabili tramite punti di riferimento positivi e negativi estratti dalla quotidianità e vividi per la mente del lettore. Successivamente, per deplorare la condotta erronea dei ‘salutisti dell’ultimo minuto’, che adottano tardivamente uno stile di vita sano e temperato soltanto quando si vedono costretti a ricorrere a “cauterizzazioni ed impiastri” per via dei malanni da cui sono ormai irrimediabilmente afflitti, a 126D l’autore, citando l’oratore attico Demade, li paragona agli Ateniesi che, sempre pronti a

11 12

Cf. anche Clem.Al. 2.11. Cf. Senzasono, Plutarco. Precetti igienici, 154–155 n. 44.

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fare la guerra fuori tempo, pensavano a votare la pace soltanto quando ormai già indossavano i vestiti neri del lutto.13 Contestualmente, poco dopo (126E) Plutarco stigmatizza chi reprime con forza l’auto-coscienza degli errori, perché si rifiuta di riconoscere la causa dei propri malesseri nell’intemperanza e nell’avidità dei piaceri, proprio come i più, “lagnandosi dell’aria o dei luoghi, ritengono insalubri certi viaggi” ed adducono motivi pretestuosi per allontanare scelte sagge ma scomode. Ed ancora all’aneddotica storico-politica è riconducibile la similitudine di poco successiva (126E–F), dove il Cheronese paragona le conseguenze nefaste di una semplice bibita fredda, di un bagno intempestivo o di un ricevimento mondano al rimorso provato dal diadoco Lisimaco, quando, essendosi consegnato ai Geti col suo esercito come prigioniero di guerra in quanto tormentato dalla sete, dopo aver sorseggiato dell’acqua fresca, esclamò: “Quanto è breve il piacere per il quale ho gettato via una grande fortuna”.14 Infatti, secondo Plutarco prendere coscienza degli effetti deleteri di piccole disattenzioni alimentari e comportamentali imprime un doloroso “morso”, che “lascia tracce di sangue nella memoria” e rende più attenti nella scelta del regime di vita, proprio come “una cicatrice che permane quando si è guariti” sul corpo del disattento malcapitato. E le immagini crude della ferita sanguinolenta e della cicatrice duratura conferiscono la necessaria solennità alla prescrizione dell’autore. Per preservare la sanità corporea, poi (127B), oltre ad evitare eccessi di caldo e freddo, occorre soprattutto che simili fonti esterne di malanni non prendano forma e corpo unendosi all’eccesso di umori corporei, che, in una similitudine di matrice botanica, proprio “come il profumo dei fiori”, che “di per sé è debole”, se “mescolato all’olio acquista forza ed intensità”. Dunque, occorre agire senza la presunzione di chi può permettersi delle infrazioni proprio perché sa tutto, perché poi succede di dover trascorrere parecchio tempo a porre rimedio ai propri errori. Infatti, chi non si guarda in anticipo dagli effetti infausti dell’eccesso di umori e di residui della nutrizione, si comporta “come i bravi nocchieri che imbarcano per la loro insaziabile avidità un grosso carico” e, da quel momento in poi, “non fanno altro che aggottare e togliere dalla stiva acqua marina”. Per questo non bisogna appesantire il corpo per poi alleggerirlo, ma conviene tenerlo sempre pronto, così che, se talora viene sommerso, in una nuova similitudine proveniente dal campo

13 14

Cf. V. De Falco, Demade oratore. Testimonianze e frammenti (Napoli: Libreria Scientifica Editrice, 19542) 21; Senzasono, Plutarco. Precetti igienici, 156 n. 51. Cf. Reg. et imp. apophth. 183E; De sera num. 555D.

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nautico, possa diventare inaffondabile e “ritornare a galla come un sughero in virtù della sua leggerezza”. A proposito della fase preventiva dei malanni, Plutarco ricorda in primis che la maggioranza delle malattie è preceduta da determinati sintomi premonitori e presentimenti che dovrebbero lasciar prevederne in anticipo il decorso. Infatti, molte patologie presentano inizialmente delle forme di indigestione e languore “come se fossero preannunciatori, precursori e araldi” di ambascerie politiche o di decisioni divine o regali. Una duplice e rapida similitudine è adoperata, poi, per rammentare al lettore che la conservazione e la quiete dell’organismo va raggiunta attraverso il riposo. Dunque, sopraffatti da gola ed avidità di piacere, non bisogna irrompere nei bagni o correre a bere in compagnia “come se ci si rifornisse di cibarie per un assedio”, o come “presi da timore di essere colti da febbre prima di colazione”. In questo caso, la pratica precipitosa di attività piacevoli somiglia a chi teme di contrarre l’influenza prima della colazione o a chi accumula scorte di viveri per scongiurare la fame in previsione di un lungo assedio. Tuttavia, a differenza della precedente similitudine presa in prestito dal campo bellico, che era connotata da violenza offensiva ed ingordigia in territorio nemico, in questa circostanza il paragone è inserito in un contesto bellico difensivo, e sembra contraddistinto da un eccesso di lungimiranza che non assume i tratti spregevoli dell’aggressione approfittatrice. L’autore, piuttosto, focalizza l’attenzione sulla rapidità di esecuzione di una consuetudine che prende caratteri grotteschi soltanto se decontestualizzata, in quanto ad accumulare scorte prima di un assedio non si compie opera eticamente riprovevole. Discorso diverso va invece fatto nel caso di chi, per ingordigia, teme di contrarre l’influenza prima della colazione.15 L’autore mostra grande familiarità con le similitudini riconducibili al campo della nautica e della navigazione, e, come un vecchio lupo di mare, ricorda che il corpo va tutelato dai pericoli. Per questo motivo esso non deve essere trascinato al bagno quando mostra indisposizione, pesantezza e sazietà, altrimenti subisce la stessa sorte di una “imbarcazione putrida che lascia entrare acqua”. Perciò occorre cautela verso l’organismo, al fine di non contrarre malattie attraverso i fori rappresentati da debolezze e cattive abitudini. Inoltre, la mancanza di coscienza etica e medica di chi, in vista di segni premonitori di malanni, si fa comunque imbandire la tavola per poi passare i giorni successivi tra purghe, medici e sofferenze varie, somiglia ancora a quelli che, “se navigano durante una burrasca, si vergognano di restare a riva”, ma, una volta partiti, “si abban-

15

Cf. De tuenda 125E; De coh. ira 454A.

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donano ad indecorose grida causate dal mal di mare”. Mentre la prima similitudine pare riconducibile al luogo comune della barca vecchia che imbarca acqua, la seconda sembra proprio il frutto, forse, di un’ esperienza personale dell’autore, che descrive una prassi consolidata tra chi è costretto a navigare pur soffrendo l’effetto nauseabondo delle onde in movimento. Condizione necessaria affinché i cibi risultino ben conditi è che il fruitore disponga di un organismo sano e ben purgato, proprio come gli Spartani, secondo l’aneddotica religiosa lacedemone riferita da Plutarco, “fornendo al cuoco” soltanto “l’aceto ed il sale gli ordinavano di cercare i restanti condimenti all’interno della bestia sacrificata”. Chi si prepara il pasto è dunque accostato, con un inedito parallelo, ad un animale appena sacrificato sul punto di essere cucinato, e l’argomento trattato in 128D–E si conclude con un altro paragone ad effetto di notevole efficacia. Infatti, bevande, cibi e piaceri devono essere introdotti in un corpo che non si trovi in condizioni malandate od alterate, poiché causerebbero lo stesso sconquasso di “buontemponi ubriachi che irrompono in una casa in lutto”; tale episodio non porterebbe “allegria o piacere”, ma solo “pianti e lamenti”, in quanto si verificherebbe in un’atmosfera non consona allo scherzo, aggravando in tal modo il dolore e la sofferenza per la dipartita di chi a quei giochi non potrà più prendere parte.16 Essere troppo rigorosi e perfezionisti con il proprio organismo, però, non è affatto una virtù, poiché il corpo diventa timoroso e malsicuro di ogni cosa, mortificando l’entusiasmo dell’anima, indotta a sospettare di tutto. Inoltre, non occorre “affannarsi a limitarsi” negli eccessi solo quando ormai indigestioni, diarree, febbri e sonnolenze sono già sopraggiunte e rendono “sconcertati come per il sopraggiungere di messi o uscieri”. Il modo migliore di governare il proprio corpo è “comportarsi come ci si comporta con le vele”, ovvero evitare di “piegarle e contrarle troppo in tempo di bonaccia” e di bandire “rilassatezza e trascuratezza quando si concepisce un sospetto”, cercando di donare “sollievo e leggerezza” e prendendo “precauzioni ben prima della tempesta”. Altra similitudine di contesto nautico, che denota grande competenza e familiarità di Plutarco con il settore della navigazione, termina con una citazione di un autore ignoto17 che impreziosisce la chiusa.18 Al paragrafo 130A, poi, dato che l’opuscolo manifestamente dedicato a preservare la salute degli uomini di studio è ormai giunto nel vivo, ma non è ancora 16 17 18

Cf. Lyc. 10.1. Che invita a prendere precauzioni con molto anticipo, “prima della tempesta, come quando sul promontorio soffia borea”; cf. PMG, Adesp. 1000, Page. Per la medesima citazione, cf. anche De coh. ira 455A; De gar. 503A.

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stato impartito alcun consiglio inerente agli esercizi che gli studiosi dovrebbero svolgere, Plutarco mette in campo una similitudine carica di ironia e di carattere grottesco. Elaborare un modello dietetico-sanitario per i letterati senza indicare degli esercizi utili per la salute e l’attività sarebbe contraddittorio “come chi, pur dicendo di non aver niente da scrivere per la gente di mare sulle fiocine,19 ne insegna l’uso”, distinguendosi pertanto per velleitaria e presuntuosa incompetenza. A proposito del cibarsi di carne20 (132A), Plutarco adopera un linguaggio immaginifico molteplice proveniente dal mondo della natura, degli animali e degli elementi. Infatti, in primo luogo invita ad usare la carne non “per saziare l’appetito, alla maniera dei lupi e dei leoni”,21 ma come sostegno e complemento all’alimentazione, insieme ad altri cibi, che, nei confronti del corpo, risultino più conformi alle esigenze della natura e meno nocivi verso la facoltà razionale dell’anima,22 che è “simile a fiamma che sorga da combustibile semplice e leggero”. Dunque, mangiar carne non deve ricordare la ferocia carnivora di lupi e leoni, ma essere attività consona ad una fiammella di fondamentale importanza, seppur prodotta da un combustibile connotato da leggerezza e semplicità. Circa le bevande, poi, deplorato l’uso del vino, l’autore decanta l’utilità e le virtù rilassanti e refrigeranti dell’acqua, che arreca umidità all’organismo in ogni occasione. In particolare, consumare acqua rappresenterebbe una scelta idonea anche per coloro che, pur essendo indotti a presentire l’arrivo dell’influenza, credono terribile non farsi preparare la tavola, regredendo allo stato puerile e comportandosi “proprio come i bambini”. Per quanto riguarda lo studioso immerso in problemi di geometria, nella lettura di libri o anche nell’esercizio con uno strumento musicale, la sua passione stessa per le Muse lo proteggerà dagli eccessi alimentari, in quanto impegnerà il suo pensiero, distogliendolo fermamente dalla tavola e dirigendolo verso le Muse, che appunto metteranno in fuga gli appetiti “come delle Arpie”. Termine di paragone prediletto da Plutarco, le Arpie, in questo caso, personificano il desiderio di cibo e sono costrette a dileguarsi grazie all’intervento delle Muse.23

19

20 21 22 23

Sulla traduzione “denti”, in luogo di “fiocine”, è sorta una vexata quaestio filologica, in quanto la traduzione di Xylander, approvata da Wyttenbach, era “de curatione dentium”; cf. anche Senzasono, Plutarco. Precetti igienici, 100; 170–171 n. 91. Consuetudine a cui Plutarco ha dedicato un intero opuscolo, il De esu. Cf. 994B e 995A–B per la similitudine con i leoni. Cf. 995E. Cf. Luc. 7.6; Quaest. conv. 709A; De vit. aer. 832A; Senzasono, Plutarco. Precetti igienici, 182– 183 n. 120.

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Quindi, le parole dei massaggiatori e le frasi dei maestri di ginnastica, secondo cui una conversazione dotta tenuta a pranzo “rovina il pasto ed appesantisce la testa”, sono vere soltanto in riferimento ad argomenti molto capziosi, mentre discorrere di questioni di indagine filosofica o di testi utili e gradevoli risulta piacevole per i commensali. Scelte di disimpegno radicale durante i pasti possono essere propugnate soltanto nei ginnasi e nelle palestre da maestri di ginnastica che allontanano gli atleti dai libri, abituandoli a trascorrere le giornate tra motteggi e buffonate, e rendendoli, come diceva l’arguto filosofo Aristone di Chio,24 “lucidi e simili alla pietra come le erme dei ginnasi”. In questo caso la combinazione tra citazione e similitudine si scaglia contro la lucentezza esteriore degli atleti, simili a statue soprattutto per via del corpo unto e scultoreo, cui corrispondeva una proverbiale stupidità, attribuita a menti dure e grette come pietre.25 Il paragone atletico, però, precedentemente squalificato da eccessivo disimpegno nei momenti dei pasti, è subito recuperato e valorizzato in una prospettiva differente e più saggia, in quanto i precetti dietetici e sanitari impartiti fanno il paio con quelli atletici. Infatti, a proposito della necessità subito dopo il pasto di concedere al corpo tregua e sollievo, senza turbare l’equilibrio dell’anima con impegni, preoccupazioni o dispute sofistiche che si risolvono in gare di esibizione declamatoria o di eccitazione, Plutarco consiglia di dedicarsi piuttosto a problemi di scienza naturale, narrazioni e considerazioni ispirate ai costumi che non offrono nulla di sgradevole.26 Tale condotta è assimilabile proprio a quegli atleti (stavolta) saggi “che ritengono opportuno tenere il corpo in movimento dopo pranzo non esercitandosi nella corsa o nel pancrazio, ma ricorrendo a comode passeggiate e a danze che non siano scomposte”. In riferimento alla consuetudine di assumere farmaci purgativi per mangiare fino allo sfinimento, per poi svuotarsi e riprendere nuovamente, il Cheronese ricorda che gli emetici non fanno altro che accrescere e stimolare l’insaziabilità, producendo effetti devastanti. Così, in paragone, gli accessi di fame diventano aspri ed impetuosi “come i corsi d’acqua che subiscono interruzioni”, infuriando ed ingoiando cibo senza pausa, simili “non ad appetiti che richiedano nutrimento, ma ad infiammazioni che richiedano medicamenti o impiastri”. Dunque, riempire e svuotare a piacimento il ventre rende incontrollabili proprio come la natura dei fiumi, se bloccata artificiosamente, e trasforma una 24 25 26

Per altre massime morali esplicitamente attribuite allo stoico Aristone di Chio, cf. De virt. mor. 440E–F; Maxime cum principibus 776C. Cf. anche An seni 793F. In questa affermazione Plutarco sembra racchiudere le tematiche di alcune sue opere consacrate a gradevoli quaestiones, ovvero Quaest. conv., Quaest. nat., Quaest. graec. e Quaest. rom., da ritenere dunque generate da dinamiche di dialogico rilassamento post-prandiale.

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normale pulsione naturale in una patologia da curare con lenitivi e medicinali. In un crescendo metaforico, l’autore, non senza un tocco di ironia, paragona chi ingerisce bacche di Cnido o scammonea, noti come medicinali ad impatto purgante talmente forte da necessitare che l’organismo dopo il loro uso venga depurato, ad un individuo che, “irritato da una folla di Greci abitante nella sua città, la riempisse di immigrati arabi e sciti”. Per questo la stessa pratica innaturale di purgarsi porta a doversi depurare nuovamente dai medicinali utilizzati, creando una situazione paradossale quale quella di un greco che, mal sopportando i suoi concittadini, affolli la propria città di immigrati stranieri provenienti da luoghi piuttosto lontani ed estranei. Poco dopo, l’autore sente la necessità di ripetere il concetto, ma servendosi di una similitudine mutuata dal campo delle attività quotidiane della massaia, sostenendo che stimolare il vomito con le medicine intacca e rovina il corpo proprio “come la biancheria lavata con liscivia e soda si consuma di più di quella risciacquata con sola acqua”, e creando una corrispondenza in parallelo tra la pulizia degli organi interni e quella degli indumenti indossati esternamente. Infine, Plutarco ribadisce ancora una volta il concetto tramite una similitudine non priva di misoginia esercitata contro le pratiche contraccettive e abortive effettuate dalle donne dell’antichità. In particolare, l’autore paragona chi assume sconsideratamente purganti e medicinali che rovinano e sconvolgono, invece di affidarsi ad acqua, digiuno e clisteri, alle “donne sfrenate che ricorrono a farmaci ed altri mezzi abortivi per farsi riempire di nuovo e provare nuove sensazioni di piacere”, soprattutto per sottolineare la tendenza degenere e contro natura di tale condotta. A 135B, discutendo di chi vive secondo un modello etico e dietetico immutabile, basato sulla costrizione nell’ambito di nutrizione/astinenza e di movimento/riposo, Plutarco descrive tale stile di vita come “né sicuro, né facile, né appropriato ad un cittadino o ad un uomo”, ma “simile alla vita di un’ostrica o di un tronco d’albero”, scegliendo due immagini estratte dal mondo della natura quale simbolo di una vita segnata da immobilismo. L’ostrica sul fondo del mare ed il tronco radicato nel terreno connotano un’esistenza perennemente uguale, da cui non promana l’afflato razionale tipico dell’uomo, bensì uno stato vegetativo privo della mobilità derivante dalla varietà delle scelte. Inoltre, per riportare la similitudine naturale su un piano meno simbolico, ma più umano ed etico, l’autore paragona lo stile di vita caratterizzato da digiuni periodici e rigide regole alla vita di “persone che s’impongono il limite di una vita umbratile, oziosa, solitaria, priva d’amici e di gloria, del tutto avulsa dall’impegno civile”, che segna la vita comunitaria e relazionale dell’essere umano.27 27

Cf. anche Hom. Il. 9.108.

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Non sono certo ozio ed inerzia, mali più gravi delle stesse malattie, a procurare la salute tramite inattività e riposo forzato. Chi li pratica “non è affatto diverso da chi risparmia gli occhi rinunciando a vedere e la voce rinunciando a parlare”, anzi s’illude soltanto di conservare la sanità del corpo, e le sue rinunce lo rendono più debole e vulnerabile, come un essere umano privo dei sensi o delle capacità comunicative. La questione relativa al riposo è chiusa da una sequenza di due similitudini, tratte dal campo della nautica e dal mondo animale. Prima di svolgere attività degne ed importanti, l’uomo politico deve dedicarsi ad ozio e riposo per non avere il corpo affaticato, insensibile o sfinito, ma rimesso in sesto “come una nave tratta nella darsena”, così che, quando l’anima lo diriga di nuovo ad affrontare i suoi bisogni, “possa correre come un puledro svezzato accanto alla cavalla”. Dopo la nave tratta in darsena, l’immagine del corpo ristorato dalle fatiche guidato dall’anima è rappresentata dalla figura fresca, tenera e gioviale del puledro che corre affianco alla madre, riecheggiando un verso attribuito a Semonide di Amorgo, che coglie tutta l’intensità della dolcezza materna nell’accompagnare il puledro nella crescita.28 Tuttavia, se l’eccessivo riposo risulta nocivo, non occorre nemmeno opprimere l’organismo, disperderne le energie e logorarlo con i cambiamenti, “come il ferro che si tempra”. Infatti, pur essendo deformabile in base alle esigenze come il ferro, il corpo umano, al contrario, non possiede resistenza ed insensibilità di un metallo, ma esce fiaccato e segnato dai continui dispendi di energia cagionati da molteplici attività lavorative e dagli eccessi nei piaceri di ogni tipo. Una condotta costante ed equilibrata impedisce di procurare piaceri al corpo impegnato nelle fatiche, evitando di comportarsi “come i marinai”, che si lasciano “trascinare dall’incontinenza ai piaceri e ai godimenti”, e “dopo i piaceri di nuovo alle attività e agli affari”. Ancora un’altra similitudine nautica connotata negativamente accosta la condotta della parte intemperante e volgare dell’anima alla consuetudine marinara di abbandonarsi ai piaceri subito dopo il lavoro, turbando l’anima attraverso irrequietezza ed irregolarità. Chi non conosce le peculiarità fisiche del proprio organismo, ignorandone temperatura ed umori cui esso è connaturato, illudendosi di poter consultare un medico, in realtà, secondo Plutarco, “abita il proprio corpo come un cieco o un sordo”, paragonando tale inconsapevolezza di sé alla privazione di facoltà sensoriali dei menomati che vivono da estranei nei confronti delle percezioni della vista e dell’udito. 28

Cf. Diehl, ALG, 3, n. 5, p. 51; tale verso è citato anche in De prof. in virt. 84D; De virt. mor. 446E; An seni 790F; De esu 997D; cf. anche Senzasono, Plutarco. Precetti igienici, 196–197 n. 161.

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Poi, per concludere l’opuscolo quasi con una sorta di morale esopica, Plutarco cita una favola con protagonisti gli animali. Lo studioso che non fa riposare il corpo sofferente e bisognoso, sarà, in seguito, costretto a soccombere all’influenza, dovendo subire non solo la malattia, ma anche la lontananza dagli studi abbandonati a forza. Così anche un cammello, non volendo aiutare ad alleggerire il carico di un bue, suo compagno di schiavitù, si sentì dire: “Ebbene, fra poco porterai sia me che questo”, e, alla morte di stenti del bue, così accadde.29 Infine, l’ultimo capoverso dell’opera, citando l’ammonimento platonico a contemperare sempre anima e corpo, ricorda che il modo migliore per far cooperare corpo ed anima in ogni movimento sarebbe quello di tenerli in un equilibrio “come quello d’una pariglia di cavalli”, servendosi di un’ ulteriore similitudine equestre che indica nell’armonia delle movenze il modo migliore per raggiungere un obiettivo di alto livello. Da un’analisi complessiva, emerge come il contesto di riferimento prediletto da Plutarco per similitudini di ogni genere, e di impatto quasi esclusivamente negativo, sia la navigazione, comprendendo indicazioni sulla condotta e manutenzione delle imbarcazioni tra i flutti e prescrizioni sulla vita marinaresca o sui viaggi per mare. Relativamente connessi al campo nautico sono anche alcuni precetti che chiamano in causa una corretta interpretazione delle condizioni meteorologiche o l’habitat naturale marittimo. E, sempre all’interno di un contesto didattico contenente un rimando metaforico di natura marittima, con uno spirito autocritico quasi ironicamente metatestuale, avviene il simbolico riferimento al precettore incompetente e presuntuoso, che, pur dichiarando di non aver nulla da dire sul mare, vuol comunque insegnare ad utilizzare le fiocine. Altro campo prescelto per paragoni di indirizzo prevalentemente positivo è la natura, rappresentata in particolare da gioiosi momenti della crescita e della vita dei cavalli, dalla poetica immagine della covata degli alcioni, ma anche dall’appetito di lupi e leoni, o dalla fuga di animali mitologici, come le Arpie, senza dimenticare il corso straripante ed inarrestabile dei fiumi, l’inebriante profumo dei fiori e la staticità di alberi ed ostriche. Poi, in un opuscolo dedicato a precetti sanitari, non mancano similitudini estratte da un contesto di acclarata inter-discorsività con il discorso medico, portando spesso il lettore dinnanzi a paragoni ad effetto che coinvolgono febbri e malattie fastidiose o devastanti, medicinali amari, ma indispensabili, e sintomi dipinti alla stregua di messaggeri ed araldi dei morbi. Spesso, ai paragoni

29

Cf. anche Senzasono, Plutarco. Precetti igienici, 205–206 n. 182.

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plutarchei è conferito un maggiore effetto scenico coinvolgendo anche il corpo umano nei suoi organi di senso, quali occhi e bocca adoperati in modo innaturale, ma anche nella fase degenerativa delle ferite ed escoriazioni, o nell’azione fisiologica involontaria del solletico. Inoltre, al centro di diverse similitudini con finalità denigratorie ci sono dei comportamenti umani insensati, infantili, deplorevoli e dal sapore grottesco e ridicolo, mentre i vizi umani peggiori sono bersagliati all’interno di similitudini riferite al contesto politico e militare. A volte, poi, le similitudini ricevono lustro maggiore quando incorporano delle citazioni poetiche di innegabile interesse intergenerico, ma anche parole di filosofi, generali ed uomini politici, spesso alle prese con faccende di interesse comune o di rilievo marginale, ma riconducibile a valori più universali grazie al valore esemplificativo dell’aneddotica in oggetto, che completa il discorso rendendolo più godibile per il lettore. Altre volte, i paragoni di Plutarco toccano la tematica religiosa, chiamando in causa sacrifici a cui sottrarsi o la maniera spartana di trattare le vittime sacrificali, mentre una duplice finalità esemplificativa (positiva e negativa) è conferita agli atleti, prima tratteggiati come lucide, ma vuote, statue, poi come saggi e rispettosi fautori di un sano e moderato riposo post-prandiale. Infine, non manca una similitudine riferita alle pratiche contraccettive femminili dell’antichità, descritte con tono sprezzante verso chi commette un abuso innaturale sul proprio corpo e in una climax ascendente di paragoni connotati negativamente. Poi, come risultato di una consuetudine non soltanto teorica con gli atti comuni della vita quotidiana,30 Plutarco ricorda anche quale metodo faccia consumare maggiormente la biancheria durante il lavaggio. In questo modo, il linguaggio immaginifico dell’autore si va ad ibridare, integrandosi e contaminandosi con paradigmi e rimandi provenienti da ogni aspetto della vita quotidiana, dei saperi, della storia e dell’esperienza, per confluire in riferimenti teorici e pratici a modelli letterari e trattati riconducibili al progetto unico, e al contempo molteplice, dei Moralia, ed invitando il lettore a compiere un delicato processo di autoesplorazione, quale migliore direzione per una visione moralistica della comunità sociale e intellettuale. 30

E, forse, anche con un ammiccamento complice a lettrici o interlocutrici femminili.

chapter 25

Medical Allusions and Intertext of Physis in Plutarch’s Comp. Cim. et Luc. 2.7 Eleni Plati

Abstract This chapter examines the intertextual connotations of physis both as a natural and political state on the basis of the medical metaphor found in Plutarch’s Comparatio Cimonis et Luculli 2.7. In these lines of the Plutarchan passage, I will explore the nexus of the inter-relations generated by the metaphorical connotations framing the medical metaphor of aristocratic natures as physicians. This Plutarchan metaphor grounds an interdiscursive bridge between medical texts on anatomy and physis, tracing its origins back to the Hippocratic corpus and tradition. In particular, I will be exploring the passage above in the context of Hippocrates, De fracturis 3.412.1.1–8 L. and 3.426.3.3– 18 L., and Galen’s commentary on the same passage, shedding light on the notions of physis and justice (δικαιοτάτη φύσις). However, parallels are to be drawn, not only between the Plutarchan metaphor and the Hippocratic tradition, but also between different Plutarchan Lives. In Solon (3.7), the notion of justice is presented along the same lines as it is by Hippocrates, i.e. as normative and inherent to the physis exempt from any external force. These contexts will be investigated by examining the theory of intertextuality, along with its kin term, interdiscursivity. In my approach, I will refer to interdiscursivity as ‘vertical’ intertextuality: the interrelationship between different types of discourse and genres, i.e. the embodiment of medical references and allusions to Plutarch’s philosophical thought and biographical writing. Thus, I will explore how Plutarch transposes the medical discourse into his metaphor of aristocratic natures as physicians.

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… Whenever we describe the world, consciously or unconsciously we measure our descriptions against previous descriptions of the world. The words which we use have always been used before; we never have a monopoly on their contexts and connotations.*

∵ These opening lines of Hinds’ book, Allusion and Intertext. Dynamics of appropriation in Roman Poetry, best describe the inevitability of intertextuality, which is analyzed in this chapter as a result of Plutarch’s references and allusions to medicine articulated through metaphorical concepts. Plutarch very frequently cites metaphors that project ideas, concepts or discourse belonging to the scientific field of medicine. The medical thought and allusions in the Plutarchan corpus have gained considerable appeal over the last decades.1 The so-called ‘Quellenforschung’ presented a variety of medical sources from which Plutarch drew on in his writings.2 How these medical sources and dis-

* I would like to extend my sincere gratitude to the Foundation for Education and European Culture (IPEP) for the financial support of my doctoral studies. 1 Plutarch’s interest in medicine is most profound in the following works of Moralia: De tuenda, which is explicitly devoted to medical matters; Quaest. nat.; Quaest. conv.; De esu and Sept. sap. conv. However, his medical material is not confined in the Moralia; it is scattered throughout the extensive oeuvre of the Plutarchan corpus, including the Parallel Lives. On the role of medicine in Plutarch’s work, see C. Morales Otal & J. Garcia López, Obras morales y de costumbres (Madrid: Gredos, 1985) 120–121; J.A. López Férez, “Plutarco y la medicina,” in A. Pérez Jiménez & G. Del Cerro Calderón (eds.), Estudios sobre Plutarco: Obra y Tradición (Malaga: Universidad de Málaga, 1990) 220; L. Senzasono, Plutarco. Precetti Igienici (Naples: D’Auria, 1992) 11–36; M. Vamvouri Ruffy, Les Vertus thérapeutiques du banquet: Médecine et idéologie dans les Propos de Table de Plutarque (Paris: Belles Lettres, 2012); M. Meeusen, Plutarch’s Science of Natural Problems: A Study with Commentary on Quaestiones Naturales (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2017). 2 According to D. Tsekourakis, “Die Ursachen von Krankheiten bei Plutarch,”Ελληνικά 40 (1989) 258: “Es gibt in den Moralia eine Menge von Vergleichen, in denen Bilder, Beschreibungen und Erklärungen aus der Medizin verwendet werden, die zeigen, dass ihr Verfasser viel mehr medizinische Kenntnisse besaß, als man von einem Gebildeten jener Zeit erwarten wurde.” In accord with Tsekourakis, J. Boulogne, “Plutarque et la médicine,” in ANRW II.37.3 (1996) 2773 stated that the citings and metaphors from medicine do not merely serve rhetorical purposes, hence they do not have an ornamental value but a cognitive one: “Plutarque ne se réfère pas à la médicine uniquement pour les besoins de la rhétorique, afin

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courses are imported into the Plutarchan corpus helps us understand the theory of interdiscursivity as a broader term including intertextuality. I follow Fairclough’s earliest elaboration of intertextuality and interdiscursivity, along Kristeva’s notions of ‘horizontal’ and ‘vertical’ intertextuality.3 Interdiscursivity as ‘vertical’ intertextuality deals with how a text is formed by a combination of genres and discourses and is differentiated from intertextuality in that it exceeds the textual surface of borrowed forms, whereas it succeeds in disclosing discourse conventions. In this sense, interdiscursivity is more complicated because it is concerned with the implicit relations between discursive formations. Metaphors also belong to the latter. By formulating metaphors Plutarch is more frequently inclined to transpose medical terms and theories onto philosophical and political contexts, as I shall suggest below. He uses metaphors in order to unfold the depiction of philosophical and political issues through medical terms and concepts. By doing so he departs from sense perception data, physical metaphors, towards abstract political or philosophical formulations. As such, the flow of the metaphorical transference is from the most concrete to the most abstract reference; from medicine, which serves as source, to politics, under the umbrella of philosophy, which constitute the target domain of his medical metaphors.4 In this respect, medicine and philosophy come close to conterminous or, to paraphrase Plutarch, their borders are very close to each other similar to the neighboring frontiers between Mysians and Phrygians (De tuenda 122C).

d’ embellir ses phrases des citations, d’ images ou de comparaisons qui n’avaient d’autre valeur qu’ ornementale.” 3 N. Fairclough, “Intertextuality in critical discourse analysis,” Linguistics and Education 4.3 (1992) 269–293. The term ‘interdiscursivity’ was coined by N. Fairclough, Discourse and Social Change (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1992) when he accounted for the more overarching concept of ‘intertextuality.’ However, the concept of interdiscursivity can be traced to Bakhtin’s dialogized heteroglossia; see M. Bakhtin, “Discourse in the Novel,” in M. Holquist (ed.), The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1981) 259–422. Cf. J. Kristeva, “Word, Dialogue and Novel,” in T. Moi (ed.), The Kristeva Reader (Oxford: Blackwell, 1986) 37: “Horizontal axis (subject-addressee) and vertical axis (text-context) coincide, bringing to light an important fact: each word (text) is an intersection of word (texts) where at least one other word (text) can be read.” 4 The source domain (the image donor) is the conceptual domain from which metaphorical expressions are drawn (i.e. medicine), whereas the target domain is the conceptual domain that we try to understand (politics). Metaphors are mappings across conceptual domains. See G. Lakoff & M. Johnson, Metaphors We Live By (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1980) 253–254 and Z. Kövecses, Metaphor: A Practical Introduction (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002) 17–32.

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In addition to promoting the shift from medicine to philosophy, metaphor at the crossroads of these neighboring frontiers keeps the text open to crossdomain mappings. Departing from Ricœur’s statement that “metaphor not only opens the text, but keeps it open,” metaphor can be seen as a vehicle of intertextuality provided that texts are conceived not as self-sufficient or closed systems but as intersections, traces and tracings of other texts.5 Metaphor’s function of creating openness in a text through these cross-domain mappings from the source to the target domain contributes to contextualizing metaphorical meanings into wider contexts. In this regard, I will explore the medical contexts of Hippocrates and Galen reflected in Plutarch’s use of metaphor. According to Aristotle, “the right use of metaphor means an eye for resemblance” (τὸ γὰρ εὖ μεταφέρειν τὸ ὅμοιον θεωρεῖν ἐστιν, Po. 1459a). This implied innate perception of the similarity in dissimilars or ‘identity in difference’ representative of metaphor’s disclosive function could also describe both intertextuality and Plutarch’s biographical technique of searching for similarities between his heroes in order to achieve an overarching concluding judgement, as follows (Comp. Cim. et Luc. 2.7): ἢ τοῦτό γε καὶ πρὸς Κίμωνα κοινόν ἐστι· καὶ γὰρ ἐκεῖνον ὑπήγαγον εἰς δίκας οἱ πολῖται καὶ τελευτῶντες ἐξωστράκισαν, ἵν’ αὐτοῦ δέκα ἐτῶν ὥς φησιν ὁ Πλάτων (Gorg. 516d) τῆς φωνῆς μὴ ἀκούσωσιν. αἱ γὰρ ἀριστοκρατικαὶ φύσεις ὀλίγα τοῖς πολλοῖς ⟨συν⟩ᾴδουσι καὶ πρὸς ἡδονὴν ἔχουσι, τὰ δὲ πολλὰ προσβιαζόμεναι τῷ κατευθύνειν διαστρεφομένους ἀνιῶσιν ὥσπερ οἱ τῶν ἰατρῶν δεσμοί, καίπερ εἰς τὰ κατὰ φύσιν ἄγοντες τὰς παραρθρήσεις. ταύτης μὲν οὖν ἴσως ἀπαλλακτέον τῆς αἰτίας ἑκάτερον. Or perhaps this has its counterpart in the life of Cimon, for he was brought to trial by his fellow citizens and finally ostracised, in order that for ten years, as Plato says, they might not hear his voice. For aristocratic natures are little in accord with the multitude, and seldom please it, but by so often using force to rectify its aberrations, they vex and annoy it, just as physicians’ bandages vex and annoy, although they bring the dislocated members into their natural position. Perhaps, then, both come off about alike on this count. transl. Perrin

5 P. Ricœur, “La métaphore et le problème central de l’ herméneutique,” Revue Philosophique de Louvain 4.70 (5) (1972) 107.

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Plutarch refers to the fact that both men were opposed to the plêthos as a point of similarity (κοινόν ἐστι) between their Lives, after stating that both Cimon and Lucullus subverted great empires and subdued Asia without managing to complete their work (2.5).6 Lucullus was severely despised by his soldiery whereas Cimon was condemned to exile (2.5–6). Plutarch quotes the Platonic passage from Gorgias, where Socrates states that “the Athenians condemned Cimon to ostracism in order that for ten years they should not listen to his voice.”7 The passage from Gorgias is overtly drawn upon in the Plutarchan text in the form of an incorporated Alexandrian footnote, as Ross, speaking of Latin poetry, defines this way of intertextual citation promoted through eye-catching verbal signs that appeal in a self-reflecting way to tradition and report (ὥς φησιν ὁ Πλάτων).8 As a result, Plutarch’s knowledge of Plato is portrayed as a kind of learned citation. However, Plutarch’s medical knowledge emerges in an implicit way through the metaphor of aristocratic natures as physicians (2.7).9 Contrary to the above (explicit intertextual quotation), Plutarch—without referring to a specific author or text—closely follows a certain type of medical discourse through the medical metaphor.10 Before addressing the interdiscursive link between medicine and politics, I would like to shed light on the usage of the term ‘metaphor’ and its kin term ‘simile.’ Here, by ‘metaphor,’ I mean the application of a strange term, following Aristotle’s Poetics 21. 1457b. Moreover, according to Aristotle, metaphor is to be viewed not as an elliptic simile, as Quintilian (Inst. 8.6. 8–9) suggests, but, conversely, simile is to be viewed as a metaphor (Ἕστιν δὲ καὶ ἡ εἰκὼν μεταφορὰ, Rh. 1406b).11 Aristotle’s position that similes are extended metaphors is recurrent

6 7 8

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Cf. the beginning of their synkrisis and the metaphor of state as illness Comp. Cim. et Luc. 1.1–2. Pl. Grg. 516d5–7. D.O. Ross, Backgrounds to Augustean Poetry: Gallus, Elegy and Rome (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1975) 78, coined the term in order to signal words and phrases which seemingly reflect the act of ‘narrating’ or ‘reporting’ (e.g. dicitur, ferunt, fama est) and as such point out a poetic allusion. Cf. T.E. Duff, Plutarch’s Lives: Exploring Virtue and Vice (Oxford-New York: Oxford University Press, 1999) 93 n. 86, where he names the same analogy (Comp. Cim. et Luc. 2.7) as medical metaphor stating that “humoural theories lie behind Plutarch’s frequent use of medical metaphors to describe the activity of the good statesman, metaphors themselves related to the Platonic notion of the state as the macrocosm of a man.” For the usage of the term ‘metaphor’ by Plutarch, see R. Hirsch-Luipold, Plutarchs Denken in Bildern. Studien zur literarischen, philosophischen und religiösen Funktion des Bildhaften (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2002) 124–129. See C. Rapp, “metaphora,” in O. Höffe (ed.), Aristoteles-Lexikon (Stuttgart: Kröner, 2005) 351; A. Novokhatko, “The use of the term ‘metaphor’ in Latin linguistic discourse before

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in his Rhetoric (1406b; 1407a). This Aristotelian view is echoed in the modern research on conceptual metaphor. In particular, according to Steen, there is a distinction between ‘indirect’ and ‘direct’ metaphors.12 In the latter category belong similes that are marked by external signs, such as “like” or “just as.” From this point of view, I use the term ‘metaphor’ in this chapter in order to analyze a ‘direct metaphor,’ which contains a simile, a comparison between physicians and statesmen articulated via the tropical adverb ὥσπερ (“just as”). “Just as physicians’ bandages vex and annoy, albeit they bring the dislocated members into their natural position, aristocratic natures, similarly, vex and annoy the multitude as they use force to rectify its aberrations” (Comp. Cim. et Luc. 2.7). The Plutarchan ideal of the statesman as a gentle doctor, who uses less invasive methods than ‘burning and cutting,’ is replaced here by the painful political treatment that the aristocratic natures impose.13 Plutarch portrays Lucullus negatively, blaming him for his inability to woo the plêthos.14 Similarly, Cimon was ostracized with the charge of being “a lover of Sparta and a hater of the people” (φιλολάκων καὶ μισόδημος, Per. 9.5); his philolaconism was perceived by his fellow citizens as betrayal.15 Aristocracy in these cases seems inconsistent with the multitude. In order to depict the opposition of the multitude (plêthos) to the aristocratic statesmen (physeis), Plutarch transfers medical discourse drawn from anatomical texts. The interdiscursive openness of the Plutarchan metaphor to the Hippocratic anatomy is advanced through the notion of physis as anatomical constitution. Aristocratic natures impose their power on the plêthos in order to rectify its aberrations. Thus, they are represented as being unpleasant and little in accord with the multitude, because they annoy and vex it similarly to physicians whose bandages annoy and vex the patients in order to redirect the dislocated members into their physis. Hence,

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Quintilian,” in P. Poccetti (ed.), Latinitatis rationes. Descriptive and Historical Accounts for the Latin Language (Berlin-New York: De Gruyter, 2016) 395–409 and id., “The linguistic treatment of metaphor in Quintilian,” Pallas 103 (2017) 311–318. See G.J. Steen, “Three kinds of metaphor in discourse: A linguistic taxonomy,” in A. Musolff & J. Zinken (eds.), Metaphor and discourse (Houndmills: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009) 25– 39. See S. Saïd, “Plutarch and the People in the Parallel Lives,” in L. De Blois et al. (eds.), The Statesman in Plutarch’s Works, vol. i (Leiden-Boston: Brill, 2004) 23. See S.C.R. Swain, “Plutarch’s characterization of Lucullus,”RhM 135 (1992) 307–316; M. Tröster, “Struggling with the Plêthos: Politics and Military Leadership in Plutarch’s Life of Lucullus,” in A.G. Nikolaidis (ed.), The Unity of Plutarch’s Work. Moralia Themes in the Lives, Features of the Lives in the Moralia (Berlin-New York: De Gruyter, 2008) 393. Cf. Cim. 15.3. See E. Stein-Hölkeskamp, “Kimon und die athenische Demokratie,” Hermes 127 (1999) 145–164; L. Piccirilli, “Commento. Vita di Cimone,” in C. Carena et al. (eds.), Plutarco. Le Vite di Cimone e di Lucullo (Milan: Fondazione Lorenzo Valla, 2001) 251.

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the term physis serves as a component of the Plutarchan metaphor and succeeds in bridging it with the Hippocratic tradition (Hp. Fract. 1: 2.46.1–9 Kw. = 3.412.1–8 L.): Ἐχρῆν τὸν ἰητρὸν τῶν ἐκπτωσίων τε καὶ κατηγμάτων ὡς ἰθυτάτας τὰς κατατάσιας ποιέεσθαι· αὕτη γὰρ ἡ δικαιοτάτη φύσις. Ἢν δέ τι ἐγκλίνῃ ἢ τῇ ἢ τῇ, ἐπὶ τὸ πρηνὲς ῥέπειν· ἐλάσσων γὰρ ἡ ἁμαρτὰς ἢ ἐπὶ τὸ ὕπτιον. Οἱ μὲν οὖν μηδὲν προβουλεύσαντες οὐδὲν ἐξαμαρτάνουσιν ὡς ἐπὶ τὸ πουλύ· αὐτὸς γὰρ ὁ ἐπιδεόμενος τὴν χεῖρα ἀπορέγει, οὕτως ὑπὸ τῆς δικαίης φύσιος ἀναγκαζόμενος. In dislocations and fractures, the practitioner should make extensions in as straight a line as possible, for this is most conformable with nature but if it inclines at all to either side, it should turn towards pronation (palm down) rather than supination (palm up), for the error is less. Indeed, those who have no preconceived idea make no mistake as a rule, for the patient himself holds out the arm for bandaging in the position impressed on it by conformity with nature. transl. Withington

In medicine, the physis of the body, or of an organ, often coincides with its anatomical character, as is the case when the Hippocratic author expresses the opinion that the patient himself, forced by the “most right” nature, unfolds the arm for bandaging in the right position. Actually, the functional character of the Hippocratic anatomy portrays φύσις (physis) and χρῆσις (chrêsis, “function”) very similar to each other, illustrating that both concepts were in fact perceived as a unity in accordance with Hippocratic anatomy.16 Closely allied to this force of functional or anatomical physis seems to be the description of physis in terms of a natural constitution and position to which the physician has to rehabilitate dislocated members. Whether performed by the physician or by the patient, the extension aims at restoring the initial physis, namely the constitutional or normative, which the Hippocratic author names “most just.” The return to this norm presupposes the forceful stretching into a straight line, which is also mentioned by Plutarch (προσβιαζόμεναι τῷ κατευθύνειν). Plutarch’s description of repositioning into a straight line as given by physis (εἰς τὰ κατὰ φύσιν ἄγοντες τὰς παραρθρήσεις) widens the spectrum of the Hippocratic discourse—alluding to the extension of the fractured arm in the Hip16

Cf. Hp. Art. 18: 2.142.11–15 Kw. = 4.132.10–13 L. and 52: 2.192.7–8 Kw. = 4.230.6–7 L. See M. Michler, “Die Praktische Bedeutung des normativen Physis-Begriffes in der Hippokratischen Schrift De Fracturis—De Articulis,” Hermes 90.4 (1962) 394.

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pocratic tract De articulis, which was considered to be once united with his tract De fracturis already mentioned.17 The importance of the straight line is recurrent in the Hippocratic surgical treatises; e.g. in Art. 17: 2.141.17–20 Kw. = 4.130.16–19 L., where the Hippocratic author describes the subluxation of the elbow-joint or radius towards the side or outwards. He also suggests that the extension must be made in a direct line (ἐς εὐθὺ κατατείναντα), whereas the projecting part must be pushed obliquely backwards. Similarly, the author (Fract. 3: 2.50.13–51.7 Kw. = 3.426.3–18 L.) gives weight to the direct stretching of a whole fractured arm: from the little finger to the elbow and from the twist to the end of the humerus. In this way, both the bone will be turned straight (ἐπιστρέψει μὲν τὸ ὀστέον ἐς ἰθὺ) and the cords will be in a direct line (ἰθυωρίην). It is obvious that the redirection of the dislocated members into a straight line appears as a precondition for the restoration of the normative physis described as “the most conformable with nature” and as “most just” in the opening lines of the Hippocratic treatise De fracturis. All relevant medical instances of repositioning, in as straight a line as possible, are best summarized in a vivid metaphor, given by Galen in topographical terms, of crossing from Athens to Eleusis and vice versa; what is about to recur in the ancient status, from where it is deviated, must cross the same way reversely, i.e. the opposite way. For those who go from Athens to Eleusis, one cannot say that the route is different from Eleusis to Athens (Galen, In Hippocratis librum de articulis commentarii iv. 18a320.6–15 K.). Thus, the medical metaphor is as follows: a joint being dislocated is mapped as leaving its physis, whereas being rehabilitated is mapped as returning to its physis; the deviation of dislocated members from the ancient physis, which is mapped both as point of departure and of arrival when returning to it, is reminiscent of Aristotle, who stated that each element has its “proper place” (οἰκεῖος τόπος) “to which it betakes itself as naturally as a cat returns home.”18 Specifically, this Aristotelian concept of “proper” (οἰκεῖος), is reflected by Galen, who comments on the above Hippocratic δικαιοτάτη φύσις (“most just physis”) as “most proper” (In Hippocratis librum de fracturis commentarii iii. 18b335.7–16 K.):19 17

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Cf. Gal. In Hp. De fract. comm. iii. 18b323.10–324.16 K. See C. Brockmann, “Die hippokratischen Schriften De fracturis und De articulis im kulturellen Kontext des 5. Jahrhunderts,” in V. Boudon-Millot, A. Guardasole & C. Magdelaine (eds.), La science médicale antique: nouveaux regards, publié en l’ honneur de Jacques Jouanna (Paris: Beauchesne, 2008) 119– 137. W.A. Heidel, “Περὶ Φύσεως. A Study of the Conception of Nature among the Pre-Socratics,” Proceedings of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences 45.4 (1910) 104. For oikeion in Aristotle cf. EN 1161b19. Cf. the commentaries of Apoll., In Hp. De artic. comm. 1.2.32–36 Schöne (= CMG 11.1.1.14.20–

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βʹ. Αὐτὴ γὰρ ἡ δικαιοτάτη φύσις. Ὡς εἰ καὶ οἰκειοτάτη εἶπεν. ὅταν γὰρ ἑκάστῳ πράγματι τὸ οἰκεῖον φυλάττεται, δικαίως ἔχει τε καὶ διοικεῖται τοῦτο. τὸ δ’ ἄλλο οἰκεῖον ἐν σώματι παρὰ τὸ κατὰ φύσιν οὐδ’ ἐπινοῆσαι ῥᾴδιον. ὅταν οὖν ἑκάστῳ μορίῳ καὶ σχήματι καὶ χρώματι καὶ μεγέθει ὑπάρχῃ τὸ οἰκεῖον, ἄριστα δείκνυται. So this is the most right nature. That is to say the most conformable to the nature of a thing. For when what is conformable to the nature of every individual part is kept, the whole is right and it is regulated rightly as well. However, it is not easy even to invent something else, which is unconformable to nature, to be conformable into the body. So when every part or shape or colour or size has its own conformity to its nature, it turns out to be the best.20 In the passage above, the Aristotelian teleology becomes apparent, which Galen incorporates in his commentary on the Hippocratic δικαιοτάτη φύσις.21 Shifting from the adjective “most right,” with which Hippocrates characterizes physis, Galen presents justice as a universal, overarching, and organizing rule, which places Aristotle in the background of his commentary on the Hippocratic δικαιοτάτη φύσις.22 It is not pointless that Galen attributes to Aristotle the characterization of the “exegete of Hippocrates’ reasoning on nature” (Galen,

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25 Kollesch & Kudlien); Erot. Voc. Hp. coll. 62.14–63.11 Klein = 32.3–16 Nachmanson s.v. δίκαιον; Steph. Schol. in Hp. De fract. 33.8–11 Irmer; Pall. Schol. in Hp. De fract. 32.6–9 Irmer and Gal. In Hp. De fract. comm. iii. 18b335.9–16 K. which shed light on the notion of the Hippocratic justice focusing on the terms δίκη (“justice”), νόμος (“law”), but also οἰκεῖον (“proper”) and ἰθύ (“straight”). See F. Heinimann, Nomos und Physis. Herkunft und Bedeutung einer Antithese im griechischen Denken des 5. Jahrhunderts. Schweizerische Beiträge zur Altertumswissenschaft 1 (Basel: F. Reinhardt 1945) 59f. On Galen’s reinterpretation of Hippocrates’ δικαιοτάτη φύσις, see P. Moraux, “Galien comme philosophe: la philosophie de la nature,” in V. Nutton (ed.), Galen. Problems and Prospects (London: Wellcome Institute for the History of Medicine, 1981) 87–116; F. Kovacic, Der Begriff der Physis bei Galen vor dem Hintergrund seiner Vorgänger. Philosophie der Antike 12 (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2001) and A. Roselli, “Dalla dikaia physis dei trattati chirurgici alla dikaiosyne tes physeos di Galeno,” in A. Thivel & A. Zucker (eds.), Le normal et le pathologique dans la Collection hippocratique II (Nice: Faculté des Lettres, Arts et Sciences Humaines de Nice, 2002) 731–752. The translation here is my own. But it was also the Hippocratic author himself, who had connected the adjective “proper” (οἰκεῖος) with physis in the same work of Fract. when saying: πολλὰ γὰρ καὶ παρὰ τὴν οἰκείην φύσιν ἐκπίπτει (“for many other things are removed from their proper place”, Fract. 42: 2.105.5–6 Kw. = 3.550.3 L.). Cf. J. Jouanna, “Galen’s Concept of Nature,” in J. Jouanna (ed.), Greek Medicine from Hip-

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De methodo medendi 10.15.8 K.). The adverbial phrase κατὰ φύσιν functions as a technical formula in the surgical tracts of Hippocrates and is to be understood in terms of the normal and correct position of a limb. As Galen himself states: “The expression κατὰ φύσιν has several meanings, but in this case we should understand it in the following sense: what is produced κατὰ πρῶτον δὲ λόγον by nature” (πολλαχῶς δὲ τοῦ κατὰ φύσιν λεγομένου, τοῦτ’ ἀκούειν χρὴ νῦν ὃ κατὰ πρῶτον λόγον ὑπὸ τῆς φύσεως γίγνεται, Galen, De placitis Hippocratis et Platonis 6.1.8, CMG 5.4.1.2.362.5–6 De Lacy [= 5.507.12–14 K.]). The common phrase κατὰ φύσιν seems to have been built on the analogy of words such as logos or nomos. Indeed, Erotianus, in his commentary on the same Hippocratic passage, names the Hippocratic “most just physis” as just nomos (αὕτη γὰρ ἡ δικαιοτάτη φύσις. ὥσπερ νόμος δίκαιος, Vocum Hippocraticorum Collectio 63.7–8 Klein = 32.12–13 Nachmanson). Hence, the normative character of physis that approaches nomos becomes evident. After dwelling on the comments regarding the Hippocratic physis, which is echoed by the Plutarchan metaphor, let us return to the Plutarchan corpus of Lives and expound on the pre-Socratic notion of justice inherent in nature, as is described by the law-giver Solon. On the basis of the forceful nature of aristocratic ruling that Plutarch describes in the metaphor of aristocratic physeis as physicians, I would now like to establish an intratextual link with the interpretation of natural justice as it is reflected in Solon (3.7). By intratextual reference I mean the way in which Plutarch himself, in these different Lives, echoes the “most just nature” with regards to the imposition of external force by the aristocratic physeis and the law-giver Solon.23 In the first case of the Comparison of Cimon-Lucullus (2.7), the rectifying force of the bandages rehabilitates the dislocated members to their normative physis, which alludes to the Hippocratic “most rightful physis.” In the second case, the notion of disturbing force that overturns justice is located in the following passage of Plutarch, where he quotes the Solonian verses of fragments (Sol. 3.6–7 = 9.1– 2 &12 West): φιλοσοφίας δὲ τοῦ ἠθικοῦ μάλιστα τὸ πολιτικόν, ὥσπερ οἱ πλεῖστοι τῶν τότε σοφῶν, ἠγάπησεν. ἐν δὲ τοῖς φυσικοῖς ἁπλοῦς ἐστι λίαν καὶ ἀρχαῖος, ὡς δῆλον ἐκ τούτων ἐκ νεφέλης πέλεται χιόνος μένος ἠδὲ χαλάζης, βροντὴ δ’ ἐκ λαμπρᾶς γίνεται ἀστεροπῆς

23

pocrates to Galen: Selected Papers (Leiden: Brill, 2012) 308: “Aristotle normally appears in second place behind Hippocrates, when there is no discussion of Plato.” See G. Vlastos, “Solonian Justice,” CPh 41.2 (1946) 65–83.

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ἐξ ἀνέμων δὲ θάλασσα ταράσσεται· ἢν δέ τις αὐτὴν μὴ κινῇ, πάντων ἐστὶ δικαιοτάτη. In philosophy, he cultivated chiefly the domain of political ethics, like most of the wise men of the time; and in physics, he is very simple and antiquated, as is clear from the following verses: From clouds come sweeping snow and hail, And thunder follows on the lightning’s flash. By winds the sea is lashed to storm, but if it be Unvexed, it is of all things most amenable. transl. Perrin

Plutarch incorporates the Solonian verses verbatim into his Life. We read and appreciate this intertextual quotation as testimony, which provides a description of Solon’s engagement in both politics and physics. His interest in physics is exemplified through a description of the physical state of the sea, a description which alludes to the political sphere as well, as it can be perceived as a metaphor of a just polis guarded by good laws.24 The undisturbed, flat surface of the sea characterized as “most just,” “most calm” is ‘transferred’ in the political sphere as representative of justice; as long as there is no disturbing cause, no impose of violence, (ἢν δέ τις αὐτὴν μὴ κινῇ), i.e. winds that agitate it, it is the most rightful of all things. Following Reggiani’s view who suggests that the quietness of the sea has cosmogonic resonances and evokes the idea of euthesia (“corretta stabilità”) of primordial waters, the flat surface of the sea is reminiscent of the “most just”physis, echoing the stretching of the dislocated limbs by physicians, εἰς τὰ κατὰ φύσιν ἄγοντες τὰς παραρθρήσεις.25 Both Plutarchan metaphors allude to this euthesia, a term clearly Hippocratic and representative of the balance.26 In this respect, the rectifying force of the dislocated members into the most just physis (προσβιαζόμεναι τῷ κατευθύνειν) accords with the Plutarchan phrase (Sol. 15.1 = fr. 36.16): ὁμοῦ βίην τε καὶ δίκην συναρμόσας (“combining both force and justice together”).

24

25

26

See D.F. Leão, “Plutarch on Solon’s simplicity concerning natural philosophy: Sol. 3,6–7 and frgs. 9 and 12 West,” in M. Meeusen & L. Van der Stock (eds.), Natural Spectaculars: Aspects of Plutarch’s Philosophy of Nature (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2015) 227–238. See N. Reggiani, “Giustizia e misura. Le riforme di Solone fra polis e cosmo,” in V. Gheller (ed.), Ricerche a confronto. Dialoghi di Antichità Classiche e del Vicino Oriente (Milan: Edizioni Saecula, 2013) 13–22. Gal. Voc. Hipp. gloss. 19.101.

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Conclusions The Plutarchan metaphor located in the Comparison of Cimon and Lucullus 2.7 unfolded a whole tradition of medical intertexts, concluding with a naturalistic metaphor in the same context of nature and politics. In this spectrum of medical discourses drawn from the surgical treatises of Hippocrates, the Plutarchan phrase κατὰ φύσιν is attained to a medical and technical discourse recurrent in the surgical treatises of Hippocrates. This Plutarchan phrase serves as a terminus technicus, the context of which has been interpreted through the Aristotelian lens of Galen. The contextualization of this phrase in the Hippocratic tradition of dislocations alludes inevitably to the notion of “most just physis;” however, in Hippocrates there arises a pro-Aristotelian conception of justice with implied teleological connotations that only Aristotle systemized. This Aristotelian teleology is echoed in the commentary of Galen on the Hippocratic “most just” physis, which could also be seen as a commentary on the Plutarchan expression εἰς τὰ κατὰ φύσιν ἄγοντες τὰς παραρθρήσεις. Apart from connecting the Plutarchan phrase κατὰ φύσιν with the Aristotelian teleology, I drew parallels in adopting an intratextual approach of Solon’s most just sea. The thread that connects all the above intertexts is the notion of the “most just nature.” The characterization of the normative physis as most just, even though being absent in the first metaphor, is implied and reconstructed by the rest of the intertexts. The circle of ideas that the reader is called to reconstruct frames both Plutarchan metaphors turning on the axis of euthesia as innate to the “most just” physis; the latter is transferred to the political sphere, where the aristocratic physeis of Cimon and Lucullus “combine force and justice” in a medical conception of physis.

part 5 Intergenericity: Plutarch’s Works at the Crossroads

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chapter 26

Generic and Intertextual Enrichment: Plutarch’s Alexander 30 Chrysanthos S. Chrysanthou

Abstract This chapter examines Plutarch’s engagement with other texts and genres in a single scene from the Life of Alexander, that of Darius’ discussion with the eunuch Tireus (Alex. 30), and the effects which such generic and intertextual interaction has on the texture and meaning of Plutarch’s biography as well as on the reader’s response to it. It argues that Darius’ mourning for his wife Statira draws on conventional themes of the lament genre, which Plutarch adopts and manipulates in such a way as to illuminate Darius’ mischief and call attention to important character traits of Darius and Alexander. Moreover, it suggests that an intertextual dialogue with Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannus might be recognised in Darius’ prayer. This has the effect of prompting reflection on the themes of human fragility and vulnerability, which are central to both the Lives of Alexander and Caesar.

1

Introduction

In chapter 30 of the Life of Alexander, Plutarch gives a detailed account of the discussion between the Persian king Darius III and Tireus, one of Statira’s attending eunuchs, who flees from the Macedonian camp and brings Darius the news about the death of his wife. The dialogue between the two men is written in very dramatic terms—nothing similar can be found in Arrian (An. 4.20.1–4) or Justin (Epit. 11.12.6–9)1—and the scene, which has reasonably been considered as one of Plutarch’s ‘grandes scènes’ (to use Françoise Frazier’s terminol-

1 In Justin, in fact, the meeting is omitted completely. There is only a reference to Darius’ learning about the death of his wife and Alexander’s philanthropy towards Darius’ family as well as Darius’ confession that his enemy surpassed him in kindness. Curtius (4.10.25–34) gives a more detailed and dramatic presentation of Darius’ encounter with the eunuch.

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ogy),2 is endowed throughout with poignant ‘tragic’ coloring.3 Tragic coloring, as shall be shown, serves to both illuminate several aspects of the character and moral standing of Alexander and Darius and to prompt reflection on larger themes that are central to Plutarch’s Alexander-Caesar book.4 Particularly significant for my argument is that Darius’ bereavement bears some important

2 F. Frazier, “Contribution à l’ étude de la composition des ‘Vies’ de Plutarque: l’élaboration des grandes scènes,” in ANRW II.33.6 (Berlin-New York: De Gruyter, 1992) 4496: “Par grandes scènes, j’entends des passages assez longs, dotés d’ une certaine unité de temps et qui font l’ objet d’ un récit détaillé et mimétique.” Her study offers an elaborate discussion of how these ‘big scenes’ contribute to Plutarch’s technique of characterization and moralizing through their mimetic qualities and vividness. She discusses the Darius-eunuch scene at 4527–4528, 4533; see also M. Beck, “Plutarch,” in I.J.F. De Jong & R. Nünlist (eds.), Time in Ancient Greek Literature: Studies in Ancient Greek Narrative, Volume 2 (Leiden: Brill, 2007) 399 with n. 15. 3 By ‘tragic’ I refer both (more generally) to the ‘tragic’ feeling and “‘tragic’ elements of the human condition” that “spring from a writer’s vision and sensibilities” (C.B.R. Pelling, “Plutarch’s adaptation of his source-material,” in C.B.R. Pelling, Plutarch and History: Eighteen Studies [London: Duckworth, 2002] 111 n. 27) and to an author’s more specific intertextual engagement with and evocation of the literary genre of tragedy. Scholars have been alert to the fact that many of Aristotle’s claims in the Poetics about tragedy are not confined to the tragic literary genre but can also be found in other genres of literature, such as epic and historiography. See C. Macleod, Collected Essays (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1983) 140–158; J. Mossman, “Plutarch, Pyrrhus, and Alexander,” in P.A. Stadter (ed.), Plutarch and the Historical Tradition (London: Taylor & Francis, 1992) 90–91; J. Mossman, “Tragedy and epic in Plutarch’s Alexander,” in B. Scardigli (ed.), Essays on Plutarch’s Lives (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995) 213–214; R.B. Rutherford, “Tragic Form and Feeling in the Iliad,” in D.L. Cairns (ed.), Oxford Readings in Homer’s Iliad (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001) 260–293; Pelling, Plutarch and History, 111 n. 27; R.B. Rutherford, “Tragedy and History,” in J. Marincola (ed.), A Companion to Greek and Roman Historiography, Volume 2 (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2007) 504– 514; C.B.R. Pelling, “Tragic Colouring in Plutarch,” in J. Opsomer & G. Roskam & F.B. Titchener (eds.), A Versatile Gentleman: Consistency in Plutarch’s Writing. Studies Offered to Luc Van der Stockt on the Occasion of his Retirement (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2016) 113–116. Characteristically, S. Halliwell, The Poetics of Aristotle (London: Duckworth, 1987) 81, commenting on ch. 4 of Aristotle’s Poetics, stresses that “Epic poetry … developed from the original impulse to portray and celebrate the actions of outstanding or noble men; but the essence of tragedy, both in its Homeric and in its later Attic form, involves such characters in great changes of fortune, or transformations, which arouse pity and fear in those who contemplate them.” I owe this reference to Mossman, “Tragedy and epic,” 214. 4 Scholars have mainly associated tragic coloring in the Alexander with the darker sides of Alexander’s character, which is not (always) the case, as we shall see. See esp. Mossman, “Tragedy and epic,” 211–213; T.E. Duff, Plutarch’s Lives: Exploring Virtue and Vice (Oxford-New York: Oxford University Press, 1999) 65. Most recently, Pelling, “Tragic Colouring in Plutarch,” 129–131 shifts attention to the importance of tragic coloring in the Alexander for interpretation, pointing especially to the interplay between reality and show and the subject’s more or less successful handling of showiness and theatricality.

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affinities with the tradition of private lamentations, mainly found in tragedy and epic. Plutarch’s presentation of Darius’ discussion with Tireus (as we shall see) presents an especially apposite case study that affords us insight into the way(s) in which Plutarch enriches his biographies by evoking specific texts and other literary genres in the Lives as well as the effect(s) that such intertextual and generic enrichment has on the texture and meaning of his biographical narrative and the reader’s response to it.5

2

Alexander 30: Darius’ Encounter with Tireus

The scene of the discussion between Darius and Tireus can be divided into three main parts (30.1–6: first exchange; 30.7–10: second exchange; and 30.11– 14: Darius’ prayer). Each part is marked by highly emotive, non-verbal moments that introduce the arguments, thoughts, and feelings of the two men, which are strikingly rendered in oratio recta. In Plutarch’s Lives, direct speech is used selectively to recount brief anecdotes (e.g. Ant. 4.9, 24.7–8, 46.6–7), discuss several political and philosophical themes (e.g. Pyrrh. 19.1–4; Ag.-Cleom. 52; Brut. 40.5–9), and “illustrate private affections and tragedy, particularly … the involvement of a man’s family or loved one with the climax of his fate” (e.g. Aemilius in Aem. 36.4–9; Porcia in Brut. 13.7–10; Cleopatra in Ant. 84.4–7).6 In Alexander 30, direct speech allows Plutarch to bring all the more sharply into relief the private tragedy of Darius and his family and to mark the emotive and cognitive gap between Darius and the eunuch in a particularly vivid manner. This gap, as we shall see, is gradually closed down to highlight Alexander’s virtuous character. The scene begins with Plutarch’s reference to Statira’s death and Alexander’s magnanimity (30.1). A transition follows from Alexander’s to Darius’ camp, its importance marked with a historical present following a series of aorist partici-

5 The term ‘generic enrichment’ is introduced by S.J. Harrison, Generic Enrichment in Vergil and Horace (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), who defines it “as the way in which generically identifiable texts gain literary depth and texture from detailed confrontation with, and consequent inclusion of elements from, texts which appear to belong to other literary genres” (1). Cf. G.B. Conte, The Rhetoric of Imitation: Genre and Poetic Memory in Virgil and other Latin Poetry (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1986); W. Kroll, Studien zum Verständnis der römischen Literatur (Stuttgart: J.B. Metzler, 1924) 202–224 (“Die Kreuzung der Gattungen”). 6 See C.B.R. Pelling, Plutarch: Life of Antony (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988) 316– 317. The quotation is from p. 317.

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ples:7 “One of her attendants, a eunuch named Tireus who had been captured with her, after he escaped (ἀποδράς) from the camp and made his way to Darius on horseback (ἀφιππασάμενος), told (cf. φράζει) him of his wife’s death” (30.2).8 When Darius heard about the death of his wife, as Plutarch recounts next, he beat upon his head (cf. 30.3: πληξάμενος τὴν κεφαλήν) and wept aloud (30.3: ἀνακλαύσας). Darius’ reaction reveals a strong element of grief, which culminates in a lamenting outburst: “Alas (φεῦ) for the god of the Persians! Was it not enough that the king’s consort and sister should have become a prisoner while she lived, but she must also be deprived of a royal funeral (ἄμοιρον κεῖσθαι ταφῆς βασιλικῆς) at her death?” (30.3). Darius’ mourning shows close similarities with the female-dominated genre of private lamentations, thus offering an example of an Easterner who is presented by Plutarch as feminized.9 Readers are irresistibly reminded of Xerxes in Aeschylus’ Persians 908–1077 and the Phrygian slave in Euripides’ Orestes 1381–1399.10 Lamentations in antiquity frequently begin with a series of questions that serve either to express the hesitation and caution of the mourner

7

8

9

10

On historical present, see A. Rijksbaron, “The Profanation of the Mysteries and the Mutilation of the Hermae: Two Variations on Two Themes,” in J. Lallot et al. (eds.), The Historical Present in Thucydides: Semantics and Narrative Function (Leiden: Brill, 2011) 187–194; G. Boter, “The Historical Present of Atelic and Durative Verbs in Greek Tragedy,”Philologus 156 (2012) 207–233. Cf. Caes. 61.5 for another example of historical present (καὶ γίνεται κρότος … ἐκ παρασκευῆς), used by Plutarch to mark a momentous incident in a highly dramatic context, that of the Lupercalia. Transl. adapted from I. Scott-Kilvert & T.E. Duff, Plutarch: The Age of Alexander (London: Penguin, 2012) throughout. The translations of the rest of texts are based on or adopted from those of the Loeb editions, unless otherwise noted. In Sol. 21.5–6 Plutarch refers to Solon’s legislation to restrict the laments of women and death rituals. He then continues to say that most of these practices are also forbidden in his own days, although there is an additional proviso that those who do not obey “shall be punished by the board of censors for women, because they indulge in unmanly (ὡς ἀνάνδροις) and effeminate (καὶ γυναικώδεσι) extravagances of sorrow when they mourn” (Sol. 21.7). In Plutarch’s eyes excessive grief and lamentation is hardly admirable: see his consolatory advice in the Cons. ad ux., with the excellent discussion by H. Baltussen, “Personal Grief and Public Mourning in Plutarch’s Consolation to His Wife,” American Journal of Philology 130.1 (2009) 76–94. Cf. Consol. ad Apoll. 113A: “Mourning is verily feminine, and weak, and ignoble, since women are more given to it than men, and barbarians more than Greeks, and inferior men more than better men.” On Xerxes’ lament as feminized, see G. Holst-Warhaft, Dangerous Voices: Women’s Laments and Greek Literature (London: Routledge, 1992) 130–133; E. Hall, Aeschylus: Persians (Warminster: Aris & Phillips, 1996) 13, 168–169; C.B.R. Pelling, “Aeschylus’ Persae and History,” in C.B.R. Pelling (ed.), Greek Tragedy and the Historian (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997) 13–19; H.P. Foley, Female Acts in Greek Tragedy (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001) 29. Cf. A. Suter, “Male Lament in Greek Tragedy,” in A. Suter (ed.), Lament:

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or to emphasize the extent of the mourner’s sorrow.11 Darius’ opening question not only stresses his suffering, but also brings to the fore the (presumed) plight of his wife. Equally common in tragic, private laments are movements, sounds, gestures, and wailing,12 all of which occur in Darius’ mourning for Statira. Besides “weeping aloud” (ἀνακλαύσας), Darius exclaims φεῦ (“alas!”), a marked term, denoting grief or anger (mainly) in tragedy.13 He also “beats upon his head,” a common gesture of mourning (e.g. A. Th. 855–856) and an expression of intense sorrow (e.g. Hdt. 3.14.7; J. AJ 16.329).14 Closely relevant is Darius’ emphasis on Statira’s earlier, kingly status and (what he presumes is) her current miserable state in life and death. Tragic mourners regularly draw such contrasts between the (glorious) past and (miserable) present of the deceased and express their own fear lest the dead does not receive a proper, honorable burial (cf. Briseis in Iliad 19.288–289 or Electra in Aeschylus’ Choephori 429–433).15 Darius’ appeal, moreover, to several unearthly forces throughout the scene— “Alas for the god of the Persians!” (30.3); “tell me, I charge you as you revere the great light of Mithras” (30.8); “You gods of my race and my kingdom” (30.12)— evokes tragic scenes where supernatural forces are directly addressed in lamentations (e.g. A. Supp. 79–133; A 1468; 1313–1330).16 Particularly significant is Dar-

11 12 13 14

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16

Studies in the Ancient Mediterranean and Beyond (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008) 161–163, 169, 175 n. 37. On the Phrygian slave, see Suter, “Male Lament,” 165. M. Alexiou, The Ritual Lament in Greek Tradition (Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, 2002, 2nd ed.) 161–162. See Alexiou, The Ritual Lament, 6; K. Derderian, Leaving Words to Remember: Greek Mourning and the Advent of Literacy (Leiden: Brill, 2001) 137–138. See LSJ, s.v. φεῦ. Cf. the beating of one’s breast as a typical mourning sign (e.g. Il. 18.50–51; 19.284–285), with C.C. Tsagalis, Epic Grief: Personal Laments in Homer’s Iliad (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2004) 59– 60. See also Holst-Warhaft, Dangerous Voices, 105–106, 108, 143; Derderian, Leaving Words, 35–36 n. 81, 54–55, 137–138. See Alexiou, The Ritual Lament, 4, 165–171, 206 n. 2. Cf. A. Suter, “Lament in Euripides’ ‘Trojan Women’,”Mnemosyne 56.1 (2003) 3, 7; Derderian, Leaving Words, 36; Tsagalis, Epic Grief, 15, 30, 44–45. The comparison between past and present is also present in the laments found in the extant ancient Greek novels, see J. Birchall, “The Lament as a Rhetorical Feature in the Greek Novel,” in H. Hofmann & M. Zimmerman (eds.), Groningen Colloquia on the Novel Volume VII (Groningen: Egbert Foster, 1996) 10–11; K. De Temmerman, Crafting Characters: Heroes and Heroines in the Ancient Greek Novel (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014) 43–44. This also occurs in Latin lament, e.g. Luc. 8.759–775, 9.81–82, with A. Keith, “Lament in Lucan’s Bellum Civile,” in A. Suter (ed.), Lament: Studies in the Ancient Mediterranean and Beyond (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008) 246–248. See Alexiou, The Ritual Lament, 113–116 and 227 n. 29 for further examples. Cf. Birchall, “The Lament as a Rhetorical Feature,” 10 on similar addresses in the laments of Greek novels. (e.g. Hld. 1.8; Longus 4.8.3–4).

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ius’ invocation of “the great light of Mithras (Μίθρου τε φῶς μέγα)” (30.8).17 Light imagery and symbolism appearing as the sacred source of life, knowledge, joy, and warmth constantly recur in the Greek lamentation of all periods.18 In terms of structure, ancient Greek laments generally consisted of catechistic questions, stichomythic dialogues, and refrains that accompanied a soloist mourner, which often echoed her/his laments or expressed antiphonally conflicting emotions and ideas.19 Tireus’ exchange with Darius, although not a stichomythia, constitutes a highly moving dialogue that increases the dramatic tension between the two men. Tireus may be seen as performing the antiphonal role of the chorus in tragedy, driving Darius (as we shall see below) to eventually think more like a Greek than a Persian. It might be instructive to compare the scene with the ghost of Darius I in Aeschylus’ Persians (681–842), whose response to Xerxes’ enterprise closely maps principal Greek values and assumptions.20 The contrast between the two men’s understandings of Alexander is initially expressed through a series of cumulative repetitions of Darius’ words in Tireus’ response,21 which serve to amend (cf. ἀλλά at 30.4) Darius’ thoughts and underline the proper honors that his family enjoyed at Alexander’s hands (30.4–5). From this particular instance, Tireus moves on to pass a more general paradigmatic appraisal of Alexander’s gentleness in both the private and military arenas: “Alexander is as gentle after victory as he is terrible in battle” (30.6). This very idea is reinforced in the next part of the dialogue, when Tireus tries to remove Darius’ suspicions that Alexander offended Statira. Darius expresses his sorrow in a supremely self-centered lament (30.8–9): ἆρα μὴ τὰ μικρότατα τῶν Στατείρας κλαίω κακῶν, οἰκτρότερα δὲ ζώσης ἐπάσχομεν, καὶ μᾶλλον ἂν κατ’ ἀξίαν ἐδυστυχοῦμεν ὠμῷ καὶ σκυθρωπῷ περιπεσόντες ἐχθρῷ; τί γὰρ εὐπρεπὲς ἀνδρὶ νέῳ πρὸς ἐχθροῦ γυναῖκα μέχρι τιμῆς τοσαύτης συμβόλαιον; 17

18

19 20 21

See also Tireus’ words at Alex. 30.5: “To my knowledge neither your queen Statira while she lived, nor your mother nor your children, lacked any of their former blessings, except for the light of your countenance (ἢ τὸ σὸν ὁρᾶν φῶς), which the Lord Oromazes will surely cause to shine (ἀναλάμψειε) again in its former glory.” See Alexiou, The Ritual Lament, 187–189; Holst-Warhaft, Dangerous Voices, 146; Derderian, Leaving Words, 120 with n. 21, 121; C.C. Tsagalis, Inscribing Sorrow: Fourth-Century Attic Funerary Epigrams (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2008) 63–86. See Alexiou, The Ritual Lament, 131–160; Tsagalis, Epic Grief, 15, 30–32, 46–51, 83–86. See Pelling, “Aeschylus’ Persae and History,” 14–16. 30.4 (Tireus: ταφῆς γε χάριν) ~ 30.3 (Darius: ταφῆς βασιλικῆς); 30.4 (Tireus: τὸν πονηρὸν δαίμονα Περσῶν) ~ 30.3 (Darius: τοῦ Περσῶν … δαίμονος); 30.5 (Tireus: οὔτ’ ἀποθανοῦσα κόσμου τινὸς ἄμοιρος γέγονεν) ~ 30.3 (Darius: τελευτήσασαν ἄμοιρον κεῖσθαι ταφῆς βασιλικῆς).

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Was not her death which I am now lamenting the least of Statira’s misfortunes? Did I not suffer an even crueller blow of fate while she was still alive? Would not my unhappy destiny at least have been more honourable if I had met a harsher and more inhuman enemy? For how can a young man’s treatment of his enemy’s wife be virtuous, if it expresses itself in such tributes? Darius’ speech is given in a very confused and complicated syntactical structure: it begins with the present tense (κλαίω κακῶν), then is juxtaposed with the imperfect (οἰκτρότερα δέ … ἐπάσχομεν), followed by the potential imperfect (καὶ μᾶλλον ἄν … ἐδυστυχοῦμεν), and completed with a question in (implied) present tense (τί γὰρ εὐπρεπές …). The befuddled mixture of tenses, I suggest, is reflective of the befuddled mindset of Darius (cf. 30.7: ἡ ταραχὴ καὶ τὸ πάθος ἐξέφερε πρὸς ὑποψίας ἀτόπους, “his agitation and misery were so great that he was quite carried away and began to entertain the most extravagant suspicions”), which Tireus finally comes to set aright again. Tireus emphatically (cf. καὶ μήτ’ Ἀλέξανδρον … μήτε … μήθ’ αὑτοῦ) reverses Darius’ line of thinking, following a wholly opposite movement (30.10). Darius lamented, first, his own fate (cf. 30.8: ἆρα μὴ τὰ μικρότατα … κλαίω κακῶν, οἰκτρότερα δέ … ἐπάσχομεν … καὶ μᾶλλον ἄν … ἐδυστυχοῦμεν), making a parallel reference to his wife (cf. 30.8: τὰ μικρότατα τῶν Στατείρας … οἰκτρότερα δὲ ζώσης), and concluded with Alexander (cf. 30.8–9: ὠμῷ καὶ σκυθρωπῷ περιπεσόντες ἐχθρῷ … τί γὰρ εὐπρεπὲς ἀνδρὶ νέῳ). Tireus, in reverse order, urges him neither to wrong Alexander (cf. 30.9: καὶ μήτ’ Ἀλέξανδρον ἀδικεῖν), nor to shame his dead sister and wife (cf. 30.10: μήτε τὴν τεθνεῶσαν ἀδελφὴν καὶ γυναῖκα καταισχύνειν), nor to deprive himself of the greatest consolation for his disasters (cf. μήθ’ αὑτοῦ τὴν μεγίστην ὧν ἔπταικεν ἀφαιρεῖσθαι παραμυθίαν). Such an equibalanced exchange, well suggestive of Darius’ demeaned status at the magnitude of his catastrophe, allows Tireus to declare again, in a more elaborate ‘refrain’ (cf. 30.4–6), Alexander’s “superiority to human nature,” his restraint (σωφροσύνην) towards Persian women, and his military valor (ἀνδρείαν). Tireus concludes his speech with a discussion of Alexander’s general self-restraint (cf. ἐγκρατείας) and magnanimity (μεγαλοψυχίας), which has the effect of changing Darius’ (moral) stance towards Alexander (30.10–11). Tireus’ implied discourse on Alexander’s virtues (cf. περὶ τῆς ἄλλης ἐγκρατείας καὶ μεγαλοψυχίας τῆς Ἀλεξάνδρου λέγοντος) is rather similar to Plutarch’s discussion of Alexander’s qualities throughout the Life.22 It also keeps with

22

See J. Beneker, The Passionate Statesman: Eros and Politics in Plutarch’s Lives (Oxford:

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Alexander’s own conception of kingship, most clearly shown in his treatment of the captive Persian women—Alexander displays chastity (cf. ἐγκρατείας) and self-control (σωφροσύνης) towards them, for he “thought it more worthy of a king (βασιλικώτερον) to subdue his own passions than to conquer his enemies” (21.7)—and in his capture of Darius’ tent. There, Alexander alienates himself from the vastness of Darius’ luxury and ironically comments on it: “So this, it seems, is what it is to be a king (τὸ βασιλεύειν)” (20.11–13). Just before the narration of the final encounter between the two men at Gaugamela (31–33), then, Tireus’ reflection draws the readers to remember Alexander’s virtuous character, and thus retrospectively interpret Alexander’s victory over Darius in terms of the two men’s different understandings of kingship. Alexander gives an alternative, superior idea of kingship to that of Darius, one of contempt for wealth and softness,23 which might call to mind the analogous instances of Caesar and Pausanias. In the Pompeius—and strikingly not in Alexander’s paired Life of Caesar (cf. 46.1)—, Plutarch dwells on how the Caesarians incredulously gazed on their enemies’ vanity and folly when Caesar entered the Pompeian camp after Pharsalus (72.5–6).24 Pausanias’ response to the captured Persian luxury may also be evoked here (Hdt. 9.82.2–3). Plutarch’s knowledgeable readers, nevertheless, may recall that neither Caesar nor Pausanias, nor even Alexander, lived up to those high moral standards,25 the last two drifting into that sort of ‘Oriental’ lifestyle that they had actively despised earlier.26 Indeed, in the last part of the scene of the Darius-Tireus encounter, readers may notice that the strong and simple polarity of Alexander and Darius,

23 24

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Oxford University Press, 2012) 103–139 on Alexander’s virtuous character as presented by Plutarch. See T.S. Schmidt, Plutarque et les Barbares: La rhétorique d’une image (Leuven-Namur: Peeters, 1999) 288–291. It might be natural for the Caesar (46.1) to include what is most relevant to the subject of his biography and thus suppress the details about the foolish confidence and infatuated hopes of Pompey and his army; but it might also be unnecessary to delineate this idea, for it has already been introduced in the Life of Alexander (20). Plutarch might expect his alert reader to recall the similar scene of Alexander’s capture of Darius’ tent in the preceding Alexander and think deeply about Caesar’s victory as well as his subsequent failure. See further C.S. Chrysanthou, Plutarch’s Parallel Lives: Narrative Technique and Moral Judgement (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2018) 79–80 on Plutarch’s varied approach in the Caesar and the Pompeius. See A.V. Zadorojnyi, “Mimesis and the (plu)past in Plutarch’s Lives,” in J. Grethlein & C.B. Krebs (eds.), Time and Narrative in Ancient Historiography: The ‘Plupast’ from Herodotus to Appian (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012) 194–198 who offers an excellent discussion of that intertextual triangle of comparisons and connections. On Pausanias, see Th. 1.130.1.

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Greek and barbarian, is challenged and qualified. More specifically, Darius’ closing speech to Tireus, although a prayer to the gods of his race and kingdom (cf. 30.12: θεοὶ γενέθλιοι καὶ βασίλειοι), has nothing typically Persian in it, nothing, for example, to suggest that Darius prays for wealth, prosperity, and expansionism. Darius rather asks the gods to re-establish for him the prosperity of the Persian Empire (cf. εἰς ὀρθὸν αὖθις σταθεῖσαν) in order to reward Alexander’s favors (30.12).27 Darius’ lament becomes reflective and thought provoking. It moves out of the female world of private grief into a male, public, non-Orientalized setting, embodying the suffering in the civil register of the Greek public laments, where a good example is normally set for the audience to emulate. Darius’ praise keeps well with the laudatory, consolatory, and gnomic style of the elegos, the epitaphios logos, and the epikēdeion,28 but again, Plutarch’s divergence from and innovatory enrichment of that tradition is most striking. The commemorative, proverbial, and expressive character of Darius’ last speech does not arise from a praise or commemoration of the dead but of the enemy.29 It comes from a proper appreciation of Alexander’s qualities, which sets an example that can inspire the readers to follow suit. This progress from personal grief and lament to civic concerns and the epitaphios logos-type speech fits well with the “pattern of moral improvement and restoration for the male lamenter during and after his lament” that Ann Suter identifies in many of the male lamentations in Greek tragedy,30 although here there is no self-criticism (at least explicitly) and no re-integration of the lamenting male into “his proper place in society” (as is normally found in tragedy according to Suter), despite Darius’ civic concern at the end.31 In Darius’ request to the gods, moreover, there can be further extrapolations than first meet the eye. In Darius’ appeal one can find an intertextual link with the speech of the aged priest in Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannus,32 who, in a mis27

28 29

30 31 32

Cf. Alex. 43.4; De Al. Magn. fort. 338F. There is no mention of Darius’ desire to make firm his rule in order to pay back Alexander’s kindness in Diodorus (17.54.7), Athenaeus (13.603C), Curtius (4.10.34), and Arrian (An. 4.20.3). On these kinds of laments, see Alexiou, The Ritual Lament, 104–108; Holst-Warhaft, Dangerous Voices, 124. In Plutarch’s work it is common to weep for one’s dead foe out of sensibility, respect, and awareness of human fragility: Eumenes for Craterus (Eum. 7.13), Antigonus for Pyrrhus (Pyrrh. 34.8), Caesar for Pompey (Caes. 48.2; Pomp. 80.7). See Pelling, Plutarch: Life of Antony, 309. Suter, “Male Lament,” 166. See Suter, “Male Lament,” 159–166. The phrase is cited from p. 166. Ziegler notes the parallel in his edition of the text. Cf. Frazier, “Contribution à l’étude,” 4528 with n. 135, who draws attention to the Sophoclean intertext and the whole tragic atmosphere of the scene.

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erable state, describes to Oedipus the plight of the city, tells him that Thebes is dying, and urges him not to let them remember of his reign that they “were first restored and then thrown down, but to uplift this state so that it fall no more” (cf. OT 50–51: στάντες τ’ ἐς ὀρθὸν καὶ πεσόντες ὕστερον | ἀλλ’ ἀσφαλείᾳ τήνδ’ ἀνόρθωσον πόλιν ~ Alex. 30.12: εἰς ὀρθὸν αὖθις σταθεῖσαν). Plutarch’s readers who are able to recognize the tragic intertext might notice that the suppliant priest is broken and despondent in a manner that parallels Darius. The priest is an example of human suffering and articulates thoughts about human fragility and instability (cf. “they were first restored and then cast down”), which Darius similarly calls attention to in the closing lines of his prayer (Alex. 30.13): εἰ δ’ ἄρα τις οὗτος εἱμαρτὸς ἥκει χρόνος, ὀφειλόμενος νεμέσει καὶ μεταβολῇ, παύσασθαι τὰ Περσῶν, μηδεὶς ἄλλος ἀνθρώπων καθίσειεν εἰς τὸν Κύρου θρόνον πλὴν Ἀλεξάνδρου. But if the fated time is at hand when the rule of the Persians must cease, and if our downfall is a debt we must pay to the envy of the gods and the laws of change, grant that no other man but Alexander shall sit upon the throne of Cyrus. “That fated time, the envy of the gods, and the laws of change”33—favorite themes of tragedy, not least of Oedipus Tyrannus—cast Darius as a tragic hero whose life is subject to the unearthly laws of change and reversal. Should we think then of heavenly forces as a possible explanation for Darius’ downfall and accordingly Alexander’s victory over Darius? Plutarch makes clear that it is Alexander’s superior conception of kingship that allowed him to prevail over Darius. The De Alexandri Magni fortuna aut virtute displays this in a particularly explicit manner. Darius was still one of those who believed that Alexander’s victory was through Fortune (338E), but Plutarch counter-suggests that it was because of his virtues that Alexander defeated Darius: “Darius yielded in virtue and greatness of soul, in prowess and justice, and marvelled at Alexander’s invincibility in pleasure, in toil, and in the bestowal of favors” (339A–B). Still, Darius’ prayer may invite the readers’ empathy, for it captures a cosmic pattern and exemplifies a human fragility that can be recognized as universal, common to every nation or man, victor or vanquished. The idea is familiar in tragedy—Odysseus feels pity for his enemy Ajax, for he reflects on human vulnerability (S. Aj. 121–126)—and Herodotus too, whose work is full of tragic

33

No such emphasis in Arr. An. 4.20.3 and Curt. 4.10.34.

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elements. Xerxes weeps at the futility of human life (Hdt. 7.46).34 It also recurs later on in the Life of Alexander when readers are told that the inscription on Cyrus’ tomb “made a deep impression on Alexander, since they reminded him of the uncertainty (τὴν ἀδηλότητα) and mutability (καὶ μεταβολήν) (of mortal life)” (69.5). For Plutarch’s knowledgeable readers, who are well aware of Alexander’s (and Caesar’s, whose Life is paired with that of Alexander) final decadence, the notion of human fragility and mutability that Darius’ prayer and the Sophoclean intertext suggest (cf. OT 50: στάντες τ’ ἐς ὀρθὸν καὶ πεσόντες ὕστερον) might have a particularly sinister force. Just like Darius, Alexander and Caesar will also fall due to human reasons. In both the Alexander and the Caesar, the deterioration of the morals of the two men will prove to be detrimental to their politics and careers, and thus central to their final collapse.35 But, just as in the case of Darius, there seems to be a sense of a cosmic pattern as well. The presence of divine forces and their workings on the lives of both Alexander and Caesar are constantly stressed and probed throughout the Alexander-Caesar book, generating the maximum tragic effect.36 Alexander (and Caesar) will eventually be unable to avoid a Darius-like fate. Human suffering, uncertainty and vulnerability prove to be universal. In fact, by the end of Darius’ prayer, as well as in the following chapters of the Alexander, readers are primed to find a thought-provoking discovery of Alexander in Darius and Darius in Alexander, especially now that Darius ends up thinking more like a Greek and Alexander heads eastwards. The scene of Darius’ meeting with Tireus begins by drawing a simple polarity of Alexander

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36

See Mossman, “Tragedy and epic,” 227. On Alexander’s decline, see Mossman, “Tragedy and epic,” 218–227; Schmidt, Plutarque et les Barbares, 296–299; T. Whitmarsh, “Alexander’s Hellenism and Plutarch’s Textualism,” CQ 52 (2002) 181–191. On Plutarch’s explanation of Caesar’s downfall, see C.B.R. Pelling, “Plutarch on Caesar’s Fall,” in J. Mossman (ed.), Plutarch and his Intellectual World: Essays on Plutarch (London: Duckworth, 1997) 215–232; Chrysanthou, Plutarch’s Parallel Lives, 78– 85. See e.g. Alex. 50–52 (Cleitus’ murder); Alex. 74.1 and 75 (the effect of the portents). On the role of the divine in Alexander’s life, see Mossman, “Tragedy and epic,” 209–228, stressing that “Plutarch evidently felt it more appropriate to explain … Alexander’s vicissitudes in terms of tragedy, epic, and divine wrath” (226). Divine forces figure prominently in the Caesar as well: see e.g. Caes. 32.9 (Caesar’s ambiguous dream before crossing the Rubicon), with C.B.R. Pelling, Plutarch: Caesar (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011) 314; Caes. 63 (omens foretelling Caesar’s death); 66.1 (the presence of a heavenly power at Caesar’s murder; cf. 66.12). Cf. Pelling, Plutarch and History, 380–381, who notes that “however much anyone—Olympias, Roxane, Plutarch himself, Caesar—tries to evade a divine involvement, there will still be some supernatural accompaniment and concern with events so momentous as these, and men so great” (381).

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and Darius, Greeks and barbarians; but Darius’ lament closes with a prayer that suggests a more universal note and explicitly acknowledges Alexander’s virtuous character (cf. Darius’ dying words a little later on at Alex. 43.4). We may remember the similar function of the laments at the end of Aeschylus’Persians “where after so much Oriental Otherness … some at least of the audience may come, doubtless disconcertingly, to feel contact with this strange and alien culture.”37 Plutarch constructs a ‘big scene’ that encourages readers to empathize with Darius and eventually to ponder the previously clear-cut differentiation between Alexander and Darius. By the end of the Alexander, a strong and simplistic national polarity is challenged and probed, and the Greek and barbarian categories are profoundly entangled.38 The effect is very similar to the end of the Iliad and Herodotus’ Histories;39 it is not implausible that an intertextual triangulation is developed here. Achilles, Priam and Troy, Athens and Persia, Alexander and Darius seem to be very distinct from one another at the beginning; but, by the end of the works, universal moral questions are posed in a particularly powerful manner that brings readers to ponder on, qualify, if not destabilize, any univocal national stereotyping.

3

Conclusion

In this chapter I focused on a single scene from Plutarch’s Life of Alexander, that of Darius’ discussion with the eunuch Tireus (Alex. 30). The scene, a clear example of Plutarch’s ‘grandes scènes,’ affords a unique opportunity (1) to examine how Plutarch deploys in the Lives features of other genres and evokes spe37 38

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C.B.R. Pelling, “East is East and West is West—or Are They? National Stereotypes in Herodotus,” Histos 1 (1997) 65. Cf. Pelling, “Aeschylus’ Persae and History,” 18–19. See Schmidt, Plutarque et les Barbares, 297: “les défauts auxquels succombe le Macédonien dans la seconde partie de la Vie … ont une connotation barbare évidente … Ajoutés à des signes plus manifestes, comme l’ habit, les coutumes et la προσκύνησις, ils contribuent à assimiler peu à peu Alexandre à un monarque oriental”. Cf. Whitmarsh, “Alexander’s Hellenism,” 182–191 (p. 191: “As Alexander heads East, then, he begins to ‘mix’ Eastern and Western”). On Alexander’s complex negotiation of his identity, see also Schmidt, Plutarque et les Barbares, 294–299; J. Mossman, “Travel Writing, History, and Biography,” in B. McGing & J. Mossman (eds.), The Limits of Ancient Biography (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2006) 289–292. See Pelling, “East is East and West is West,” 65–66. On national stereotypes and polarities in Plutarch, see esp. A.G. Nikolaidis, “Ἑλληνικός-βαρβαρικός: Plutarch on Greek and Barbarian Characteristics,” Wiener Studien 20 (1986) 229–244; Schmidt, Plutarque et les Barbares, passim; C.B.R. Pelling, “Plutarch the Multiculturalist: Is West Always Best?” Ploutarchos 13 (2016) 33–52.

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cific texts from other literary traditions; and (2) to understand the effects that such generic and intertextual interaction has on the texture and meaning of Plutarch’s biography as well as on the reader’s response to it. I argued that Darius’ mourning for his wife Statira draws on conventional themes of the lament genre (most commonly found in epic and tragedy), and that Plutarch adopts and manipulates some traditional lament features and uses their potentialities to illuminate Darius’ mischief in order to call attention to some of the most important aspects of the characters of Darius and Alexander—the kind of eidopoiia described in Alexander 1.40 More particularly, we can see Plutarch’s interest in delineating Darius’ moral growth by bringing out his progress from the private, feminizing, personal lamentation to the public, male, epitaphios logos-type speech of civic concern and laudation of Alexander (a striking divergence from male funeral speech, which tends to extol the dead and not the enemy). We can also see how Darius’ lament and overall exchange with Tireus invite consideration of Alexander’s virtuous character and his idea of kingship that has relevance for the paired Life of Caesar as well, thus contributing to the coherence of the Alexander-Caesar book. Finally, I discussed how Darius’ prayer, including a plausible intertextual dialogue with Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannus, becomes a vehicle for reflection on human fragility and vulnerability—two distinctively tragic themes that transcend national categories and provide frameworks for pondering Darius, Alexander, and Caesar alike. Generic and intertextual enrichment, then, works

40

Laments are traditionally used in epic and tragedy to promote the plot and/or engage the reader with the characters or the basic themes of the work: see e.g. the essays in A. Suter (ed.), Lament: Studies in the Ancient Mediterranean and Beyond (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008). Characteristically, C. Perkell, “Reading the Laments of Iliad 24,” in A. Suter (ed.), Lament: Studies in the Ancient Mediterranean and Beyond (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008) 108, commenting on the function of laments in the Iliad, notes that “all these features of lament in a poem result from the poet’s choices and operate in service of the poet’s overall purposes in the text … the meaning of lamentation in any given poetic text … must be seen to be a function of the poet’s artistic or thematic choices”. Cf. Tsagalis, Epic Grief, 25: “Their incorporation [i.e. of personal laments] into the Iliad is so intricate that they tend to represent, albeit in miniature form, both a summary and an emotional commentary on the entire epic”. For the importance of laments as tools for characterization, see De Temmerman, Crafting Characters, 134 who mentions that “lamentations were likely to be recognized by contemporary readers [sc. of the novels] as examples of ethopoeia, a rhetorical exercise often fashioned as a lamenting monologue in ancient theory and practice”. See e.g. Lib. Prog. 372–437, R. Förster, Libanii opera, Volume 8: Progymnasmata. Argumenta orationum Demosthenicarum (Leipzig: Teubner, 1915) cited by De Temmerman, Crafting Characters, 134 n. 69.

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well towards injecting Plutarch’s narrative with tragic coloring that can probe readers’ empathy and thoughtfully engage them with not just the character of great men from the past, but also powerful, universal moral lessons of history.

Acknowledgements I wish to thank the editors and the anonymous reader of the volume for their useful comments and suggestions, and the German Research Foundation (DFG) for supporting my research.

chapter 27

Intertextuality across Paired Lives: Plutarch’s Nicias-Crassus Lucy E. Fletcher

Abstract This chapter explores intertextuality in Plutarch through close analysis of a particular quotation from Euripides’ Iphigeneia at Aulis in Plutarch’s Life of Nicias (5.7). It argues that this quotation enriches the characterization of Nicias in the Life in a variety of ways. In the first place, through likening Nicias to the Agamemnon of Euripides’ Iphigeneia at Aulis, elements of Nicias’ character and behavior are given a special significance and thereby emphasized in Plutarch’s characterization. In addition, the quotation functions to add an element of tragic causality to the Life: it helps to tie together key elements of Nicias’ character and behavior into a pattern that explains his final misfortunes and death. This brings his Life to a conclusion which has much in common with endings in the genre of tragedy. In this way, the quotation functions to introduce explanatory paradigms familiar from the genre of tragedy, and thus it functions as a form of generic enrichment within Plutarch’s biography. Finally, the chapter argues that the quotation functions both to lessen the individuality of Nicias by likening him to a character familiar from a particular tragedy, the Agamemnon of Euripides’ Iphigeneia at Aulis, and also to individuate Nicias in relation to his paired subject, Crassus. It is argued that the tragic elements in the Life of Nicias, both the specifically Euripidean and the generic, are not paralleled directly in the Life of Crassus, in spite of the many similarities between Nicias’ and Crassus’ situations, especially their commands in the Sicilian and Parthian expeditions; therefore, these elements in Nicias function to differentiate Nicias from his paired subject.

In this chapter I explore the functioning of intertextuality across a pair of Lives by considering the role and effects of a quotation from Euripides’ Iphigeneia at Aulis that Plutarch includes in the Nicias. I shall suggest one effect of the quotation is to introduce elements of tragedy into the Nicias that function both to add depth to the characterization of Nicias and to contribute to Plutarch’s interpretation of his famous campaign in Sicily. In so doing, the quotation also functions to lessen the individuality of Nicias by revealing similarities between

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004427860_029

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him and a tragic hero, and between his life and that of a tragic plot.1 Furthermore, I hope to show that across the pair of Lives the intertextual functioning of this quotation is more subtle and complex, and also serves to differentiate the two biographical subjects.2 This chapter, therefore, demonstrates the complexity of intertextuality and generic enrichment in the Plutarchan book.

1

The Prologue to the Nicias-Crassus

The Nicias-Crassus book begins with a prologue, using the terminology of Duff,3 which begins, unusually,4 by immediately naming the subjects and explaining the reasoning behind pairing the Lives of Nicias and Crassus (Nic. 1.1): Ἐπεὶ δοκοῦμεν οὐκ ἀτόπως τῷ Νικίᾳ τὸν Κράσσον παραβάλλειν καὶ τὰ Παρθικὰ παθήματα τοῖς Σικελικοῖς, ὥρα παραιτεῖσθαι καὶ παρακαλεῖν ὑπὲρ ἐμοῦ τοὺς ἐντυγχάνοντας τοῖς συγγράμμασι τούτοις, ὅπως ἐπὶ ταῖς διηγήσεσιν αἷς Θουκυδίδης, αὐτὸς αὑτοῦ περὶ ταῦτα παθητικώτατος ἐναργέστατος ποικιλώτατος γενόμενος, ἀμιμήτως ἐξενήνοχε, μηδὲν ἡμᾶς ὑπολάβωσι πεπονθέναιΤιμαίῳ πάθος ὅμοιον … Since we seem not unsuitably with Nicias to place in parallel Crassus and the Parthian pathemata with the Sicilian, at once [it is necessary] to entreat and call upon, on my own behalf, those reading these writings, in order that, towards the narratives which Thucydides, who is himself con-

1 I have discussed these ideas specifically in connection with narrative structure in the Nicias in L.E. Fletcher, “Narrative Time and Space in Plutarch’s Life of Nicias,” in A. Georgiadou & K. Oikonomopoulou (eds.), Space, Time and Language in Plutarch (Berlin-Boston: De Gruyter, 2017) 67–76. 2 J. Mossman, “Tragedy and the hero,” in M. Beck (ed.), A Companion to Plutarch (Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2014) 437–448 also discusses tragedy in this pair of Lives (442–446). Her interpretation is different than that which I offer here, especially in viewing tragic patterning in the Nicias as much less prominent than in Crassus. 3 T.E. Duff, “The structure of the Plutarchan Book,” ClAnt 30.2 (2011) 213–278; for discussion of prologues specifically, 216–224. See also id., “The Prologues,” in M. Beck (ed.), A Companion to Plutarch (Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2014) 333–349; and id., “How Lives Begin,” in A.G. Nikolaidis (ed.), The Unity of Plutarch’s Work. Moralia Themes in the Lives, Features of the Lives in the Moralia (Berlin-New York: De Gruyter, 2008) 187–207. 4 On the usual two-part structure of the prologues and the delay in naming the subjects see Duff “The structure of the Plutarchan Book,” 216–224 and id., “The Prologues”; on the NiciasCrassus prologue specifically, see id., “The structure of the Plutarchan Book,” (2011) 221–222 and id., “The Prologues,” 339–340.

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cerning these things at his most emotive, vivid and intricate, has set forth inimitably, no one may suppose that a like passion affects us as affected Timaios … The key reason Plutarch gives for parallelling these figures in a single book is the doomed campaigns of which they were famously commanders. Over half of each Life is devoted to narrating these campaigns and Plutarch will structure his narrative to bring out the similarities between them. What we can see here is the way in which the significance of these events for each Life, and for the book, is foreshadowed from the outset, and thus readers approach each Life with these campaigns firmly in view from the beginning. This is important for understanding how the quotation of Euripides’ Iphigeneia at Aulis functions in the Nicias.

2

Tragedy in the Nicias

The quotation from Euripides is placed within the proemial opening of the Nicias (chapters 2–6), again using the terminology of Duff.5 A key theme of the proemial opening is Nicias’ fear of the people. In the first chapter of this section (2), for instance, Plutarch discusses how the common people liked Nicias and he had influence with them because he seemed to be afraid of them (2.3– 6). Moreover, in chapter 4, Plutarch quotes many of the Athenian comic poets as evidence of Nicias’ cowardice in dealing with the people and his associated tendency to pay bribes to avoid prosecutions (4.3–8). The immediate context of the quotation is Plutarch’s description in chapter 5, which is still part of the proemial opening, of the way in which Nicias avoided social activities because he was afraid of public informers (5.1–3): Οὕτω δὴ διακείμενος εὐλαβῶς πρὸς τοὺς συκοφάντας, οὔτε συνεδείπνει τινὶ τῶν πολιτῶν, οὔτε κοινολογίαις οὔτε συνδιημερεύσεσιν ἐνέβαλλεν ἑαυτόν, οὐδ’ ὅλως ἐσχόλαζε ταῖς τοιαύταις διατριβαῖς, ἀλλ’ ἄρχων μὲν ἐν τῷ στρατηγίῳ διετέλει μέχρι νυκτός, ἐκ δὲ βουλῆς ὕστατος ἀπῄει πρῶτος ἀφικνούμενος. εἰ δὲ μηδὲν ἐν κοινῷ πράττειν ἔχοι, δυσπρόσοδος ἦν καὶ δυσέντευκτος, οἰκουρῶν καὶ κατακεκλειμένος, οἱ δὲ φίλοι τοῖς ἐπὶ τὰς θύρας φοιτῶσιν ἐνετύγχανον καὶ παρῃτοῦντο συγγνώμην ἔχειν, ὡς καὶ τότε Νικίου πρὸς δημοσίας χρείας τινὰς καὶ ἀσχολίας ὄντος, καὶ ὁ μάλιστα ταῦτα συντραγῳδῶν καὶ συμπεριτιθεὶς ὄγκον αὐτῷ καὶ δόξαν Ἱέρων ἦν … 5 Duff, “The structure of the Plutarchan Book,” 224–237.

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Thus being cautious about informers, he neither dined with any of the citizens, nor threw himself into common exchanges nor passing the day in company, and on the whole he did not have leisure for such pastimes, but when in command he passed his time in the generals’ quarters until night, and he came out from the council chamber last, being first to arrive. And if he should have no public business to undertake, he was difficult to access and difficult to speak with, and his friends used to meet those going back and forth to his door and entreat them to excuse [him], as even then Nicias was at work on public business and without leisure, and the one most especially acting a tragic part with him in these things and placing around him pride and reputation was Hieron … Here Nicias is said to have cultivated the impression of always working on public business, so as to avoid meeting with anyone. In this he is said to have been especially aided by his attendant Hieron, and their behavior is described as “playing a tragic part” (συντραγῳδῶν). This word choice introduces a sense of theatricality and thus of falsity into Nicias’ behavior, or the idea that his behavior was at variance with reality. Plutarch goes on to say that Hieron “placed around” Nicias (συμπεριτιθείς) “pride and reputation” (ὄγκος and δόξα). Therefore, it seems that Nicias was deliberately acting out a part with the aim of giving himself a false reputation and to bolster a false, showy sort of pride.6 Christopher Pelling has recently discussed what might be meant by ‘tragic colouring’ in Plutarch. One key dimension he elucidates is a sense of showiness and an attendant disjunction between appearance and reality.7 This, I think, we see clearly here. Thus far, we are talking more about generic enrichment, perhaps, than intertextuality: it is broad associations of ‘tragic’ and ‘tragedy’ that we see at play, rather than a particular instance of intertextuality.8 Plutarch goes on, however, after elaborating some of Hieron’s efforts on Nicias’ behalf, to say (5.7, quoting E. IA 449):

6 On this sense of tragic in the literature of Plutarch’s time, see M. Kokolakis, “Lucian and the Tragic Performances in his Time,” Platon 12 (1960) 67–109. 7 C.B.R. Pelling, “Tragic Colouring in Plutarch,” in J. Opsomer, G. Roskam & F.B. Titchener (eds.), A Versatile Gentleman: Consistency in Plutarch’s Writing. Studies Offered to Luc Van der Stockt on the Occasion of his Retirement (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2016) 113–133, 116–120 for the issue of ‘showiness.’ 8 For the concept of generic enrichment, see S.J. Harrison, Generic Enrichment in Vergil and Horace (Oxford, 2007).

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τῷ δ’ ὄντι τοιοῦτος ἦν ὁ Νικίου βίος, ὥστ’ ⟨ἂν⟩ αὐτὸν εἰπεῖν τὰ τοῦ Ἀγαμέμνονος εἰς αὑτόν προστάτην δὲ τοῦ βίου τὸν ὄγκον ἔχομεν, τῷ δ’ ὄχλῳ δουλεύομεν. And in reality Nicias’ life was of such a kind, so that he might say the words of Agamemnon about himself, “as ruler/protector of life we have pride, but to the mob we are slaves.” This is the quotation with which this chapter is principally concerned, and we can see that it neatly picks up the earlier mention of ὄγκος that Nicias had placed around him by Hieron as part of his tragic theatricality, which was aimed at negotiating the dangers of public life. Moreover, the association of Nicias and a figure from a tragedy bolsters the sense of his tragic—in the sense of showiness at odds with reality—actions. This quotation undoubtedly functions to emphasize the importance of Nicias’ tragic theatricality. It also, however, does much more.9 When Plutarch quotes lines of Euripides’ Agamemnon from a particular tragedy, he makes operative many particular associations that all have their own effects. Firstly, the quotation states that for all his pompous theatricality, Nicias remained enslaved to the people. Readers of the Life are assumed to be familiar with Thucydides, as is made clear in the prologue by Plutarch’s injunction not to imagine that he seeks to rival Thucydides.10 These readers will, therefore, recall from their knowledge of Thucydides that Nicias was forced into the Sicilian expedition in part because he was unable to oppose the will of the people. Moreover, the comparison with Agamemnon, himself the leader of a great armada, brings Nicias’ role as leader of Athens’ fleet to mind. By looking ahead to later events connected with Sicily, in both of these ways, then, a connection is being drawn between Nicias’ ostentatious theatricality and his later misfortunes, whose significance for the Life and the book has already been foreshad9

10

Mossman, “Tragedy and the hero,” 442 discusses this quotation and the passage which precedes it, but with a different emphasis. For her, the important point is that the sense of pretense introduced at the start of the passage by Nicias and Hieron ‘playing a tragic part’ is then subverted by the fact that Nicias’ life is described as really being the way he and Hieron acted it out. For the importance of Thucydides in Plutarch’s Nicias, see C.B.R. Pelling, “Plutarch and Thucydides,” in P.A. Stadter (ed.), Plutarch and the Historical Tradition (London: Taylor & Francis, 1992) 10–40 [reprinted in C.B.R. Pelling, Plutarch and History: Eighteen Studies (London: Duckworth, 2002) 117–141].

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owed in the prologue. Pelling, in the same article I have already mentioned, also discusses the way in which ‘tragic colouring’ can take the form of exploring how showiness and exaggeration foreshadow negative consequences and misfortunes.11 This is again the case here. In addition, when one recalls the context of Euripides’ quotation, wider similarities can be appreciated between Nicias and Agamemnon, and between the events in which each was involved. Firstly, Agamemnon too acted a particular role in politics, as Menelaos describes (E. IA 337–345): οἶσθ’, ὅτ’ ἐσπούδαζες ἄρχειν Δαναΐδαις πρὸς Ἴλιον, τῶι δοκεῖν μὲν οὐχὶ χρήιζων, τῶι δὲ βούλεσθαι θέλων, ὡς ταπεινὸς ἦσθα, πάσης δεξιᾶς προσθιγγάνων (340) καὶ θύρας ἔχων ἀκλήιστους τῶι θέλοντι δημοτῶν καὶ διδοὺς πρόσρησιν ἑξῆς πᾶσι, κεἰ μή τις θέλοι, τοῖς τρόποις ζητῶν πρίασθαι τὸ φιλότιμον ἐκ μέσου, κἆιτ’, ἐπεὶ κατέσχες ἀρχάς, μεταβαλὼν ἄλλους τρόπους τοῖς φίλοισιν οὐκέτ’ ἦσθα τοῖς πρὶν ὡς πρόσθεν φίλος, (345) δυσπρόσιτος ἔσω τε κλήιθρων σπάνιος; Do you remember when you were all eagerness to captain the Danaids against Troy, making a pretence of declining, though eager for it in your heart; how humble you were then, taking each man by the hand and keeping open doors for every fellow-townsman who cared to enter, affording each in turn chance to speak with you, even though some did not wish it, seeking by these methods to purchase popularity from all bidders? Then when you had secured the command, there came a change over your manners; you were no longer so cordial as before to former friends, but hard of access, seldom to be found at home?12 Here Menelaos explains how Agamemnon always made himself available to the people as a means of winning popular favor, until he achieved his aim and reverted to his natural behavior of being distant and hard to speak with. This is almost exactly the inverse of Nicias’ situation, in so much as Agamemnon is playing a part opposite to that of Nicias, who kept himself distant as part of his tragic role playing. Although adopting inverse roles, both ultimately become leaders of great armadas and both suffer personal misfortunes as a 11 12

Pelling, “Tragic Colouring in Plutarch,” 116–120. E.P. Coleridge (transl.), The Plays of Euripides. Volume II (London: George Bell and Sons, 1891).

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result. Nicias will lose his life and Agamemnon will be forced to sacrifice his daughter. Michelakis writes that Agamemnon’s sufferings, in this play, arise not from some character flaw but from his inability to take a firm political or moral stand.13 The same could be said of Nicias: rather than take a firm political stance, both he and Agamemnon resort to theatricality and showiness, which leads to personal misfortunes. There are further similarities between the situations of Nicias and Agamemnon in Euripides’ play, as outlined in lines 513–535. Here Agamemnon is asked by his brother why he will be compelled to go ahead with the sacrifice of Iphigeneia. Agamemnon replies that he will be forced by the people and by other leaders to do so anyway—such as Odysseus, who may intervene to stir up the people. Menelaos agrees on the grounds that Odysseus is enslaved by his love of the people. This mirrors and foreshadows the way in which Nicias will be forced not only by the Athenians but also by the actions of Alcibiades—himself a lover of popularity and a great favorite of the Athenians—, who encourages them. In addition, Agamemnon says in these lines that Odysseus will make use of oracles to encourage the troops, just as Alcibiades also makes use of an oracle to convince the Athenian people to pursue the expedition to Sicily. These details of Nicias’ life, although yet to be narrated in Plutarch’s Life, will have been known to Plutarch’s readers, who were familiar with Thucydides, and thus they are foreshadowed here in advance of their narration in the Life. To phrase this another way: when these details of Euripides’ play are recalled by the reader, we see the quotation functioning as a prolepsis, in Genette’s terms,14 which pre-signifies later events. This is tragedy pointing to a key theme of the Life: the tension between the society, the demos, and the individual. Here, tragic elements both point ahead to the later misfortunes arising from these tensions and underline them as of such significance. The result of this foreshadowing is to draw a further connection between Nicias’ theatrical role-playing and his later misfortunes in Sicily. All of this functions to generate a very tightly structured Life in which themes of the proemial opening are connected with Nicias’ later misfortunes, drawing out a pattern—a tragic pattern, indeed—of causality in which Nicias’ early behavior and attitudes are paving the way for his later misfortunes.15

13 14 15

P. Michelakis, Euripides: Iphigenia at Aulis. Duckworth Companions to Greek and Roman Tragedy (London: Duckworth, 2006) 35. G. Genette, Narrative Discourse: An essay in method, English transl. by J.E. Lewin (IthacaNew York: Cornell University Press, 1980) 67–79. Discussion here of narrative closure is influenced by F. Kermode, The Sense of an Ending: studies in the theory of fiction (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1966).

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The pattern that emerges is familiar not merely from the genre of tragedy but also from a particular tragedy, and thus it emerges directly as an effect of intertextuality. In the emergence of this pattern, we can see the second of Pelling’s dimensions of ‘tragic colouring’ operative in the Nicias; that is, where the boundary between reality and dramatic fantasy collapse:16 Nicias’ life is molded into a pattern appropriate to and familiar from a Euripidean tragedy. Through this quotation, therefore, Plutarch is adding depth to his account of Nicias by introducing an element of tragic theatricality that is presented as part of an explanatory frame in which we understand Nicias as a victim of his own posturing, just like Agamemnon in Iphigeneia at Aulis, and we see his misfortunes as resulting—at least in part—from his own behavior. This latter effect gives to the Life a sense of tragic closure, in which the hero suffers his misfortunes as a result of his own mistake or character flaw. A further effect achieved here is that it reduces the sense of Nicias as an individual. He shares character traits with Agamemnon, and his life follows a pattern already familiar from the tragic stage.

3

Likening Nicias and Crassus

Nicias’ individuality is further reduced by the place of his Life within a book of paired Lives in which features of his character and circumstances are presented as somehow parallel with that of another person. We have already seen that it is principally Nicias’ Sicilian campaign that makes him a suitable parallel for Crassus, who was leader of the Parthian campaign. Plutarch will structure his narrative of these campaigns so as to make them seem very similar indeed. In both Lives, for instance, Plutarch marks the transition in his narrative to the account of the campaigns by foreshadowing the misfortunes that result from them. In Nic. 11.9: Ἄκριτον δ’ ἡ τύχη πρᾶγμα καὶ ἄληπτον λογισμῷ. Νικίας γὰρ εἰ τὸν περὶ ὀστράκου κίνδυνον ἀνέρριψε πρὸς Ἀλκιβιάδην, ἢ κρατήσας ἂν ἀσφαλῶς ᾤκει τὴν πόλιν, ἐκεῖνον ἐξελάσας, ἢ κρατηθεὶς αὐτὸς ἐξῄει πρὸ τῶν ἐσχάτων ἀτυχιῶν, τὸ δοκεῖν ἄριστος εἶναι στρατηγὸς διαφυλάξας. But fortune is an indefinite matter and incomprehensible to reason. For if Nicias had run the risk of the ostracism against Alcibiades, he would

16

Pelling, “Tragic Colouring in Plutarch,” esp. 120–126.

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either, if he had been successful, have managed the city safely, having driven out Alcibiades, or, if he had been defeated, he would have gone forth before his final misfortunes, preserving his reputation for being a great general. In the Crassus, Plutarch speaks of Crassus’ motivations for his campaign and comments that these motivations, which are discussed further below, gave Crassus no respite, “until they ended in inglorious death and public misfortunes” (πρὶν εἰς ὄλεθρον ἀκλεῆ καὶ δημοσίας συμφορὰς τελευτῆσαι, 14.5), thereby looking ahead to those misfortunes, including Crassus’ death. Plutarch then elaborates in depth all of the ways in which both campaigns were poorly conceived and ill-omened (Nic. 12–13 and Crass. 16). He also pauses his narrative to comment on the ways in which the initial conduct of the two leaders were equally disadvantageous: Nic. 14, in which he sits looking desolately homeward when the narrator says he ought to have seized the moment; Crass. 17, in which he sets out from Brundisium in spite of a storm that destroys many of his ships, which the narrator says seemed to be Crassus’ first mistake, after the campaign itself (17.8). From the beginning of their narration, then, the two campaigns are painted as directly parallel. For all their similarities, however, Plutarch is keen to draw out the different reasons for the two disasters. In Nicias, excessive caution and cowardice are the motivating forces behind the course of events. In Crassus, by contrast, the motivating forces are excessive boldness and lack of caution. Where Nicias looks back hesitantly, Crassus pushes ahead unreflectively; where Nicias is cautious and concerned with safety, Crassus shows little concern for the safety or the welfare of his troops; where Nicias is fearful and eager to avoid fighting, Crassus is desperate to engage the enemy; where Nicias is excessively concerned with omens, Crassus ignores them entirely. Although they are therefore very different characters, Nicias and Crassus seem overall less individualized by the emphasis on the shared likenesses between their famous campaigns. The moral of Plutarch’s story seems to be one about the dangers of excess. What Nicias and Crassus needed was a middle road between boldness and cowardice, between neglecting omens and obsessing about them, between eagerness and reticence, and between excessive caution and total lack of caution. In this way, though opposites, Nicias and Crassus emerge as examples of excessive behavior and seem rather to be types than individuals.

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Differentiating Nicias and Crassus

One way, however, in which Plutarch resists too simplistic a reduction of Nicias and Crassus to opposing types, and of the Sicilian and Parthian campaigns to separate instances of the same phenomenon, is through the aforementioned Euripidean intertextuality. On one level, as I have noted, Nicias becomes less individuated when likened to Euripides’ Agamemnon. On another level, however, this likening and all the effects of it help to individuate him by differentiating him from his pair, Crassus. On the most basic level, the quotation functions to add emphasis to the theatricality of Nicias, and it thereby underlines the importance of this feature of his behavior. There is no corresponding theatricality about Crassus. In the proemial opening (ch. 1–3), Crassus is presented as popular, because he was generous to strangers and kept an open house (3.1), and further because he was accessible and willing to act as advocate for anyone—always giving his full attention to any case, however trifling (3.4). He is also said to have returned the greeting of anyone, however insignificant, and by name (3.5). This is in stark contrast to Nicias who deliberately played a tragic part in which he was inaccessible and hard to speak with. Moreover, there is no suggestion here that Crassus is playing any sort of role, tragic or otherwise. This is his real personality and behavior. Placing such emphasis on Nicias’ theatricality gives great significance to the fact that there is no such theatricality about Crassus, thus differentiating the two subjects from the outset. On a more complex and subtle level, we have seen how the quotation in Nicias served to draw connections between Nicias’ theatricality, which arose from his fear of the people, and his later misfortunes in Sicily. There is nothing in the proemial opening of Crassus to suggest a corresponding sense in which his key characteristics or his behavior are causally connected with what will follow later in Parthia. However, once in the proemial opening Plutarch does foreshadow the Parthian campaign (Crass. 2.1–2): Ῥωμαῖοι μὲν οὖν λέγουσι πολλαῖς ἀρεταῖς τοῦ Κράσσου κακίαν μίαν ἐπισκοτῆσαι τὴν φιλοπλουτίαν· ἔοικε δ’⟨οὐ⟩ μία, πασῶν δ’ ἐρρωμενεστάτη τῶν ἐν αὐτῷ κακιῶν γενομένη, τὰς ἄλλας ἀμαυρῶσαι. τεκμήρια δὲ τῆς φιλοπλουτίας αὐτοῦ μέγιστα ποιοῦνται τόν τε τρόπον τοῦ πορισμοῦ καὶ τῆς οὐσίας τὸ μέγεθος. τριακοσίων γὰρ οὐ πλείω κεκτημένος ἐν ἀρχῇ ταλάντων, εἶτα παρὰ τὴν ὑπατείαν ἀποθύσας μὲν τῷ Ἡρακλεῖ τὴν δεκάτην καὶ τὸν δῆμον ἑστιάσας, τρεῖς δὲ μῆνας ἑκάστῳ Ῥωμαίων σιτηρέσιον ἐκ τῶν αὑτοῦ παρασχών, ὅμως πρὸ τῆς ἐπὶ Πάρθους στρατείας αὐτὸς αὑτῷ θέμενος ἐκλογισμὸν τῆς οὐσίας, εὗρεν ἑκατὸν ταλάντων τίμημα πρὸς ἑπτακισχιλίοις.

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The Romans, therefore, say that over the many virtues of Crassus his one vice, avarice, cast a shadow; it is likely that the one which became more vigorous than all the rest in him obscured the others. The greatest proofs of his avarice are provided by the manner of procuring his wealth and the greatness of the amount. For he possessed not more than three hundred talents in the beginning, then during his consulship he sacrificed a tenth to Herakles and feasted the people and provided for every Roman provision for three months from his own wealth, and yet, when he made an inventory of his property before his Parthian campaign, he found that it had a value of seventy-one hundred talents. Here, in discussing Crassus’ vice of avarice, Plutarch also surveys Crassus’ wealth at different times in his life, culminating with the claim “when he made an inventory of his property before his Parthian campaign …” (2.2). As this campaign will be the end of Crassus’ life, Plutarch is simply providing the final total of the wealth Crassus managed to amass in his lifetime. As a narrative function, however, it also foreshadows the Parthian campaign. Quoting Euripides in Nicias was also a means of foreshadowing Sicily in that Life, but this is different. In Nicias, Sicily was foreshadowed so as to draw a connection between Nicias’ theatricality and his later misfortunes. Here, in Crassus, foreshadowing Parthia may raise a question for the reader: will the Parthian war result from avarice, especially in view of what he has just read about Nicias? But the answer will be no. When Plutarch comes to narrating the cooperation between Crassus, Pompey and Caesar, which is the prelude to Crassus undertaking the Parthian war, he pauses to explain the different motivations of the three men. He says here of Pompey and Crassus (Crass. 14.5): Πομπήιος μὲν οὖν ὑπὸ φιλαρχίας ἀμέτρου ταῦτ’ ἔπραττε, τῶν δὲ Κράσσου νοσημάτων τὸ ἀρχαῖον, ἡ φιλοπλουτία, καινὸν ἔρωτα προσλαβοῦσα καὶ ζῆλον ἐπὶ ταῖς Καίσαρος ἀριστείαις τροπαίων καὶ θριάμβων, οἷς γε μόνοις ἐλαττοῦσθαι προὔχοντα τοῖς ἄλλοις ἑαυτόν, οὐκ ἀνῆκεν οὐδ’ ἐλώφησε, πρὶν εἰς ὄλεθρον ἀκλεῆ καὶ δημοσίας συμφορὰς τελευτῆσαι. Pompey, then, did these things on account of a disproportionate love of power, but of the diseases of Crassus the original one, his avarice, having received besides a new desire and an eager rivalry, on account of Caesar’s great deeds, for trophies and triumphs, in which alone he thought himself inferior while for the rest he was surpassing, did not relax or abate until it ended in inglorious death and public sufferings.

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Crassus is said not to have pushed for the campaign in Parthia simply on the account of his avarice. This original vice is augmented by “a new desire” (καινὸν ἔρωτα)—for trophies and triumphs—that drives him. Unlike in Nicias, then, Crassus’ final misfortunes are not part of closely structured pattern that can be traced back to his earlier greedy behavior or attitudes.

5

Tragedy in Crassus

I have said so far that there is no theatricality about Crassus’ behavior, nor is Plutarch drawing out a pattern in which Crassus’ character, as sketched in the proemial opening, contributes to his later misfortunes. Moreover, there was no quotation from tragedy in the proemial opening of the Crassus, such as in Nicias.17 Therefore, Plutarch is using elements of tragedy in Nicias to differentiate his biographical subjects. Tragedy does, however, make an appearance in Crassus, but only at the very end after Crassus’ death (chapter 33). This is the very famous passage in which Crassus’ head is sent to Hyrodes in Armenia where it is used as a prop in a performance of the Bacchai.18 Plutarch comments (33.7): εἰς τοιοῦτόν φασιν ἐξόδιον τὴν Κράσσου στρατηγίαν ὥσπερ τραγῳδίαν τελευτῆσαι. To such an end, they say, came the expedition of Crassus, just like a tragedy. In this end, as Pelling suggests, we see the boundaries collapse between reality and drama: this sort of grotesque scenario seems more fitted to drama than real life.19 If we compare this injection of tragedy into the Crassus, however, with the tragic elements we have been discussing in Nicias, they have little in common. For one thing, Plutarch is specific in his evocation of tragedy that it is Crassus’ campaign, and not his life, which ended just like a tragedy. If this is a

17 18

19

Mossman, “Tragedy and the hero,” 444–446 also discusses tragedy in the Crassus. On this ending, see D. Braund, “Dionysiac Tragedy in Plutarch, Crassus,” CQ 43.2 (1993) 468–474; A.V. Zadorojnyi, “Tragedy and epic in Plutarch’s ‘Crassus’,”Hermes 125 (1997) 169– 182; J. Mossman, “Tragedy and the Hero,” 444–446; Pelling, “Tragic Colouring in Plutarch” 125. See also the chapters by A. Lefteratou (p. 424) and by A. Karanasiou (pp. 443–448) in this volume. Pelling, “Tragic Colouring in Plutarch,” 120–126; 125 on this passage.

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retrospective invitation to see something tragic about Crassus’ campaign, it is specific to the campaign, not the Life as a whole. The tragic patterning in Nicias, by contrast, is much more extended, and encompasses his whole Life. In addition, though there may be further echoes of the Bacchai in Crassus, nowhere does Plutarch explicitly compare Crassus with Pentheus. Thus, this is not really comparable to the likening of Nicias and Agamemnon. Crassus does not share with Pentheus all that Nicias shares with Agamemnon, and any likenesses they share do not function to reveal a pattern tying together the subject’s early life and death. Moreover, unlike Nicias, the theatricality of Crassus is not his own; it says more about the Armenians than about Crassus himself. The wording of Plutarch’s summation in the Crassus is also significant because it is subtle and complex. The adjective ἐξόδιον simply means “of or befitting an ending,” or used as a substantive, τὸ ἐξόδιον means specifically the end of a tragedy—a tragic end—or, metaphorically, a catastrophe.20 There is a sense, then, that Plutarch suggests Crassus’ expedition came to “such a tragic end,” adding emphasis to the generic connection that is stated explicitly a few words later where Plutarch says, “just like a tragedy” (ὥσπερ τραγῳδίαν). Read in this way, Plutarch emphasizes the sense of tragedy in the ending of Crassus’ campaign. Such an emphasis, however, is specifically upon the end of the campaign, not the campaign as a whole and certainly not the Life as a whole, which makes Crassus very different from the more pervasive tragic sense in Nicias. Moreover, there is further ambiguity here, since describing the ending of Crassus’ campaign as an exodion might mean the conclusion or finale of a particular tragic play or, as it has been understood by some, it might mean the satyr play that usually followed the performance of tragic plays. Perrin, in his translation for the Loeb edition, translates these lines as “With such a farce as this the expedition of Crassus is said to have closed, just like a tragedy.”21 If read in this sense, then Crassus’ campaign does not lose the sense of tragedy we have discussed, but the ending also takes on a sense of the distorted and absurd that classically characterized satyr plays. This is not something mirrored in Nicias’ Life or his campaign. A second, connected point is that the Life of Nicias also makes reference to Euripidean tragedy (29.2–4) near its very end. In this case, some of the Athenian

20 21

Cf. LSJ, s.v. ἐξόδιον. B. Perrin, Plutarch. Lives, Volume III (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1916). The same sense is understood in Manfredini’s translation in M.G.A. Bertinelli, C. Carena, M. Manfredini & L. Piccirilli (eds.), Plutarco. Le Vite di Nicia e di Crasso (Rome: Fondazione Lorenzo Valla, 1993): “In questa farsa, dicono, finì come una tragedia la spedizione di Crasso.”

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captives in Sicily eventually win their freedom by reciting verses from Euripides. As Pelling has discussed, this is an inversion of the situation in Crassus since here “poetry’s intrusion into real life had been salutary.”22 This adds to the overall sense I have already discussed in which the campaigns of Nicias and Crassus, although following similar courses and coming to similar ends, are also inversions of one another. Tragedy in Crassus, then, further differentiates the two protagonists of this pair of Lives.

6

The Ending of Each Life

The final point to make concerns the very end of each Life.23 Crassus ends with an account of the merited justice (Δίκη ἀξία, 33.7) that overtook Hyrodes and Surena (33.7–9); the former being the one for whom the performance of the Bacchai was staged, and the latter the one who, through treachery, was responsible for Crassus’ death (ch. 31, esp. 4–6). Pelling suggests that this allows an element of ‘rehabilitation’ that occurs also in some tragedies. However, it is significant that not all tragedies end in such a way; it is particular to some rather than a generic feature. Furthermore, it is completely consistent with Plutarch’s biographical method to end by looking ahead to the fate of a subject’s killer24 and this does not consistently inject a sense of tragedy. If, however, we read the end as having an element of tragic rehabilitation, since it is specifically Hyrodes and Surena who are the victims of this merited justice, the rehabilitation seems only to relate to the abuse of Crassus’ body and the way in which his death itself was unjust, resulting as it did from treachery when a treaty was said to be in effect (ch. 31, esp. 4). It is only these features of Crassus’ story that receive any degree of rehabilitation. This, I suggest, reflects the way in which elements of tragedy in Crassus pertain only to the very ending of the campaign; they do not infuse the Life as a whole in the way that they do in Nicias. Moreover, the ending of the Nicias much more straightforwardly conjures up a final tragic sense, one which we have discussed already: the sense that,

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Pelling, “Tragic Colouring in Plutarch,” 125. The endings of these two Lives are also discussed by C.R. Cooper, “Death and other kinds of closure,” in M. Beck (ed.), A Companion to Plutarch (Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2014) 391–404, esp. 400–402. As Pelling himself has discussed: C.B.R. Pelling, “Is Death the End? Closure in Plutarch’s Lives,” in D.H. Roberts, F.M. Dunn & D. Fowler (eds.), Classical Closure: Endings in Ancient Literature (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997) 228–250 [reprinted in C.B.R. Pelling, Plutarch and History: Eighteen Studies (London: Duckworth, 2002) 365–386].

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as Pelling phrases it, what happens really should not happen.25 The end of the Nicias tells of how the Athenians tortured the messenger who announced the death of Nicias and the failure of his campaign, because they did not believe his news.26 The final words of the Nicias are (30.3): οὕτω μόλις ὁ Νικίας ἐπιστεύθη παθὼν ἃ πολλάκις αὐτοῖς προεῖπεν. Thus scarcely was Nicias believed to have suffered that which he had often forewarned them [the Athenians]. Plutarch ends the Life, then, by commenting upon the Athenians’ reaction to reveal a final tragic element. As far as the Athenians were concerned, what happened to Nicias really ought not to have happened: Nicias’ end was completely unbelievable. The end, moreover, gains a further degree of pathos from the very fact that Nicias himself, we are reminded, had frequently warned that the expedition would be a disaster. These different tragic elements in the ending of the two Lives, then, further differentiate the two protagonists.

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Conclusion

I am suggesting overall, then, that Plutarch uses intertextuality in the Nicias in subtle and varied ways. Through the use of intertextuality Plutarch both adds deeper layers of meaning to the portrait of his subject, Nicias, and has a means of differentiating his two biographical subjects and their very similar military campaigns that underpin the decision to parallel them in a book of Lives. We have seen that the Life of Nicias is shown to have elements of tragedy about it: there is the specific likening of Nicias to the Agamemnon of Euripides’ Iphigeneia at Aulis and the wider generic affiliations that are introduced into the biography by this likening. This is intertextuality functioning in two different ways: on the one hand, effects are created by the intertextual engagement specifically with Euripides’ play, and, on the other, this engagement with a single play opens up a wider form of generic enrichment through which features of the genre of tragedy, not simply one individual play, are introduced into Plutarch’s biography. These elements of generic enrichment and of intertextual engagement with Euripides’ play both help to explain later events in 25 26

Pelling, “Tragic Colouring in Plutarch,” 120–126. See further Mossman, “Tragedy and the hero,” 443–444 on this messenger and the tragic messenger.

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the Life of Nicias, including his end, and to reveal a tightly woven pattern of causality in which Nicias’ character and typical behavior, as outlined in the proemial opening of the Life, are causal factors in his death. The likening of Nicias specifically to Euripides’ Agamemnon also has the additional effect that Nicias becomes somewhat less individuated, since he is shown to be behaving and acting in a manner so similar to a character in a play. Both this likening and the wider generic enrichment it introduces also, however, set Nicias and the defining event of his Life apart from his biographical pair, Crassus. Crassus is not a tragic figure in the way that Nicias is. He does not partake in tragic theatricality as Nicias does, and his involvement in the Parthian campaign is not explicable by his early behavior and character traits. Additionally, the Life of Crassus does not conform so neatly into a pattern of causality familiar from the genre of tragedy. In this way, Plutarch’s Crassus has, perhaps, more of ‘real’ life about him and less of the dramatic. Certainly, at least, he emerges as a very different character than Nicias and his misfortunes emerge as of a very different kind.

Acknowledgements I wish to thank Timothy Duff warmly for so kindly presenting this chapter at the conference when I was prevented by illness from attending. I am also grateful to the conference organizers and editors for their assistance.

chapter 28

Plutarch’s Less Tragic Heroes: Drama and Epic in the Pelopidas Anna Lefteratou

Abstract This chapter examines the epic and tragic intertexts in Plutarch’s Pelopidas and attempts to further trace their generic impact on the Life. The first part discusses Plutarch’s opening chapter about the role of metabole as peripeteia, change of fortune, and its impact on the reader’s generic expectations. The second part explores the dramatic intertexts, Theban and not, offered for Pelopidas, while the third part focuses on the Life’s closure and surveys in detail the epic mode used for Pelopidas’ posthumous epic eulogy versus the family tragedy that his death triggers, the Thebe-tragedy as I call it here.

Plutarch’s engagement with tragic and epic resonances in the Lives has been significantly revisited and not limited only to his dismissive opinions in the treatise De audiendis poetis, where he propagates a cautious reading of poetry on moral grounds.1 Researchers now consider Plutarchan epic and dramatic intertexts as ways of ‘enriching’ the text, by adding depth and by intensifying or subverting the motifs that are shared across a variety of genres: epic, tragedy, history, and fiction.2 Following these studies, this chapter provides a close reading of the epic and tragic intertexts in the Pelopidas. In the first part I examine

1 For the Homerkritik, see J.F. Kindstrand, Homer in der zweiten Sophistik (Uppsala: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1973) esp. 158 and L.Y. Kim, Homer between history and fiction in Imperial Greek literature (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010) esp. 96–97, who differentiates between the moralizing criticism in De aud. poet. and the ‘historiographical’ revision in e.g. Dio. For Greek myth in general, see G. Hawes, Rationalizing myth in Greek antiquity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014). 2 This chapter draws on the excellent observations from C.B.R. Pelling, “Tragic colouring in Plutarch,” in J. Opsomer, G. Roskam. & F.B. Titchener (eds), A Versatile Gentleman: Consisteny in Plutarch’s Writing. Studies Offered to Luc Van der Stockt on the Occasion of his Retirement (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2016) 113–136, 133. For the term ‘generic enrichment’ see S. Harrison, Generic enrichment in Vergil and Horace (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007).

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Plutarch’s opening chapter about the role of metabole as peripeteia, change of fortune.3 In the second part I explore some implicit, Theban and not, mythical comparanda offered as intertexts for Pelopidas. The third part focuses on the closure and examines in detail the epic mode used for the hero’s posthumous epic eulogy versus the family tragedy that his death triggers, the Thebe-tragedy as I call it here. Upon undertaking the task of writing the biographies of the two illustrious Theban heroes, Epaminondas and Pelopidas, Plutarch was to write, as unbiased as possible,4 the Lives of his two compatriots that were already merged with the mythical past and part of the shared cultural memory.5 For example, the attack of the conspirators against the Cadmea was read in the light of the Saga of the Seven as early as Xenophon’s Hellenica 5.4.1. Equally, the tale of Zethus and Amphion was used to describe Pelopidas’ and Epaminondas’ bond as early as the 4th century BCE,6 although it is not explicitly mentioned in the Life.7 The same can be said about the comparison of their friendship with other famous duos, such as Achilles and Patroclus, which we find elsewhere in Plutarch.8

3 I will not examine here the role of Tyche/Fortuna in the course of history but its use in the narrative. For Tyche and Providence in Plutarch, see the seminal article by S.C.R. Swain, “Plutarch: Chance, Providence, and History,” AJPh 110 (1989) 272–302, F. Becchi, “La nozione di τύχη in Plutarco: una variabile secondo il genere?” in I. Gallo & C. Moreschini (eds.), I generi letterari in Plutarco. Atti dell’VIII Convegno plutarcheo. Pisa, 2–4 giugno 1999 (Naples: D’Auria, 1999) 219–317 for an overview; see also F. Frazier, “Introduction: La marche du monde et les incertitudes de la Tychè,” in F. Frazier and D. Leão (eds.), Tychè et Pronoia. La marche du monde selon Plutarque (Coimbra: CECH, 2010) iii–xxiii, esp. at xv, and W.J. Tatum, “Another look at Tyche in Plutarch’s Aemilius Paulus-Timoleon,” Historia 59 (2010) 448–461. 4 A. Georgiadou, Plutarch’s Pelopidas. A Historical and Philological Commentary (Stuttgart: Teubner, 1997) 8 and 31 notes that Plutarch tries to remain unbiased but that he is slightly in favor of Pelopidas vs. Marcellus; contra, see H.G. Ingenkamp, “Moralia in the Lives: the charge of rashness in Pelopidas/Marcellus,” in A. Nikolaidis (ed.), The Unity of Plutarch’s Work. Moralia Themes in the Lives, Features of the Lives in the Moralia (Berlin-New York: De Gruyter, 2008) 263–276, esp. 259. 5 For the thin margin between the mythical and historical past in the Greek memory of the past, cf. e.g. C. Calame (ed.), Métamorphoses du mythe en Grèce antique (Genève: Labor et Fides, 1988). For the universality of myth as the imperial ‘lingua franca’ see A. Cameron, Greek mythography in the Roman world (New York-Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004). 6 A parallelism going back to 4th century drama, Eubulus to Euripides, see A. Moleti, “Problemi di coppia nell’Antiope di Eubulo,” in L. Breglia, A. Moleti, M-L. Napolitano & R. Calce (eds), Ethne, identità e tradizioni. Vol. I: la “terza” Grecia e l’Occidente (Pisa: Edizioni ETS, 2011) 319– 336. 7 The Theban ideal is a harmonious dualism embodied by its patroness, Harmonia, daughter of Ares and Aphrodite; its mythical founders, Zethus and Amphion, are not included in the digression on the Sacred Band at Pel. 19. 8 They are listed as ideal models of friendship in De am. mul. 93E; Georgiadou, Pelopidas, 32–33,

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Plutarch also had to juggle his source material so as to make it fit the genre in which he was writing: biography, not history.9 The loss of the Life of Epaminondas makes the situation more complex, as the matrix of the extant Life of Pelopidas was considered as rather unsuitable for a biographer—according to Plutarch’s predecessor Cornelius Nepos.10 Pelopidas was mainly known as a general who took pleasure in sports and hunting; and, therefore, he was not cast in the same mold of other Plutarchan heroes with tragic and epic allure. A brief examination of Plutarch’s biographies reveals that those heroes who have attracted scholarly attention because of the tragic or epic patterning of their Lives tend to be those who initiated these associations during their lifetime as a result of their paideia.11 These comparisons were the result of a rigorous rhetori-

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73 on their friendship being modeled on Zethus and Amphion; also J.T. Fitzgerald, GrecoRoman perspectives on friendship (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1997) 121. Cf. Alex. 1.2. For Nepos see J. Beneker, “Nepos’ biographical method in the Lives of the foreign generals,” CJ 105 (2009/2010) 109–121; see also the introduction in S. Verdegem, Plutarch’s Life of Alcibiades: story, text and moralism (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2010). For the genre see A. Momigliano, The development of Greek biography (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1993), an overview is C.B.R. Pelling, Plutarch: Caesar (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011) 13–14. Nep. Pel. 1.1, “I fear that, if I start by explaining each thing, I will not narrate his life but I will appear as if writing history (ne non vitam eius enarrare, sed historiam videar scribere).” For this statement as a narrative stratagem, see G. Manuwald, “Der zweite Mann in Theben. Zur Pelopidas-Vita des Cornelius Nepos,” Hermes 131 (2003) 441–455. The bibliography is immense: e.g. on the reception of the ‘tragic’ see G. Most, “Generating genres: the idea of the tragic,” in M. Depew & D. Obbink (eds), Matrices of genre. Authors, canons and society (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2000) 15–35; on generic enrichment, especially tragic, see Pelling, “Tragic colouring in Plutarch”; also see P.H. De Lacy, “Biography and tragedy in Plutarch,” AJPh 73 (1952) 159–172 on Demetrius, J. Mossman, “Tragedy and epic in Plutarch’s Alexander,” JHS 108 (1988) 83–93 [reprinted in B. Scardigli (ed.), Essays on Plutarch’s Lives (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995) 209–228] on Alexander, J. Mossman, “Plutarch, Pyrrhus, and Alexander,” in P.A. Stadter (ed.), Plutarch and the historical tradition (London: Taylor & Francis, 1992) 90–108 on Alexander and Pyrrhus; D. Braund, “Dionysiac tragedy in Plutarch, Crassus,” CQ 43 (1993) 468–474, T.E. Duff, “Plato, tragedy, the ideal reader and Plutarch’s Demetrios and Antony,”Hermes 132 (2004) 271–291 and A.V. Zadorojnyi, “Tragedy and epic in Plutarch’s ‘Crassus’,” Hermes 125 (1997) 169–183 on Crassus, D. Papadi, “Moralia in the Lives: tragedy and theatrical imagery in Plutarch’s Pompey,” in A. Nikolaidis (ed.), The Unity of Plutarch’s Work. Moralia Themes in the Lives, Features of the Lives in the Moralia (Berlin-New York: De Gruyter, 2008) 111– 124 on Pompey. For introductory readings on Plutarch’s relationship to tragedy and his use of dramatic poetry see L. Di Gregorio, “Lettura diretta e utilizzazione di fonti nelle citazioni plutarchee dei tre grandi tragici I,” Aevum 53 (1979) 11–50, id., “Lettura diretta e utilizzazione di fonti nelle citazioni plutarchee dei tre grandi tragici II,” Aevum 54 (1980) 46–79, C.B.R. Pelling, “Plutarch’s adaptation of his source material,” JHS 100 (1980) 127–140

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cal training contaminated by the theatricality ruling the Hellenistic and Roman public and private scene.12 For example, Pompey fashions himself as Agamemnon, his contemporaries see him as such, and so does Plutarch;13 Alexander fashions himself as Achilles, being urged to do so beginning in his tender years by his entourage, and later as Agamemnon;14 Antony famously compares himself to Hercules and Dionysus;15 this is true even in milder instances such as Demetrius who compares himself with Dionysus, or Crassus who is presented as a competent orator and counts among the well-educated ones and whose head substitutes for Pentheus’ in a performance of the Bacchae.16 Epic and tragic intertextual coloring, subverted or not, might have been inspired by the mythical self-fashioning of the biographies and then reworked accordingly in

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[reprinted in C.B.R. Pelling, Plutarch and History: Eighteen Studies (London: Duckworth, 2002) 91–115] and E.L. Bowie, “Poetry and Education,” in M. Beck (ed.), A Companion to Plutarch (Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2014) 177–190. The progymnasmata trained the students in declamation by using fictive situations, often inspired from myth, cf. Theon, Prog. 94 (Medea), 112 (Ajax vs. Odysseus). For indirect characterization using mythical/historical exempla see K. De Temmerman, Crafting characters: heroes and heroines in the Greek novel (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014) 34–35; for Plutarch’s techniques of characterization see J. Mossman, “Plutarch,” in K. De Temmerman & E. v. Emde Boas (eds.), Characterization in ancient Greek literature. Studies in Ancient Narrative, vol. 4. (Leiden: Brill, 2018) 486–502. On theatricality, see A. Chaniotis, “Theatricality beyond the theater. Staging public life in the Hellenistic world,” Pallas 47 (1997) 219–259, E. Champlin, “Agamemnon at Rome: Roman dynasts and Greek heroes,” in D. Braund & C. Gill (eds.), Myth, History and Culture in Republican Rome (Exeter: Exeter University Press, 2003) 295–319. See also Pelling, “Plutarch’s adaptation of his source material,” 132. For Pompey as Agamemnon among his contemporaries see Champlin, “Agamemnon at Rome,” 299–300. For Accius’ Clytemnestra and Pompey see M. Erasmo, Roman tragedy: theatre to theatricality (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2004) 90–92. E.g. Alex. 5.8, Alexander’s pedagogue Leonidas fashions himself as Phoenix and the boy as Achilles; or his visit to Troy ibid. 15. On the ‘cultured commander’ see C. Brunelle, “Alexander’s Persian pillow and Plutarch’s cultured commander,” CJ 112 (2017) 257–278; see also J.M. O’Brien, Alexander the Great: the invisible enemy (London-New York: Routledge, 1994). On Agesilaus see E. Almagor, “Greatness measured in time and space: The Agesilaus-Pompey” in A. Georgiadou & K. Oikonomopoulou (eds.), Space, Time and Language in Plutarch (Berlin-Boston: De Gruyter, 2017) 147–158. Ant. 4.2, Antony has supposedly Hercules’ physique; for Cleopatra as Omphale see 3.4; Antony as ‘New Dionysus’, ibid. 4.2, 24.4, 60.5. Crass. 3.3. See also Agesilaus in Ag. 6.4, who visits Aulis in emulation of the king of Mycenae; Pericles and Demetrius who are compared to Zeus in Per. 3 and Dem. 42.6, elsewhere the young Demetrius compares himself to Dionysus 2.3; Cleomenes to Achilles in Cleom. 34.3. On Crassus, see also the chapters by L. Fletcher (pp. 416–418) and A. Karanasiou (pp. 443–448) in this volume.

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their Lives at an intergeneric level.17 These cases then indicate that tragedy befalls those who lend themselves as protagonists to dramatization. If the Pelopidas is seldom examined in the light of the tragic or epic mode, this is probably because it focuses on military deeds and because the hero’s personality does not offer much material for characterization alongside mythical exempla. Nor did the general invite such a comparison during his lifetime, as much as we can infer from the available testimonies. This is why it is all the more difficult to discern the epic and the tragic coloring of his Life but also why those shades are much more exciting when they do occur. Therefore, what can be said in a biography about a man who was mainly a general and who partially matched the Greek stereotypes about Thebans, namely that they were brutish and uneducated?18 With which tragic exempla could Pelopidas be compared, since the House of the Labdacids in Thebes provided the stage with famous tales of pederasty, incest and fratricide, the kind of plays Plutarch elsewhere condemns?19 Does Plutarch use the epic mode differently from the tragic one? And where does the intertextual reading of a Plutarchan Life end and the intergeneric begin?

1

From Philosophical metabole to Narrative peripeteia

The opening lines of the Pelopidas can be seen as a chreia, a short quasiphilosophical anecdote that introduces the discussion of what miscalculated ruthlessness might bring upon a man. In the case of the Pelopidas, the chreia, besides its moralizing tone, is also a programmatic glance into Plutarch’s manipulation of his mythical intertexts, epic and/or dramatic, and its histor-

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C.B.R. Pelling, “Aspects of Plutarch’s characterisation,” ICS 13 (1988) 257–274 [reprinted in C.B.R. Pelling, Plutarch and History: Eighteen Studies (London: Duckworth, 2002) 283– 300] and S. Teodorsson, “The education of rulers in theory (Mor.) and practice (Vitae),” in A. Nikolaidis (ed.), The Unity of Plutarch’s Work. Moralia Themes in the Lives, Features of the Lives in the Moralia (Berlin-New York: De Gruyter, 2008) 339–350 show that there is no consistency in the description of the literary background of the biographies. A. Billault, “L’histoire de la rhétorique dans les Vies parallèles de Plutarque: l’exemple des Vies de Démosthène et de Cicéron,”REG 114 (2001) 256–268 also notes that eloquence was considered as a skill and not valued as much as philosophy. Cf. Nep. Ep. 1. Cf. Nep. Ep. 6, in the reply to the Athenian deputy Callistratus, who cites Thebes and Argos as the homelands of terrible myths, Epaminondas counters that all the murderers from Argos and Thebes found refuge in Athens. See also Luc. Cal. 1.12, on the Labdacidae and the Pelopidae as typical source material of tragedy.

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ical models.20 In it Plutarch cites a long series of examples of men whose good luck turned bad because of their excess and blind courage and, although none of them are mythical heroes, the association with their mythical counterparts is subtle yet made explicit. The reversal of fortune, metabole,21 is illustrated in the historical exemplum of Antigonus’ fearless soldier who became timid after being healed, as he started valuing his life. This exemplum is coupled with an allusion to the heroic world of the Iliad, by showing how Homer always depicts his heroes as going into battle well-armored. The Iliadic echo, therefore, gives the historical exemplum an epic allure that fits the opening of the Life of a famous general. Yet Plutarch ends his anecdote with the following programmatic comment: “this is what I thought of saying as a prelude (προαναφωνῆσαι) as I was writing the lives of Pelopidas and Marcellus, great men who (fell in battle) contrary (παραλόγως) to expectation.”22 The moral of the chreia then focuses on the rushed and meaningless ruthlessness,23 but the most striking and narratively loaded term is undoubtedly προαναφωνῆσαι.24 Imperial readers would have been acquainted with the term proanaphonesis from the grammaticus, since rhetorical manuals used it in order to describe what modern narratology defines as prolepsis: “proanaphonesis is a sentence that resumes in advance what will be later told in detail, just as Il. 16.46, ‘for indeed he was meant to be praying for his own evil death and fate.’”25 More intriguingly for the topic of the Pelopidas, proanaphonesis, in the handbooks, is tightly linked with a reversal of fortunes for the worse: there the term is illustrated with a passage alluding to Patroclus’ prayer to Zeus that highlights the futility of his wish, since the reader knows he is already doomed.26 If this were indeed well known, the latent Patroclus echo blends well with Plutarch’s earlier paradigm—that Homer depicts his heroes as coming into the battlefield well equipped, as it further stresses the 20

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For the reuse of intertexts based on mythical subjects shared between epic and drama, see A. Lefteratou, Mythological narratives: the bold and faithful heroines of the Greek novel (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2017) at 17 “when dealing with myth … there was no such thing as a single authoritative text transmitting one myth, although there were ‘more standard’ and ‘less standard’ versions thereof.” Pel. 1.3. Pel. 2.9. Ingenkamp, “The charge of rashness,”on similar moralizing themes. Plutarch uses the term twice, but, in those cases, it is meant as a prologue and an epic prelude to Empedocles’ poems: De exilio 607C and De esu 996B. Hdn. Fig. 61. R. Nünlist, The ancient critic at work: terms and concepts of literary criticism in Greek scholia (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009) 36. Cf. Trypho Trop. 203 cites the lines from Il. 11.604, that also allude to Patroclus’ predicted death. Similarly Aristonic. Gramm. De sign. Il. 11.604.

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irony: famously Patroclus wore Achilles’ armor but was reckless, and thus met his doom regardless of his prayers.27 The allusion to Patroclus would have further triggered a reminiscence of the famous and equally fated bond of friendship with Achilles: just as Achilles lost Patroclus, Epaminondas too will lose Pelopidas prematurely because of the latter’s rashness. But for imperial audiences proanaphonesis is not related only to epic intertexts, as it had a particularly theatrical flavor especially in imperial prose. In Heliodorus’ Aethiopica, for example, a novel that makes extensive use of stage terms and dramatic plots, the term προαναφώνησις is attached to προεισόδιον28 and their combination seems to indicate an opening piece of action that functions as a kind of dramatic prologue to Book 8, a novelistic revision of the Hippolytus play.29 To sum up, the discussion of the abrupt change of good fortune into bad is highlighted through the historical exempla of the prologue, the heroic world of Patroclus’ Iliad and, probably, sprinkled with dramatic flavoring encapsulated in the term proanaphonesis. These programmatic claims would have predisposed the audience to approach the otherwise well-known Life of Pelopidas as a tale of heroic action and of peripeteia—the kind one finds in epic and/or drama.30 Indeed throughout the Life the reader is faced with the vicissitudes of Tyche and with sense of a ‘near miss,’ mostly for the best, but ultimately for the worse; the Spartan Agesipolis saves the wounded Pelopidas and Epaminondas beyond the characters’ expectation (ἀνελπίστως);31 or the characters are represented as startled (οὐδὲν προσεδόκησαν) at the change of events or unable to interpret dreams that make sense only retrospectively;32 or the conspirators are unable

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Hom. Il. 16.89–96 and 16.685–687. Hld. 8.17.5. Nünlist, The ancient critic, 36. J. Walden, “Stage terms in Heliodorus’ Aethiopica,” HSPh (1894) 1–43. S. Smith, “Wonders beyond Athens: reading the ‘Phaedra’ stories in Apuleius and Heliodorus,” in M. Zimmerman, M. Paschalis & S. Frangoulidis (eds.), The Greek and the Roman novel: Parallel readings (Ancient Narrative Suppl. 8) (Groningen: Barkhuis, 2007) 219–237 and Lefteratou, Mythological narratives, 163–169. Cf. the use of peripeteia for both epic and tragedy in e.g. Arist. Po. 1454b (allusion to the Odyssey) and the famous treatment of S. OT at 1452a. On the tragic notion of reversal of fortune see Pelling, “Aspects of Plutarch’s characterisation,” 257–274. Pel. 4.8. Pel. 27.1, οὔτε προσδοκήσας; 27.7, οὐδὲν ἂν παθεῖν προσδοκήσαντες; 31.1, ἥλιος ἐξέλιπε … μέγα σημεῖον. For the tragic flavor of dreams see C.B.R. Pelling, “Tragical dreamer: some dreams in the Roman historians,” G&R 44 (1997) 197–213. Cf. the importance of these embedded indications of the readers’ horizon of expectations in the novel, e.g. Chariton, in the discussion on ‘novelty’ in S. Tilg, Chariton of Aphrodisias and the invention of the Greek love novel (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010) 170ff., or the expectations of the embedded

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to figure out the best timing (καιρός) for the coup and ultimately the very deed is crowned not only because of their bravery but also by Tyche.33 These subtle intertextual touches are not necessarily an explicit epic or dramatic touch, as they are common in epic, drama, historiography, and the novel. Still they do give to the otherwise familiar narrative and outcome of Pelopidas’ Life a fictional twist, and they tease the readers to think ‘what comes next’ so that they may continue reading ‘for the plot.’34 Therefore, the use of metabole does not have only philosophical ramifications regarding the power of Tyche but also serves a narrative cause. Just as with well-known mythical narratives, historical tales came with a well-defined plot, but the narrative highlight of ‘near misses’ was a useful tool to spice up the narration, suggesting an engagement with either the tragic or the epic mode.

2

Theban and Other Tragic Intertexts in the Pelopidas

Tragedy, for example, features in the Pelopidas explicitly and implicitly. In what follows I cite three examples in narrative order, which would have prompted the reader to recall several famous tragic heroes: Capaneus, alluding to the Saga of the Seven against Thebes, Menoeceus, illustrated in Charon’s snippet, and an allusion to Agamemnon in Iphigenia in Aulis in an anecdote concerning Pelopidas’ dream before the battle at Leuctra. The first of these cases is an explicit citation, a reminiscence of Capaneus from Euripides’ Suppliants.35 And while Plutarch uses Capaneus to describe

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characters as resonating with those of the external readers; on the thwarted expectations of the embedded characters as metafictional indications in the novel see Lefteratou, Mythological narratives, e.g. 73, 86, 316. Pel. 13.4, πρᾶξιν … βραβευθεῖσαν … ὑπὸ τῆς τύχης; cf. 8.6 and 11.1. See R.B. Rutherford, “Tragic form and feeling in the Iliad,” JHS 102 (1982) 145–160 [reprinted in D.L. Cairns (ed.), Oxford Readings in Homer’s Iliad (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001) 260–293], id., “Tragedy and history,” in J. Marincola (ed.), A Companion to Greek and Roman Historiography (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2007) 504–514, and the overview in Pelling, “Tragic colouring,” 115–116. E. Almagor, “Parallel narratives and possible worlds in Plutarch’s Life of Artaxerxes,” in K. De Temmerman & K. Demoen (eds.), Writing biography in Greece and Rome: narrative technique and fictionalization (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016) 65–79, esp. 79 “the biographies also provide subtle interpretation of what actually did happen with an eye to parallel possible worlds.” I am paraphrasing here the title of P. Brooks’ Reading for the plot: design and intention in narrative (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1984). E. Supp. 861–862.

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Pelopidas’ disregard for material goods,36 the reader, who recalls the chreia, cannot ignore the similarities between Pelopidas and the mythical hero who was mostly known for his arrogance and ruthlessness: during the battle of the Seven Against Thebes, Capaneus stood on the wall and shouted that Zeus could not stop him from invading the city; Zeus killed him on the spot with a thunderbolt.37 The Theban story would not have escaped Plutarch38 or his reader, despite the lack of a direct connection between the mythical and the historical heroes. However, in the description of the battle in which Epaminondas saves Pelopidas by putting his life on the line, Plutarch subtly informs the reader that Pelopidas received seven wounds, a number important for the mythical sevengated Thebes that connects the historical present with the mythical past.39 Thus, the ground is prepared for a reminiscence of Pelopidas’ attack on the citadel through the foil of the myth of the Seven against Thebes.40 Yet, unlike the attack of the Seven, the return of the conspirators is not the outcome of a fraternal strife, but originates in the joint efforts of both Pelopidas in exile and Epaminondas from inside against a common (and foreign) enemy, the Spartans. The second tragic allusion recalls the tale of Menoeceus and is embedded within the narrative of the liberation of Thebes’ acropolis that conveys a sense of ‘near misses’ throughout.41 Not only Hipposthenidas’ hesitation and the messenger’s (Chlidon’s) failure to carry his mission, but also Charon’s sudden summon to the Spartan headquarters put the attack at great risk. Thus, the nar-

36 37 38 39

40

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Pel. 3.5. S. Ant. 133. E. Supp. 983–1030, Ps.-Apollod. Bibliotheca. 3.6.6–3.7.1. Di Gregorio, “Lettura diretta I,” 58 mentions that Plutarch’s knowledge of E. Suppl. was superficial. Contrarily his knowledge of A. Sept. was good, id., “Lettura diretta I,” 80. This number of his wounds is not mentioned for example in Paus. 9.13.1. For the mythical past in historiography, see e.g. E. Baragwanath, “The mythic plupast in Herodotus,” in J. Grethlein & C.B. Krebs (eds.), Time and Narrative in Ancient Historiography. The ‘Plupast’ from Herodotus to Appian (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012) 35–56 with an emphasis on Herodotus; however both T. Rood, “The plupast in Xenophon’s Hellenica,” ibid. 76–94 and especially A.V. Zadorojnyi, “Mimesis and the (plu)past in Plutarch’s Lives,” ibid. 175–198 show that although Xenophon and Plutarch were reluctant to use mythical comparanda, they did nonetheless. See U. Schmitzer, “Sieben Thebaner gegen Theben. Bemerkungen zur Darstellungsform in Xenophon, Hell. 5.4.1–12,” WJA 22 (1998) 123–139 for similar manipulation of the number seven in Xen. Hell. 5.4.1, “only seven of the exiled were enough to demolish their (the Spartans’) rule.” Cf. R. Ash, “Never say die! Suetonius’ Lives of the Caesars,” in K. De Temmerman & K. Demoen (eds.), Writing biography in Greece and Rome: narrative technique and focalization (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016) 200–216, 213.

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rative often highlights close calls: it was late afternoon (ἑσπέρα),42 when there was suddenly knock on the door … and Charon was summoned. Further, Pelopidas’ group attack on the house of Leontiades also takes place at night, which allows the reader to imagine a close fight in total darkness, yet another detail of suspense.43 Even after Charon manages to convincingly entertain the fears of the garrison, a letter reaches the Spartans warning them about the upcoming coup.44 This time the Spartan Archias is, luckily for the Thebans, too drunk to grasp the situation and leaves the matter for tomorrow, thus becoming notorious for his negligence.45 Besides the tragic feeling, the action is highlighted by dramatic elements that also suggest a reuse of the dramatic mode not only at an intertextual but also at an intergeneric level. Upon being summoned, Charon proves a fine actor in front of the Spartans when he is described adjusting the expression on his face and the tone of his voice like a good hypocrites, who, though unlike actors, could not resort to a mask but had to act it out.46 Elsewhere, Plutarch shows the conspirators attacking the Spartans cross-dressed in female clothes, shadowing their male faces with pine branches, a detail that hints at the skeue, the theatrical costumes.47 Even more tellingly, the end of the attack is focalized through the eyes of the Thebans, who are “astonished with respect to the events and without knowing anything certain.”48 Like the audience of a drama, the Thebans will eventually gather at the ecclesia and will learn the good news in the morning. Thus, the Theban crowd is cast as the audience of a dramatic performance. This image seems better suited to Plutarch’s post-Hellenistic world, where theaters were used for a wide array of spectacles, enhancing the theatrical feeling of public life.49 These dramatic touches are enhanced by more elaborate episodes typical of Plutarch’s tragic patterning and generic engagement with drama. Amidst the surprise of him being summoned by the Spartans, Charon delivers his own son

42

43 44 45 46

47 48 49

Pel. 9.7. In Plutarch night and suspense go together: Pel. 9.6–7, ἦν δ’ ἑσπέρα … ἐξαίφνης δὲ κοπτομένης τῆς θύρας contra X. HG 5.4.4, who does not exploit further the temporal circumstances. This attack is a topos, Georgiadou, Pelopidas, 118. Pel. 10.6, δεύτερον ἐπῆγεν ἡ τύχη χειμῶνα. Pel. 10.10. Pel. 9.13, “adjusting the expression of his face (σχήματι προσώπου) and the tone of his voice (τόνῳ φωνῆς)”. On these qualities of hypocrisis see Plu. Quaest. conv. 711C and Longin. Rh. 568 (Walz). Pel. 11.2. Pel. 12.3. Cf. Chaniotis, “Theatricality,” 224 and a parallel use of theatre in Chariton 3.4.4, 8.8.15.

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as a hostage to his friends as a sign of trust, triggering tears of sympathy and pity. Charon, in fact, needs to have his handsome son brought from the women’s quarters,50 suggesting the boy’s tender age. These details are not necessary for the narrative, but they do add depth and pathos and also contribute to the portrayal of the characters. Indeed, Charon’s friends, seeing a beautiful and brave young boy, beg him to send him away, so that he might one day take revenge in their stead if they fail. Sacrificing one’s own child for the commonwealth is a frequent theme in Greek drama, with Menoeceus and Iphigenia being two of the chief examples. Although the myth is not mentioned explicitly here but in the third example discussed below, it suggests that the myth is part of the available dramatic intertexts that are meant to illuminate the Life through internal synkrisis.51 Moreover, the theme of a young man’s dilemma between exile and death is particularly present in Euripides’ treatment of Menoeceus’ options,52 but unlike Creon who puts his son before his city, Charon prefers his son to die an honorable death rather than lead a life of exile, making of his son a worthy Menoeceus analogue.53 Charon thus stages a ‘family tragedy’ that moves his embedded audience to tears, highlighting the tragic tone of the scene.54 The third case is a more concrete allusion to the sacrifice of Iphigenia at Aulis. Before Leuctra, Pelopidas is urged by a dream to offer a human sacrifice of a blond maiden. His seers immediately urge him to follow its admonition and they support this advice with tales of old (τῶν παλαιῶν), such as that of Menoeceus and Macaria55 to which they add historical examples, such as 50 51

52 53 54

55

Cf. in E. Ph. 991, Creon sends Menoeceus back to the women’s quarters. E.g. Pelopidas also resorts to exile and return/revenge. For the so-called ‘internal synkrisis,’ see further T.E. Duff, Plutarch’s Lives: Exploring Virtue and Vice (Oxford-New York: Clarendon Press, 1999) 251. E. Ph. 977–985. E. Ph. 919, χαιρέτω πόλις. Contra see Pel. 9.13, ἀνυβρίστου τελευτῆς. At Pel. 9.10–11, Plutarch presents the son as being remarkably beautiful and well-built although not yet of a fighting age as he is still dwelling in the women’s quarters. As a result, giving him up as a hostage to his friends provokes their pity “and many started to weep for the misfortune (πάθος) and the virtue of Charon.” Cf. E. Ph. 841, Menoeceus is also presented as a child (τέκνον, παῖς). In Hld. 10.17.1, King Hydaspes also stages his daughter’s sacrifice in order to avoid sacrificing her in the end by staging an Iphigenia like family tragedy, cf. Lefteratou, Mythological narratives, 93–95. For tears as an empathetic reaction of pity, especially related to tragedy, see H. Flashar “Die medizinischen Grundlagen der Lehre von der Wirkung der Dichtung in der griechischen Poetik,” Hermes 84/1 (1956) 12– 48. In E. Ph. 834–976, Teiresias asks for the sacrifice of Menoeceus to Ares in order for Creon to win in the War of the Seven against Thebes. Menoeceus slaughters himself before the city gates. In E. HF 474–607 Macaria willingly sacrifices herself to Persephone to guarantee the victory of Heracles’ children.

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Themistocles’ human sacrifice before Salamis. They also remind him of Agesilaus, who, while at Aulis, did not sacrifice his daughter in accordance with Artemis’ dream-request, thus dooming his Asian expedition.56 However, Pelopidas objects to this cruel custom, and the narrator makes a digression on a critique of human sacrifices as a sign of impiety.57 The situation is unexpectedly resolved when a female mare with a blond mane appears suddenly as a substitute for the blonde maiden. This narrowly escaped death is not just a fictional touch, the kind one finds in the novels, but a revision and rationalization of traditional myths, and Theban myths in particular.58 Pelopidas eventually, because of his piety, becomes an anti-Agamemnon, an anti-Creon, and an antiAgesilaus figure, surpassing them in military achievements. Mythical characterization and tragic patterning then are important, since they offer other possible, fictional scenarios and outcomes through comparison or contrast with traditional tales.59 The tragic intertexts surveyed here serve several narrative goals: they connect the present (here Pelopidas’) and the mythical past (the Seven), contribute to characterization and motivation (e.g. Charon), and offer the reader a variety of alternative, paradigmatic narrative scenarios (e.g. the near sacrifice at Leuctra that could have gone wrong). Beyond these intertexts, Plutarch’s allusions to other theatrical elements, such as the crowd as onlookers (e.g. the ecclesia at Thebes), disguise and hypocrisis, and most importantly the emotional reaction to embedded ‘tragic’ plots (Charon’s friends) suggest that these passages were not just intended as tragic intertexts but had generic aspirations too. Moreover, Plutarch does not altogether relinquish the possibilities offered by the genre especially in terms of plot patterning, but he appears fully aware of the potential offered by the medium he uses: prose writing allows him to represent a different level of vivid56

57 58

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Plu. Ages. 6.4, the king eventually decides to sacrifice a hind but the ritual is cancelled by the Boeotians. In Pel. 21.2 Plutarch tells the story of Pherecydes of Syrus (6th c. BCE), killed or sacrificed by the Spartans. The allusions to other biographees such as Themistocles and Agesilaus compel the reader to retrieve the intratextual links between the Lives of the corpus, cf. M. Lucchesi, “Gylippus in Plutarch’s Parallel Lives: intratextuality and readers,” Ploutarchos 13 (2016) 3–32. Pel. 24.6. For similar criticism of ancient myths of human sacrifice in fictional prose and in Plutarch, see Lefteratou, Mythological narratives, 37–38. A similar revision of Theban mythology is found also in the aetiology of the Sacred Band, Pel. 18.5–6 and 19.1–2, suggesting the model of the Heracles-Iolaus instead of Laius’ pederasty and the mediation of the goddess Harmonia, embodying strength and beauty. For an overview of how mythical characterization is used as marker of fictionalization, see K. De Temmerman, “Ancient biography and formalities of fiction,” in K. De Temmerman & K. Demoen (eds), Writing biography in Greece and Rome: narrative technique and fictionalization (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016) 3–25, esp. 20–22.

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ness and illusionism, as it may depict events that traditionally did not take place on stage, such as unmasked actors, night sceneries, and murders in candlelight.60

3

An Epic Death and a Thebe-Tragedy

So far, we saw how the narrative highlights suspense by adding theatrical touches or patterning some episodes as anti-tragic myths. The last chapters of the Life provide another insight into Plutarch’s tragic perception of the Pelopidas by contrasting the hero to his fated enemy—Alexander the tyrant of Pherae. The tragic coloring of this tale dwells on a famous anecdote:61 Alexander supposedly left the theater when a Trojan drama was performed, so that his subjects would not witness his tears for the misfortunes of Hecuba and Andromache on stage, since in real life he was cast as merciless, burying his enemies alive.62 Alexander’s attitude to this performed dramatic myth contrasts both with the condemnation of human sacrifices found in the Pelopidas and with the emotional reaction of Pelopidas to Charon’s ‘family tragedy’ described above. These internal comparisons scattered throughout the Life shift the illusion between theater, myth, and history and show how reality could also be reenacted as a drama whose outcome depends largely on the virtue of the leading characters, or its lack thereof: a happy, almost novelistic, end for Pelopidas’ blond maiden and a more than tragic one for Alexander’s victims. The Alexander anecdote prompts a reconsideration of the impact of the tragic intertexts in the Life and a reevaluation of both the epic and the tragic mode. The end of Pelopidas brings back the epic mode and revisits the programmatic treatment of the theme of senseless death in favor of the protagonist. Pelopidas in his death was at least unluckily lucky.63 Despite dying abroad, the 60

61 62

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Cf. Philostr. Im. 10, the ekphrasis of Agamemnon’s and Cassandra’s murder: “if we examine this scene as a drama, my boy, a great tragedy has been enacted in a brief space of time, but if as a painting, you will see more in it than a drama. For look, here are torches to provide light—evidently these events take place at night—and … bowls of gold brighter than the torches’ flame”. J. Elsner, “Philostratus visualizes the tragic: some ecphrastic and pictorial receptions of Greek tragedy in the Roman era,” in C. Kraus, S. Goldhill & J. Elsner (eds.), Visualizing the tragic: drama, myth, and ritual in Greek art and literature (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007) 309–337, esp. 312–313. Pel. 29.9. Pel. 29.6. Cf. Braund, “Dionysiac tragedy,” 469 a propos of the Parthian staging of the Bacchae notes that “the reader is offered a memorable glimpse of barbarian savagery which expressed itself in the discourse of civilization.” Cf. also Zadorojnyi, “Crassus,” 182. Contrarily, for example, to his pair Marcellus who is unlucky even in death, as even

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Thessalians and the Thebans honored him as a hero, and his death, at least in Plutarch’s narrative, accelerated the fall of the tyrant.64 With such a denouement, Plutarch weaves the ultimate encomium for the Theban hero that is a blend of epic and tragic tones. The hero’s modest funeral is compared a contrario to that of Dionysius, which was “like a theatrical exodion of the great tragedy of his (life’s) tyranny”65 and to the extravagant funeral of Alexander for Hephaestion.66 Although Pelopidas’ ending lacked the intense theatricality of that of Dionysius’, the term exodion is loaded with dramatic connotations too.67 Now that the narrative implicitly reaches its exodion, the reader may recall the very opening of the Life and Plutarch’s proanaphonesis: the Pelopidas reached its climax as a tale of adverse fortunes, the kind one finds in epic and drama, but not as a tragedy of misfortunes, since the hero was awarded an epic, qua heroic, death. Posthumously Pelopidas achieves “the most perfect beatitude (εὐδαιμονισμόν),” since death safeguards the glorious deeds of the past.68 This maxim is well known in Greek thought and brilliantly illustrated by Solon’s famous words to Croesus and by the ending of the Oedipus Rex, a tragedy otherwise well known to Plutarch and probably alluded to here.69 The emphatic repetition of ἀριστεία ἀριστεύων,70 nonetheless, reminds the reader of the earlier epic mode used for Pelopidas’ Life. Just as the narrative opened with a consideration of Pelopidas, alongside Homeric heroes, who venture well-armoured into battle, the biography closes in Homeric mode. Still, this is not presented uncritically, since Pelopidas’ excellence is not just for the sake of one man’s kleos but also for the commonwealth, which is why his feat is described as equal to that

64 65 66

67 68 69 70

his ashes and bones scatter, Marc. 30.2. In doing so, Plutarch contradicts his chreia cf. Ingenkamp, “The charge of rashness,” 264–266 showing a predilection for Pelopidas. Pel. 35.2. Pel. 34.1. Georgiadou, Pelopidas, 214. Mossman, “Tragedy and epic,” 91, shows that Plutarch is cautious not to repeat the tone of tragic historians but does not disavow tragic patterning altogether. Cf. the tragic end of Crassus Crass. 33.7, also described as exodion but attributed to unnamed sources (φασίν), see Zadorojnyi, “Crassus,” 180; again the term exodion is related ‘tragic history’ in Alex. 75.5, “they have invented (πλάσαντες) a tragic and full of passion (περιπαθές).” Cf. Poll. Onom. 4.108. Pel. 34.4–35.1. Hdt. 1.32.5–9. Cf. S. OT 1528–1530, μηδέν’ ὀλβίζειν and Pel. 34.4, εὐδαιμονισμόν. See Di Gregorio, “Lettura diretta I,” 40 on S. OT in Plutarch’s works altogether. Pel. 34.5, “Pelopidas … died defending the freedom of the Thessalians, during his thirteenth boeotarchy, by winning a win mixed with the murder of a tyrant (τυραννοκτονίᾳ μεμειγμένην ἀριστείαν ἀριστεύων).” On aristeia, see also Ingenkamp, “The charge of rashness,” 266–296.

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of the Athenian Tyrannicides. The legendary Theban hero, therefore, is no less than the heroes of myth or those of the recent Athenian past, and, in fact, he supersedes them both. Furthermore, the way Pelopidas’ exodion ushers in the tragic fall of his enemy Alexander signals to audiences a divine punishment,71 which was foreshadowed earlier during the meeting of Pelopidas with Thebe, Alexander’s wife, when imprisoned at Pherae.72 During these ideological exchanges, Pelopidas convinced her to take action. Thebe’s name suggests a Theban tragedy, and her plot has all the characteristics of Plutarch’s tragic patterning: it is again night; it stages a palatial intrigue under the candlelight; it involves a pederasty intrigue (Alexander was after Thebe’s younger brother); and eventually there is a murder among kinsmen, a mariticide, where the wife and her brothers kill the evil king. Thebe, then, is cast in the role of Clytemnestra and Alexander in that of Laius, given the charges of pederasty against him, but most poignantly Alexander is also cast in the role of Agamemnon for his other debaucheries and faithlessness.73 But this tragic revision has also its moralizing touch: Thebe is presented as encouraging her brothers and not actively killing, and thus she avoids becoming another negative foil like Clytemnestra.74 Thus, she stands as a counter-analogue of the Argive queen, since she murders her husband for the commonwealth and not only for personal revenge. Hence, the namesake of Thebes becomes the protagonist of a different kind of ‘ideal’ Theban tragedy, one with political implications, a tyrannicide. Just as Pelopidas’ death was described as a mixture of aristeia (epic) and tyrannicide, Thebe’s acts mix mariticide (tragedy) with tyrannicide (history),75 and both make good material for a biography. The Life’s closure, zooming in on this tragic female protagonist, counters and contrasts the epic mode used for the male hero, allowing Plutarch to harmonize the two genres towards an ‘ideal’ and cathartic ending: the hero praised and the villain dead.76

71 72 73 74 75

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Pel. 35.4. Pel. 28.3–4. Pel. 28.4–5. In A. Ag. 1492. Cf. also other powerful historical women assimilated to Clytemnestra, e.g. Livilla and Agrippina. Pel. 35.3, the main motives of Thebe was his cruelty, his faithlessness, and his relationship to her brother. Ibid. 35.3, Pelopidas teaches Thebe not to be afraid of tyranny altogether giving her the extra political motivation she needed to take action. Pel. 35.4, δίκην ἔδωκε, 35.12, ἄξια πεπονθέναι; the punishment is throughout presented as a fair ending for the tyrant.

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Conclusions

Plutarch seems to write for an ideal, well-educated audience, able to read between and beyond the lines. The addressee of Pelopidas is repeatedly encouraged to research the intertextual path beyond the given exempla and to ponder the similarities and the differences between the characters’ actions and those of mythical ones. Plutarch does not trigger any particular intertextual link between his protagonist’s deeds and those of a mythical model, epic or dramatic, despite some obvious similarities with well-known Theban myths that lurk in the narrative. Yet these mythical exempla were so vivid for Plutarch’s audience that they would have been easily recognized as the Theban setting would have triggered them. Plutarch only scarcely offers mythical analogues for his biographee, and this is, in my view, because he was counting on his reader’s pedigree. Plutarch’s silence might illustrate a personal choice regarding the genre of his text. Mythical characterization and patterning was amply used in other genres, such as tragic history and fictional prose, and the progymnasmata had long trained the pepaideumenoi in comparing mythical situations to actual ones. Minimizing the explicit mythical references may be a way to maintain the standards of Plutarch’s intended genre, as it allows the (narrated) facts to speak of themselves unbiased from the (im)moral implications caused by myth. The implicit allusions to Capaneus or Alexander’s pederasty would have prompted the reader to make connections with the mythical past, the Saga of the Seven and Laius, but the narrator would not have had an active part in it, thus keeping his narrative in the realm of biographical writing. Yet despite this cautious attitude to his source material, the Life is not thoroughly purged from tragic and epic touches as these increased the suspense. Hence, tragic and epic intertexts seem to serve the Pelopidas in different ways that prompt a deeper understanding of the Life’s engagement with these genres. In detail: (a) Tragic patterning and intergenericity Years ago, in her 1988 inspiring article, Judith Mossman argued that tragic patterning appears more often in those instances where the Plutarchan characters appear responsible for their downfall. However, the survey of the tragic intertexts in this Life illustrates the broader scope of tragic intertextuality and points to various aspects of Plutarch’s engagement with this genre: – The Life favors typical dramatic themes that are summarized in binary pairs, such as ‘love for family vs. love for the city/ideal’; ‘divine knowledge (e.g. in dreams) vs. human (mis-)understanding’; ‘excessive/hybristic reactions vs. divine punishment.’

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– The use of metabole illustrates changes from good luck to utter misfortune and is not necessarily restricted to epic or tragic intertexts. However, adverse fortune seems to have more of a tragic twist in it. Indeed, like other famous Plutarchan characters, such as Antony, Alexander brings disaster upon him, and like them, he too is represented as taking pleasure in tragic associations, as seen in the anecdote. The Pelopidas even stages an ‘escape-tragedy,’ such as the near sacrifice of the maiden at Leuctra, which broadly recalls the sacrifice of Iphigenia. – In the Life, narrative settings conglomerating themes such as ‘night,’ ‘proleptic dreams,’ ‘kinsmen,’ ‘women,’ ‘pathos,’ ‘tears,’ ‘secrecy,’ ‘human sacrifice,’ and ‘murder’ recreate the tragic and dramatic atmosphere not just at an intertextual but also at an intergeneric level. The dramatic context, performance, is also evoked: e.g. the audience (intra- and extra-diegetic) and its emotional reactions to the plot is coupled with allusions to hypocrisis and to the skeue, showing the engagement of the narrative with drama at a generic level. (b) Epic and tragic intertextuality: the ideological ramifications While epic and tragic intertexts belonged to a long tradition of literature on mythical subjects, they nonetheless belonged to genres that weighted differently. – On the one hand, the explicit association of famous generals with Iliadic heroes would have been undisputable for the ancient reader. By introducing Homer in his proanaphonesis and by closing the Life upon Pelopidas’ aristeia, Plutarch casts his hero in the Iliadic pantheon of brave men with Panhellenic appeal. The epic register, then, revisits the broader theme of war and excellence in the battlefield but also adds an ideological twist: Pelopidas, from a local legend, becomes a Panhellenic hero, and Thebes, from a small rural Roman city, comes to the fore.77 The epic allusions also help overwrite other more standard comparisons of Thebes to its dubious mythical past and cast fresh light on Pelopidas’ achievements. – On the other hand, tragic analogues could be used for adding depth in a character or a situation (e.g. Charon’s son and Menoeceus), but when used for longer episodes they provide paradigms for the plot. It is interesting to observe that the adaptations of tragic patterns are often ‘adapted,’ moral77

G.J.D. Aalders, Plultarch’s political thought (Amsterdam-Oxford-New York: North-Holland Publishing Company, 1982) 19. See also Plutarch’s ‘interpretatio Thebana’ of the loves of Mars and Venus in A. Lefteratou, “The bed canopy in Xenophon of Ephesus and the iconography of Mars and Venus under the Empire,” Ramus 47 (2018) 94–97.

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ized and rationalized. Such a manipulation of the tragic intertexts is aligned with the spirit of the sophistic Mythenkritik. Albeit then criticized, the tragic mode is not purged altogether, since, at the plot-level, it helps adding significant coloring and patterning to the narrative. But whereas epic is used to endow the characters with Panhellenic appeal, tragic intertexts build suspense and their ‘corrected’ versions solve the moral impasses found in actual tragedies: unlike Clytemnestra’s dual motivation (Iphigenia and Aegisthus), Thebe was, by all means, right to kill her husband. It appears then that the Pelopidas precisely ‘stages’ these alternatives that give tragedy a didactic and moralizing appeal. (c) The intertexts of a biographical narrative I showed how, in the Pelopidas, peripeteia is omnipresent at a narrative level. This kind of peripeteia is found in epic poetry as well as tragedy. But whereas dramatic twists for the worse tend to be packed with a thick layer of tragic patterning, the Pelopidas also uses twists for the better. In fact, until the end, Pelopidas gives the impression of someone lucky enough to avoid most of fortune’s vicissitudes and as someone who was praised and honored during his lifetime for the larger part (τοῦ βίου τὸ πλεῖστον).78 Episodes illustrating a narrow-escape from death such as Pelopidas’ and Epaminondas’ rescue by the Spartan general, the success of the liberation of the Cadmea, and the revision of Iphigenia’s sacrifice have something fictional but not entirely implausible about them. The same goes for the wished-for ending of the Life that balances between epic and a ‘moralizing’ tragedy: the dead hero honored and the villain dead, something that does not always happen with other biographies, such as Pericles or Marcellus, Pelopidas’ parallel, or in ‘real life.’ Ultimately, the narrative of the Pelopidas urges for a reconsideration of the term metabole at a moralizing and narrative level: whereas change of fortune is part of the human life and, although one should act rationally and not impulsively so as not to trigger it, metabole, in the sense of peripeteia, is an indispensable narrative tool that gives the narrative suspense and cause. And whereas in epic and tragic modes the oscillation between good and bad fortune is brought into the limelight, a narrative genre such as a biography may be seen as a compromise between the two—not for the sake of a fictional ‘happy ending’ but for a different rationalized version of it. The Thebe-tragedy that ends the narrative seems to be an attempt to make use of the hero’s otherwise not thoroughly justified capture and an even more senseless death by weaving

78

Cf. Pel. 37.4.

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together the loose ends. At least in the case of Pelopidas, his bad luck turned ultimately good, not in the sense of a ‘happy ending’ but in the sense of more genuine ‘ever after’: with the villain’s death and the hero’s εὐδαιμονισμός.

chapter 29

From Inter-textuality to Inter-mediality: Plutarch’s Lyric Quotations from Greek Tragedy Argyri G. Karanasiou

Abstract This chapter explores Plutarch’s relation to Greek tragedy and focuses on the interplay between dramatic poetry and prose narrative. In the quoted lyric passages, tragedy serves no longer an educational task as a medium for the transmission of knowledge; it rather becomes a means for an emotion-charged diegesis. Moreover, Plutarch primarily exploits the plurimedial effect of these verses and brings to life entire theatrical scenes. Indeed, whether these lyric quotations derive from the historico-biographical tradition or are cited by memory (presupposing some knowledge of the original), Plutarch consciously selects them and succeeds in transforming stage-songs into the dramatic setting of his narratives. Apart from the interrelation between different genres—dramatic poetry and historiographical or philosophical prose, which explains the term ‘intergenericity,’ in the following cases we simultaneously witness an interaction between two different media—literary text and theatrical performance—and for this reason we employ the term ‘inter-mediality.’

1

Introductory Remarks

By appropriating lyric citations1 from the Greek tragedy in his narrative Plutarch offers a case-study of ‘inter-textuality’ in the Greek prose of the Imperial Period. Nonetheless, he goes beyond the connection between two texts of different genres—a subject-matter of ‘inter-genericity’2—and aims at the

1 The present examination is restricted to direct quotations where the quoted author and the title of his work are mentioned. 2 A. Ternès, Intertextualität: Der Text als Collage (Wiesbaden: Springer VS, 2016) 88; cf. W. Wolf, “Intermedialität: Konzept, literaturwissenschaftliche Relevanz, Typologie, intermediale Formen,” in V.C. Dörr & T. Kurwinkel (eds.), Intertextualität, Intermedialität, Transmedialität. Zur Beziehung zwischen Literatur und anderen Medien (Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann, 2014) 21.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004427860_031

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interaction between two different media, drama as text and as performance, a phenomenon which is defined as ‘hetero-medial inter-textuality’ or as ‘intermediality.’3 Drama can be perceived either as text or as theatrical performance; correspondingly, its reception varies between individual readings and the experience of a plurimedial combination of text, music, visual impressions and gestures on stage.4 Consequently, the quoted songs are transplaced ‘dramatic inter-texts’ that preserve their plurimedial character within their prose context. For drama as Greek performance, poetry can function independently of its first performance, and yet it remains unseparately connected with its original context.5 The reader’s first impression of a stage script that is being reduced to a written description gradually gives way to an audio-visual sideeffect when the borrowed verses unfold their performative power and capture the recipient’s imagination. Both for Plutarch, who is totally aware of the fact that these lyric quotations derive from a different medium, and for his recipient, who has already been a spectator of staged tragedies, the result is a two-fold transformation: an ‘inter-text’ that functions as a means of ‘staging’ Plutarch’s narrative on the one hand and a new meaning that is produced through the interrelation between citation and context on the other hand. The quotations are introduced through terms (so-called ‘deictic markers’) denoting sound. But for Plutarch, what is perceptible to the ear is not enough; he prompts his reader to become an eyewitness. Therefore, by quoting he urges his recipients to remember and re-enact entire scenes of the original in the ‘stage’ of their mind. In the following four passages, Plutarch does not focus on the content of the quoted verses in order to contribute to the persuasiveness of his arguments. His purpose is to produce a text enriched by an emotional dimension. Thus, what we discover seems to be a ‘double quoting.’ At first, Plutarch employs the quota-

3 Wolf, “Intermedialität,” 11, 12, 14 and 20–21 defines ‘inter-mediality’ as the co-existence of “more than one” medium in a work; J. Paech, “Warum Intermedialität,” in V.C. Dörr & T. Kurwinkel (eds.), Intertextualität, Intermedialität, Transmedialität. Zur Beziehung zwischen Literatur und anderen Medien (Würzburg: Königshausen und Neumann, 2014) 46–69, esp. 55; I. Rajewsky, “Intermediality, Intertextuality and Remediation: A Literary Perspective in Intermediality,” Intermediality: History and Theory of the Arts, Literature and Technologies 6 (2005) 43–64. 4 Wolf, “Intermedialität,” 11–45, esp. 13. 5 N. Felson, “The poetics of deixis in Alcman, Pindar, and Other Lyric: Introduction,” Arethusa 37 (2004) 259.

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tion as part of an anecdote or a reminiscence of a former theatre performance. Then, the cited verses themselves introduce a scene deriving from tragedy by projecting an image. That is why these quotations at first seem superfluous. The narrative is understandable without them. But the borrowed verses point at a different medium: the theater. Indeed, the reader has to seek for acoustic and visual impulses in Plutarch’s text; by hearing and seeing he is expected to imagine theatrical scenes and re-experience a past that becomes present.6 When a remote reality becomes ‘present’ before the eyes of even distant readers,7 giving them a sense of participation,8 the narrator, who addresses himself to his audience directly, can point to (δείκνυμι) this virtual reality. The linguistic device that enables spectators/readers “to locate themselves in space and time, with respect to things, events (…)” is defined as deixis.9 Whereas deixis in a speaker’s immediate present is a matter of pointing at the reality of the speech situation visible to the interlocutors;10 the type of fiction that is employed in Plutarch’s narrative is a case of ‘imagination-oriented deixis,’11 ‘fictional deixis’ or ‘deixis am Phantasma.’12

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Cf. M. Vamvouri Ruffy, “Visualization and Deixis am Phantasma in Aeschylus’ Persae,” QUCC n.s. 78.3 (2004) 17. K. Bühler, Theory of Language, The representational function of language, transl. by D.F. Goodwin (Amsterdam-Philadelphia: J. Benjamins Publishing Company, 1990) 137– 157; cf. K. Bühler, Sprachtheorie. Die Darstellungsfunktion der Sprache, mit einem Geleitwort von F. Kainz (Stuttgart-New York: G. Fischer Verlag, 1982) 121–140, esp. 139; W. Lang, Probleme der allgemeinen Sprachtheorie. Eine Einführung (Stuttgart: E. Klett Verlag, 1969) 39–41; G.K. Pressler, Vom mimetischen Ursprung der Sprache (Frankfurt a.M.-Bern-New York-Paris: Lang, 1992) 32–34; on this mechanism in drama see Vamvouri Ruffy, “Visualization and Deixis am Phantasma,” 11–28; Felson, “Introduction,” 263. Felson, “Introduction,” 254. E.J. Bakker, “Homeric ΟΥΤΟΣ and the Poetics of Deixis,” Classical Philology 94 (1999) 1–19, esp. 1. On the contrast between the subjective (discours) and objective discursive element (histoire, narrative) according to E. Benveniste see E.J. Bakker, Pointing at the Past. From Formula to Performance in Homeric Poetics (Cambridge, MA-London: Harvard University Press, 2005) 72. Bühler, Theory of Language, 150; cf. Felson, “Introduction,” 260–261. On deixis am Phantasma in Homer’s epic poetry see Bakker, Pointing at the Past, 80; on its function in staged narrative cf. Vamvouri Ruffy, “Visualization and Deixis am Phantasma,” 11–28, esp. 11, 17.

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Euripides, Bacchae in the Life of Crassus 33.5

Over half of the Crassus (16–33) comprises a narrative of Crassus’ defeat by the Parthians at Carrhae (53 BC).13 At this particular point, Plutarch recounts a theatrical event that took place in the court of the Parthian king Horodes during the festivities for the marriage of his son with the daughter of the Armenian king: while the actor Jason of Tralles was singing lyric verses from the Bacchae14—a single scene of the play—,15 a Parthian messenger unexpectedly arrived to report the Parthian victory over the Romans and stepped in on Jason’s performance, presenting the head of general Crassus16 as a trophy. Then, Jason, assuming the role of Agave, gave the props of the scene—i.e. Pentheus’ head on a pole—to someone among the dancers, took Crassus’ head instead, and performed Agave’s aria in a state of enthusiasm (Crass. 33.3–5, citing E. Ba. 1169–1171): (Agave) ἄγομεν ἐξ ὄρεος ἕλικα νεότομον ἐπὶ μέλαθρα, μακάριον θήραμα (…)17

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C.R. Cooper, “Death and other kinds of closure,” in M. Beck (ed.), A Companion to Plutarch (Chichester: Blackwell, 2014) 391–404, esp. 400; D. Braund, “Dionysiac Tragedy in Plutarch, Crassus,” CQ 43.2 (1993) 468–474. After Homer Euripides features in Plutarch’s writings as the most frequently cited poet; 200 citations in the Moralia and around 36 in the Lives according to E.L. Bowie, “Poetry and Education,” in M. Beck (ed.), A Companion to Plutarch (Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2014) 179; on the lyric citations see A.G. Karanasiou, Die Rezeption der lyrischen Partien der attischen Tragödie in der griechischen Literatur. Von der ausgehenden klassischen Periode bis zur Spätantike, Palingenesia 78 (Wiesbaden-Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2002) 23–32, 116–120, 126–134, 139–172. J. Mossman, “Tragedy and the Hero,” in M. Beck (ed.), A Companion to Plutarch (Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2014) 446. He was killed during the diplomatic negotiations in Sinnaka on the 9th June 53 BC, cf. T. Mommsen, Römische Geschichte, Vol. 4 (Gütersloh: Rheda-Wiedenbrück, 2000) 286– 287; H. Bengtson, Grundriß der römischen Geschichte mit Quellenkunde, Handbuch der Altertumswissenschaft, Abt. 3, Teil 5, Band 1 Republik und Kaiserzeit bis 284 n. Chr. (München: Beck, 1967) 218 ff.; see the chapters by L. Fletcher (pp. 416–418) and A. Lefteratou (p. 424) in this volume. Loeb, vol. III, 1916; cf. E. Ba. (Diggle): (Agave:) φέρομεν ἐξ ὀρέων/ ἕλικα νεότομον ἐπὶ μέλαθρα,/ μακαρίαν θήραν (…); cf. R. Seaford, Euripides, Bacchae, edited with introduction, translation and commentary (Warminster: Aris & Phillips, 1996) 130–131, 243 who observes that Diggle accepted the reading μακαρίαν θήραν, which is preserved in some manuscripts of Plutarch and Polyaenus 7.41 and is translated with “blessed hunting,” whereas the reading θήραμα means “prey” and could not be blessed.

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We bring from the mountain A tendril fresh-cut to the palace, A wonderful prey.18 Thereafter, Plutarch remarks that everyone was pleased with Jason’s performance and that the following lyric exchange between the chorus of the Bacchants and Jason in the role of Agave was performed (Crass. 33.6, citing E. Ba. 1179): καὶ ταῦτα μὲν πάντας ἔτερπεν· ᾀδομένων δὲ τῶν ἑξῆς ἀμοιβαίων πρὸς τὸν χορόν (Chorus:) τίς ἐφόνευσεν; (Agave:) ἐμὸν τὸ γέρας. This delighted everybody; but when the following dialogue with the chorus was chanted: (Chorus) Who slew him? (Agave) Mine is the honour At this moment another Parthian, Promaxathres, stood up and took hold of Crassus’ head, determined to show that both these lines and this trophy are appropriate to him rather than to the actor.19 For the second time, reality interrupts Jason’s performance and history intrudes into tragedy. In this passage two different genres—biography and dramatic poetry—refer to one another (‘inter-genericity’). But by transfering the verbatim citation from Euripides’ play as an ‘inter-text,’ Plutarch shifts the emphasis from the descriptive narration to the phenomenon of ‘inter-mediality,’ where two different media—historical text and theatrical production—are interrelated. His intention becomes explicit at the end of the Crassus by commenting that the expedition of the Roman general ended just like a tragedy (ὥσπερ τραγῳδίαν).20 To this purpose, a large number of stage impulses (music, song, dance) operate as a motor that sets the imagination of the reader free; the latter does not simply recognize a reminiscence of ancient theater but is rather enticed to experience this last ‘scene’ of Crassus’ life.

18 19

20

For the English translation of the passage, see n. 17. “Promaxathres, who happened to be one of the banqueters, sprang up and laid hold of the head, feeling that it was more appropriate for him to say this than for Jason.” (Loeb, Vol. III, 1916). “With such a farce as this the expedition of Crassus is said to have closed, just like a tragedy.” (Loeb, Vol. III, 1916).

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In Euripides’ play, Agave enters the stage blood-stained (1135) and in a state of frenzy, holding Pentheus’ head on the end of her thyrsos (1141–1142); a gruesome vision evoking horror and providing a marked contrast to the chorus’ festive mood, as Seaford rightly observes.21 The context of Plutarch’s narrative explicitly refers to the head of Crassus two times, but the cited verses do not specify what Agave is holding. She falsely identifies her prey with a “tendril” (ἕλικα)22 that she proudly announces as “a wonderful prey” (μακάριον θήραμα).23 Only the reader who is able to remember the storyline of the tragedy and recall the relevant scene can grasp the true meaning after combining the ‘inter-text’ with the context. Thus, instead of immediate perception (demonstratio ad oculos) in the case of ‘fictional deixis,’24 we witness the power of remembering. The reader has to re-present25 absent things. This method of simultaneously ‘telling’ and ‘showing’ has already been expounded by Quintilian with regard to ancient oratory. As a necessary condition for the producing of evidentia, he names the φαντασίαι (visiones)26 when the rhetor transposes both himself and his audience in the status of an eyewitness.27 More concretely, in Plutarch’s case, to re-experience what it is like to be among the historical audience of his poetic citations.28 The result is a vividness (ἐνάργεια, evidentia) that goes further than a sheer account of facts (descriptio). Here we are confronted with two aspects of ‘inter-mediality.’29 At first, we recognize the presence of an ‘inter-medial reference’ (covert inter-medial21 22 23

24 25 26 27

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Seaford, Euripides, Bacchae, 242. Probably ivy since it is associated with Dionysus’ cult, according to Seaford, Euripides, Bacchae, 243. As Seaford, Euripides, Bacchae, 243 argues, if we accept the reading (μακαρίαν θήρα), as Diggle did, then the adjective “blessed” ironically brings about another contrast, this time between the happiness of mystic initiation and the horror of Pentheus’ murder. Felson, “Introduction,” 260. On the rhetoric figure of hypotyposis, see Quint. Inst. 9.2.40–44 and G. Sitta, Deixis am Phantasma. Versuch einer Neubestimmung (Bochum: Brockmeyer, 1991) 16. Quint. Inst. 6.2.29–30, 32; transl. by H.E. Butler, Loeb, 1920–1922. J.-D. Müller, “Evidentia und Medialität, Zur Ausdifferenzierung von Evidenz in der frühen Neuzeit,” in G. Wimböck, K. Leonhard & M. Friedrich (eds.), Evidentia. Pluralisierung & Autorität (Berlin: LIT Verlag, 2007) 59–84; Sitta, Deixis am Phantasma, 15–16. Felson, “Introduction,” 253–266, esp. 264–265. Cf. F. Berndt & L. Tonger-Erk (eds.), Intertextualität: eine Einführung. Mit einer Auswahlbibliographie von Sebastian Meixner (Berlin: Schmidt, 2013) 182–187, 228 distinguish between the inter-medial reference when a literary text refers to or quotes film and the inter-medial performance when a literary text is produced in the style of the film and imitates techniques of the film (as zoom, freeze moment or montage of narrative and soliloquy).

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ity).30 In Plutarch’s description there are terms that allude to sounds: “singing” (ᾖδεν), “receiving his applause” (εὐδοκιμοῦντος), “clapping of hands and sounds of joy” (κρότον … μετὰ χαρᾶς καὶ κραυγῆς) and “sang these verses” (ἐπέραινεν … τὰ μέλη μετ’ … ᾠδῆς). By using these deictic markers Plutarch minimizes the distance—temporal and spatial—that is a necessary condition of narrative and bridges reality and fantasy.31 Thus, his recipient can be transferred back to the moment of the narrated event. Furthermore, these acoustic impulses clearly signal that Plutarch’s narrative from this moment on points to the reality of theater. Stage songs are quoted, but the semiotic structure of his work remains homogenous (written text). The author involves himself in an imitation of theater (mode of showing)32 but, as a narrator, keeps his distance from the citation.33 However, the use of moving images is a token of performativity. Thus, Plutarch equally employs the possibilities of ‘inter-medial performance’ precisely when he quotes Euripides’ verses, since these are mentioned not because of their content but rather because of the non-verbal, visual effects they evoke. In this passage, there are three narrators who benefit from this method: Jason, the Parthians, and Plutarch. The former changes his role from a performer to that of a spectator of the Parthian improvisation scene (i.e. the presentation of Crassus’ head); Jason adapts Euripides’ verses to the historical reality by inserting into his own performance the head of a real person instead of a prop. Thus, he becomes the first to expand the meaning of the Euripidean text from the virtual reality of the stage to the reality of the Parthian wars. The outcome surpasses his expectations; the Parthians reveal themselves to be “dangerously violent readers of Euripides,” as Zadorojnyi aptly comments.34 As the internal audience of the Euripidean performance, the Parthians witness Jason’s dramatic invention and one of them intervenes in the actor’s performance by seizing the trophy (Crassus’ head), thus signaling that the triumph belongs rather to the Parthians and to the real world. By changing the visual 30

31 32 33 34

On ‘inter-medial reference,’ see Berndt & Tonger-Erk, Intertextualität, 182–184; on intermedial performance, see ibid. 184–188; here the cases of ‘transformation’ such as a ‘medium-change’ when a text is set to music or is filmed with the result that only one medium is perceivable or a ‘media-combination’ when lyric texts that are set to music and thus both media are present, are not applicable, on this see ibid. 188–194. Bakker, Pointing at the Past, 71; Felson, “Introduction,” 253. Wolf, “Intermedialität,” 29–34, 38, 40. Berndt & Tonger-Erk, Intertextualität, 182–185. A.V. Zadorojnyi, “Tragedy and epic in Plutarch’s ‘Crassus’,” Hermes 125 (1997) 169–182, esp. 182.

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effect of the scene for the second time, he inevitably signals a crucial modification of meaning. Because the Parthians perceive the scene from the Bacchae as an ultimate victory, they miss the tragic turning point from triumph to disaster in the play. Surprisingly, as Mossman remarks, “the tragic emotions of pity and fear are replaced with savage delight.”35 In the end, Euripides’ text has been twice revised, once by Jason and once by the Parthians, who remodelled the Euripidean original to their own advantage. This kind of reception that shows a willingness to change or even reject the original text offers an example of ‘tropic’ or ‘negative inter-textuality.’ However, the function of ‘Dialogizität’36 may be equally detected here. More specifically, we witness the ‘inverted inter-textuality.’37 As far as the first audience (Jason and the Parthians) is concerned, it transforms the ‘inter-text.’ As far as the second audience is concerned (Plutarch’s reader), it registers the reaction of the first audience, as is recounted in the anecdote, and follows the events within the play itself. There is a different approach between Jason’s and Plutarch’s reception of the Euripidean verses. Whereas Jason uses Euripides to maximize the Parthian triumph, Plutarch uses tragedy to deepen the sorrow that Crassus’ ending evokes. Within the Euripidean reception, he features as the third narrator. He integrates the anecdote into his narrative of Crassus’ tragic death, thus repeating a piece of the biographical tradition. Plutarch refers to it without altering anything and uses it as a model for the structure of his text; moreover, the meaning of the ‘inter-text’ becomes the meaning of his own narrative.38 Hence, he offers an example of ‘affirmative inter-textuality.’39 He and his readers, the external audience of Jason’s performance, feel the ambivalence between victory and defeat when the fate of the tragic hero Pentheus on stage is assimilated to the fate of the Roman general Crassus.

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Mossman, “Tragedy and the Hero,” 446. Ternès, Intertextualität, 113–115 explains Pfister’s six criteria of intensity within intertextuality: 1) Referentialität 2) Kommunikativität 3) Autoreflektivität 4) Strukturalität 5) Selectivität 6) Dialogizität; cf. M. Pfister, “Konzepte der Intertextualität,” in U. Broich & M. Pfister (eds.), Intertextualität. Formen, Funktionen, anglistische Fallstudien (Tübingen: Max Niemeyer Verlag, 1985) 1–30, esp. 26–28. M. Bauks, “Intertextuality in Ancient Literature,” in M. Bauks, W. Horowitz & A. Lange (eds.), Between text and text: the hermeneutics of intertextuality in ancient cultures and their afterlife in medieval and modern times (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2013) 39– 41; H.F. Plett “Intertextualities,” in H.F. Plett (ed.), Intertextuality (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1991) 19. Ternès, Intertextualität, 111. Bauks, “Intertextuality in Ancient Literature,” 39–41.

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‘Inter-textuality’ generally operates here as structurality (‘Strukturalität’),40 according to Pfister’s diverse intensities within ‘inter-textuality,’ because the ‘inter-text’ becomes the back-drop of the structure of Plutarch’s narrative. The first context of the ‘inter-text’ is the anecdote, i.e. the event at the Parthian court and the Parthian Wars. The second context is Plutarch’s account. For the first case, there is an obvious analogy between the fate of Pentheus and that of Crassus. Indeed, as Braund41 has shown, the events leading to the Carrhae broadly correspond to the Bacchae. As far as the first audience in the anecdote is concerned, the fact that it reacts to Jason’s performance once through the Parthian messenger and once more through the Parthian spectator by intervening in the performance—the former by presenting Crassus’ head, the latter by seizing it himself—demonstrates that Jason’s audience actively contributes to the blurring of the boundary between life and art.42 In Plutarch’s text we observe the same function of inter-textuality. Plutarch recounts the death of the Roman general. When he adds the anecdote to his narrative, Crassus’ murder and that of Pentheus are being inexctricably linked. Even if Crassus was killed by enemies and—quite the opposite—Pentheus by his own mother, it is the theme of decapitation joined to that of wild triumph that is projected in both cases.

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Euripides, Bacchae in Animine an corporis affectiones sint peiores 501C

In his philosophical treatise Whether the affections of the soul are worse than those of the body, Plutarch explains the symptoms of those who suffer from delusions. He holds that they seem to believe that they are succeeding the very moment they are suffering disaster. As an example, he offers the case of queen Agave from the same passage of Euripides’Bacchae as above by quoting the following verses (Animine an corp. 501B–C, citing E. Ba. 1169–1171, and Animine an corp. 501D): (…) τῆς δὲ μαινομένης Ἀγαύης ἀκούεις ὑπὸ τοῦ πάθους τὰ φίλτατ’ ἠγνοηκυίας (Agave:) ἄγομεν ἐξ ὄρεος ἕλικα νεότομον ἐπὶ μέλαθρα, μακάριον θήραμα … 40 41 42

On this, see n. 36. Braund, “Dionysiac Tragedy,” 471–473; Zadorojnyi, “Tragedy and epic,” 174; Cooper, “Death and other kinds of closure,” 401. Cf. Mossman, “Tragedy and the Hero,” 446.

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(…) but you hear the maddened Agave say, not recognizing her dearest by reason of her affliction: From the mountain we bring To the palace a fresh-cut tendril, A fortunate capture.43 Plutarch describes a frenzied Agave (μαινομένη) who is driven by manic emotion (πάθος) and fails to recognize her beloved son whose head she is carrying. In the lines that follow his citation, he states that those who are mentally ill may at times act with extreme energy and at times keep calm. Furthermore, when their soul needs silence and calmness strong emotions urge them to run into the country and force them to act lawlessly or immorally. Once more, we witness a case of ‘inter-genericity’; this time the genres of philosophical discourse and dramatic poetry are interrelated. But beyond this first impression, Plutarch cites not merely a text but a ‘text’ in the broader sense, a different medium (theater), and thus offers an example of ‘inter-mediality.’ Although there is no detailed description of the stage action as in the former case, Plutarch clearly refers to a theatrical performance. Indeed, the dramatic dimension proves to be essential, if the reader is expected to gain a deeper understanding of Plutarch’s narrative. Plutarch provides his readers with a paradigm in order to clarify and reinforce his philosophical reasoning. By using only one deictic marker, a verb denoting sound (ἀκούεις), to introduce his citation, he urges his reader to ‘hear,’ a reaction which is the key to fully comprehending the passage. In fact, if the reader merely takes into account the literal meaning of the cited verses, Plutarch’s arguments make little sense, since the narrator provides his recipient neither with the name of the poet nor with the title of the play. Moreover, he does not recount the complete story of Agave on stage. The cited verses per se do not describe a delirious woman. However, if the readers recall the entire scene and ask themselves when during the unfolding of the plot Agave sang these verses, they will be able to ‘see’ the image of a frenzied Agave behind the text: a woman who holding Pentheus’ head, after she has sang these verses, will reach the moment of ultimate distress when she is not conscious (ἠγνοηκυία) of the fact that her son has been killed by his own mother. This is the ‘dual sign’44 of the narrative that links ‘inter-text’ (Euripides’) and ‘reference text’ (Plutarch). Hence, the reader is expected by

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Loeb, Vol. VI, 1939; Seaford, Euripides, Bacchae, 130–131 n. 14. The ‘doppelt kodiertes Textzeichen’ as Ternès, Intertextualität, 95–97 explains.

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Plutarch to ‘act’ as if he were a spectator—probably recalling a previous theater visit—who can effortlessly fill in the missing information. Nevertheless, this time, the ‘intermedial-reference’ is of a different intensity. Because the paradigm that Plutarch cites does not transform the meaning of his narrative, as in the previous case, it rather illustrates its meaning by enabling the recipient to visualize the theatrical event. Here it is the narrator, Plutarch, who governs the narrative and not the powerful effect of the citation. The scene is presupposed but it does not become the backdrop of the narrative as in the Life of Crassus; it does not stage the narrative, but it rather emphasizes Plutarch’s arguments through the audio-visual dimension. There is no internal audience, only an external one: Plutarch and his readers. They both perceive the scene according to an ‘affirmative intertextuality,’45 thus adopting the meaning of the original: the image of a manic woman. Plutarch does not merely repeat a piece of authoritative, classical literature, but rather interprets the original without criticizing or distorting it.

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Euripides, Electra in the Life of Lysander 15.3

In the Life of Lysander, Plutarch refers to an anecdote about a banquet (συνουσία παρὰ πότον) gathering the Greek leaders after the fall of Athens at the end of the Peloponnesian War (404BC). He recounts that a Phocean sang (ᾄσαντος) the opening lines of the parodos from Euripides’ Electra. The citation follows (Lys. 15.3, citing E. El. 167–168): εἶτα μέντοι συνουσίας γενομένης τῶν ἡγεμόνων παρὰ πότον, καί τινος Φωκέως ᾄσαντος ἐκ τῆς Εὐριπίδου Ἠλέκτρας τὴν πάροδον ἧς ἡ ἀρχή Ἀγαμέμνονος ὦ κόρα, ἤλυθον, Ἠλέκτρα, ποτὶ σὰν ἀγρότειραν αὐλάν, πάντας ἐπικλασθῆναι, καὶ φανῆναι σχέτλιον ἔργον τὴν οὕτως εὐκλεᾶ καὶ τοιούτους ἄνδρας φέρουσαν ἀνελεῖν καὶ διεργάσασθαι πόλιν. (…) when the leaders were gathered at a banquet, and a certain Phocian sang the first chorus in the Electra of Euripides, which begins with

45

Bauks, “Intertextuality in Ancient literature,” 39–41; Plett, “Intertextualities,” 19.

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O thou daughter of Agamemnon, I am come, Electra, to thy rustic court, all were moved to compassion, and felt it to be a cruel deed to abolish and destroy a city which was so famous, and produced such poets.46 At this point, Plutarch remarks that the leaders were emotionally moved by the song and, for this reason, they thought it would be disgraceful (σχέτλιον) to destroy (ἀνελεῖν καὶ διεργάσασθαι) such a great (εὐκλεᾶ) city that brought about such great poets. In the grammatic-syntactical structure of Plutarch’s narrative, deictic terms evoke the process of visualization: the participle “singing” (ᾄσαντος) and the substantive “first chorus” (πάροδον). The setting in the Euripidean parodos is Argos. The women come to invite the distressed Electra to a celebration in honour of Hera. The tragic irony of the scene is based upon the contrast between the joyous choral dancing of maidens, who were praising the goddess Hera, on the one hand, and Electra’s mourning in her almost obsessive self-isolation on the other hand. Her grief alienates her from the usually expected celebrations of her age and status. The setting in Plutarch’s narrative is festive only at first sight: a symposion of the Greek leaders in Athens where the song eventually prevented the ultimate destruction of the Long Walls. Yet, the purpose of the assembled allies had nothing to do with inviting someone to a celebration, as is the case in the Euripidean scene. On the contrary, they planned to punish the Athenians for breaking the agreement, according to which they should have pulled the Long Walls down. Whereas the banquet means for them the victorious end of the war, for the Athenians it means defeat and grief over their losses. Two audiences can be distinguished in the narrative: an internal, the allies, and, an external, Plutarch’s readers. Correspondingly, the reader is confronted with two different readings of the same passage. Each audience associates a different meaning with the same text. Each audience has a different response to it. The readers perceive the sorrow and the grief of the Athenians for their losses and perhaps, if they are Athenians, they identify themselves with them. The coexistence of drama and history offers a case of ‘inter-genericity.’ But since the reader/listener is confronted with the performance of a song from a 46

Loeb, Vol. IV, 1916; cf. Cropp’s translation of the citation: “O daughter of Agamemnon, Electra, I have come/ to this rustic dwelling of yours (…)” in M.J. Cropp, Euripides, Electra, edited with an introduction, translation and commentary (Oxford: Aris & Phillips Classical TextsOxbow Books, 2013, 2nd ed.) 50–51.

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theatrical play, the passage concerns more specifically ‘inter-mediality.’ If the readers do not visualize the stage event, they will definitely fail to understand why the Phocean sang these particular verses. The main question is: what is the purpose of the verbatim citation? Plutarch could have mentioned the events of the anecdote without inserting Euripides’ verses into his narrative. But perhaps he found the reference within the historical or biographical tradition and borrowed it from another source. In any case, the quoted song was undoubtedly a token of Euripides’ ‘New Musical style,’ as Cropp has observed, and that might have been the reason why these rhythms persuaded the Greek leaders to spare Athens and its population from enslavement.47 The popularity of Euripidean songs is further attested in the Life of Nicias (29.2–3),48 concerning the disaster of the Sicilian Expedition, when in a similar way some Athenians were saved from enslavement thanks to their ability to sing Euripidean verses. Therefore, the avant-gardistic music could explain the popularity of the parodos among the Greeks, as far as the anecdote is concerned. However, the reason why Plutarch quotes the opening lines of the song needs a different explanation. Indeed, the content of the cited verses does not literally express anything relevant to the context in Plutarch’s narrative, since the song refers neither to Athens nor to Athenians. It is neither a hymn of Athens, as in the following case of OC, nor a lamentation for the defeated Athenians; it merely expresses an invitation, a wish to win back to normal life a person in grief. Plutarch and his readers, the external audience of the anecdote, understand the facts completely. An outstanding musical composition of Euripides rescues Athens from its utter destruction and prevents the enslavement of the Athenians. However, Plutarch intends to illuminate a different aspect of the song’s impact. By quoting its beginning he points to the mood evoked by the chorus and Electra in the particular scene of the original and that summoned up by the singer in the historical event of the anecdote: the incongruous co-existence of despair and jubilation exists in both sceneries. The key to interpreting the citation is the humiliation felt by both the vanquished Athenians and the mourning Electra. The ‘dual sign’ that links ‘intertext’ and ‘reference text’ here is the contrast between mourning and festivity. It is an emotion that has to be re-enacted in the reader’s mind; on the one

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Cropp, Euripides, Electra, 149. Nic. 29.2–3 (Loeb Vol. III, 1916); I am much obliged to Christopher Pelling for the crossreference to this passage.

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hand, the grieving Electra is comparable to the grieving Athenians, on the other hand the celebrating chorus of the maidens is comparable to the triumphant allies. According to the anecdote the verses are being sung by a Phocean at a banquet. His audience, the Greek allies, is moved by the song with the result that it decides in favor of the Athenians. But it does not intervene in the performance as the Parthian audience did at Jason’s performance of the Bacchae. Hence, the passage concerns dialogicity (‘Dialogizität’),49 more specifically, the case of ‘affirmative intertextuality,’50 since the meaning of the scene from Euripides’ tragedy is being expanded into the historical reality of Plutarch’s narrative without any modifications to the quotation. In the end, Electra becomes a symbol of suffering for Athens and its fall. Consequently, at first the quoted verses seemed irrelevant—if not contradictory—to the context. Their content seemed meaningless, the quotation itself inessential and purposeless. But, the apparent contradiction gives way, if the reader re-creates the stage action of the Euripidean play. Then the correspondance between the mood of the play’s scene and that of the anecdote becomes evident. It is the quotation that reveals Plutarch’s true intention. He enriches his narrative by adding another dimension, namely that of intense emotion.

5

Sophocles OC in An seni sit gerenda respublica 785A

In the treatise Whether an old man should engage in public affairs, Plutarch refers to an anecdote concerning the dramatist Sophocles. When he was old, the poet is said to have been accused of senility by his own children. In order to support his case in front of the court, he recited the beginning of the parodos of his last drama Oedipus in Colonus, which was staged posthumously in 401 BC51 by the poet’s grandson, Sophocles the Younger.52 Even if it is not the parodos of the play, as anounced by Plutarch, but the first stasimon, it is pivotal that

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One of Pfister’s six criteria of intensity within inter-textuality, see Ternès, Intertextualität, 113–115; also see n. 36. Bauks, “Intertextuality in Ancient literature,” 39–41; Plett, “Intertextualities,” 19. A. Markantonatos, Oedipus at Colonus: Sophocles, Athens and the World (Berlin-New York: De Gruyter, 2007) 36–37, 39. Cicero in Cato 7 refers to this incident according to R.C. Jebb, Sophocles. The plays and fragments with critical notes, commentary and translation in English prose, Part II Oedipus Coloneus (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1928) 112–113.

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the song is a hymn of Colonus, a glorification in glyconic meter.53 The citation follows (An seni 785A–B, citing S. OC 668–673): Σοφοκλῆς δὲ λέγεται μὲν ὑπὸ παίδων παρανοίας δίκην φεύγων ἀναγνῶναι τὴν ἐν Οἰδίποδι τῷ ἐπὶ Κολωνῷ πάροδον, ᾗ ἐστιν ἀρχὴ (Chorus:) εὐίππου, ξένε, τῆσδε χώρας ἵκου τὰ κράτιστα γῆς ἔπαυλα, τὸν ἀργῆτα Κολωνόν, ἔνθ’ ἁ λίγεια μινύρεται θαμίζουσα μάλιστ’ ἀηδὼν χλωραῖς ὑπὸ βάσσαις, Θαυμαστοῦ δὲ τοῦ μέλους φανέντος, ὥσπερ ἐκ θεάτρου τοῦ δικαστηρίου προπεμφθῆναι μετὰ κρότου καὶ βοῆς τῶν παρόντων. (…) And it is said that Sophocles, when defending himself against the charge of dementia brought by his sons, read aloud the entrance song of the chorus in the Oedipus at Colonus, which begins: Of this region famed for horses Thou hast, stranger, reached the fairest Dwellings in the land, Bright Colonus, where the sweet-voiced Nightingale most loves to warble In the verdant groves; and the song aroused such admiration that he was escorted from the court as if from the theater, with the applause and shouts of those present.54 There are deictic markers denoting sounds both in the context and in the citation. In Plutarch’s text, these are the infinitive “read aloud” (ἀναγνῶναι), nouns and phrases such as “entrance song” (πάροδον), “song that aroused admiration” (θαυμαστοῦ … μέλους) and “with the applause and shouts” (μετὰ κρότου καὶ βοῆς), whereas in Sophocles’ song we hear about “the sweet-voiced nightingale” (ἁ λίγεια μινύρεται … ἀηδὼν).

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Cf. E. Med. 824–865 after Aegeus’ episode. R.W.B. Burton, The Chorus in Sophocles’ Tragedies (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1980) 275. Loeb, Vol. X, 1936; cf. Jebb’s translation in Jebb, Sophocles. The plays and fragments, 113–114: “Stranger, in this land of goodly steeds thou hast come to earth’s fairest home, even to our white Colonus; where the nightingale, a constant guest, trills her clear note in the covert of green glades.”

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The citation could be omitted, since it adds nothing new to the argumentative structure of Plutarch’s narrative. However, it functions as a pointer to the dramatic reality of the stage. As in the closing phrase in the Life of Crassus, i.e. “as if it were a tragedy” (ὥσπερ τραγῳδίαν), Plutarch similarly underlines the function of ‘inter-mediality’ when he explicitly remarks that Sophocles was escorted from the court “as if from the theater” (ὥσπερ ἐκ θεάτρου). Here, more concretely, Plutarch provides an example of an ‘inverted intertextuality,’ since no outright rejection of the ‘inter-text’ can be detected, as is observed in the case of ‘negative inter-textuality’ within the Life of Crassus. Rather, we witness a play between ‘inter-text’ and ‘reference text’ on the semantic level along with an attempt to re-shape the meaning of the ‘inter-text.’55 Once more we have to acknowledge different audiences. First, there is the initial audience of the play to whom a hymn of Colonus was sang by the chorus of the Athenian elders; secondly, there is the internal audience, that of the court in the anecdote, whose speaker is Sophocles; and thirdly the external one, Plutarch’s readers. As in the Life of Crassus (Jason’s performance) and in the Life of Lysander (Phocean’s song), Plutarch here refers to an intermediate agent who ‘reads out loud’ the cited verses in court: the poet himself. The court is convinced of Sophocles’ sound mind. Therefore, the readers should go beyond the written text and visualize two ‘performances’: a theatrical one they may have seen and the court-scene where Sophocles defends himself. The frailty of old age56 is undeniably a theme that recurs throughout the play. Hence, an intriguing question is: why does Sophocles choose not to recite his rhesis to the Athenian king Theseus from the first episode that refers to old age (607–628) or the choral ode about the sorrows of old age (1211–1248)?57 Conceivably, the character of Sophocles may not intend to draw the attention of his audience solely to his agedness, but rather is trying to point them towards the obligation of young men to sustain their parents in old age (tropheia or threpteria), which is neglected by Oedipus’ sons and assumed by his daughters instead.58 The fact that Oedipus curses his sons after their quarrel over the suc55

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Ternès, Intertextualität, 111–112; an extreme case of ‘inter-textuality’ would be that of ‘transformation’ where the ‘inter-text’ is unrecognizably changed, hidden or even converted to the opposite of its initial meaning, cf. ibid. 112. J.P. Wilson, The hero and the city, An interpretation of Sophocles’ Oedipus at Colonus (Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 2007) 5–8; U.S. Dhuga, “Choral Identity in Sophocles’ Oedipus Coloneus,” AJPh 126 (2005) 333–362, esp. 341, 342. G.M. Kirkwood, “The Dramatic Role of the Chorus in Sophocles,” Phoenix 8 (1954) 1–22, esp. 10. J. Daly, “Oedipus Coloneus: Sophocles’ Threpteria to Athens. I,” QUCC 22 (1986) 75–93;

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cession to the throne and long after he was exiled from Thebes is Sophocles’ innovation of the myth in order to highlight the moral obligation of the sons.59 This corresponds with the situation presented in the anecdote; Sophocles lacks the support of his sons as Oedipus did in the play. However, the question still remains: why are these particular verses recited by Sophocles in court and quoted by Plutarch? In the play they mark the transition from the first episode to the first stasimon: Theseus has already welcomed Oedipus in Athens at the end of the first episode and the following choral ode praises Colonus60 in ritual tones exalting the idealized fairness of the godshielded landscape as Athen’s national symbol.61 The ode intensifies the tranquillity of the first episode and contrasts the agony of the second episode when Creon arrives. Moreover, Antigone begins the second episode stressing the significance of the city’s support to her old father (720). It is this support that is conveyed in the song.62 Indeed, the elders of the chorus, despite their agedness, are not passive; they physically defend Oedipus and Antigone against Creon, and they comfort Antigone by asserting that their city is powerful (841–843): πόλις ἐμά, σθένει.63 It is the same city to which Sophocles appeals for justice. And he expects that his fellow-Athenians at court will decide in favor of his case exactly as in Oedipus Coloneus when the Athenian elders of the chorus supported Oedipus. As in the Life of Crassus where a Roman general was linked to the Theban king Pentheus, and in the Life of Lysander the population of Athens identified itself with Electra, in this case, again, a real person is associated with a tragic

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Markantonatos, Oedipus at Colonus, 154; R.P. Winnington-Ingram, Sophocles, An interpretation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1980) 257. Jebb, Sophocles. The plays and fragments, xxiv–xxv. Kirkwood, “The Dramatic Role of the Chorus in Sophocles,” 7–8; on the patriotic tenor of the choral ode, see Markantonatos, Oedipus at Colonus, 92–93 and ibid. n. 37; A. Markantonatos, Tragic Narrative. A narratological study of Sophocles’ Oedipus at Colonus (BerlinNew York: De Gruyter, 2002) 183; Wilson, The hero and the city, 10–11. R. Kitzinger, “Sophoclean choruses,” in A. Markantonatos (ed.), Brill’s Companion to Sophocles (Leiden-Boston: Brill, 2012) 401; J. Hesk, “Oedipus at Colonus,” in A. Markantonatos (ed.), Brill’s Companion to Sophocles (Leiden-Boston: Brill, 2012) 169; S. Murnaghan, “Sophocles’ Choruses,” in K. Ormand (ed.), A Companion to Sophocles (Chichester-OxfordMalden: Wiley-Blackwell, 2012) 230–231; Markantonatos, Tragic Narrative, 182–183; L. Edmunds, Theatrical Space and Historical Place in Sophocles’ Oedipus at Colonus (LanhamBoulder-New York-London: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, 1996) 56; Burton, The Chorus in Sophocles’ Tragedies, 274–275. Kirkwood, “The Dramatic Role of the Chorus in Sophocles,” 12; Dhuga, “Choral Identity,” 352–353. Dhuga, “Choral Identity,” 338–341; Markantonatos, Oedipus at Colonus, 27–28.

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hero; the analogy between the aged Sophocles, whose birthplace is Colonus, and the aged Oedipus is obvious. However, the verses neither explicitly describe nor implicitly allude to the presence of an old man. In order to wholly understand Plutarch’s account, the readers ought to visualize what happens on the stage. Sophocles himself delivers the verses in court without changing them. Naturally, the adaption from a choral song on stage to one person’s recitation in court is visible. But there is still an audience in court, a kind of staging, that bears some resemblance to that of the theater. This Athenian audience reacts positively to what it hears and sees. The poet’s sanity is proved and the audience applauds. However, the spectators do not intervene in Sophocles’ recitation; the audience beholds an old man standing before relatively old judges and a jury that might comprise elderly people. In the play the verses are sung by the chorus of old Athenians before the old Oedipus. To that extent, we could argue that here, once more, we witness a certain function of ‘inter-textuality’ that is being defined as ‘Strukturalität,’ as in the previous passage in the Life of Crassus. But the function of ‘Dialogizität’64 is equally at work. And the audience of the anecdote adopts the meaning of the quoted verses thus demonstrating an ‘affirmative inter-textuality.’65

6

Conclusion

In the four preceding passages, Plutarch presents a coexistence of two texts side by side (‘inter-textuality’): his own narrative (‘reference text’) and short citations from the Greek tragedy (‘inter-texts’). The latter—contrary to the method of transcription (ἐπανόρθωσις)66 when Plutarch corrects the content of poetic ‘inter-texts’ according to his ethical principles—remains grammatically and syntactically unchanged; this, however, cannot be said about their meaning. In every one of these cases, there is always an image missing. This is a visual impression that completes the meaning of the quoted verses. The interplay of context and ‘inter-text’ begins to make sense only after the reader starts to take

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Ternès, Intertextualität, 113–115 explains Pfister’s six criteria of intensity within intertextuality, see n. 36. Bauks, “Intertextuality in Ancient literature,” 39–41; Plett, “Intertextualities,” 19. A.G. Karanasiou, “Transcriptio: Fälschung in minimaler Textform am Beispiel von Plutarchs Euripideszitaten,” in W. Kofler & A. Novokhatko (eds.), Verleugnete Rezeption: Fälschungen antiker Texte, Pontes Band VII, Paradeigmata 28 (Freiburg i.Br.-Berlin-Vienna: Rombach Verlag KG, 2017) 109–117.

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into account certain reminders (deictic markers) of the linguistic method of ‘fictional deixis’ in both texts in order to discover the visual dimension beyond the text. Then it becomes clear that the phenomenon that the reader witnesses is ‘inter-mediality’: the interrelation between two different media. Plutarch breaks new ground. He plays with different genres (‘inter-genericity’) when he combines dramatic poetry with history or philosophy. However, he does not aim at the sheer vividness of his narrative. By pointing to his successful experiment of using the dynamics of two different media (theatrical production and literary text), he appeals neither to the general knowledge of the average reader nor to the erudition of the well-educated reader but rather to their common experience of theatrical performances.

chapter 30

Love in Many Dimensions: Hesiod and Empedocles in Plutarch’s Amatorius Katarzyna Jazdzewska

Abstract It has been noted by scholars that Plutarch’s Amatorius draws from two different genres, the dialogue and the drama, in acknowledgement of their significance for the Greek discourse on love. This chapter argues that there is a third important literary tradition that Plutarch recognizes as central to the development of conceptions of love and which plays a substantial role in the Amatorius: it is didactic hexameter poetry, and in particular Hesiod and Empedocles, with whom the dialogue establishes complex, intertextual relations.

The opening conversation between Autobulus and Flavianus in Plutarch’s Amatorius clearly communicates to the readers that they are dealing with a work that draws from multiple genre traditions.* The genre of the philosophical dialogue is the work’s dominant matrix. Plutarch follows Plato’s Phaedrus and Symposium, both in terms of theme and format (though he also playfully distances himself from a superficial Platonic mimesis),1 but he also owes

* The research for this article was financed by a grant from the Polish National Science Centre (NCN): 2015/17/D/HS2/01438. 1 For Plutarch’s interaction with Plato in the Amatorius, see A. Billault, “Le dialogue sur l’amour de Plutarque et les dialogues de Platon sur l’ amour,” in A. Pérez Jiménez et al. (eds.), Plutarco, Platón y Aristóteles. Actas del V Congreso Internacional de la I.P.S. (Madrid-Cuenca, 4–7 de mayo de 1999) (Madrid: Ediciones Clásicas, 1999) 201–213; F. Frazier, “Platonisme et patrios pistis dans le discourse central (chs. 13–20) de l’Erotikos,” in A. Pérez Jiménez et al. (eds.), Plutarco, Platón y Aristóteles. Actas del V Congreso Internacional de la I.P.S. (Madrid-Cuenca, 4–7 de mayo de 1999) (Madrid: Ediciones Clásicas, 1999) 343–355; J.M. Rist, “Plutarch’s Amatorius: A Commentary on Plato’s Theories of Love?” CQ n.s. 51.2 (2001) 557–575; F. Frazier, “À propos de l’ influence de la comédie dans l’Érotikos. Un réexamen de la notion de ‘dialogue dramatique’,” in A. Casanova (ed.), Plutarco e l’età ellenistica. Atti del convegno internazionale di studi. Firenze, 23–24 settembre 2004 (Florence: Università degli studi di Firenze, 2005) 173– 205; R. Hunter, Plato and the Traditions of Ancient Literature: The Silent Stream (Cambridge:

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004427860_032

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much to post-Platonic developments in the dialogue-genre, as suggested by features such as the inclusion of an author and his friends as interlocutors, or the placement of conversations within the pedagogic relationship of a father and son. At the same time, Plutarch explicitly encourages his readers to think of the text as a drama when he has Autobulus remark that his story “needs a chorus for its events and lacks a stage, while no other elements of drama are missing” (749A: χορὸν αἰτεῖ τῷ πάθει καὶ σκηνῆς δεῖται, τά τ’ ἄλλα δράματος οὐδὲν ἐλλείπει).2 Consequently, scholars have pointed out various dramatic techniques and elements employed by Plutarch (e.g. plot of the Ismenodora and Bacchon’s story, episodic structure, figures of messengers) and have drawn comparisons between the Amatorius and both tragedy and comedy.3 These two generic components of the Amatorius, the philosophical dialogue and the drama, are responsible for two dimensions of the work, logoi and praxeis, to use Plutarch’s own terminology (De genio Socr. 575E).4 Generic enrichment has been identified by scholars as a rich ground for literary experimentation in antiquity, above all in Hellenistic and Latin poetry, but it was not alien to prose writers, for whom Plato’s dialogues, interacting with dramatic genres, set a precedent.5

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Cambridge University Press, 2012) 185–222. See also C. Pelling’s comments on the Amatorius in this volume (pp. 23–26). For the Greek’s text of the Amatorius, I follow the edition by C. Hubert (Teubner); English translations are my own unless noted otherwise. For dramatic aspects of the Amatorius, see A. Barigazzi, “Plutarco e il dialogo dramatico,” Prometheus 14 (1988) 141–163, at 154–161 (reprinted in A. Barigazzi, “Una forma d’arte matura: il dialogo ‘drammatico’,” in id., Studi su Plutarco [Florence: Università degli Studi di Firenze, Dipartimento di Scienze dell’Antichità “Giorgio Pasquali,” 1994] 183–211); G. Pasqual, “ΠΑΘΟΣ, ΕΡΩΣ, ΓΑΜΟΣ: L’Amatorius di Plutarco fra ΔΡΑΜΑ e ‘discorso’,” Acme 50.2 (1997) 209–220; G. Zanetto, “Plutarch’s Dialogues as ‘Comic Dramas’,” in L. Van der Stockt (ed.), Rhetorical Theory and Praxis in Plutarch. Acta of the IVth International Congress of the International Plutarch Society, Leuven, July 3–6, 1996 (Leuven: Peeters, 2000) 533–541; A. Georgiadou, “Playing with Intertexts in Plutarch’s Erotikos,”ICS 35–36 (2010–2011) 69–84. Cf. also Frazier, “À propos de l’ influence de la comédie dans l’Érotikos,” who warned against over-interpretation of the dramatic elements in the dialogue. For similarities in the format of Amatorius and De genio Socr., see R. Hirzel, Der Dialog: Ein literarhistorischer Versuch. Zweiter Theil (Leipzig: Verlag von S. Hirzel, 1895) 151, 231–232, and Barigazzi, “Plutarco e il dialogo drammatico,” who discusses the ‘dramatic’ format of De genio Socr. and Amatorius. For examination of the contents of the speeches in the Amatorius, see D.A. Russell, “Plutarch, Amatorius 13–18,” in J. Mossman (ed.), Plutarch and his Intellectual World: Essays on Plutarch (London: Duckworth, 1997) 99–111. Literature on the topic is growing rapidly. On the combination of generic repertoires as a fundamental process of transformation in literature see e.g. A. Fowler, Kinds of Literature. An Introduction to the Theory of Genres and Modes (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1982) 170–212; for ancient literature, see W. Kroll’s seminal study “Die Kreuzung der Gat-

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Plutarch blends the dialogue and the drama in the Amatorius to acknowledge the significance of these two genres for the Greek discourse on love. There is, however, another literary tradition that Plutarch recognizes as central to the development of conceptions of love and which plays a substantial role in the Amatorius: didactic hexameter poetry. It is first hinted at by Flavianus, who urges Autobulus to forego conventional tropes of love-literature, among which he lists ἐποποιῶν τε λειμῶνες καὶ σκιαί, “the meadows and shades of the epic poets” (749A),6 and then at the end of the frame dialogue, when Autobulus prays, like a poet, to Mnemosyne: “Only let us pray to Mother of the Muses to be kindly present and to recover the story” (749A–B: μόνον εὐχώμεθα τῇ μητρὶ τῶν Μουσῶν ἵλεω παρεῖναι καὶ συνανασῴζειν τὸν μῦθον).7 A closer examination of the dialogue reveals that Plutarch particularly interacts with the speculative sub-category of epic poetry, one that originated with Hesiod’s Theogony and was continued by pre-Socratic thinkers. Plutarch, as I will argue, recognizes the significance of two poets for any discourse on love, namely Hesiod and Empedocles, with whom he establishes complex, intertextual relations.

1

Hesiod in the Amatorius

The significance of the Hesiodic tradition for the Amatorius is signaled in the opening of the dialogue (748E–F): Ἐν Ἑλικῶνι φής, ὦ Αὐτόβουλε, τοὺς περὶ Ἔρωτος λόγους γενέσθαι (“On Helicon, you say, Autobulus, the conversation on love took place”), says Flavianus, to which Autobulus answers: Ἐν Ἑλικῶνι παρὰ ταῖς Μούσαις, ὦ Φλαουιανέ (“On Helicon by the Muses, Flavianus”). This is a transparent gesture towards the famous opening of Hesiod’s Theogony: “From the Muses of Helicon let us begin our singing, that haunt Helicon’s great and holy mountain”8 (Μουσάων Ἑλικωνιάδων ἀρχώμεθ’ ἀείδειν, / αἵ θ’ Ἑλικῶνος ἔχουσιν tungen,” in id., Studien zum Verständnis der römischen Literatur (Stuttgart: J.B. Metzler, 1924) 202–224, and the general introduction in S.J. Harrison, Generic Enrichment in Vergil and Horace (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007) 1–33; for Plato’s interaction with dramatic genres, N.G. Charalabopoulos, Platonic Drama and its Ancient Reception (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012) 64–77. 6 For the association of meadows and vegetation with Eros and Aphrodite, see C. Calame, L’ Éros dans la Grèce antique (Paris: Belin, 1996) 209–238; A. Motte, Prairies et jardins de la Grèce antique. De la religion à la philosophie (Brussels: Académie Royale de Belgique, 1971) 121–146, 204–232. 7 Cf. e.g. hMerc. 428–429 (Μνημοσύνην μὲν πρῶτα θεῶν ἐγέραιρεν ἀοιδῇ μητέρα Μουσάων) and Pl. Euthd. 275d (ὥστ’ ἔγωγε, καθάπερ οἱ ποιηταί, δέομαι ἀρχόμενος τῆς διηγήσεως Μούσας τε καὶ Μνημοσύνην ἐπικαλεῖσθαι). 8 Transl. M.L. West.

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ὄρος μέγα τε ζάθεόν τε), and to the poet’s description of his encounter with the Muses in lines 21–34.9 The centrality of the Helicon to the Amatorius, but also of the Thespiae and its festival dedicated to Eros and the Muses, creates several points of connection between the dialogue and the Theogony, between Plutarch and Hesiod—both as authors and as intratextual characters.10 By locating the core of the dialogue on the slopes of Helicon, Plutarch creates spatial unity between the settings of the Amatorius and the Theogony. The dramatic time of the Amatorius—the celebration of the Thespian Erotidia—was also likely to raise associations among Plutarch’s audience with Hesiod, as Pausanias’ discussion of the Thespian cult of Eros suggests (9.27): θεῶν δὲ οἱ Θεσπιεῖς τιμῶσιν Ἔρωτα μάλιστα ἐξ ἀρχῆς, καί σφισιν ἄγαλμα παλαιότατόν ἐστιν ἀργὸς λίθος. ὅστις δὲ ὁ καταστησάμενος Θεσπιεῦσιν Ἔρωτα θεῶν σέβεσθαι μάλιστα, οὐκ οἶδα. (…) Ἔρωτα δὲ ἄνθρωποι μὲν οἱ πολλοὶ νεώτατον θεῶν εἶναι καὶ Ἀφροδίτης παῖδα ἥγηνται· (…) Ἡσίοδον δὲ ἢ τὸν Ἡσιόδῳ Θεογονίαν ἐσποιήσαντα οἶδα γράψαντα ὡς Χάος πρῶτον, ἐπὶ δὲ αὐτῷ Γῆ τε καὶ Τάρταρος καὶ Ἔρως γένοιτο. Of the gods the Thespians have from the beginning honored Love [Eros] most, and they have a very ancient image of him, an unwrought stone. Who established among the Thespians the custom of worshipping Love more than any other god I do not know. (…) Most men consider Love to be the youngest of the gods and the son of Aphrodite. (…) Hesiod, or he who wrote the Theogony fathered on Hesiod, writes, I know, that Chaos was born first, and after Chaos, Earth, Tartarus and Love.11 Pausanias begins his discussion of the cult of Eros at Thespiae from a perspective inspired by Hesiod’s Theogony: the seeming antiquity of the Eros-cult raises

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11

Cf. Dio Chrysostom’s reference to Hesiod, with wording very similar to Plutarch’s: ποιμαίνων ἐν τῷ Ἑλικῶνι παρὰ τῶν Μουσῶν (Or. 55.1). For the poet-figure (‘le locuteur-je’) in early Greek poetry, Hesiod included, see C. Calame, Masques d’autorité. Fiction et pragmatique dans la poétique grecque antique (Paris: Belles Lettres, 2005). In the Amatorius, the construction of the character of ‘Plutarch’ is further complicated by the fact that the story is channeled through the figure of Plutarch’s son. For complexity of imperial period “fictional autobiography” see T. Whitmarsh, “An I for an I: Reading Fictional Autobiography,” in A. Marmodoro & J. Hill (eds.), The Author’s Voice in Classical and Late Antiquity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013) 233–247. Transl. W.H.S. Jones.

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the problem of the gods’ theogonic priority and succession.12 While the historical connection between Hesiod’s account of Eros in Theogony 120–122 and the Eros-cult at Thespiae is controversial, it is probable that the ancients, like modern scholars, drew an association between them, particularly since Hesiod was well-honored by the Thespians, both with statues and inscriptions.13 The frame conversation does not evoke Hesiod inadvertently; his prime significance for the formation of the Greek discourse on love is emphasized in the core dialogue. In chapters 763B–C, Plutarch (the dialogue’s character) observes that apart from the senses, there are three sources of human conceptions: myth, law, and argument (μῦθος, νόμος, λόγος), represented by poets, lawgivers, and philosophers respectively (οἱ ποιηταί, οἱ νομοθέται, οἱ φιλόσοφοι), who are “guides and teachers of opinions about gods” (τῆς δ’ οὖν περὶ θεῶν δόξης … ἡγεμόνες καὶ διδάσκαλοι). Plutarch says that while they differ among themselves on many topics, they unanimously agree to include Eros among the gods. Consequently, he observes (763E–F): Ἡμῖν δὲ βασιλεὺς καὶ ἄρχων καὶ ἁρμοστὴς ὁ Ἔρως ὑφ’ Ἡσιόδου καὶ Πλάτωνος καὶ Σόλωνος ἀπὸ τοῦ Ἑλικῶνος εἰς τὴν Ἀκαδημίαν ἐστεφανωμένος κατάγεται καὶ κεκοσμημένος εἰσελαύνει πολλαῖς συνωρίσι φιλίας καὶ κοινωνίας (…) For us, then, Eros—a king, a ruler, a governor—is led down from Helicon to the Academy, crown on his head, by Hesiod, Plato, Solon; adorned, he enters accompanied by many two-horse chariots of friendship and communion (…)

12 13

Cf. Hes. Th. 114–115: ταῦτά μοι ἔσπετε Μοῦσαι Ὀλύμπια δώματ’ ἔχουσαι / ἐξ ἀρχῆς, καὶ εἴπαθ’, ὅτι πρῶτον γένετ’ αὐτῶν. Cf. Strab. 9.2.25, who associates Hesiod with Thespiae, as the poet’s village, Ascra, was situated within Thespian territory. A statue of Hesiod was in the Thespian marketplace (Paus. 9.27) and several Thespian inscriptions mention Hesiod (T104, T105b, c in G.W. Most, Hesiod. Theogony, Works and Days, Testimonia (Cambridge, MA-London: Harvard University Press, 2006) 234–235). For the controversial issue of the Thespian cult of Eros and its relation to Hesiod’s account of the god, see an overview, with references to earlier scholarship, in B. Breitenberger, Aphrodite and Eros. The Development of Erotic Mythology in Early Greek Poetry and Cult (New York-London: Routledge, 2007) 142–144; for evidence relating to the Erotidia, see A. Georgiadou, “Plutarch’s Amatorius: Towards a Reconstruction of a Cult of Eros,” in L. Van der Stockt et al. (eds.), Gods, Daimones, Rituals, Myths and History of Religions in Plutarch’s Works. Studies Devoted to Professor Frederick E. Brenk by the International Plutarch Society (Logan-Malaga: Utah State University-Universitad de Málaga, 2010) 229– 253.

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Obviously, Hesiod is chosen as the representative of the poetic tradition, because he depicted Eros as the first-born of all divinities, as Plutarch reminded his friends earlier, in chapter 756F, where he approvingly referred to verses 120– 122 of the Theogony. Unlike Parmenides, who described Eros as the first work of Aphrodite, Hesiod referred to Eros as πάντων προγενέστατος, “the first-born of all,” so that “all things partake of generation through him” (ἵνα πάντα δι’ ἐκεῖνον μετάσχῃ γενέσεως)—in this respect, Plutarch says, Hesiod was more “scientific” (φυσικώτερος) than Parmenides.14 In this passage, Plutarch recognizes the peculiar character of Hesiod’s Eros—on one hand, he personified love-divinity, while, on the other, he was a primeval entity that came into being together with Chaos and Gaia and embodied the cosmogonic, generative force necessary for things to come into existence. Plutarch’s homage to Hesiod coupled with his acknowledgement of the cultural prominence of the poet’s brief treatment of Eros reflects the general fame of verses 116–122 in the Theogony, by far the most quoted lines of Hesiod in antiquity.15 They were frequently understood, as in the Amatorius, as ‘protophilosophical.’ Eryximachus in Plato’s Symposium mentions them together with Parmenides’ statement that Eros was the first work of Aphrodite (178b; Plutarch quotes the same line in 756F), while Aristotle in Metaphysics 984b singles out Hesiod as possibly the first thinker who looked beyond material causes and searched for a principle of change—which he identified with Eros—and adds that the poet was followed in this respect by Parmenides and Empedocles. Plutarch himself in De Pythiae oraculis 402E lists Hesiod (together with Orpheus, Parmenides, Xenophanes, and Empedocles) among philosophers of old who published their doctrines and discourses in the form of poems (πρότερον μὲν ἐν ποιήμασιν ἐξέφερον οἱ φιλόσοφοι τὰ δόγματα καὶ τοὺς λόγους). In the Amatorius, Plutarch seems to follow Aristotle in considering Hesiod as the originator of the rich philosophical tradition of conceptualizing Eros as a genera-

14

15

For Hesiod’s influence on natural philosophy, and ancient recognition of Hesiod as an early natural philosopher, see H.H. Koning, Hesiod: The Other Poet. Ancient Reception of a Cultural Icon (Leiden-Boston: Brill, 2010) 190–235. In modern scholarship, the position of Hesiod in the philosophical tradition is ambivalent, cf. for instance C.H. Kahn, Anaximander and the Origins of Greek Cosmogony (New York: Columbia University Press, 1960) 200: “The precedent for all Greek speculation is of course the Theogony of Hesiod (…)”, and C.H. Kahn, “The Achievement of Early Greek Philosophy. A Drama in Five Acts: From Thales to the Timaeus,” in J. McCoy (ed.), Early Greek Philosophy. The Presocratics and the Emergence of Reason (Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of America Press, 2013) 1– 17, at 1: “momentous shift from the mythic-poetic world of Hesiod’s Theogony to the new world view created by the Milesians in the sixth century.” See the graph in Koning, Hesiod: The Other Poet, 20.

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tive force,16 and this is the reason, I believe, that Plutarch makes the Boeotian poet the patron-figure of the dialogue.

2

The Empedoclean Backdrop of the Amatorius

Although Plutarch compares Hesiod with Parmenides, the latter’s significance in the Amatorius is limited—Plutarch merely quotes one of his verses (756E– F: Aphrodite “devised Eros first of all gods”, F 13 Gallop) and states that Hesiod was closer to truth than the Elean philosopher. However, Plutarch’s interaction with Empedocles is substantial and assumes a variety of forms. His knowledge of and vivid interest in this philosopher-poet is unquestionable. He refers to him over eighty times in his works and has preserved many Empedoclean fragments unattested elsewhere. He probably wrote an extensive work on Empedocles: the Lamprias Catalogue includes the title Εἰς Ἐμπεδοκλέα (a work in ten books, no. 43) and the existence of this text is confirmed by Hippolytus.17 In the Amatorius, the most influential aspect of Empedocles’ doctrine is visualizing the universe as governed by a cyclically recurring dominance of cosmological principles called Philotes and Neikos, Love and Strife. The former principle attracts, unites, and blends dissimilar things, while the latter separates things dissimilar and unites similar ones. In 756D, Plutarch refers directly to this theory: Ἀλλ’ ὅταν Ἐμπεδοκλέους ἀκούσῃς λέγοντος, ὦ ἑταῖρε, ‘καὶ Φιλότης ἐν τοῖσιν ἴση μῆκός τε πλάτος τε, τὴν σὺ νόῳ δέρκου, μηδ’ ὄμμασιν ἧσο τεθηπώς’, ταῦτ’ οἴεσθαι χρὴ λέγεσθαι18 περὶ Ἔρωτος· οὐ γάρ ἐστιν ὁρατός, ἀλλὰ δοξαστὸς ἡμῖν ὁ θεὸς οὗτος ἐν τοῖς πάνυ παλαιοῖς. (…) when you hear Empedocles saying “and Philotes among them, equal in length and breadth; look at her with your mind, do not sit with amazed

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For Plutarch’s dependence on Aristotle, see H. Martin, “Amatorius, 756 E–F: Plutarch’s Citation of Parmenides and Hesiod,” AJPh 90.2 (1969) 183–200. Hippol. Haer. 5.20.6: Πλούταρχος … ἐν ταῖς πρὸς Ἐμπεδοκλέα δέκα βίβλοις. For Plutarch as an essential source for Empedocles, see J.P. Hershbell, “Plutarch as a Source for Empedocles Re-Examined,” AJPh 92.2 (1971) 156–184. As H. Martin, “Plutarch’s Citation of Empedocles at Amatorius 756d,” GRBS 10 (1969) 57–70, at 58–59 and Russell, “Plutarch, Amatorius, 13–18” 110 n. 8 observe, Wilamowitz’s conjecture (addition of καί: χρὴ λέγεσθαι καὶ περὶ Ἔρωτος) should be rejected; Plutarch is not comparing Philotes and Eros, but identifies one with the other.

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eyes” (F 17 Diels Kranz), you should presume that this is said about Eros. For he is not visible, but grasped by thought as one of the very ancient divinities. Here, Plutarch identifies Empedocles’ generative Philotes, one of the two opposite principles of change, with Eros. He does the same in De facie in orbe lunae, where he identifies Empedocles’ Philotes, Parmenides’ Aphrodite, and Hesiod’s Eros with the desire, τὸ ἱμερτὸν (926F–927A). There is only one other direct reference to Empedocles in the Amatorius (756E, where Plutarch says that the poet called Aphrodite “life-giving”, ζείδωρος), yet Empedocles is also conceptually present in passages in which Ares and Eros are juxtaposed. Plutarch’s polarization of Ares-Eros is a variation on the Greek juxtaposition of Ares and Aphrodite. Allegorical interpretation of the latter pair as Empedocles’ Neikos and Philotes was common in the imperial period.19 Plutarch himself, in De Iside et Osiride 370C–E, identifies Aphrodite and Ares with Empedocles’ opposite principles.20 We find a similar allegorization of Ares and Aphrodite and their identification with Empedocles’ concepts in Heraclitus’ Homeric Problems, where Demodocus’ song about the gods’ loveaffair in book 8 of the Odyssey is explained in the following manner (69.8–10): τὰ γὰρ Σικελικὰ δόγματα καὶ τὴν Ἐμπεδόκλειον γνώμην ἔοικεν ἀπὸ τούτων βεβαιοῦν, Ἄρην μὲν ὀνομάσας τὸ νεῖκος, τὴν δὲ Ἀφροδίτην φιλίαν. Τούτους οὖν διεστηκότας ἐν ἀρχῇ παρεισήγαγεν Ὅμηρος ἐκ τῆς πάλαι φιλονεικίας εἰς μίαν ὁμόνοιαν κιρναμένους. Homer seems here to be confirming Sicilian doctrine (the views of Empedocles), calling strife Ares and love Aphrodite. He therefore represents these old adversaries as giving up their former contention and coming together in concord.21

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Such an association of the cosmogonic powers with the personified divinities is not alien to imagery of Empedocles himself, cf. fr. B 128 Diels Kranz. For the close relation between the Amat. and De Is. et Os., see F.E. Brenk, “Plutarch’s Erotikos: The Drag Down Pulled Up,” ICS 13.2 (1988) 462–465 and J. Boulogne, “Trois Eros? Comment Plutarque réécrit Platon,” in A. Pérez Jiménez, J. García López & R.M. Aguilar (eds.), Plutarco, Platón y Aristóteles. Actas del V Congreso Internacional de la I.P.S. (MadridCuenca, 4–7 de mayo de 1999) (Madrid: Ediciones Clásicas, 1999) 215–226. Text and translation: D.A. Russell & D. Konstan (eds.), Heraclitus. Homeric Problems (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2005). P.R. Hardie, Virgil’s Aeneid. Cosmos and Imperium (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1986) 62 observes that in the hands of allegorists, Ares and Aphrodite became “a muddled version of Empedoclean physics.”

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Likewise, the author of the Ps.-Plutarchan On the Life and Poetry of Homer observes that Homer “hinted at Philia and Neikos” before Empedocles, and then adds (2.100–101): Τοιοῦτον δέ τι καὶ τὴν Ἀφροδίτην καὶ τὸν Ἄρην ὁ μῦθος αἰνίσσεται, τῆς μὲν ταὐτὸ δυναμένης ὃ παρὰ τῷ Ἐμπεδοκλεῖ ἡ φιλία, τοῦ δὲ ὃ παρ’ ἐκείνῳ τὸ νεῖκος. The myth hints at something similar in Ares and Aphrodite, for she has the same force as what Empedocles calls “love” and Ares, what the philosopher calls “strife.”22 It is with this context in mind that we should read the passage in Amatorius 757A, where Plutarch asks his companions to imagine Ares and Eros as if depicted opposite each other (τὴν ἀντικειμένην ἐκ διαμέτρου) on a bronze tablet (καθάπερ ἐν πίνακι χαλκῷ). Ares represents the “warlike, hostile, and adversary element” (τὸ μαχητικόν, πολεμικόν, ἀντίπαλον), while Eros represents the “loving, sociable, and coupling impulse” (τὸ φιλητικόν, κοινωνικόν, συνελευστικόν) (757C). Ares oversees death and war, while Eros is a “witness, overseer, leader, and assistant of marriage and love (philotes).” The ekphrastic aspect of this passage is noteworthy: Plutarch urges the reader to imagine a bronze tablet with a depiction of Eros and Ares, thereby gesturing towards the epic tradition of ekphrastic representations of Love/Peace and War (e.g. Homer’s city of war and city of peace on Achilles’ shield; Apollonius of Rhodes’ ekphrasis of Jason’s cloak with a depiction of Aphrodite holding the bronze shield of Ares, reflecting her image; Lucretius’ description of Mars and Venus in the opening of De rerum natura, 1.29–43). Slightly later, Plutarch wonders which of the two polarities is stronger (759E): ὥρα σκοπεῖν πρότερον, εἴ τινι θεῶν ὁ Ἔρως ὑφίεται δυνάμεως. καίτοι ‘μέγα μὲν σθένος ἁ Κύπρις ἐκφέρεται νίκας’ ὥς φησι καὶ Σοφοκλῆς, μεγάλη δ’ ἡ τοῦ Ἄρεος ἰσχύς· καὶ τρόπον τινὰ τῶν ἄλλων θεῶν νενεμημένην δίχα τὴν δύναμιν ἐν τούτοις ὁρῶμεν. ἡ μὲν γὰρ οἰκειωτικὴ πρὸς τὸ καλὸν ἡ δ’ ἀντιτακτικὴ πρὸς τὸ αἰσχρὸν ἀρχῆθεν ἐγγέγονε ταῖς ψυχαῖς, We should now consider, first, whether Eros is inferior in power to any other god. Although “mighty is the power of Cypris’ victory”, as Sophocles

22

Text and translation: J.J. Keaney & R. Lamberton (eds.), [Plutarch]. Essay on the Life and Poetry of Homer (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1996).

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says, the strength of Ares is also great. And somehow in these two gods we see the power of the other gods divided in two. For one power makes one attracted to beauty, while the other—hostile to the ugliness; both are present in our souls from the beginning. Plutarch sees Eros (associated here with Aphrodite) and Ares as representing opposite principles, holding within themselves the powers of other divinities, and he imagines their interplay within the human soul. His assumption that neither of them yields to the other in terms of power is reminiscent of Empedocles’ proclamation that the essential constituents of the universe—it is assumed that he means the elements as well as Philotes and Neikos—are “all equal and of like age in their birth.”23 Empedocles’ presence in the Amatorius, however, extends still further— beyond direct quotations and beyond the polarization of Eros and Ares. When looking closely at the event dynamics unfolding over the course of the dialogue, one notices that besides the two dimensions referred to at the beginning of this chapter—the dramatic plot (Ismenodora and Bacchon’s story) and the conversational dynamics of speeches—the dialogue has a third dimension, an ‘Empedoclean plot’ of sorts, which takes the reader through various instantiations of societal conflict to the grand finale of love and harmony. This plot begins to unfold from the first sentence of Autobulus’ story (749B): Ὁ γὰρ πατήρ, ἐπεὶ πάλαι, πρὶν ἡμᾶς γενέσθαι, τὴν μητέρα νεωστὶ κεκομισμένος ἐκ τῆς γενομένης τοῖς γονεῦσιν αὐτῶν διαφορᾶς καὶ στάσεως ἀφίκετο τῷ Ἔρωτι θύσων, ἐπὶ τὴν ἑορτὴν ἦγε τὴν μητέρα· καὶ γὰρ ἦν ἐκείνης ἡ εὐχὴ καὶ ἡ θυσία. A long time ago, before I was born, my father, after having just saved my mother from a dispute and feud between their parents, came to sacrifice to Eros. He brought my mother to the festival, for she was to make the prayer and the sacrifice. The story begins with a discord and feud (διαφορὰ καὶ στάσις) between the parents of Plutarch and of his wife, which is serious enough to make the couple, accompanied by Plutarch’s friends, travel to Thespiae in order to seek the help 23

Fr. 17 Diels Kranz. Cf. however, Plato’s Symp. 196c–d (Agathon argues that Eros is stronger than Ares in terms of courage, also with reference to Sophocles: καὶ μὴν εἴς γε ἀνδρείαν Ἔρωτι ‘οὐδ’ Ἄρης ἀνθίσταται’) and Amat. 760D, where Plutarch speaks of Eros’ superiority in the sphere of battle.

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of Eros. Yet, the shadow of conflict looms also there: Plutarch and his friends enjoy peace only for two or three days, because then there erupts a “vexatious struggle” (ἀργαλέος ἀγών) between citharodoi, which forces many people to flee from the city “as if from a hostile territory” (ὥσπερ ἐκ πολεμίας) and move to Helicon (749C). However, Helicon is also not impervious to conflict. Anthemion and Peisias, two friends of the youth Bacchon, whom he has asked to counsel him regarding his marriage with Ismenodora, arrive to the city. Their advices clash (749D: διαφερόμενοι πρὸς ἀλλήλους), and their disagreement turns into a heated dispute between proponents of love towards boys (which include Peisias and Protogenes) and love towards women (Anthemion and Daphnaeus). The two groups choose Plutarch and his friends as arbiters in order to keep emotions in check (750A: ἵν’ οὖν μὴ παροξύνοντες ἀλλήλους κατὰ μικρὸν εἰς ὀργὴν προαγάγοιεν). The Helicon becomes the scene of their argument. Protogenes, who is a particularly emotional conversant and a fierce opponent of married love, is accused by others of “fighting with Eros” (750A–B: Ἔρωτι πολεμήσων, Ἔρωτι νῦν πολεμεῖν), while he himself believes that he is “fighting for Eros” (ὑπὲρ Ἔρωτος διαμάχεσθαι). Meanwhile in Thespiae, the conflict of the citharodoi is overshadowed by news that Ismenodora kidnapped Bacchon. The Thespians and people visiting the city are agitated; they stop watching contests, leave the theater, and go to the house of Ismenodora (755A–B): τῶν δὲ Θεσπιέων καὶ τῶν ξένων οἱ μὲν ἐγέλων, οἱ δ’ ἠγανάκτουν καὶ τοὺς γυμνασιάρχους παρώξυνον· ἄρχουσι γὰρ ἰσχυρῶς τῶν ἐφήβων καὶ προσέχουσι τὸν νοῦν σφόδρα τοῖς ὑπ’ αὐτῶν πραττομένοις. ἦν δὲ λόγος οὐθεὶς τῶν ἀγωνιζομένων, ἀλλ’ ἀφέντες τὸ θέατρον ἐπὶ τῶν θυρῶν τῆς Ἰσμηνοδώρας ἐν λόγοις ἦσαν καὶ φιλονεικίαις πρὸς ἀλλήλους. Some from among the Thespians and visitors laughed, but others were angry and were stirring up the gymnasiarchs, for it is their responsibility to closely oversee the young men and pay close attention to their activities. There was no more talk about participants of the competitions; people left the theatre and, assembled at the door of Ismenodora, engaged in arguments and mutual fighting.24

24

Cf. a comment ad loc. in H. Görgemanns et al., Plutarch. Dialog über die Liebe (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011, 2nd ed.) 152 n. 111: “Die Bürger von Thespiai lieben offenbar das Disputieren. An Stelle des Themas ‘Kitharoden’ haben sie jetzt ein neues gefunden”.

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I am inclined to interpret Plutarch’s use of φιλονεικίαι in this passage as an allusion to Empedocles’ νεῖκος, rather than as a spelling-variant of the noun φιλονικία:25 the emphasis is on discord rather than on ambition or love of victory, as the verbs ἠγανάκτουν and παρώξυνον indicate.26 The subsequent sentences continue the vocabulary of war and domestic conflict: the messenger, who brings news about the kidnapping, is said to have come rushing on horse “as if during war” (755B: ὥσπερ ἐν πολέμῳ προσελάσας τὸν ἵππον); Peisias cries that excessive freedom is overturning the city (τῆς ἀνατρεπούσης τὴν πόλιν ἡμῶν ἐλευθερίας), that the city is moving towards anarchy (εἰς ἀνομίαν τὰ πράγματα διὰ τῆς αὐτονομίας βαδίζει), and that not only laws and justice, but even nature is transgressed and violated when women take power (καίτοι γελοῖον ἴσως ἀγανακτεῖν περὶ νόμων καὶ δικαίων, ἡ γὰρ φύσις παρανομεῖται γυναικοκρατουμένη). When the next messenger arrives, we learn that disturbances in the city have increased (756A: ἐπέτεινε γὰρ ἡ ταραχή) and that the gymnasiarchs were disagreeing on how to proceed (τῶν γυμνασιάρχων ἦν διαφορά)—whether to leave things to themselves or to demand that Ismenodora release Bacchon. From the beginning of the story, then, we encounter an accumulation of conflicts, feuds, and disputes, which threaten the stability of a family, a community, and a city. Plutarch recurrently uses vocabulary associated with war and political conflict when speaking of the unfolding events: the disagreement between the parents is referred to as στάσις; the conflict of the citharodoi turns Thespiae into πολεμία, “hostile territory”; on the Helicon, Protogenes is waging war against Eros; the messenger comes “as if it was war” (ὥσπερ ἐν πολέμῳ); and so on. When, in the last installment, Plutarch and his friends are on their way back to Thespiae, they see Diogenes, one of Peisias’ friends, hurrying towards them (771D). Soclarus calls to him: “It is not war, Diogenes, you are announcing!” (οὐ πόλεμόν γ’, ὦ Διόγενες, ἀπαγγέλλων). In response, Diogenes asks Plutarch 25

26

For the instability of the spelling of φιλον(ε)ικία due to itacism, see e.g. T.E. Duff, Plutarch’s Lives: Exploring Virtue and Vice (Oxford-New York: Oxford University Press, 1999) 83 n. 38 and P.A. Stadter, “Competition and its Costs. Φιλονικία in Plutarch’s Society and Heroes,” in id., Plutarch and his Roman Readers (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015) 271–273. Unlike Duff, Stadter is hesitant to acknowledge the association of φιλον(ε)ικία with νεῖκος and believes rather that “philon(e)ikia is always associated with nike, and neikos is never intrinsic in Attic Greek.” Plutarch engages in similar word-play in Ages. 4.2–5.4, where he refers to political disagreements between Spartan kings and ephors and interprets them by referring to the Empedoclean principle of strife; 4.2–3: … οἱ βασιλεῖς φιλονεικίαν καὶ διαφορὰν παραλαμβάνοντες …; 5.3: Καθάπερ γὰρ οἱ φυσικοὶ τὸ νεῖκος οἴονται καὶ τὴν ἔριν, εἰ τῶν ὅλων ἐξαιρεθείη, στῆναι μὲν ἂν τὰ οὐράνια, παύσασθαι δὲ πάντων τὴν γένεσιν καὶ κίνησιν ὑπὸ τῆς πρὸς πάντα πάντων ἁρμονίας, οὕτως ἔοικεν ὁ Λακωνικὸς νομοθέτης ὑπέκκαυμα τῆς ἀρετῆς ἐμβαλεῖν εἰς τὴν πολιτείαν τὸ φιλότιμον καὶ φιλόνεικον (…).

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and his companions to hurry as the marriage is taking place (γάμων ὄντων), and everyone waits for their presence at the sacrifice. Here, Plutarch uses a proverbial expression, known from Plato: Οὐ πόλεμόν γε ἀγγέλλεις (literal sense “You are not announcing war”), which is used figuratively in relation to bringing good news.27 In the context of the Amatorius, however, the word πόλεμος resonates with the persistent war-terminology and the sense of an imminent danger of communal conflict. Diogenes’ answer—he is announcing not war, but marriage—alludes to the Eros-Ares theme that permeates the dialogue. As we learn from the subsequent words of Diogenes, the victory of Eros is undisputed, since even Peisias28 has been won over: he was “the first to come to agreement with Ismenodora” and in a white himation, a crown on his head, is now leading the procession to the temple of Eros. Plutarch’s ‘Empedoclean’ plot confronts the reader with an accumulation of conflicts, which are finally resolved through the victory of Eros: love, agreement, and harmony. It is more of a playful utilization of Empedocles’ imagery than a philosophical attempt to apply his concepts to societal dynamics. Such an employment of Empedoclean cosmological concepts to the human and social world is not unprecedented in ancient literature and should be considered within the broader context of Empedocles’ influence on ancient narratives. In particular, there is a strong current of “an Empedoclean tradition within the history of ancient epic,”29 in which scholars distinguish two main threads: first, allegorical interpretations of certain Homeric episodes through the lens of Empedocles’ philosophy, and, second, deployment of the Empedoclean Neikos-and-Philotes polarity. Empedocles-inspired allegorical interpretation was recurrently applied to two Homeric passages: his depiction of the city in war and in peace on the shield of Achilles in book 18 of the Iliad and in the above mentioned song by Demodocus about Ares and Aphrodite in the Odyssey—in both cases, Greek allegorists saw analogies between the Homeric passages and Empedocles’ doctrine of Neikos and Philotes.30 We do not know how far back these interpreta27 28 29

30

Cf. Pl. Phdr. 242b and Lg. 702d. The name of Peisias does not appear in the text, but is inferred from the context; see Görgemanns et al., Plutarch. Dialog über die Liebe, 196 n. 448. B. Kayachev, Allusion and Allegory. Studies in the “Ciris” (Berlin-Boston: De Gruyter, 2016) 76. For an overview of the influence of Empedocles on the Greek and Latin epic, see also C.T. Ham, Empedoclean Elegy: Love, Strife and the Four Elements in Ovid’s Amores, Ars Amatoria and Fasti (Diss. University of Pennsylvania, 2013) 81–107. For an interpretation of the ekphrasis of the shield of Achilles, cf. Heraclit. All. 49.2–4: “He then proceeds in his allegory to the two cities, introducing the city of peace and the city of war. Thus it is from none other than Homer that Empedocles of Acragas derived his

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tions go, but they might have been early enough to encourage Greek hexameter poets to use Empedoclean cosmological concepts as a conceptual background in their poems.31 On the Greek side, the best studied case has been Apollonius of Rhodes’ use of Empedoclean philosophy, especially the polarity of Neikos and Philotes, as an important context for the Argonautica.32 Just two examples: first, in book 1, a quarrel between the Argonauts is placated by Orpheus’ song (a parallel to Demodocus’ song in the Odyssey) in which Neikos (A.R. 1.498) is identified as the chief, cosmogonic principle. Apollonius reworks the Homeric story of Ares and Aphrodite by “lifting the veil of allegory”33 here and speaking directly about the universal principles that provide the human plot with a cosmic setting. Second, Apollonius’ ekphrasis of Jason’s cloak—a parallel to the Homeric description of the shield of Achilles—describes Aphrodite holding the shield of Ares, her reflection visible in the bronze (A.R. 1.742–746). Another Hellenistic poet, Aratus, the author of the Phaenomena, in his retelling of Hesiod’s myth of the five ages of men, combines the Hesiodic template with the Empedoclean model of the cosmic dynamics being dependent on the actions of Philotes and Neikos: the Empedoclean framework is used as a context for human history.34 In the Latin epic, the Empedoclean model is already present in Ennius, whose Discordia in book 7 of the Annales is interpreted by scholars as an equivalent of Empedocles’ Neikos.35 Ennius’ application of Empedo-

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doctrine. In his theory of nature, Empedocles tells not only of the four elements but of Strife and Love; and it was to suggest this pair that Homer fashioned the two cities on the shield, the city of peace, that is of Love, and the city of war, that is of Strife.” (transl. Russell & Konstan, Heraclitus). For Demodocus’ song, see Heraclit. All. 69 and Ps.-Plu. Vit.Hom. 2.100–101 (quoted above, pp. 466–467). D. Nelis, “Apollonius Rhodius and the Traditions of Latin Epic Poetry,” in M.A. Harder, R.F. Regtuit & G.C. Wakker (eds.), Apollonius Rhodius (Leuven: Peeters, 2000) 85–103, at 91, n. 22 believes that Empedocles himself, when calling Neikos and Philotes ‘Ares’ and ‘Aphrodite’ respectively, “of course imposes allegorical sense on Odyssey 8.” D. Nelis, “Demodocus and the Song of Orpheus. Ap. Rhod. Arg. 1, 496–511,” MH 49 (1992) 153–170, at 157, thinks that Apollonius of Rhodes was familiar with the allegorical reading of the song of Demodocus. For Empedoclean motifs in Apollonius, see Nelis, “Demodocus and the Song of Orpheus”; P. Kyriakou, “Empedoclean Echoes in Apollonius Rhodius’ ‘Argonautica’,” Hermes 122 (1994) 309–319. Nelis, “Demodocus and the Song of Orpheus,” 158. For Empedocles in Aratus, see A. Traglia, “Reminiscenze Empedoclee nei ‘Fenomeni’ di Arato,” in Miscellanea di studi Alessandrini in memoria di Augusto Rostagni (Turin: Bottega d’Erasmo, 1963) 382–393 and E. Gee, Aratus and the Astronomical Tradition (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013) 29–33. For an overview of Ennius’ use of Empedocles, see M. Garani, Empedocles Redivivus: Poetry and Analogy in Lucretius (New York-London: Routledge, 2007) 26–27 with references to

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clean cosmological dynamics to human (Roman) history seems to have influenced subsequent Roman poets, including Lucretius, Virgil, Ovid, and Lucan, who recurrently provide an Empedocles-inspired cosmic setting for historical themes and use the figures of the Roman deities Venus and Mars in a way suggestive of Empedocles’ Love and Strife.36 Epic poets, then, recurrently used Empedocles’ concept of the opposite principles and their alternating dominance to provide human actions and human history with a cosmic dimension and a transcendent sense. The plot of the Amatorius is a scaled-down, playful version of the epic ‘Empedoclean narrative,’ as it takes place at the level of an individual and small-scale communal history and as it details a particular moment in the community’s life, in which Ares, representing τὸ μαχητικόν, πολεμικόν, ἀντίπαλον, yields—at least for the time being—to Eros, who stands for τὸ φιλητικόν, κοινωνικόν, συνελευστικόν (757C). The Empedoclean backdrop suggests that stability is not permanent: conflicts and disagreements will reappear and alternate with periods of harmony and peace.

3

Conclusions

The purpose of this chapter was to trace Plutarch’s interaction with two poets in the Amatorius, Hesiod and Empedocles. In both cases, the engagement goes

36

earlier scholarship. She observes that it is through Ennius that Empedocles presumably found his way into Latin literature and that “Ennius should be considered the decisive intermediary for the introduction into later Roman literature of Empedocles’ integration of cosmological-philosophical order with historical.” Cf. also Hardie, Virgil’s Aeneid, 82 who speaks of the “example of natural-philosophical material being used to gloss an event in the world of human history (…).” For Lucretius’ debt to Empedocles and the Empedoclean background of the Venus-figure in the proem to book 1 of De rerum natura, see e.g. D. Sedley, Lucretius and the Transformation of Greek Wisdom (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998) 1–34 and recently Garani, Empedocles Redivivus, with references to earlier literature. For Vergil, see an overview of scholarship in Ham, Empedoclean Elegy 98–10; for Ovid, ibid., passim. The particular appeal of Empedocles’ Love and Strife for the Romans was observed by, e.g. Hardie, Virgil’s Aeneid, 62: “The Empedoclean allegorization of Ares and Aphrodite was perhaps especially likely to appeal to the Romans, for whom the gods Mars and Venus had a particular nationalistic importance (…)” J. Farrell, “Looking for Empedocles in Latin Poetry: A Skeptical Approach,” Dictynna 11 (2014) 18 observes that “(…) although we cannot say exactly how or when the specifically Empedoclean allegory of Venus and Mars as Love and Strife entered the political realm, it is clear from the poetry and iconography of the Augustan period that it did so.”

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beyond quotations or intertextual allusions; in fact, the small number of citations is not proportionate to how significant the poets are to the dialogue. The figure of Hesiod looms over the piece: his preeminence is emphasized by the opening exchange between Flavianus and Autobulus, and is later confirmed by his identification as the originator of the discourse on Love, which was then led down “from Helicon to Academy” by philosophers; simultaneously, the geographical setting of the dialogue’s conversations and the dramatic plot on the slopes of Helicon and in Thespiae respectively creates a symbolic continuity between the Theogony and the Amatorius. In the case of Empedocles, his concept of the cyclical alteration of the dominance of Philotes and Neikos is not only in the background of the discursive treatment of the Eros-Ares polarity, but also provides a backdrop for the dialogue’s action. Plutarch seems to owe this narrative strategy to post-Empedoclean epic poets, who made use of certain elements of Empedocles’ philosophy to provide their plots with an additional, cosmic dimension. The Amatorius, then, engages on multiple levels the tradition of didactic hexameter poetry, which should be recognized as the third crucial component of the work, together with the philosophical dialogue and drama. The strategies of intertextual and generic enrichment allow Plutarch to reach beyond the Amatorius’ own generic tropes and conventions in order to assume a complex, multi-dimensional perspective on love. Such syncretic approach is particularly effective when referring to Eros, for it parallels and underlines love’s unifying and generative power.37 37

Cf. the chapter by S. Amendola on Hesiodic quotations in Plutarch’s works (pp. 252–266 in this volume).

capítulo 31

Las Vitae de Plutarco y el epigrama Francisca Pordomingo

Resumen Plutarch incorporates a not inconsiderable number of epigrams to the Lives. Through intertextual analysis it is possible to discover the dialogue established between the quoting text, that of the Lives, and the quoted text, the epigrams, as well as the rhetorical function they fulfill in the new context: of ornament, by the ‘agrammaticality’ or ‘strangeness’ that every quotation entails, and, with the greatest frequency, of logic or authority; furthermore, a good number of the epigrams contribute to delineating the protagonists’ characters, an essential element of the biography, thus producing a generic enrichment. It is also possible to discover an intergeneric dialogue: most of the epigrams cited in the Lives are of the votive and sepulchral type and Plutarch, insisting on their inscriptional character, seems to seek the veracity that the biography demands. Since the inscriptions have not been preserved, our aim has been to ‘rescue’ the possible epigraphic entity of the epigrams cited and to evaluate whether the text given by Plutarch is reliable, contrasting it with that of other literary sources, including the Anthologia Palatina.

1

El diálogo intertextual de los epigramas y las Vitae

En la recepción de un texto por otro, representada en el presente trabajo por las citas de epigramas en las Vitae de Plutarco, son dos las partes implicadas y el énfasis en el estudio de las manifestaciones derivadas del diálogo intertextual puede ser ejercido de forma equilibrada en ambas o bien puede ponerse en una de las dos partes; así la ‘lectura’ o ‘interpretación’ del epigrama citado atañe sobre todo al texto receptor, el de Plutarco, y tiene que ver con la función de la cita, aunque esa ‘lectura’ afecta también al epigrama citado porque pasa a formar parte intrínseca de él. El análisis de la forma del epigrama – literal o no, con variantes textuales o no, con variaciones o no de otro tipo como acortamiento o añadido de algún verso – en el nuevo contexto afecta esencialmente al mismo y genera preguntas sobre la existencia de una o más tradiciones, cuando existe la posibilidad de confrontar con otras fuentes, y sobre la tradición seguida por Plutarco. La manera en la que el epigrama es integrado, es

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004427860_033

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decir la forma y el mensaje de la citación, apunta también a la ‘lectura’ que Plutarco parece hacer de él. En otra ocasión ya me he ocupado del “epigrama en Plutarco”,1 si bien mi interés se centró en Moralia, y ya en aquel trabajo apuntaba que podría ser de interés volver sobre la recepción del género epigramático en la obra del Queronense, ciñéndome a Vitae. El título delata ya que mi interés se inclina ahora por ver la función que el epigrama cumple en la ‘definición’ del género de la biografía, intentando desvelar el testimonio cuasi notarial de los epigramas buscado por Plutarco – que se manifiesta en la forma en que son integrados – en aras de una veracidad en la presentación en el cuerpo de la narrativa de grandes empresas o acciones llevadas a cabo o simplemente de hechos puntuales, opiniones u observaciones (es decir la función lógica o de autoridad), y sirviendo otras veces a la caracterización de los personajes biografiados. Analizar en qué medida ello se cumple ha sido nuestro objetivo prioritario, seleccionando y comentando algunos ejemplos especialmente reveladores, después de una consideración global de todas las citas de epigramas. La función ornativa, que, por principio, me atrevería a decir toda cita poética conlleva, por la extrañeza y agramaticalidad que representa en el nuevo contexto literario, será también considerada cuando se hace especialmente patente,2 y ocasionalmente haremos una evaluación del texto transmitido del epigrama.

2

Citas literales hechas de forma explícita

El número de epigramas citados en Vitae no es alto y está muy lejos del de citas de autores queridos por Plutarco, especialmente Homero, pero tampoco es un número desdeñable. Son citados epigramas en las Vitae relativas a personajes míticos o legendarios (Teseo y Licurgo) y en aquellas de personajes históricos, caudillos o estadistas y oradores, tanto de época clásica (Arístides, Temístocles, Cimón, Nicias, Demóstenes) como de época helenística y temprana época romana (Pelópidas, Timoleonte, Pirro, Arato, Marcelo, Paulo Emilio, Tito Flaminino, Catón el Viejo, Pompeyo y Antonio). Algunos de esos epigramas son citados en el mismo comienzo, en el prólogo (Vitae de Temístocles, Pelópidas y Catón el Viejo), lo cual realza el valor ornativo de la cita del epigrama, como 1 F. Pordomingo, “El epigrama en Plutarco”, in I. Gallo (ed.), La biblioteca di Plutarco. Atti del IX Convegno plutarcheo, Pavia, 13–15 giugno 2002 (Napoli: M. D’Auria, 2004) 391–403. 2 Las dos funciones esenciales de la cita, la χάρις, que es lo que proporciona “encanto” al discurso, y la χρεία, que le confiere “utilidad”, son mencionadas por Plutarco, Quaest. conv. 736E.

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ocurre con las frecuentes citas de otros géneros poéticos en ese lugar, que es pórtico o antesala de la obra. Nos hemos limitado a citas literales de epigramas, hechas de forma explícita y en estilo directo, citas que ya habían sido aisladas por anteriores estudiosos y recogidas en diversos corpora de epigramas. Los términos con los que son introducidos son τὸ ἐπίγραμμα, que por el tiempo de Plutarco o de sus fuentes designaba ya un poema que no necesariamente estaba inscrito,3 aunque Plutarco lo usa sobre todo con esta acepción (Thes. 25; Lyc. 20; Cim. 7; Dem. 30; Marc. 30; Aem. 15; Flam. 9), y τὸ ἐπιγραμμάτιον (Ca. Ma. 1); τὸ ἐλεγεῖον, alusivo al dístico elegíaco, en el que está compuesta la mayor parte de las manifestaciones del género epigramático (Pyrrh. 26; Tim. 31; Arat. 14); τὰ τρίμετρα (Thes. 25), τὸ τετράμετρον (Arist. 20) o simplemente τὰ μονόστιχα (Pomp. 27), alusivos estos a la forma métrica; τὸ ἐπικήδειον (Nic. 17; Pel. 1), por el tema fúnebre de los epitafios. La mayoría son citados sin nombre de autor, aunque algunos de ellos no sean adespota en otras fuentes, y la adscripción, cuando se produce, puede ser corroborada o desmentida por su transmisión también en la Antología Griega o por otra fuente.4 Véase en p. 487 una tabla abarcativa de todos ellos, con referencia a las fuentes antiguas que los transmiten y a los corpora de epigramas modernos más significativos.5

3

Tipos de epigramas citados: votivos y epitafios

La mayor parte de los epigramas citados por Plutarco en Vitae son votivos y epitafios y sobre su originaria naturaleza inscripcional parece querer incidir Plutarco, utilizando expresiones que incorporan el verbo ἐπιγράφω (o γράφω) en las líneas que los introducen: Thes. 25.4 [1]; Arist. 19.7 [3]; Arist. 20.6 [4]; Them. 8.5 [6]; Cim. 7.4 [7]; Nic. 17.4 [8]; Dem. 30.5 [9]; Tim. 31.1 [11]; Pyrrh. 26.9

3 M. Puelma, “Epigramma: osservazioni sulla storia di un termino greco-latino”, Maia 49 (1997) 189–213. 4 [3], AP VI 50, es atribuido a Simónides por el copista de la Anthologia Palatina y por Planudes; [12], AP VI 130, es atribuido por Planudes a Leónidas; de ambas autorías dudan A.S.F. Gow & D.L. Page, The Greek Anthology. Hellenistic Epigrams (Cambridge University Press, 1965) II 212 y 392; [20a], el autoepitafio de Timón, citado en Antonius 70, figura como adespoton en AP VII 313; el segundo de los epigramas del mismo pasaje [20b], atribuido por Plutarco a Calímaco, es en realidad el segundo dístico del epigrama de Hegesipo AP VII 320. 5 Th. Preger, Inscriptiones graecae metricae ex scriptoribus praeter Anthologiam collectae (Leipzig: Teubner, 1891 = Preger); D.L. Page, Further Greek Epigrams, rev. and prep. by R.D. Dawe & J. Diggle (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981 = FGE); id., Epigrammata graeca (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1975 = EG).

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[12]; Arat. 14.3 [13]; Marc. 30.7 [14]; Ant. 70.6 [20a]. El carácter inscripcional es representado también desde el punto de vista del lector del epigrama: Lyc. 20.5 ὁ δὲ ἀναγνοὺς τὸ ἐπίγραμμα τοῦτο [2], donde el lector es un espartano anónimo; citado también el epigrama en Apophth. Lac. 217F, aquí está incorporado a una anécdota atribuida a Areus, rey agiada del 309 al 265 a. C., también lector del epigrama, pues es introducido Διὰ Σελινοῦντος δέ ποτε τῆς Σικελίας πορευόμενος ἰδὼν ἐπὶ μνήματος ἐλεγεῖον ἐπιγεγραμμένον. Al partir Pompeyo de Atenas leía los dos monósticos grabados para él [19], el del interior de la puerta y el que estaba fuera (Pomp. 27.3). Esa pretensión de que estaban grabados recibe apoyo cuando son transmitidos también por otra u otras fuentes en las que un determinado epigrama es introducido de modo similar y hay otros datos que parecen corroborarlo: [1] (Thes. 25.4), también citado por Estrabón 3.5.5; 9.1.6; [7] (Cim. 7.4), también citados los tres epigramas, aunque con importantes variantes, por Esquines, Contra Ctesifonte, 183–185; [8] (Nic. 17.4), al que probablemente, aunque no lo cita, se refiere Pausanias 1.29.11;6 [9] (Dem. 30.5), también citado en Dec. or. vit. 847A (donde es considerado un autógrafo) y en otras fuentes más tardías;7 [12] (Pyrrh. 26.10), pretendidamente grabado sobre los despojos de guerra en el templo de Atenea Itónide por el triunfo de Pirro sobre los galos, transmitido también por Diodoro 22.11 y por Pausanias 1.13.3;8 [14] (Marc. 30.8), para el que cita el testimonio de Posidonio [FGrHist 87 F 44]. Todavía [13] (Arat. 14.3), aunque no cuenta con el apoyo de otra fuente antigua, ha sido considerado por algunos estudiosos con diversos argumentos como estando realmente grabado.9 La diferencia entre epigramas sepulcrales y votivos que muy posiblemente estuvieron grabados (aunque desdichadamente de ninguno tenemos el tes6 Cf. Preger, Inscriptiones graecae metricae, 9 y Page, Further Greek Epigrams, 155. 7 Otras fuentes para el epigrama y su contexto son: Zos. 302, 145 West; Anon. Vita Dem. 308, 176 West; Suid. s.v. Demosthenes; Phot. Bibl., 494 Bekker. La estatua de Demóstenes se hallaba en el ágora entre el templo de Ares y el altar de los doce dioses: cf. Paus. 1.8.2; Aristid., 28.79 (= 2.517 Dindorf), se refiere al epigrama como estando en el Cerámico. 8 El epigrama, atribuido a Leónidas por Planudes, es transmitido, además de por las antologías Palatina y Planudea, por Diodoro 22.11 (aticizado) y por Pausanias 1.13.3, que da enseguida un segundo epigrama igualmente de dos dísticos por el que Pirro consagra a Zeus en Dodona los escudos tomados en la misma batalla a los macedonios, siendo introducido el primero con τὸ ἐπίγραμμα τὸ ἐπ’ αὐτοῖς (ὅπλοις) y el segundo ἐπιγέγραπται δὲ καὶ ταύταις (ἀσπίσι); F. Chamoux, Pausanias. Description de la Grèce I.1 (Paris: Belles Lettres, 2002) 173 comenta que son un buen ejemplo de los documentos de primera mano que Pausanias ha podido copiar sobre los monumentos o que ha transcrito de sus fuentes, obras históricas o antologías. 9 W.H. Porter, Plutarch’s Life of Aratus (Dublin-Cork: Cork University Press, 1937) 57; Preger, Inscriptiones graecae metricae, 119.

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timonio físico de la inscripción) y los que no lo estuvieron, parece marcarla bien el propio Plutarco en Titus Flamininus, Vita en la que es citado el mayor número de epigramas, unos que circularon por vía oral según su propio testimonio y aquellos muy probablemente grabados: en 9.2 inserta el epigrama sepulcral [16a] mediante la expresión ὧν μάλιστα διὰ στόματος ἦν τουτὶ τὸ ἐπίγραμμα (“entre ellos, de boca en boca, corría este epigrama”) y a la cita del epigrama sigue el comentario λεγόμενον δὲ πολλαχοῦ καὶ ὑπὸ πολλῶν (“recitado en muchas partes y por muchos”); el epigrama pretendía avalar la infundada pretensión de los etolios de que el triunfo sobre Filipo les era debido a ellos más que a los romanos, ambos aliados; los versos, en los que los caídos macedonios en Cinoscéfalas son las personae loquentes, al decir de Plutarco (en el comentario que sigue) ultrajaban a Filipo y exageraban el número de muertos, pero vejaban más a Tito que a Filipo, al ser nombrados los etolios en primer lugar. A pesar de ser un epitafio colectivo Plutarco no se refiere a que estuviera grabado, sino a que “circulaba de boca en boca”; desconocemos su fuente para este epigrama, que también lo transmiten la Anthologia Palatina (AP VII 247) y Planudea (PlA), atribuido en ambas a Alceo de Mesenia, aunque omitiendo los versos 3–4.10 Atribuido también a Alceo por Plutarco, el epigrama irritó mucho a Filipo, que respondió a Alceo con un dístico [16b] que parodiaba el anterior.11 En el capítulo 12.11–12 de la misma Vita cita dos epigramas votivos que muy posiblemente sí estuvieron grabados: el primero es introducido por καὶ αὐτὸς δὲ μέγιστον ἐφρόνησεν ἐπὶ τῇ τῆς Ἑλλάδος ἐλευθερώσει. ἀνατιθεὶς γὰρ εἰς Δελφοὺς ἀσπίδας ἀργυρᾶς καὶ τὸν ἑαυτοῦ θυρεόν, ἐπέγραψε [17a]; el segundo, por ἀνέθηκε δὲ καὶ χρυσοῦν τῷ Ἀπόλλωνι στέφανον, ἐπιγράψας [17b]. Plutarco en esta Vita menciona varios monumentos que vio en Delfos, donde fue sacerdote durante muchas Pythiadas, y también en Eubea y en Roma. No sería demasiado temerario postular que las dos dedicaciones, una de escudos de plata consagrados a los Dióscuros y la otra de una corona de oro consagrada a Apolo, las hubiera leído y copiado in situ.12 Lo que terminamos de señalar intenta responder a una pregunta lógica: ¿hizo Plutarco la autopsia de los epigramas que cita como reales incripciones, 10

11 12

El v. 4 reaparece en otro epigrama de Alceo de Mesenia, APl 5, en elogio de Flaminino; sobre la forma originaria de nuestro epigrama y la relación entre ambos vid. Gow & Page, Hellenistic Epigrams, II 11, y F.W. Walbank, “Alcaeus of Messene, Philip V, and Rome”, CQ 37 (1943) 1–13. Alceo escribió varios epigramas contra Filipo V de Macedonia, AP IX 519; XI 12; VII 247; Filipo le respondió con el epigrama [16b] y con el epigrama AP IX 520. Preger, Inscriptiones graecae metricae, 79, hace notar que, sin embargo, en el templo délfico de los Dióscuros no encontró nada; sugiere que es el cumplimiento de una promesa hecha a los dioses salvadores durante una batalla.

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pordomingo

y los copió in situ? O ¿los copió de fuentes escritas, fuentes históricas que utilizó para sus biografías? ¿Aquellos atribuidos a Simónides serían copiados de una antología de epigramas de Simónides, cuya existencia (incluso la de más de una) ha sido postulada por varios autores,13 o estos y algunos otros, de una de las varias antologías de epigramas de diversos poetas que circularon en época helenística?14 A partir de los datos que terminamos de introducir se hace necesario contemplar estos distintos orígenes, sin descartar el de la tradición oral para alguno de los epigramas. Pero todavía quiero incidir en el origen autóptico. En Them. 8.4 Plutarco hace una descripción muy precisa (como ningún otro autor) de los restos del santuario de Ártemis Proseoa en el cabo Artemision, en las inmediaciones del cual tuvo lugar la célebre y homónima batalla; muy posiblemente había visitado ese lugar desde la vecina ciudad de aguas termales de Aedepsos, donde disfrutaba de la hospitalidad del sofista Calístrato (Quaest. conv. 667C). No sería impensable que el epigrama votivo sobre una de las estelas conmemorativas [6] que inserta en el pasaje, evocador de la dedicación de los despojos de la batalla a la diosa Ártemis, hubiera sido leído y copiado in situ; también lo transmite en De Her. mal. 867F. Y podríamos seguir con otros testimonios y otros epigramas, como el relacionado con Platea [3], citado en Arist. 19.7 y también en De Her. mal. 873B, como prueba, polemizando con Heródoto 9.85, de que la victoria de Platea fue obra de los griegos en general y no sólo de los contingentes ateniense, espartano y tegeata; posiblemente estaba grabado en el altar de Zeus Eleuterio en Platea erigido en común por los griegos (Paus. 9.2.5; Str. 9.2.31) después de la victoria en el 479;15 tansmitido por las antologías Palatina (AP VI 50) y Planudea es atribuido en ellas, así como en Pausanias 9.2.5, a Simónides; o los trímetros [1] citados en Thes. 25.4, que figuraban en la famosa estela del Istmo y que marcaban la línea divisoria entre Jonia y el Peloponeso. Estrabón los transmite en 3.5.5,16 prodigando los detalles sobre el

13

14

15

16

Vid. L. Bravi, Gli epigrammi di Simonide e le vie della tradizione (Roma: Edizioni dell’Ateneo, 2006) 21–26; A. Petrovic, Kommentar zu den Simonideischen Versinschriften (Leiden: Brill, 2007) 90–109; D. Sider, “Sylloge Simonidea”, in P. Bing & J.S. Bruss (eds.), Brill’s Companion to Hellenistic Epigram (Leiden-Boston: Brill, 2007) 113–130. F. Pordomingo, “Sur les premières anthologies d’ épigrammes sur papyrus”, in A. BülowJacobsen (ed.), Proceedings of the 20th International Congress of Papyrologists (Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press, 1994) 326–333. R. Flacelière & E. Chambry, Plutarque. Vies, Tome V (Paris: Belles Lettres, 1969) 213, señalan que Plutarco vio las tumbas y Page, Further Greek Epigrams, 212, que el epigrama es copia de una inscripción grabada sobre el altar. Estrabón en ese pasaje intenta dar una explicación a las “Columnas de Hércules”, ofreciendo varios testimonios de “mojones” físicos en la Antigüedad que marcaban límites, entre los que se encuentra esta famosa estela.

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contexto, y también en 9.1.6, donde explica que el Ática era entonces llamada Jonia.17 Y, ¿leyó Plutarco los tres epigramas [7] grabados sobre los tres hermes del “Pórtico de los Hermes” en el Ágora, que el pueblo concedió a Cimón erigir y que él cita en Cim. 7.3–6, o los tomó de Esquines, Contra Ctesifonte 183–185, que también los cita, aunque con bastantes variantes respecto a Plutarco?

4

Funcíon de los epigramas en el contexto de las Vitae

Los anteriores epigramas, en su mayoría votivos y funerarios y citados la mayor parte en contextos ‘históricos’, son introducidos como ‘testimonio de autoridad’ de la veracidad del relato de determinadas acciones o sobre determinadas situaciones; pero algunos de ellos realmente constituyen el focus del pasaje, erigiéndose en verdaderos protagonistas del mismo, o al menos en un plano de igualdad con el texto de Plutarco, con lo que se produce un mayor enriquecimiento del género de la biografía: el contexto en el que está citado el epigrama grabado en una de las estelas del templo de Ártemis Proseoa [6] y aquel en el que están citados los epigramas sobre los hermes del “Pórtico de los Hermes” en el Ágora de Atenas [7] están subordinados a ellos, explicándolos; también el del epigrama votivo [11], calificado de insolente por Plutarco, que compuso el tirano de Sicilia Mamerco; o el de los epigramas también votivos [9] y [12] del templo de Atenea Itónide, que hizo grabar Pirro por su triunfo sobre Antígono y los galos; o el del epigrama votivo sobre una estatua de Marcelo [14] y el de los dos epigramas de Titus Flamininus [17]. Es una circunstancia que parece darse sobre todo en los epigramas votivos. Si el diálogo intergenérico, entre Vitae y epigramas, se fundamenta sobre esa función esencial de los epigramas ‘grabados’, la de aportar veracidad, obtenida de su fijación en un soporte duro y de ser un ‘documento’ de exposición pública, ese diálogo, aunque pueda parecer paradójico, se hace más vivo y es más deliberadamente buscado en el autoepitafio [20a] del célebre misántropo ateniense Timón, que muy probablemente nunca estuvo grabado; ese epigrama de ficción por un anónimo poeta helenístico es seguido por la cita del también epitafio de Timón [20b], que erróneamente Plutarco atribuye a

17

Este epigrama, incluido sorpresivamente por Preger en el capítulo “Epigrammata quae veteres falso contendunt lapidibus inscripta esse”, Inscriptiones graecae metricae, 179, fue imitado por el autor de los versos inscritos en el arco de Hadriano, cf. G. Kaibel, Epigrammata graeca ex lapidibus conlecta (Berlin-Frankfurt a.M.: G. Reimer, 1879) 1045: Αἵδ’ εἴσ’ Ἀθήναι Θησέως ἡ πρὶν πόλις. / Αἵδ’ εἴσ’ Ἀδριανοῦ καὶ οὐχὶ Θησέως πόλις “Esta es la Atenas de Teseo, la ciudad antigua. Esta es la de Hadriano, no la ciudad de Teseo”.

482

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Calímaco y que en la Anthologia Palatina corresponde al segundo dístico de un epigrama de Hegesipo, AP VII 320;18 ambos forman parte de la novella sobre Timón, que Plutarco incorpora en Ant. 70, después de señalar en el final del capítulo 69 que Antonio al final de sus días deja Alejandría y se hace construir una residencia cerca de Faros, rodeada de mar, donde él vivió huyendo de la sociedad de los hombres (¡aunque sólo por un tiempo, pues después de un período de aislamiento regresó a Alejandría junto a Cleopatra!); Antonio decía que amaba y quería imitar la vida de Timón: como él, se sentía víctima de la injusticia y de la ingratitud de sus amigos, y por eso desconfiaba de todos los hombres y sentía odio hacia ellos.19 Los epigramas se unen a una serie de anécdotas, que, en el marco de la novella de Timón – que contiene, además, elementos un tanto fantásticos como que, cuando fue enterrado en Halas, su tumba estuviera en un ribazo al borde del mar que se deslizó y quedó aislado por las aguas – abundan y testifican sobre el comportamiento y el carácter del misántropo Timón. La figura de Timón, a pesar de que el propio Plutarco señala que vivió en el tiempo de la guerra del Peloponeso y las referencias de Aristófanes, Aves 1549 y Lisístrata 809–812 parecen corroborarlo,20 era ya una figura de leyenda en su propio tiempo. De las facetas de una figura compleja, Plutarco se centra en su misantropía y aislamiento, y, como gusta de digresiones, inserta aquí una para separar los clímax de Actium y Alejandría en la trayectoria vital de Antonio, señala Pelling;21 su soledad ha sido cuidadosamente preparada, incluso si no dura mucho (69.6–7), para integrar la historieta de Timón, que le fue inspirada a Plutarco posiblemente a partir de la existencia del Timoneion, “la torre de Timón”, próxima a la Academia de Platón en Atenas.22 Una característica intrínseca de los epigramas sepulcrales literarios es el que con mucha frecuencia contienen fuerte caracterización del personaje;23 tam18 19

20 21 22 23

Es el último de la serie de epigramas relativos a Timón en la Anthologia Palatina (VII 313– 320), el primero de la cual es el autoepitafio (vid. infra). Cf. Str. 17.1.9: Antonio prolongó un promontorio (el Posidonio, donde había un templo de Poseidón) por una mole en el medio del puerto, en el extremo del cual hizo construir la residencia real denominada Timoneion. Vid. también Luciano, Timón o el Misántropo. Su nombre también aparece en Frínico: Austin-Kassel, PCG VII F 19, 409. C.B.R. Pelling, Plutarch: Life of Antony (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), com. ad loc. Paus. 1.30.3–4. Un ejemplo elocuente (próximo también por su forma al que comentamos) lo constituye el epitafio que compuso Posidipo, que en la antología del P.Mil.Vogl. 309, que lo transmite, está en la sección tropoi: C. Austin & G. Bastianini (eds.), Posidippi Pellaei quae supersunt omnia (Milano: LED, 2002) 126, no 102.

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bién, a pesar de su brevedad, aquellos de tradición epigráfica. Por eso sirven muy bien a ese elemento esencial del género biográfico que es la caracterización de los biografiados y, por su idiosincrasia, especialmente a la biografía plutarquea. Plutarco, en el prólogo programático de Nicias 1.5 declara haber circunscrito el relato a las acciones de los personajes que son esenciales y, en cambio, haber dado cabida a lo ignorado por casi todo el mundo, habiendo reunido lo diseminado aquí y allá en los escritores, en monumentos y en decretos “no para componer una historia inútil, sino para ofrecer aquella que hace comprender un carácter (ἤθος) y una conducta (τρόπος)”. A Plutarco le interesa el personaje, el hombre y su carácter, a iluminar el cual, como escribe en el prólogo de Alexandros, una acción modesta, un dicho o un scherzo sirven más y mejor que una gran empresa, una gran batalla, el asedio de una ciudad o un gesto excepcional. De ahí la multitud de anécdotas (incluso algunos de los epigramas han experimentado una remodelación genérica en este sentido24), episodios o dichos que pueblan su relato y que fascinaron y siguen fascinando a sus lectores. Aunque sus personajes sean en su mayoría históricos y sus fuentes sean históricas, las Vidas Paralelas programáticamente son obra biográfica, no historiográfica. Además de los epigramas citados en último lugar, que junto a los otros elementos que conforman la historia de Timón caracterizan muy bien su carácter y su conducta, y, “en segundo grado”, la de Antonio durante un breve periodo de su vida, hay otros epigramas que también lo hacen. El epigrama [2] está insertado en un apotegma (de hecho el apotegma está construido sobre el epigrama), el cual forma parte de una serie de apotegmas que en el capítulo 20 de Lycurgus caracterizan el uso del lenguaje por parte de los espartanos; nuestro apotegma ejemplifica el que los espartanos nunca solían tomar una palabra a la ligera ni proferir voz alguna que no encerrara, al menos en cierto sentido, una idea merecedora de alguna consideración. Fuertemente caracterizador de la ideología antimacedónica de Demóstenes y de su actuar es el epigrama [9] de Dem. 30, a pesar de su brevedad (¡un dístico!); de nuevo caracterizador de la mentalidad espartana, ahora en lo que se refiere al “vivir” y al “morir”, que per se no son hermosos si no se realizan ambos de forma digna, es el epigrama [10] de Pel. 1; y, sobre todo, el dedicado a Arato [13] en Arat. 14, un epigrama-homenaje marcadamente encomiástico de su buen hacer como estadista y caudillo mili-

24

F. Pordomingo, “La reutilización de citas de epigramas: una manifestación del diálogo intratextual en el corpus plutarqueo”, in A.G. Nikolaidis (ed.), The Unity of Plutarch’s Work. Moralia Themes in the Lives, Features of the Lives in the Moralia (Berlin-New York: De Gruyter, 2008) 33–51.

484

pordomingo

tar. El físico y el carácter de Catón son retratados de forma un tanto mordaz en el pequeño epigrama [18] de Ca. Ma. 1. La función lógica o de autoridad, bien sea para avalar un hecho o para caracterizar a un personaje parece ser, pues, la predominante en el uso del epigrama en Vitae; pero el hecho de introducir unos versos en el discurso no cabe la menor duda de que aporta ornato a éste y énfasis retórico a una idea, que también podría ser expresada mediante la prosa. Creo que la función ornativa se hace más marcada en aquellos epigramas con un lenguaje poético más elaborado, como [11], en el que el hexámetro está prácticamente ocupado por dos adjetivos compuestos, hapax legomena ambos, y el pentámetro está marcado por el juego de la repetición de la misma palabra, en distinto caso y en diminutivo. Función ornativa, con marcado enrequecimiento genérico al ser tres los epigramas citados, la tienen los tres epigramas grabados en el Pórtico de los Hermes [7]. Pero, en el otro extremo, esa función ornativa se da también en aquellos que son realmente un ‘documento’ revestido de forma poética: los epigramas [1] y [15], de contenido geográfico.

5

La aportación de Plutarco al género epigramático

Detengámonos ahora brevemente en lo que aporta Plutarco en las Vitae a la historia del genero epigramático. En nueve casos es fuente única, en los demás podemos confrontar el texto del epigrama aportado por Plutarco con el de otras fuentes y hacer una valoración. Los contenidos de estos epigramas ya los hemos ido desgranando; a pesar de la brillante representación del género en época helenística con una riquísima variedad temática, solo encontramos una reducida representación de la misma en Vitae: son epigramas sepulcrales y votivos en su mayoría, algunos podrían entrar en la categoría de epigramas ‘históricos’25 (los citados en Cim. 7.4), otros en la de epigramas-homenaje (los de las Vitae de Demóstenes, Arato y el primero de los dos citados en Pomp. 27.3), categoría muy productiva en esa época; algunos son satíricos (los relativos a Timón y Catón); no encontramos epigramas amorosos, ni simposíacos, ni de contenido bucólico, ni ecfrásticos … Pero, en su elección, Plutarco es consecuente con lo que se esperaría en una obra biográfica con las características de sus Vitae y también con su mentalidad.

25

Sobre la entidad de esta categoría epigramática vid. Bravi, Gli epigrammi di Simonide, 37– 41.

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485

En cuanto a la literalidad de la cita, que afecta a la forma del epigrama transmitido, voy a detenerme en los tres casos que me parece de especial interés comentar y para los que es posible confrontar con otras fuentes, lo cual permite sacar algunas conclusiones, aunque no sean seguras: el epigrama [3], transmitido en Arist. 19.7, presenta la forma bastante insólita de dos hexámetros y un pentámetro, aunque tiene algún paralelo;26 transmitido también en las antologías Palatina (AP VI 50) y Planudea en las que es atribuido a Simónides, allí está formado por dos dísticos, es decir, aparece un pentámetro siguiendo al primer hexámetro. El epigrama es de bastante mala factura: parece obra de alguien que busca cómo disponer el texto en un marco métrico predeterminado, pero resultando un orden de palabras muy difícil: τόνδε (v. 1) … κοινὸν (v. 3) … βωμὸν (v. 4) (¡un sintagma nominal distribuido entre tres versos!), y ello se agrava con la incorporación del pentámetro, que contiene una frase de participio de presente en asíndeton con una de participio de aoristo, sí justificado éste, en el v. 3. Creo que es una construcción sintáctica pésima. En la tradición del epigrama recogida por la Anthologia Palatina no sólo se adscribió – es probable que erróneamente – a Simónides sino que se le añadió ese verso, en mi opinión espurio, porque el formato métrico no respondía a los estándares. Creo que el texto que transmite Plutarco es el originario, creado quizá por un anónimo ‘poeta amateur’. En Cim. 7, Plutarco transmite los mismos tres epigramas conmemorativos de la expedición de Cimón a Tracia [7], que Esquines, Contra Ctesifonte 184, con bastantes variantes, que afectan no tanto a formas ‘dialectales’ (el lenguaje es claramente épico en ambos) como a la fraseología y al léxico; en Esquines: II 2 μεγάλης ἀρετῆς; 4 ἀμφὶ ξυνοῖσι πράγμασι μόχθον ἔχειν; III 2 ἂμ πεδίον; 3 Δαναῶν πύκα χαλκοχιτώνων; 6 κοσμητάς. Ello dificulta considerar a Esquines fuente de Plutarco. A pesar de esas variantes, sí lo consideran Flacelière y Chambry,27 que aducen como argumento que Plutarco observa inmediatamente después de citarlos que el nombre de Cimón no figura en ellos y que es eso justamente lo que Esquines quiere señalar al citar las inscripciones; además, a las palabras de Esquines καὶ ἔδωκεν αὐτοῖς ὁ δῆμος τιμὰς μεγάλας, ὡς τότ’ ἐδόκει, τρεῖς λιθίνους Ἑρμᾶς στῆσαι ἐν τῇ στοᾷ τῇ τῶν Ἑρμῶν, corresponde exactamente la frase de

26

27

W. Peek, Griechische Vers-Inschriften I. Grab-Epigramme (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1955) 82 (Atenas, temprano s. IV a. C.); IG II2 4319 (dedicación de una estatua a Atenea; mediados del s. IV a. C.); Preger, Inscriptiones graecae metricae, 116 (una dedicación de Sila del 82 a. C.); tres hexámetros y un pentámetro contiene AP XIII 16, dedicación de un grupo escultórico por Cinisca, hija de Arquidamo y hermana de Agis y Agesilao, en Olimpia. R. Flacelière & E. Chambry, Plutarque. Vies, Tome VII (Paris: Belles Lettres, 1972) 10.

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pordomingo

Plutarco τιμῆς ὑπερβολὴν ἔχειν ἐδόκει τοῖς τότ’ ἀνθρώποις. Estos epigramas han sido objeto de interés por parte de varios estudiosos,28 que se han pronunciado con distintas hipótesis también sobre un aspecto que ahora nos interesa, el del orden de los epigramas; así, Preger y Page29 los imprimen en el orden III, I, II, orden quizá más lógico desde el punto de vista semántico, como una secuencia pensada para ser leídos, obra de un epigramatista y organizados así en una mini antología; se ha pensado, incluso, en un solo poema originariamente del que se desgajarían los epigramas, pues se han visto dificultades para el comienzo del primer epigrama como comienzo absoluto de una composición; sin embargo, ἦν ἄρα también está en un epigrama relativo a la batalla de Maratón, grabado en la base de un monumento;30 δέ, en el segundo epigrama, lo encontramos como comienzo de poemas líricos de ejecución oral, particularmente simposíacos, pero también de otros; ποτε, en el tercero, es comienzo típico de epigramas sepulcrales colectivos, conmemorativos de un hecho ocurrido tiempo atrás; podemos pensar en el diálogo que se establece en estos epigramas, grabados en tres Hermes distintos, no tanto entre sí como con el lector de los epigramas; así las partículas ἄρα y δέ, que en comienzos absolutos podrían ofrecer dificultad, refiriéndolas a ese contexto no. En Ant. 70, el epigrama [20b] es atribuido falsamente a Calímaco; es el segundo de los epigramas sobre Cimón citados en el pasaje, que sigue al del autoepitafio de Timón [20a]; ambos son transmitidos en la Anthologia Palatina: el autoepitafio, como adespoton, AP VII 313; el atribuido a Calímaco, como segundo dístico de un epigrama de Hegesipo, AP VII 320; son el primero y el último de una serie de epigramas relativos a Timón en Anthologia Palatina VII: 313 (adespoton); 314 (de Ptolemeo); 315 (de Zenódoto o de Riano); 316 (de Leónidas o Antípatro); 317 (de Calímaco); 318 (de Calímaco); 319 (adespoton); 320 (de Hegesipo); son epitafios ficticios, satíricos, sobre una figura peculiar, que se muestra querida para la epigramatística helenística, siendo un claro ejemplo de la ‘variación por temas’ en la organización de los epigramas, hallada en las antologías epigramáticas helenísticas. ¿Usó Plutarco alguna antología de epigramas que pasó después a engrosar la Antología Griega, en la que figuraraba la serie, los leyó y recordó el primer epigrama de ella (a Plutarco sería imputable el considerarlo un autoepitafio) y el segundo dístico del último, y los añadió a

28

29 30

H.T. Wade-Gery, “Classical Epigrams and Epitaphs: A Study of the Kimonian Age”, JHS 53 (1933) 71–104; F. Jacoby, “Some Athenian Epigrams from the Persian Wars”, Hesperia 14 (1945) 185–211; A.W. Gomme, “The Eion Epigram”, CR 67 (1948) 5–7. Preger, Inscriptiones graecae metricae, 120; Page, Epigrammata graeca, 24. Page, Epigrammata Graeca, 16 [“Simonides XX”]; P.A. Hansen, Carmina epigraphica graeca saeculorum VIII–V a. Chr. n. (Berlin-New York: De Gruyter, 1983) 24, no 2.

487

las vitae de plutarco y el epigrama table 31.1 Epigramas citados, fuentes antiguas, corpora modernos Epigramas Vitae [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12]

[13] [14] [15] [16a y b]

[17a y b] [18] [19] [20a y b]

Thes. 25 (Str. 3.5.5; 9.1.6) Lyc. 20 (Apophth. Lac. 217F) Arist. 19 (De Her. mal. 873B) Arist. 20 Them. 1 Them. 8 (De Her. mal. 867F) Cim. 7 (Aeschin. In Ctesiph. 183–185) Nic. 17 “Euripides” Dem. 30 (Dec. or. vit. 847B) Pel. 1 Tim. 31 “Mamercus” Pyrrh. 26 (Diod. 22.11; Paus. 1.13.3) Arat. 14 Marc. 30 Aem. 15 Flam. 9 (16a) “Alcaeus” y (16b) “Philippus” Flam. 12 (17a y b) Ca. Ma. 1 Pomp. 27 Ant. 70 (20a) y (20b) “kallimacheion”

AP/Pl

Preger

FGE

EG

p. 212

p. 13

273 41 AP VI 50; PlA “Simonides”

78 77

AP VII 306

153

p. 333 p. 353 p. 237 p. 19 “Simonides” “Simonides” p. 24

9

p. 156

159

p. 447

3 115 AP VI 130; PlA “Leonidas”

96

150 168 98 a) AP VII 247 “Alcaeus” 93 y 92 219 a) AP VII 313 264 b) AP VII 320, 3–4 “Hegesippus”

p. 44

p. 71 p. 57 “Mamercus” p. 169 “Leonidas” p. 456 p. 461

b) p. 79 “Philippus” p. 477 p. 481

p. 206 “Alcaeus” p. 213 “Philippus”

b) p. 136

su relato, atribuyendo el último, por un fallo de memoria, al epigramatista helenístico que le era el más familiar y era autor de dos de los epigramas de la serie? La atribución a Calímaco se ve reforzada por la similitud entre el epigrama AP VII 318 de Calímaco31 y este dístico del de Hegesipo: la frase final de los hexá-

31

Μὴ χαίρειν εἴπῃς με, κακὸν κέαρ, ἀλλὰ πάρελθε· / ἶσον ἐμοὶ χαίρειν ἐστὶ τὸ μὴ σὲ πελᾶν.

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metros es la misma y la frase final del pentámetro de Calímaco ha sufrido en el final del de Hegesipo variación formal, que no semántica. Hemos intentado explorar el efecto literario que en algunas Vitae de Plutarco produce la presencia de epigramas. Sin duda puede ser etiquetado, de manera global, de ‘enriquecimiento genérico’, que en este caso se lleva a cabo a través del mecanismo de la citación y del consiguiente diálogo intertextual e intergenérico. La función predominante de los epigramas es la de servir de aval en una argumentación, la llamada ‘retórica de la prueba’, es decir servir de fiel testimonio de la acción o consecuencias de la misma presentadas en un determinado relato, o de una disertación o de una simple declaración, y al lado, la de servir a la caracterización de los biografiados. Los epigramas citados, por el tipo al que responden, contribuyen a recuperar la imagen del autor de las Vitae como pensador, filósofo, polemista a veces, educador. Sirven también como ornato del discurso y hay detalles que apelan a la memoria del lector u oyente, como los adjetivos con los que algunos son calificados: ‘traído y llevado’; ‘conocido’. Es así que, si bien en el análisis del diálogo intertextual e intergenérico entre las Vitae y el Epigrama pueden ser aisladas las distintas facetas del fenómeno, en la práctica literaria están sometidas a una copresencia e interrelación.

Apéndice de epigramas citados [1] Theseus 25.4 Προσκτησάμενος δὲ τῇ Ἀττικῇ τὴν Μεγαρικὴν βεβαίως, τὴν θρυλουμένην ἐν Ἰσθμῷ στήλην ἔστησεν, ἐπιγράψας τὸ διορίζον ἐπίγραμμα τὴν χώραν δυσὶ τριμέτροις, ὧν ἔφραζε τὸ μὲν πρὸς ἕω· Τάδ’ οὐχὶ Πελοπόννησος, ἀλλ’ Ἰωνία, τὸ δὲ πρὸς ἑσπέραν· Τάδ’ ἐστὶ Πελοπόννησος, οὐκ Ἰωνία. 273 Preger

[2] Lycurgus 20.5 ὁ δὲ ἀναγνοὺς τὸ ἐπίγραμμα τοῦτο· Σβεννύντας ποτὲ τούσδε τυραννίδα χάλκεος Ἄρης εἷλε· Σελινοῦντος δ’ ἀμφὶ πύλας ἔθανον. 41 Preger

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“Δικαίως,” εἶπε, “τεθνάκαντι τοὶ ἄνδρες· ἔδει γὰρ ἀφέμεν ὅλαν αὐτὰν κατακαᾶμεν.” [3] Aristides 19.7 καὶ τὸν βωμὸν οὐκ ἂν ἐπέγραψαν οὕτως, εἰ μόναι τρεῖς πόλεις ἠγωνίσαντο, τῶν ἄλλων ἀτρέμα καθεζομένων· τόνδε ποθ’ Ἕλλανες νίκας κράτει, ἔργῳ Ἄρηος, ⟨εὐτόλμῳ ψυχῆς λήματι πειθομένοι⟩ Πέρσας ἐξελάσαντες ἐλευθέρᾳ Ἑλλάδι κοινὸν ἱδρύσαντο Διὸς βωμὸν Ἐλευθερίου. AP VI 50; Pl “Simonides”; 78 Preger; FGE, p. 212

[4] Aristides 20.6 ἀγάμενοι δ’ αὐτὸν οἱ Πλαταιεῖς ἔθαψαν ἐν τῷ ἱερῷ τῆς Εὐκλείας Ἀρτέμιδος, ἐπιγράψαντες τὸ τετράμετρον τοῦτο· Εὐχίδας Πυθῶδε θρέξας ἦλθε ⟨τᾷδ’⟩ αὐθημερόν. 77 Preger

[5] Themistocles 1.1 Θεμιστοκλεῖ δὲ τὰ μὲν ἐκ γένους ἀμαυρότερα πρὸς δόξαν ὑπῆρχε· πατρὸς γὰρ ἦν Νεοκλέους οὐ τῶν ἄγαν ἐπιφανῶν Ἀθήνησι, Φρεαρρίου τῶν δήμων ἐκ τῆς Λεωντίδος φυλῆς, νόθος δὲ πρὸς μητρός, ὡς λέγουσιν· Ἁβρότονον Θρήισσα γυνὴ γένος· ἀλλὰ τεκέσθαι τὸν μέγαν Ἕλλησίν φημι Θεμιστοκλέα. AP VII 306; FGE, p. 333

[6] Themistocles 8.5 ἐν μιᾷ δὲ τῶν στηλῶν ἐλεγεῖον ἦν τόδε γεγραμμένον· παντοδαπῶν ἀνδρῶν γενεὰς Ἀσίας ἀπὸ χώρας παῖδες Ἀθηναίων τῷδέ ποτ’ ἐν πελάγει ναυμαχίᾳ δαμάσαντες, ἐπεὶ στρατὸς ὤλετο Μήδων, σήματα ταῦτ’ ἔθεσαν παρθένῳ Ἀρτέμιδι. FGE, p. 237

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[7] Cimon 7.4 καὶ τοὺς Ἑρμᾶς αὐτῷ τοὺς λιθίνους ὁ δῆμος ἀναθεῖναι συνεχώρησεν, ὧν ἐπιγέγραπται τῷ μὲν πρώτῳ· ἦν ἄρα κἀκεῖνοι ταλακάρδιοι, οἵ ποτε Μήδων παισὶν ἐπ’ Ἠϊόνι, Στρυμόνος ἀμφὶ ῥοάς, λιμόν τ’ αἴθωνα κρυερόν τ’ ἐπάγοντες Ἄρηα πρῶτοι δυσμενέων εὗρον ἀμηχανίην. τῷ δὲ δευτέρῳ· ἡγεμόνεσσι δὲ μισθὸν Ἀθηναῖοι τάδ’ ἔδωκαν ἀντ’ εὐεργεσίης καὶ μεγάλων ἀγαθῶν. μᾶλλόν τις τάδ’ ἰδὼν καὶ ἐπεσσομένων ἐθελήσει ἀμφὶ περὶ ξυνοῖς πράγμασι δῆριν ἔχειν. τῷ δὲ τρίτῳ· ἔκ ποτε τῆσδε πόληος ἅμ’ Ἀτρείδῃσι Μενεσθεὺς ἡγεῖτο ζάθεον Τρωικὸν ἐς πεδίον· ὅν ποθ’ Ὅμηρος ἔφη Δαναῶν πύκα θωρηκτάων κοσμητῆρα μάχης ἔξοχον ὄντα μολεῖν. οὕτως οὐδὲν ἀεικὲς Ἀθηναίοισι καλεῖσθαι κοσμηταῖς πολέμου τ’ ἀμφὶ καὶ ἠνορέης. 153 Preger

[8] Nicias 17.4 ὁ μὲν γὰρ Εὐριπίδης μετὰ τὴν ἧτταν αὐτῶν καὶ τὸν ὄλεθρον γράφων ἐπικήδειον ἐποίησεν· οἵδε Συρακοσίους ὀκτὼ νίκας ἐκράτησαν ἄνδρες, ὅτ’ ἦν τὰ θεῶν ἐξ ἴσου ἀμφοτέροις. 9 Preger; FGE, p. 156

[9] Demosthenes 30.5 καὶ τὸ ἐπίγραμμα τὸ θρυλούμενον ἐπιγραφῆναι τῇ βάσει τοῦ ἀνδριάντος· εἴπερ ἴσην γνώμῃ ῥώμην Δημόσθενες ἔσχες, οὔποτ’ ἂν Ἑλλήνων ἦρξεν Ἄρης Μακεδών. 159 Preger; FGE, p. 447

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[10] Pelopidas 1.7 Λακεδαιμονίοις δὲ καὶ ζῆν ἡδέως καὶ θνῄσκειν ἀμφότερα ἀρετὴ παρεῖχεν, ὡς δηλοῖ τὸ ἐπικήδειον· “οἵδε” γάρ φησιν “ἔθανον ⟨ οἵδ’ ἔθανον⟩ οὐ τὸ ζῆν θέμενοι καλὸν οὐδὲ τὸ θνῄσκειν, ἀλλὰ τὸ ταῦτα καλῶς ἀμφότερ’ ἐκτελέσαι”. 3 Preger

[11] Timoleon 31.1 Οἱ δὲ πολλοὶ τῶν Συρακοσίων ἐχαλέπαινον, ὑπὸ τῶν τυράννων προπηλακιζόμενοι. καὶ γὰρ ὁ Μάμερκος, ἐπὶ τῷ ποιήματα γράφειν καὶ τραγῳδίας μέγα φρονῶν, ἐκόμπαζε νικήσας τοὺς μισθοφόρους, καὶ τὰς ἀσπίδας ἀναθεὶς τοῖς θεοῖς ἐλεγεῖον ὑβριστικὸν ἐπέγραψε· τάσδ’ ὀστρειογραφεῖς καὶ χρυσελεφαντηλέκτρους ἀσπίδας ἀσπιδίοις εἵλομεν εὐτελέσιν. 115 Preger; FGE, p. 71

[12] Pyrrhus 26.9 ὁ δὲ Πύρρος ⟨ἐν⟩ εὐτυχήμασι τοσούτοις μέγιστον αὑτῷ πρὸς δόξαν οἰόμενος διαπεπρᾶχθαι τὸ περὶ τοὺς Γαλάτας, τὰ κάλλιστα καὶ λαμπρότατα τῶν λαφύρων ἀνέθηκεν εἰς τὸ ἱερὸν τῆς Ἰτωνίδος Ἀθηνᾶς, τόδε τὸ ἐλεγεῖον ἐπιγράψας· Τοὺς θυρεοὺς ὁ Μολοσσὸς Ἰτωνίδι δῶρον Ἀθάνᾳ Πύρρος ἀπὸ θρασέων ἐκρέμασεν Γαλατᾶν, πάντα τὸν Ἀντιγόνου καθελὼν στρατόν· οὐ μέγα θαῦμα αἰχμηταὶ καὶ νῦν καὶ πάρος Αἰακίδαι. AP VI 130; Pl “Leonidas”; 96 Preger

[13] Aratus 14.3 ἐφ’ οἷς οὐ μόνον κοινῇ σύμπαντες οἱ πολῖται τιμὰς ἀπέδοσαν αὐτῷ πρεπούσας, ἀλλὰ καὶ κατ’ ἰδίαν οἱ φυγάδες εἰκόνα χαλκῆν ἀναστήσαντες ἐπέγραψαν τόδε τὸ ἐλεγεῖον· βουλαὶ μὲν καὶ ἄεθλα καὶ ἁ περὶ Ἑλλάδος ἀλκά τοῦδ’ ἀνδρὸς στάλᾳ πλάθεται Ἡρακλέους· ἄμμες δ’ εἰκόν’ Ἄρατε τεὰν νόστοιο τυχόντες στάσαμεν ἀντ’ ἀρετᾶς ἠδὲ δικαιοσύνας, σωτῆρος σωτῆρσι θεοῖς, ὅτι πατρίδι τᾷ σᾷ δᾶμον ἴσον θείαν τ’ ὤπασας εὐνομίαν. 150 Preger; FGE, p. 456

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[14] Marcellus 30.7 ἐκεῖ δ’αὐτοῦ τῷ ἀνδριάντι τοῦτ’ ἦν ἐπιγεγραμμένον, ὡς Ποσειδώνιός φησι (FGrHist 87 F 44), τὸ ἐπίγραμμα· Οὗτός τοι Ῥώμης ὁ μέγας, ξένε, πατρίδος ἀστός, Μάρκελλος κλεινῶν Κλαύδιος ἐκ πατέρων, ἑπτάκι τὰν ὑπάταν ἀρχὰν ἐν Ἄρηϊ φυλάξας, ᾧ πολὺν ἀντιπάλων ἐγκατέχευε φόνον. 168 Preger; FGE, p. 461

[15] Aemilius Paulus 15.9–11 ἐνταῦθα τοῦ Ὀλύμπου τὸ ὕψος ἀνατείνει πλέον ἢ δέκα σταδίους· σημαίνεται δ’ ἐπιγράμματι τοῦ μετρήσαντος οὕτως· Οὐλύμπου κορυφῆς ἐπὶ Πυθίου Ἀπόλλωνος ἱεροῦ ὕψος ἔχει (πρὸς τὴν κάθετον δ’ ἐμετρήθη) πλήρη μὲν δεκάδα σταδίων μίαν, αὐτὰρ ἐπ’ αὐτῇ πλέθρον τετραπέδῳ λειπόμενον μεγέθει. Εὐμήλου δέ μιν υἱὸς ἐθήκατο μέτρα κελεύθου Ξειναγόρης· σὺ δ’, ἄναξ χαῖρε καὶ ἐσθλὰ δίδου. 98 Preger

καίτοι λέγουσιν οἱ γεωμετρικοὶ μήτ’ ὄρους ὕψος μήτε βάθος θαλάσσης ὑπερβάλλειν δέκα σταδίους. ὁ μέντοι Ξεναγόρας οὐ παρέργως, ἀλλὰ μεθόδῳ καὶ δι’ ὀργάνων εἰληφέναι δοκεῖ τὴν μέτρησιν. [16a y b] Titus Flamininus 9.2–4 ὧν μάλιστα διὰ στόματος ἦν τουτὶ τὸ ἐπίγραμμα· Ἄκλαυστοι καὶ ἄθαπτοι, ὁδοιπόρε, τῷδ’ ἐπὶ νώτῳ Θεσσαλίης τρισσαὶ κείμεθα μυριάδες, Αἰτωλῶν δμηθέντες ὑπ’ Ἄρεος ἠδὲ Λατίνων, οὓς Τίτος εὐρείης ἤγαγ’ ἀπ’ Ἰταλίης, Ἠμαθίῃ μέγα πῆμα. τὸ δὲ θρασὺ κεῖνο Φιλίππου πνεῦμα θοῶν ἐλάφων ᾤχετ’ ἐλαφρότερον. AP VII 247, “Alcaeus”

τοῦτ’ ἐποίησε μὲν Ἀλκαῖος, ἐφυβρίζων Φιλίππῳ καὶ τὸν ἀριθμὸν τῶν ἀποθανόντων ἐπιψευσάμενος· λεγόμενον δὲ πολλαχοῦ καὶ ὑπὸ πολλῶν, μᾶλλον ἠνία τὸν Τίτον ἢ τὸν Φίλιππον. ὁ μὲν γὰρ ἀντικωμῳδῶν τὸν Ἀλκαῖον τῷ ἐλεγείῳ, παρέβαλλεν·

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Ἄφλοιος καὶ ἄφυλλος, ὁδοιπόρε, τῷδ’ ἐπὶ νώτῳ Ἀλκαίῳ σταυρὸς πήγνυται ἠλίβατος. FGE, p. 79

[17a y b] Titus Flamininus 12.11–12 καὶ αὐτὸς δὲ μέγιστον ἐφρόνησεν ἐπὶ τῇ τῆς Ἑλλάδος ἐλευθερώσει. ἀνατιθεὶς γὰρ εἰς Δελφοὺς ἀσπίδας ἀργυρᾶς καὶ τὸν ἑαυτοῦ θυρεόν, ἐπέγραψε· Ζηνὸς ἰὼ κραιπναῖσι γεγαθότες ἱπποσύναισι κοῦροι, ἰὼ Σπάρτας Τυνδαρίδαι βασιλεῖς, Αἰνεάδας Τίτος ὔμμιν ὑπέρτατον ὤπασε δῶρον, Ἑλλάνων τεύξας παισὶν ἐλευθερίαν. Preger 93; FGE, p. 477

ἀνέθηκε δὲ καὶ χρυσοῦν τῷ Ἀπόλλωνι στέφανον, ἐπιγράψας· Τόνδε τοι ἀμβροσίοισιν ἐπὶ πλοκάμοισιν ἔθηκε κεῖσθαι Λατοΐδα χρυσοφαῆ στέφανον, ὃν πόρεν, Αἰνεαδᾶν ταγὸς μέγας. ἀλλ’, Ἑκάεργε, ἀλκᾶς τῷ θείῳ κῦδος ὄπαζε Τίτῳ. Preger 92; FGE, p. 477

[18] Cato Maior 1.4 ἦν δὲ τὸ μὲν εἶδος ὑπόπυρρος καὶ γλαυκός, ὡς ὁ ποιήσας τὸ ἐπιγραμμάτιον οὐκ εὐμενῶς παρεμφαίνει· πυρρόν, πανδακέτην, γλαυκόμματον, οὐδὲ θανόντα Πόρκιον εἰς ἀίδην Φερσεφόνη δέχεται. FGE, p. 481

[19] Pompeius 27.3 εὐθὺς ἀπιὼν ἀνεγίνωσκεν εἰς αὐτὸν ἐπιγεγραμμένα μονόστιχα, τὸ μὲν ἐντὸς τῆς πύλης· Ἐφ’ ὅσον ὢν ἄνθρωπος οἶδας, ἐπὶ τοσοῦτον εἶ θεός· τὸ δ’ ἐκτός· Προσεδοκῶμεν, προσεκυνοῦμεν, εἴδομεν, προπέμπομεν. 219 Preger

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[20a y b] Antonius 70.6–8 τελευτήσαντος δ’ αὐτοῦ καὶ ταφέντος Ἁλῆσι παρὰ τὴν θάλασσαν, ὤλισθε τὰ προὔχοντα τοῦ αἰγιαλοῦ, καὶ τὸ κῦμα περιελθὸν ἄβατον καὶ ἀπροσπέλαστον ἀνθρώπῳ πεποίηκε τὸν τάφον. ἦν δ’ ἐπιγεγραμμένον· ἐνθάδ’ ἀπορρήξας ψυχὴν βαρυδαίμονα κεῖμαι. τοὔνομα δ’ οὐ πεύσεσθε, κακοὶ δὲ κακῶς ἀπόλοισθε. AP VII 313; 264 Preger

καὶ τοῦτο μὲν αὐτὸν ἔτι ζῶντα πεποιηκέναι λέγουσι, τὸ δὲ περιφερόμενον Καλλιμάχειόν ἐστι· Τίμων μισάνθρωπος ἐνοικέω. ἀλλὰ πάρελθε, οἰμώζειν εἴπας πολλά, πάρελθε μόνον. AP VII 320, 3–4, “Hegesippus”

chapter 32

Defining Rhetoric While Playing with Pre-texts: Some Aspects of Intertextuality in Plutarch’s Praecepta gerendae reipublicae 801C–D Theofanis Tsiampokalos

Abstract The present chapter addresses a passage from Plutarch’s Praecepta gerendae reipublicae that can be found where the section referring to the need for the statesman’s ethical development intersects with the section concerning rhetoric. In this passage, Plutarch remarks that even though he had earlier ascribed everything to virtue, he shall now consent that rhetoric, too, has a role to play in politics. Though not defined as the “craftsman” of persuasion but just as a “factor helping for persuasion,” rhetoric is still regarded as necessary for the good statesman to exercise his power on the irrational and aggressive impulses of the mass. Despite the fact that the passage has strongly attracted the attention of scholars, there is still room for analysis of this ‘secondary place’ that Plutarch has reserved for rhetoric. My intention here is to explore the extent to which taking a closer look both at the literary/rhetorical aspect of this passage and in the way and the conditions under which pre-textual presence occurs in it could yield a deeper understanding of the attitude expressed by Plutarch towards a subject as loaded as rhetoric during that period.

The present chapter applies the concept of intertextuality in an effort to shed some more light on the dynamics underlying the much-discussed passage from the Praecepta gerendae reipublicae dealing with the definition of rhetoric. In literary theory intertextuality marks, generally, the quality of texts to be referred to other texts.1 The term was coined by Julia Kristeva in an effort to apply and expand, in her own theory, earlier conceptualizations of Mikhail Bakhtin, particularly his notion of dialogism. Bakhtin saw speaking as entirely contained within a communication process, whose several parts cannot be fully mean-

1 A. Nünning (ed.), Metzler Lexikon der Literatur- und Kulturtheorie (Stuttgart-Weimar: J.B. Metzler, 2013, 5th ed.) 349.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004427860_034

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ingful by themselves but rather to the extent that they are situated with each other in relations of dialogical significance: even single words or sentences, as far as they constitute utterances, cannot be fully apprehended on the basis of their thematic content, since their status as formations participating in a constant dialogue between authors and the socio-historical context makes them become dependent on other utterances, either preceding or anticipated, either assignable to some identifiable person or simply deriving from established rules, norms, opinions, etc.2 Kristeva builds on this dynamic model of the signification process, yet chooses to emphasize not the utterance, but the notion of the text. According to her, Bakhtin’s theory offers an understanding of the text that encourages us to no longer view the text as a point exhibiting a fixed uniformity, but rather as an “intersection of textual surfaces […], as a dialogue among several writings: that of the writer, the addressee (or the character) and the contemporary or earlier cultural context.”3 Kristeva calls intertextuality this quality of texts to be constructed as a kind of ‘mosaic’ made of materials from different signifying systems, i.e. from different texts, and defines it as an analytical category for investigating textual signification procedures, apparently not any more from the traditional viewpoint, which perceives texts as direct expressions of their authors’ wills, but from a more sophisticated viewpoint, which acknowledges multiplicity of voices as an inherent characteristic of text.4 The Praecepta gerendae reipublicae is a text divided into a series of thematic sections, and the passage I am bringing to discussion here can be found where the section referring to the need for the statesman’s ethical development intersects with the section concerning rhetoric.5 In the previous section, Plutarch systematically tries to show that in politics the major, or even the exclusive, means to persuade others is through the character of a man constantly practicing temperance in life.6 However, as soon as he continues to the new section, and rhetoric emerges as a thematically dominant figure, the acute character

2 M. Bakhtin, Speech Genres and Other Late Essays, transl. by V.W. McGee (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1986) 77–99. 3 J. Kristeva, Desire in Language. A Semiotic Approach to Literature and Art, transl. by Th. Gora, A. Jardine, & L.S. Roudiez (New York: Columbia University Press, 1980) 65. 4 See Kristeva, Desire, 65. 5 On the various sections, see e.g. E. Valgiglio, Plutarco. Praecepta Gerendae Reipublicae (Milan: Instituto Editoriale Cisalpino-La Goliardica, 1976) xiii–xvii; J.-Cl. Carrière & M. Cuvigny, Plutarque. Oeuvres Morales. Tome XI, 2e partie (Paris: Belles Lettres, 2003, 2nd ed.) 5–9; P. Desideri, “La vita politica cittadina nell’impero: lettura dei Praecepta gerendae rei publicae e dell’An seni res publica gerenda sit,” Athenaeum 64 (1986) 372–373. 6 Praec. ger. reip. 800A–801C.

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of this argument is immediately downgraded. The philosopher remarks that, even though he had before ascribed everything to virtue, he shall now consent that rhetoric, too, has a role to play in politics. Though defined not as the “craftsman” (δημιουργός) of persuasion but as a “factor helping for persuasion” (συνεργὸς πειθοῦς),7 rhetoric is still necessary for the good statesman to exercise his power over the irrational and aggressive impulses of the masses. This is arguably a very meaningful passage to delineate Plutarch’s views on rhetoric, despite the fact that it has attracted much attention from scholars, it seems that there are still points to be discussed.8 To be more precise, though it is beyond doubt that with this definition rhetoric is granted a place within the field of the idealized version of politics that Plutarch describes in this text, it is still not very clear whether this ‘secondary place’ that the philosopher reserves for rhetoric should be regarded as a positive or a negative factor. If we generally accept that, during the process of reading, earlier parts of a text create expectations in the reader’s mind and thus constitute a frame of reference within which the parts that follow acquire meaning, then one may wonder whether, in this case too, this ‘secondary place’ is something that refers to rhetoric per se or something that results from the assignment of the passage in a given context. Should we read this kind of inferiority as an innate characteristic of rhetoric, or should we take it as an indication of a compromise, for example, with an established ideological hierarchy? And, of course, if we choose the latter option, which is what I am inclined to do now, we might also need to think about how this restriction affects Plutarch’s message. In what way is his own ‘authorial’ rhetoric in this passage shaped by the acknowledgment of such limitations? Confronted with these questions, it is useful, now, to turn to Kristeva’s concept of intertextuality, for it seems to have the potential to serve as good heuristic tool for our current purpose. I am taking the concept in the broader sense. In my approach, intertextuality involves not only explicit references to other texts (citations, allusions, etc.)9 and the use of well-known thematic and structural

7 All translations from Greek and Latin texts are my own. 8 See e.g. R. Jeuckens, Plutarch von Chaeronea und die Rhetorik (Strassburg: Trübner, 1907) 18– 30; G.J.D. Aalders, Plutarch’s Political Thought (Amsterdam-Oxford-New York: North-Holland Publishing Company, 1982) 48; H.M. Martin Jr., “Plutarch,” in S.E. Porter (ed.), Handbook of Classical Rhetoric in the Hellenistic Period (330 BC–AD 400) (Leiden-New York-Cologne: Brill, 1997) 729; P. Cosenza, “L’uso dello σκῶμμα e del γελοῖον nei Praecepta gerendae reipublicae di Plutarco,” in L. Van der Stockt (ed.), Rhetorical Theory and Praxis in Plutarch. Acta of the IVth International Congress of the International Plutarch Society, Leuven, July 3–6, 1996 (Leuven: Peeters, 2000) 109–117. 9 G. Genette, Palimpseste. Die Literatur auf zweiter Stufe, transl. by W. Bayer & D. Hornig (Frankfurt upon Main: Suhrkamp, 2015) 10.

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rhetorical topics,10 but also the transpositions appearing at the very fringes of writing as authorial intentions intersect both with reading expectations and the various limitations imposed by the language and the socio-historical context.11 What I aim to achieve in this chapter, in keeping with the overall theme of the volume, is to explore the extent to which a closer examination both of the literary/rhetorical aspect of this passage (rhetoric of proof) and of the way and the conditions under which pre-textual presence occurs in it (intertextuality), could yield a deeper understanding of the attitude expressed by Plutarch towards a subject as loaded as rhetoric during that period.

1

Philosophy and Rhetoric: A Charged Relationship

At the beginning of the text, Plutarch claims that the reason he wrote it was because he was asked by a certain young aristocrat, who was aspiring to enter his hometown political arena, Menemachus of Sardis, to explain how the life of a politically engaged philosopher is supposed to be.12 There is no need to think that this Menemachus would be something more than a kind of narratee. After all, it would be hard to believe that a text referring to a subject of such wide interests was not intended to be read by Plutarch’s usual readership, consisting both of his young students in Chaeronea and the group of the so-called ‘friends,’ which included men of social and political eminence sharing, at the same time, a general interest in the potential of improving their lives through philosophic instructions. As far as the latter category is concerned, quite indicative is the example of Cornelius Pulcher, a man with a long and distinguished career in public administration,13 whom Plutarch mentions somewhere else as a diligent reader of this particular text,14 and whom Epictetus probably refers to in the Diatribe about the procurator of Epirus, who sought the benefit of the philosopher’s advice after his enthusiastic behavior during a theatrical contest had elicited many reproaches from spectators.15 To what extent 10 11 12

13 14 15

H.F. Plett, “Rhetoric and Intertextuality,” Rhetorica 17 (1999) 313–329. Cf. J. Kristeva, La révolution du langage poétique. L’avant-garde à la fin du XIXe siècle: Lautréamont et Mallarmé (Paris: Seuil, 1974) 59–60; id., Desire, 65–66. Praec. ger. reip. 798A–C. Cf. Carrière, “Plutarque, Préceptes,” 4–5, 160; A. Caiazza, Plutarco. Precetti Politici (Naples: D’Auria, 1993) 7–9. On Menemachus, see Carrière, “Plutarque, Préceptes,” 29–33; Caiazza, Plutarco. Precetti, 11–13. PIR2 C 1424. De cap. ex inim. 86C–D. Arr. Epict. 3.4.1–12, alongside the remarks in F. Millar, “Epictetus and the Imperial Court,” JRS 55 (1965) 147.

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could Plutarch be persuasive to readers that rhetoric is useful just after he had argued that a modest and virtuous character is a sufficient means to persuade people? How would they receive this statement coming from a philosopher like him? Even if we were to believe that young men like Menemachus—or like the students in Chaeronea—might receive this neutrally, we would certainly not expect the same reaction from the other part of Plutarch’s readership. According to the standard historical outline, after the middle of the second century BC, when young and rich men from Rome and Italy had already started coming to Greece for advanced studies, rhetorical education managed to rise above philosophical education; as a reaction to that, many philosophers of the time, striving for a greater share of the pie, fought against rhetoricians and further professionals who claimed to teach rhetoric.16 Many arguments developed in this context, some even claiming that philosophical education alone was able to yield comparable results to, if not better than, those rhetoric was promising to achieve; according to Charles Brittain, this last attitude was linked to the Academics and particularly to Charmadas.17 The main evidence comes from Cicero’s De oratore: there, we find Antonius mentioning that in a debate “concerning the role and the ways of an orator,” which took place in Athens, Charmadas expressed that one of the orators’ major pursuits was to be able to “appear before their audiences to be of such a kind as the one they wish they have truly been,” and that this could only be accomplished by means of leading a respectable life, of which, however, no mention is to be found in the precepts of the teachers of rhetoric.18 According to Charmadas, this happens because concerns, such as what a respectful life consists of, are actually defined by a knowledge lying in the hard core of philosophy, which the rhetoricians never access.19 In spite of some similarities with the Platonic concept of rhetoric as psychagogia as found in Phaedrus,20 the emphasis of Charmadas’

16

17

18 19 20

See e.g. D. Karadimas, Sextus Empiricus against Aelius Aristides: the Conflict between Philosophy and Rhetoric in the Second Century A.D. (Lund: Lund University Press, 1996) 1–2; C. Brittain, Philo of Larissa: The Last of the Academic Sceptics (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2001) 300–312; Y.Z. Liebersohn, The Dispute concerning Rhetoric in Hellenistic Thought (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2010) 24–28. Brittain, Philo, 299–302. Cf. H. Tarrant, Scepticism or Platonism? The philosophy of the Fourth Academy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985) 36, and the remarks on concerning ‘exclusivity’ in Liebersohn, Dispute, 56–57, 129–174. Cic. de Orat. 1.87. Ibid. Cf. Orat. 12; Brut. 120–121. See Tarrant, Scepticism, 37, 38–39; Brittain, Philo, 325. Cf. Pl. Phdr. 261a, 271c.

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argument does not lay upon the need for rhetorical training to be combined with some advanced philosophical training but, on the contrary, the argument aims at showing that, if real eloquence is acquired exclusively through training in philosophy, then, whatever the rhetoricians teach in their schools is simply a waste of time.21 There must be no doubt that the academic Skeptics were fierce polemicists of rhetoric, even though they were not themselves indifferent to eloquence and other elements and virtues, which also belonged to the field of the rhetoricians. Though Sextus Empiricus reports that Charmadas and Cleitomachus used to argue that rhetoric is useless or even harmful both for the orator and the cities and, additionally, that all well-governed cities expel rhetoric from their territories,22 we know from several sources that, for instance, Carneades, Charmadas himself, and Metrodorus were not only famous as prominent dialecticians, but also as great public speakers and debaters.23 Arcesilaus, the philosopher who introduced Skepticism to the Academy, along with the quasi-rhetorical24 practice of examining each issue from two opposing sides, is said to have begun his career alongside Theophrastus, to whom he first went to study rhetoric.25 By establishing the professional antagonism we mentioned above, however, one begins to understand that the Academic polemic against rhetoric must have been to a great extent an aspect of their general effort to show that their school was the best in providing young men aspiring to public recognition with all the practical skills they would need in their future careers, plus the knowledge of how to live better lives.26 Does this mean that the Academics taught rhetoric in their school? Yosef Liebersohn believes they did, though they probably avoided calling it ‘rhetoric,’ perhaps preferring to use the term ‘dialectic.’27 If so, then what Philo of Larissa did, when he eventually included the teaching of rhetoric alongside that of dialectic in the curriculum of the Academy, was just to put an end to this hypocritical stance.28 However, many of the arguments that had been used before by Charmadas, Cleitomachus and other Academic polemi-

21 22 23

24 25 26 27 28

Cf. de Orat. 1.84. S.E. M. 2.20–43. Cf. Karadimas, Sextus, 224–229; Brittain, Philo, 300. Carneades: e.g. Cic. de Orat. 1.45; Plu. De gar. 513C; id. Ca. Ma. 22.1–7; D.L. 4.62–63; Gel. 6.14.8–10; Philostr. VS I, 486 Ol. Charmadas: Cic. Orat. 51; id. Ac. 2.16; id. de Orat. 1.84. Metrodorus: Cic. de Orat. 3.75; Str. 13.1.55. Cf. Brittain, Philo, 312–328; Liebersohn, Dispute, 36–37. Cf. Cic. Tusc. 2.9. D.L. 4.28–29. Cf. Cic. de Orat. 1.84; 1.92–95. On further reasons, see Liebersohn, Dispute, 37. Liebersohn, Dispute, 36. But, cf. also Brittain, Philo, 312–328. See Cic. Tusc. 2.9. Cf. Brittain, Philo 298–299, 328–342; Liebersohn, Dispute 38.

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cists were not to be forgotten; echoes of them can be traced in Philodemus, in Quintilian, and later, as mentioned above, in Sextus.29 By granting rhetoric a concession, Plutarch obviously contradicts the argument of Charmadas. Could it be that the collision had some particular significance for him? It goes without saying that Plutarch regarded himself as a Platonist and not as a Skeptic and that the version of Platonism that he professed had been associated with the developments that, historically speaking, brought academic Skepticism to an end, finally causing the revival of a renewed version of classical Platonism in early Empire.30 But, contrary to other later Platonists, Plutarch did not consider the sceptical turn in the Hellenistic Academy to be a gap in the tradition of Platonism he had accepted; instead, he belonged to those who emphasized the cohesion of the academic tradition from Plato and his first successors down to the Skeptics and his own time.31 We should not forget that Plutarch did not live in the time of the great scholars, who were able to dictate the philosophic direction of the school; the Academy, at which he had studied, was simply one philosophic circle of Platonists in Athens, like other similar circles that at the same time one could find in Alexandria or in Asia Minor.32 The lack of one philosophic center causes, then, orthodoxy to emerge as something categorical for the formation of a distinct philosophical identity.33 And, if Plutarch was regarding a philosopher like Charmadas as part of his own philosophical tradition, this would mean that Plutarch had at least one good reason for not approving of rhetoric;34 at least not without giving a good excuse, which, as we are going to see, is exactly what he does in the passage we are discussing.

29 30

31 32

33 34

Phld. Rh. I, 14–15, 16, 359–360, II 65, 100 Sudhaus; Quint. Inst. 2.16.4. Cf. Karadimas, Sextus, 225. J. Dillon, The Middle Platonists (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1996, 2nd ed.) 184–185. Cf. M. Frede, “Epilogue,” in K. Algra et al. (eds.), The Cambridge History of Hellenistic Philosophy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999) 771, 776–782. See Lampr. Cat. 63. Cf. e.g. P.H. De Lacy, “Plutarch and the Academic Sceptics,” CJ 49.2 (1953) 79–85; Brittain, Philo 225–236. See A.G. Nikolaidis, “Plutarch on the Old, Middle and New Academies and the Academy in Plutarch’s Day,” in J. Pérez Jiménez et al. (eds.), Plutarco, Platón y Aristóteles. Actas del V Congreso Internacional de la I.P.S. (Madrid-Cuenca, 4–7 de mayo de 1999) (Madrid: Ediciones Clásicas, 1999) 402–403. See e.g. Frede, “Epilogue,” 792. On the question of Plutarch’s ‘real’ orthodoxy, see J. Dillon, “Plutarch and Platonist Orthodoxy,” ICS 13.2 (1988) 357–364.

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Plutarch’s Definition of Rhetoric

The first feature that indicates Plutarch’s intention to put rhetoric into perspective is his interest in the appropriate definition of rhetoric. In Plutarch’s time, definition had already been an established rhetorical/dialectical topos, hence its occurrence, especially at first, marks an intention of discussing any given subject in a critical mode. Examples may be found in texts written either with the purpose to defend or to attack rhetoric. The very first thing Quintilian does when, in the middle of the second book, he begins the long digression to rhetoric, is to discuss a great number of definitions in detail and finally to choose the one best fitting his own views.35 Sextus Empiricus, too, at the beginning of his polemical treatise against the rhetoricians, even though he has quite the opposite agenda, juxtaposes known definitions of rhetoric with a (at that time) recognized Stoic definition of art,36 thus trying to prove that rhetoric does not really meet the criteria to be called an art.37 Finally, in a Prolegomenon to the teaching of rhetoric from around the same time, an anonymous author, following a typical ten-part-scheme for the division of his material, places the section concerning the definition in the most central place, namely after the entirely preliminary parts about the ‘archaeology’ of rhetoric and just before the most essential and controversial parts concerning the aim and the object of rhetoric;38 the first definition given there is one also found in Aristotle, which nonetheless is deemed insufficient and replaced by a similar definition by Dionysius of Halicarnassus.39 In Plutarch’s text, the first definition—“craftsman of persuasion” (δημιουργὸς πειθοῦς)—is intertextually loaded. It comes from the first part of Plato’s Gorgias, where Socrates proposes it to Gorgias and, as soon as the latter has accepted it as one sufficiently defining his own occupation,40 the former continues with the discussion, which, afterwards, ends with the famous denouncement of rhetoric as a kind of flattery and imitation of a real art.41 Seeing the core

35 36 37 38

39 40 41

Quint. Inst. 2.15.1–2.15.38. Cf. T. Reinhardt & M. Winterbottom, Quintilian: Institutio Oratoria: Book 2 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2006) xxxiv–l. Stoic. I, 73 (Zenon). Cf. Quint. Inst. 2.17.41. S.E. M. 2.1–12. Cf. Karadimas, Sextus 26–33, 54, 164–166. Rh. 6.4–5 W. Cf. M. Patillon (ed.), Corpus Rhetoricum, vol. 1 (Paris: Belles Lettres, 2008) 4–9, and on division schemes in particular, see J. Mansfeld, Prolegomena: questions to be settled before the study of an author or a text (Leiden-New York-Cologne: Brill, 1994) 23–24. Rh. 6.16–20 W. The definitions may be found in Arist. Rh. 1355b26 and D.H. De imit. fr. 26. Grg. 452a–453a. Cf. H. Mutschmann, “Die älteste Definition der Rhetorik,”Hermes 53 (1918) 440–443. Grg. 462b–466a.

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place that this definition occupies within the scope of Socrates’ argumentation, it is not surprising that already in ancient times many people regarded it not only as a description of Gorgias’ profession, but also as an indication of Plato’s early hostile stance on rhetoric. The tendency towards the systematization of Platonism, which characterized the developments during the early years of the Academy, and which probably also included the practice of excerpting from Plato and forming collections of Platonic definitions, could have played a role in this.42 A testimony given by Sextus Empiricus, suggesting that Xenocrates used the same definition, might point towards that direction.43 Sextus himself44 and the anonymous author of another Prolegomenon have no doubt that the definition lies under Plato’s authority, with the latter even asserting that Plato put the definition on purpose into the mouth of Gorgias, because then the definition could not endure criticism.45 Quintilian says roughly the same thing, but from a slightly different perspective and in a more elaborate way. Though Quintilian seems to believe that Plato was not really an enemy of rhetoric,46 at the same time, he appears to be aware that considering persuasion to be the end of rhetoric might make rhetoric vulnerable to attacks coming from the side of morality, since one could always argue that persuasion may also be achieved by some immoral orator.47 It is not improbable that Quintilian, while talking about possible arguments that may arise from connotations of that Platonic definition, has the polemic of the Academics in mind. Later in the text he associates those who accept the definition “craftsman of persuasion” with arguments against rhetoric that Sextus ascribes also to Cleitomachus, Charmadas and further Academics.48 Of course, indication for the vital role that early Platonic criticism against rhetoric had played for the construction of the Academic opposition may also be found elsewhere. Crassus, in Cicero’s De oratore, calls Plato the “author” and “originator” of

42

43 44 45 46 47 48

On the effort (particularly in the time of Xenocrates) to organize Plato’s philosophy into a coherent philosophical system, see e.g. Dillon, Middle Platonists, 23–39. On the early collections of Platonic definitions, see H.G. Ingenkamp, Untersuchungen zu den pseudoplatonischen Definitionen (Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 1967) 111–114; H. Krämer, “Die ältere Akademie,” in H. Flashar (ed.), Die Philosophie der Antike, v. 3 (Basel: Schwabe Verlag, 2004, 2nd ed.) 109–110, together with the remarks by Reinhardt & Winterbottom, Quintilian, 236. S.E. M. 2.61 (= Xenocr. fr. 91 Isnardi Parende). Ibid. 2.2. Rh. 7.7 W. Inst. 2.15.27. Ibid. 2.15.3. Cf. 2.16.11–12. Ibid. 2.16.1–11.

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the criticism that Charmadas, Cleitomachus, Metrodorus, et al. were subjecting rhetoric to, whereas his report that Charmadas encouraged diligent readings of Plato’s Gorgias in the Academy fits this picture perfectly.49 However, in order to rid Plato of this ‘toxic’ view, Quintilian could not hide the occurrence of the definition “craftsman of persuasion” in Gorgias. What he does, then, is to argue that, although this definition occurs in Plato’s text, Plato did not want it to be taken as his own view but as a view of Gorgias.50 Quintilian can say so, because he treats Gorgias as a dialogue written with the intention to refute opponents; therefore, he can assert that all the accusations against rhetoric found there are not addressed to rhetoric per se, but only to the particular way Gorgias and his followers practiced rhetoric.51 With this tactic, Quintilian attempts to work around all those polemicists, who resting in Plato’s authority treated rhetoric as courtesy, pleasure, flattery, etc.,52 and at the same time used to argue that the duty of public speaking lies either in persuading or speaking in an manner suitable for persuasion, not for some other reason but just because this position could be easily refuted in the way we discussed above.53 By replacing the definition “craftsman of persuasion” with the new definition “factor helping for persuasion” (συνεργὸς πειθοῦς), Plutarch, too, implies that his perception of rhetoric actually goes beyond all aforementioned criticism of Plato and the Academics. Yosef Liebersohn remarks that the end of rhetoric “is not just a characteristic among many,” since “the end defines in large part the character of rhetoric, so that any change in the perception of the end leads to a change in the perception of rhetoric altogether.”54 With the term συνεργός, rhetoric acquires the meaning of an entity either acting in someone else’s name or being used by someone else for a specific purpose; such uses of the word as adjective, not as substantive—referring to animate contributors or inanimate instruments under the absolute control of their users or their masters and whose contribution is, then, each time necessary for the latter to complete the work in the most efficient manner—are quite common in Plutarch.55 Another way to express the same semantic function would be by 49

50 51 52 53 54 55

De Orat. 1.47. We also know that Gorgias was the source for all the arguments Sextus ascribes to the Academics, since all can be found there, either explicitly stated or as implied: see Karadimas, Sextus 226–227. Cf. Tarrant, Scepticism, 37, 38; Brittain, Philo, 300. Quint. Inst. 2.15.4–5. Cf. Reinhardt & Winterbottom, Quintilian, 238. Ibid. 2.15.26–28. Cf. Tarrant, Scepticism, 26–28; Mansfeld, Prolegomena, 58–107; Reinhardt & Winterbottom, Quintilian, 262, 265. Ibid. 2.15.24–25. Cf. Reinhardt & Winterbottom, Quintilian, 259–260. Ibid. 2.15.3. Liebersohn, Dispute 132. First, note the distinction in LSJ, s.v. συνεργός, όν: “working together, joining or helping

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using the word “instrument” (ὄργανον) or the adjective “instrumental” (ὀργανικός), which is actually the term most commonly used by Plutarch in other passages when referring either to rhetoric or to rhetorical speech.56 But, though an instrument could be morally neutral,57 the term συνεργός implies that there are also some other qualities present. It implies the presence of the virtuous character as the dominant means to persuade others. But, there is no need to think that this is a personal opinion of Plutarch. It is primarily a tactic. By claiming that rhetoric only functions properly when used by people leading both a modest and respectful life, Plutarch manages to distance himself further from the image of rhetoric found in Gorgias, namely that of rhetoric being a kind of instrument serving the unwholesome appetites of wicked politicians.58 In this way, the philosopher avoids the aforementioned ‘dangers’ linked with the perception of rhetoric as “craftsman of persuasion” and finds a way to construct, in his own philosophical discourse, a place where rhetoric can be put. Much as for Charmadas, so for Plutarch, the best orator is one who leads a modest life; but, contrary to Charmadas, Plutarch does not appear to balk when admitting that a virtuous individual must owe their eloquence partly to the inextricable power of rhetoric training. That brings us to the most crucial part of the passage. The comment on the fitting definition of rhetoric ends with Plutarch quoting the verse of Menander “it is the speaker’s character that persuades, not the speech” and immediately correcting it by asserting that it is both the character and the speech that persuade. Though Plutarch was arguably familiar with Menander’s texts,59 at this point it appears that he has misquoted the verse, as if it were a statement mentioning that the speaker’s character alone is a sufficient means of persuasion. However, taking a closer look at the context of the verse in Stobaeus, it is evident that the quote actually refers to a contrast between, on the one hand, a

56 57

58 59

in work, and as a Subst., ὁ, ἡ, helper.” Then, see Lys. 23.3; Crass. 6.3 Eum. 12.2; Ant. 18.4 (= FGrHist II, B 198); Comp. Dion et Brut. 1.4; [De lib. educ.] 5C; De fort. Rom. 325B; De virt. mor. 441D–E, 446E; De frat. Am. 485B; De exilio 605C; Quaest. conv. 660A, 689D, 715D; Amatorius. 752A; An Seni 789D; Praec. ger. reip. 819C; De prim. frig. 951D; Quaest. Plat. 1007E; De Stoic. rep. 1036A; De comm. not. 1066C, 1072D. See Per. 8.1; Fab. 1.7; Ca. Ma. 1.5; Comp. Arist. et Ca. Ma. 2.5; Ca. Mi. 4.3; Cic. 4.4; Cic. 32.6; De aud. poet. 33F; Maxime cum principibus 777B–C; Praec. ger. reip. 802B. In Quint. Inst. 2.15.1–2, we may observe the same thing, when Quintilian at the beginning of the aforesaid section of the definitions remarks in advance that his own notion of rhetoric is restricted exclusively to the kind used by good orators. This has been pointed out also by C.B.R. Pelling, “Political Philosophy,” in M. Beck (ed.), A Companion to Plutarch (Chichester: Blackwell, 2014) 155. Comp. Ar. et Men. 854B–C; cf. Quaest. conv. 712B.

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speaker whose character and speech are virtuous and, on the other hand, some other speakers who are trained at speech though they lack the corresponding character. As the speaker in Menander says, to be good to anyone around is, by Athena, a blessing and an invaluable asset in life. I spoke with him for a while and now I am well-disposed. Some ingenious person would certainly add “speech is a convincing thing.” Then, how does it come that I feel a loathing whenever I hear other people speaking well? It is the speaker’s character that persuades, not his speech.60 Here, goodness of character is certainly considered to be the decisive means of persuasion; however, this does not necessarily imply that the arguments of the same person cannot be equally convincing. After all, as Bruno Keil had objected, this verse is a variation of the well-known proverb “like character like speech.”61 Menander does not say anything different than what Plutarch says, namely that persuasion only relies upon the orator who has trained himself both to speak well and to be a good person. Then, what is the point in the correction? I believe the reason is obvious: by rejecting the statement that the good character persuades and not the rhetorical speech in this verse, Plutarch slyly appears to only overturn a comic poet, not Charmadas, or Plato, or any other philosopher, even though he actually does both. Misinterpreting Menander was not the last rhetorical device that Plutarch used to support his position. When referring to an exceptionally ironic use of the oath “by Zeus” (νὴ Δία) in ancient Greek oratory, Alan Sommerstein mentions the convention of the so-called “imaginary objector,” since the words of this ‘objector’ are frequently found in texts reinforced by that oath on Zeus. Sommerstein remarks that in debates “it was commonplace for a speaker to anticipate, and refute in advance, a point that might be raised by his opponents—usually, of course, presenting that point in a highly tendentious way, setting up a straw man that would be easy to demolish […]. In actual oratory, the ‘anticipated objection’ was at first usually signaled by a phrase like eipoi tis an ‘someone may say.’”62 Turning back to the passage of Plutarch, we may observe that this is exactly what the philosopher does. Beginning with “both character and speech persuade,” he adds the objection: “unless by Zeus, someone says 60 61 62

Stob. 3.37.17 (= Men. fr. 472 Kock). See Jeuckens, Plutarch 18 n. A.H. Sommerstein, “Oratory and Rhetoric,” in id. & I.C. Torrance (eds.), Oaths and Swearing in Ancient Greece (Berlin-Boston: De Gruyter, 2014) 233.

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that just as the steersman steers the ship, not the rudder, and the rider directs the horse, not the bridle, so political virtue persuades the citizens by having not speech but character both as a tiller and a bridle, as if it (i.e. virtue) has taken hold of them and directs them, as Plato says, from the ‘stern’, that is from where animals are most easily turned round.” Making an oath indicates that Plutarch takes the point of the “imaginary objector” seriously, but any properly educated person of that time, who had delved into the texts of Attic oratory, would have understood that this is an objection set for the purposes of refutation in the next sentence.63 We could compare the argument of the “imaginary objector” to the tendentious stance of the Academics we discussed above, since, even though they did teach at least some rhetoric, they probably avoided (pace Liebersohn) calling it ‘rhetoric,’ choosing instead the more philosophical appellation ‘dialectic.’ The objection is based on the idea that as long as a “factor helping for persuasion” should be ranked hierarchically at a lower level than the “craftsman,” then the contribution of the former might be seen as embodied in the work of the latter.64 Perhaps we could all agree to overlook the contribution of a mere instrument, such as the rein, the tiller, or the speech, and ascribe the whole achievement to the user, such as the horseman, the steersman, or virtue/virtuous character; but, after all this, it would simply be a matter of terminology or ‘label,’ since the previous instrument will be still there and be needed for the completion of the task. Recognizing this bias, this remark that virtue treats character both “as a tiller and a bridle” does not seem to have occurred by chance. It has been pointed out by editors and commentators that these two metaphors, when put together, allude to the proverbial verse of Sophocles “the work of many reins and many tillers,”65 which also appears in two further passages of Plutarch66 when he describes endeavors whose accomplishments demand the greatest effort and care. Does the statesman’s modest character alone suffice for such a demanding task? I believe that in the light of the case that Plutarch here tries with that cliché to make for rhetoric, an affirmative answer to this question would be anyway a biased stance on the matter.67 However, there is also this parallel passage from an earlier work, where, after having corrected the same quote from Menander and in roughly the same way, Plutarch asserts that persuasive speech is the most humane and the most nearly akin instrument of 63 64 65 66 67

See Sommerstein, “Oratory,” 234. Cf. De genio Socr. 582C. Fr. 869 Radt. Alex. 7.2; Amatorius 767E. Cf. Carrière, “Plutarque, Préceptes,” 164–165, who treated this remark as ironic.

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virtue.68 An attentive reader would easily understand that Plutarch here makes the “imaginary objector” put forward a thesis which is at least controversial. Seeing that refutation is approaching, the quotation from Plato, through the words of the “imaginary objector” above, appears to be particularly meaningful. Plutarch refers to a myth at the beginning of Critias, where it is narrated that back at the time when human communities were about to be established, gods decided not to lead humans by physical force, as shepherds do when they lead their animals, but through the medium of soul and by means of persuasion, like the pilots, who use the tiller to steer ships.69 Plato makes an analogy between the tiller and the soul. The reference to the tiller, which is an instrument that can exploit the power of the stream to give direction to the boat, comes with the demand that an instrument should be suitable for the particularities of the work for which it is intended. Christopher Gill has observed that in Plato’s text the suitability of the soul for the purpose of persuading men “to follow divine intentions” results from “the closeness of men to gods, the greater equality of their relationship, and their common possession of reason which enables this relationship.”70 Surely not every instrument would be suitable for this purpose. Since persuasion is all about drilling an intended message into a recipient, the means of persuasion need to be responsive both to the intention of the transmitter and to the peculiarities of the receiver. λόγος, with its commonplace twofold nature as “thought residing in one’s mind” and “thought uttered to other people,” would be the perfect match.71 Though Plato does not seem to be interested in further defining the means that gods use to instill persuasion into human souls here, it is really difficult to read this passage about psychagogia in light of Plutarch’s discussion about the most appropriate means of persuasion without thinking of rhetoric. Plutarch refutes this ‘imaginary objection’ by arguing a fortiori that even the great kings of old times, who anyway could exert persuasion over the masses by means of their stature, did not neglect the power and the charm of speech. They wanted, nevertheless, to be “speakers of words,”72 and not to neglect “the assemblies, in which men grow very distinguished;”73 they wanted not only to

68 69 70 71

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De aud. poet. 33F. Criti. 109b–c. Cf. C. Gill, “Plato and Politics: The Critias and the Politicus,” Phronesis 24 (1979) 157. See again the adjective “congenital” (συγγενές) in De aud. poet. 33F. Cf. Maxime cum principibus 777B–C, along with the remarks of G. Roskam, Plutarch’s Maxime cum principibus philosopho esse disserendum (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2009) 96–119. Il. 9.443. Il. 9.441.

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worship Zeus, Ares, and Athena, but also to invoke the Muse Calliope “who follows reverend kings”74 and calms and charms the surly and violent elements in the souls of common men by means of persuasion. These quotations have certainly not been chosen randomly, since all three of them were well-known commonplaces concerning rhetoric. In Plato’s Gorgias, for example, Callicles alludes to the last line from Homer in an effort to prove that political activity, which is defined by the practice of rhetoric, is more important than philosophy.75 The same verse is also used by Crassus in Cicero’s De oratore as the former tries to make a case for the unity between philosophy and rhetoric.76 The first line from Homer appears together with the verse from Hesiod in the second oration on kingship of the contemporary Dio Chrysostom, where a young Alexander tries to persuade his father that both Homer and Hesiod had been aware that a true form of rhetoric does befit an ideal king.77 Finally, the combination of all three lines appears in Aelius Aristides, who uses them in an attempt to defend rhetoric against accusations coming from Plato’s Gorgias, the Skeptics, and maybe also some contemporary Platonists.78 Plutarch’s argument concludes with the rhetorical question: would be possible for an ordinary statesman, who lacks the reverence of the above-mentioned kings, to exercise power upon the people, unless he used speech to co-persuade and bring the people over to his side?79 Plutarch’s conclusion obviously favors the position that rhetoric must be combined with moral uprightness and, then, applied to political activity. However, seeing all those thematic and structural rhetorical topics above makes it pretty clear that the philosopher probably knew that, in the given context and in light of some earlier opinions expressed by philosophers on the matter, he could not make a case for rhetoric unless he resorted to an approach distinguished by elaborate rhetoric.

3

Conclusion

Taking the concept of intertextuality as a reference point in rereading this passage dealing with the definition of rhetoric proved quite enlightening, for it 74 75 76 77 78 79

Hes. Th. 80. Grg. 485d. This passage was prompted to me at the discussion after my presentation. I am grateful for that. De Orat. 3.57. D.Chr. Or. 2.19–24. Aristid. Or. 2.387–393. On the philosophers, to whom Aristides answers, see Karadimas, Sextus, 31. Cf. Quint. Inst. 2.16.9–10.

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allowed us to gain a fascinating insight into the dynamics generating Plutarch’s writing. It seems that when Plutarch decided to include rhetoric in his text, he probably knew that he could not prevent his readers from invoking earlier reading experiences and, consequently, attributing to the text a meaning which identified with them. Rhetoric had long been part of the education of the elites, but not necessarily a part of the type of education the philosophers had been explicitly offering. If Plutarch’s readers had been aware of the old Academic opposition against rhetoric, they might have easily concluded that a Platonist, and particularly one actively supporting the idea of the unity of the Academy, should not be approving of rhetoric; least of all after arguing, like Charmadas, that in politics being a respectable character is the most decisive means of persuasion. This explains why we find in Plutarch all those common thematic and structural topics, like the suggestion of a more appropriate definition of rhetoric, the refutation of the counter-position supposedly found in a quote Menander, the cliché of the “imaginary objector,” the quotation from a Platonic passage about ‘divine’ psychagogia, and the commonplaces from Homer and Hesiod. Plutarch would not restore to them, if he did not want to defend the place of rhetoric within the frame of the Platonic/Academic tradition: through the associations they invoke Plutarch was able both to make a case for rhetoric and to protect himself against a possible accusation of non-compliance. Unfortunately, the cost of that was to let poor Menander pay the price for someone else.

Acknowledgements I would like to thank Professor Dimitrios Karadimas and Dr. Stylianos Chronopoulos for the valuable advice and the constructive criticism I received from them at various stages of the making of this chapter. I am very grateful to Professor Bernhard Zimmermann, who read an earlier draft of my text and shared his opinion with me. I owe many thanks to Chrysa Kavalierou for revising my English text.

part 6 Beyond Text: Plutarch and Intermateriality

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chapter 33

Plutarch’s Sparta: Intertextual and Experiential Philip Davies

Abstract In this chapter I propose a substantive usage of ‘intertextual Sparta’ as denoting the pervasively intertextual character of Plutarch’s understanding of Sparta. I examine the scope and definition of this ‘intertextual Sparta,’ and I distinguish it from the broader gamut of intertextual engagement apparent within Plutarch’s Spartan Lives. I also set it alongside what I term Plutarch’s ‘experiential Sparta’—the contribution of his first-hand experience of contemporary Sparta to his understanding of earlier Sparta. I explore the interaction between these two elements, in particular the diverse ways in which Plutarch deploys his personal experience in support of his intertextual engagement.

At the International Plutarch Society Congress in Fribourg, I contributed to the panel entitled ‘Intertextual Sparta.’ On one level, this is a convenient label applicable to discussions that fall within the broad category of intertextuality in Spartan contexts. However, this term may also be used in a more substantive sense, to indicate the pervasively intertextual character of Plutarch’s understanding of Sparta. I am currently engaged in a research project which seeks to examine the diverse factors that shaped ‘Plutarch’s Sparta.’ To further this project and the aims of the Fribourg conference, I explore in this chapter the potential scope and implications of ‘intertextual Sparta.’ In particular, I consider the intertextuality of Plutarch’s understanding of Sparta and the interaction between this ‘intertextual Sparta’ and what I term his ‘experiential Sparta.’

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General Considerations

We may identify at the outset some key factors that contribute to the intertextual character of Plutarch’s understanding of Sparta. Firstly, to state the obvious, of the five Spartans to whom Plutarch dedicates Lives,1 two (Agis IV 1 Owing to restrictions of space, my discussion will primarily focus on Plutarch’s Spartan

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and Cleomenes III) pre-date him by some 350 years and another two (Lysander and Agesilaus) by some 500 years. The fifth figure, the legendary Spartan lawgiver Lycurgus, defies even approximate dating, as Plutarch himself notes in the opening of his Life.2 Insofar as this temporal distance makes Plutarch necessarily dependent upon earlier authors, it is true to say that his is an ‘intertextual Sparta.’ Of course, comparable gaps separate Plutarch from many other persons, cities, and peoples whom he discusses in his writings. However, another factor, more unique to Sparta, is the Spartan mirage—the intractable and idealized mythos that permeates our almost exclusively non-Spartan accounts of Spartan society. Historians grapple with the question of if and how we might penetrate this mirage and discover ‘real’ Sparta, with Plutarch’s value as a source being a subject of active debate.3 Meanwhile, scholarly treatments of the mythos and its development have been less than wholly enthusiastic about the originality and independence of Plutarch’s contribution. The scholar who coined the phrase “le mirage spartiate,” Francois Ollier, commented that “Plutarch adds nothing new in his manner of idealising Sparta” and “remains in this regard very much dependent on the past.” Ollier does have praise for Plutarch, but on literary and stylistic grounds: Plutarch “invests himself fully in the figures whom he endeavours to revive,” presenting “not the pale phantoms who usually haunt rhetorical discourses,” but “beings of flesh and blood.”4 Lives. Unless otherwise specified, all Greek texts and translations follow the relevant edition of the Loeb Classical Library. 2 Lyc. 1.1–3: Περὶ Λυκούργου τοῦ νομοθέτου καθόλου μὲν οὐδὲν ἔστιν εἰπεῖν ἀναμφισβήτητον […] ἥκιστα δὲ οἱ χρόνοι καθ’ οὓς γέγονεν ὁ ἀνὴρ ὁμολογοῦνται (“Concerning Lycurgus the lawgiver, in general, nothing can be said which is not disputed […] and there is least agreement among historians as to the times in which the man lived”). 3 A prime example is the debate regarding the classical Spartan upbringing, for which Plutarch is by far our most substantial source. See N.M. Kennell, The Gymnasium of Virtue: Education and Culture in Ancient Sparta (Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 1995) esp. 5–27; P.A. Cartledge, “Review of Kennell, The Gymnasium of Virtue,” Classical Review 47.1 (1997) 98–100; J. Ducat, Spartan Education: Youth and Society in the Classical Period (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2006) esp. ix–xvii. See also, regarding Plutarch and the Spartan property system, S. Hodkinson, Property and Wealth in Classical Sparta (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2000) 9–64. 4 F. Ollier, Le Mirage spartiate: Étude sur l’ idéalisation de Sparte dans l’antiquité grecque du début de l’ école cynique jusqu’à la fin de la cité (Paris: de Boccard, 1943) 195: “Dans les Vies parallèles, tout comme dans les Œuvres Morales, Plutarque n’apporte rien de neuf dans sa façon d’ idéaliser Lacédémone. Il demeure à cet égard étroitement tributaire du passé.” “Plutarque se donnait chaque fois tout entier à ces hommes d’autrefois qu’il avait entrepris de faire revivre. Ce n’étaient pas pour lui les pâles fantômes qui hantaient ordinairement les discours des rhéteurs, mais des êtres de chair et de sang.”

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Eugene Tigerstedt offers a more appreciative assessment. In general, he maintains that by “the end of the fourth century BC, the Legend of Sparta had on essential points assumed its final shape. Later generations confined themselves to repeating and propagating those ideas that now were developed.” Against this backdrop, he singles out Plutarch as the exception that proves the rule, an author whose “importance is not confined to collecting and preserving […] an independent personality, a great writer, who leaves his mark on everything he writes—a signal exception in an age of imitators and compilators.” However, Tigerstedt adds that this “does not mean that he was an original thinker or a critical scholar.” Now sounding somewhat closer to Ollier, Tigerstedt sees Plutarch’s independence as lying in the fact that “he examines and takes a personal attitude towards the subjects treated in his works.”5 Elizabeth Rawson perhaps strikes a similar balance when she comments on Plutarch’s period that “on the whole there is very little that is not second-hand or superficial to be found in discussion of Sparta,” but she considers Plutarch’s Spartan Lives to present “to some extent a personal view.”6 We may bristle at some of the more negative elements of these assessments. Ultimately, however, there is no doubt that Plutarch was heavily indebted to a Spartan mythos with a long (inter)textual history.

2

Intertextual Sparta

Moving from the general to the particular, across Plutarch’s five Spartan Lives there are, by my count, around forty-five authors whom he directly cites, or whom he quotes directly and identifiably (primarily lines of poetry). This is a substantial number, but Plutarch is far from comprehensive in his citations; it is at best an approximate indication of the range of authors he engaged with in composing these works. Take the example of Herodotus, who does not feature among this number. The time-periods of Plutarch’s Spartan Lives do not lend themselves to the use of Herodotus as a source.7 Nonetheless, there are 5 E.N. Tigerstedt, The Legend of Sparta in Classical Antiquity, vol. II (Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1974) 13, 227. 6 E. Rawson, The Spartan Tradition in European Thought (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1969) 111– 113. 7 This situation would, of course, have been very different had Plutarch actually written his planned Life of Leonidas. See De Her. mal. 866B: ὅσα δ’ ἄλλα πρὸς τούτῳ τολμήματα καὶ ῥήματα τῶν Σπαρτιατῶν παραλέλοιπεν, ἐν τῷ Λεωνίδου βίῳ γραφήσεται (“I shall describe in my Life of Leonidas all the other brave deeds and sayings of the Spartans that Herodotus has omitted”). For a fuller treatment of Plutarch’s use of Herodotus in relation to Sparta, see my forthcoming

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points in the Spartan Lives at which Plutarch draws upon him without attribution, as we shall see below. Another pertinent example is Isocrates, who is also not cited by Plutarch, but whom Lukas De Blois and Jeroen Bons persuasively argue should be counted among the authors critical of Sparta to whom Plutarch is responding in his Life of Lycurgus.8 So, Plutarch’s citations provide a useful, but incomplete guide to the texts with which he engages in his Spartan Lives. At the same time, not every text that Plutarch engages with in those Lives, whether or not explicitly acknowledged, in fact contributes to his understanding of Sparta. To give an example, having just described Lysander’s victory at the battle of Aegospotamoi, Plutarch mentions that it was suggested that divine intervention had played a role in the outcome: some reported that as Lysander was sailing out of the harbor the Dioscouroi appeared as twin stars on either side of his ship; others claimed that the disaster at Aegospotamoi had been portended by the meteor which fell to earth there (Lys. 11.7–12.1). This observation leads Plutarch into a 500-word digression on the origins and nature of meteors (12.2–7), in the course of which he cites Anaxagoras and Daimachus. If by ‘intertextual Sparta’ we simply mean a broad category denoting intertextuality within Spartan contexts, then it can easily accommodate this digression. If, however, we wish to employ the term in a more substantive sense, denoting the intertextual dimension of Plutarch’s understanding of Sparta, I would suggest that these intertexts, although they occur within the Life of a famous Spartan, do not contribute to Plutarch’s intertextual Sparta. All of the historians whom Plutarch cites in his Spartan Lives do contribute to his understanding of Sparta, but not in every intertext. Phylarchus is one of the major sources for the Life of Cleomenes. Plutarch explicitly cites him regarding the murder of the Eurypontid king Archidamus (5.3) and for Damoteles’ betrayal of Cleomenes at Sellasia (28.1–3).9 However, Plutarch also cites Phylarchus within that Life for the death of the Macedonian king Antigonus III Doson (30.1–2): chapter, “In the Picture, Out of the Spotlight: Herodotus, Plutarch & Sparta,” in S. Hodkinson & A. Powell (eds.), Herodotus and Sparta (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales). 8 L. De Blois & J.A.E. Bons, “Platonic and Isocratean Political Concepts in Plutarch’s Lycurgus,” in I. Gallo & B. Scardigli (eds.), Teoria e prassi politica nelle opere di Plutarco. Atti del V Convegno plutarcheo, Certosa di Pontignano, 7–9 giugno 1993 (Naples: D’Auria, 1995) 99–106. 9 One could adopt an even narrower usage of ‘intertextual Sparta’ than I propose here, embracing only material which relates directly to Plutarch’s understanding of Spartan society. Under such a definition, these Phylarchan intertexts (along with many others) might be excluded as relating ‘merely’ to individual Spartans and events of Spartan history, rather than to Spartan society per se.

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… ὅσον ἐπὶ νίκῃ μεγίστῃ καὶ φόνῳ πλείστῳ τῶν βαρβάρων εὐκλεέστερον ἀποθανεῖν, ὡς μὲν εἰκός ἐστι καὶ λέγουσιν οἱ περὶ Φύλαρχον, αὐτῇ τῇ περὶ τὸν ἀγῶνα κραυγῇ τὸ σῶμα προσαναρρήξας· ἐν δὲ ταῖς σχολαῖς ἦν ἀκούειν, ὅτι βοῶν μετὰ τὴν νίκην ὑπὸ χαρᾶς “Ὦ καλῆς ἡμέρας,” πλῆθος αἵματος ἀνήγαγε καὶ πυρέξας συντόνως ἐτελεύτησε. ταῦτα μὲν τὰ περὶ Ἀντίγονον. [Antigonus] won a very great victory, slew a prodigious number of the Barbarians, and died gloriously, having broken a blood-vessel (as it is likely, and as Phylarchus says) by the very shout that he raised on the field of battle. And in the schools of philosophy one used to hear the story that after his victory he shouted for joy, “O happy day!” and then brought up a quantity of blood, fell into a high fever, and so died. So much concerning Antigonus. The connection of this episode to Plutarch’s main (Spartan) narrative is that aggression by these Illyrian ‘barbarians’ forced Antigonus to quit the Peloponnese immediately following his victory over Cleomenes. His death is politically significant, but the manner of his death is relevant primarily as a noteworthy anecdote and personal recollection on Plutarch’s part. The material for which Phylarchus is cited in this instance is not directly relevant to Plutarch’s intertextual Sparta. Even Xenophon, a vital source for Plutarch’s Spartan Lives though he is, provides some intertexts that do not directly contribute to Plutarch’s understanding of Sparta. In the Life of Agesilaus (29.1–5), Plutarch praises the decorum that the Spartans displayed in the aftermath of their disastrous defeat at Leuctra, continuing to celebrate the Gymnopaedia festival as usual. His description of this event is drawn from Xenophon’s Hellenica (6.4.16), though without explicit acknowledgement. However, Plutarch does cite Xenophon within the same section for his observation that “in the case of noble men, there is much that is worth recording even in what they say and do at their wine and in their sports” (Ages. 29.2: ὁ μὲν γὰρ Ξενοφῶν φησι τῶν ἀγαθῶν ἀνδρῶν ἔχειν τι καὶ τὰς ἐν οἴνῳ καὶ παιδιᾷ φωνὰς καὶ διατριβὰς ἀξιομνημόνευτον, ὀρθῶς λέγων). This quotation of Xenophon’s Symposium (1.1) provides useful insight into Plutarch’s narrative priorities as a biographical author (cf. Alex. 1.1–3). However, it does not contribute to his intertextual Sparta. Poetry is another element of Plutarch’s intertextuality in the Spartan Lives that varies in its contribution to his understanding of Sparta. Erudite Greek that he was, Plutarch, in a number of instances, uses poetic texts to ornament his writing. Homer is especially common: Cleomenes pines in his heart and yearns for battle like Achilles (Cleom. 34.3: ἀλλὰ φθινύθεσκε φίλον κῆρ, ὥσπερ Ἀχιλ-

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λεύς, αὖθι μένων, ποθέεσκε δ’ ἀυτήν τε πτόλεμόν τε. Cf. Iliad 1.491–492); Agesilaus returns home from Asia, “his tasks all unfulfilled,” echoing words of Agamemnon to Menelaus (Ages. 15.5: καὶ προέμενος εὐθὺς ἀπέπλευσεν ‘ἀτελευτήτῳ ἐπὶ ἔργῳ’. Cf. Il. 4.175). In both cases, the choice of intertext is fitting to the subject: Cleomenes does resemble Achilles in his frustrated lust for battle; the homeric intertext that Plutarch applies to Agesilaus forms part of a comparison to Agamemnon which he develops over the course of the Life.10 However, much though these parallels augment Plutarch’s narrative, they are not so much a contributing factor to his understanding as a product of it. Conversely, there are several instances where poetic intertexts within the Spartan Lives do contribute to Plutarch’s understanding of Sparta: in the Life of Lycurgus, he cites lines from Terpander, Pindar and Alcman to demonstrate the esteem in which the muses were held in Sparta (21.3–4); in the Comparison of Lycurgus & Numa, Ibycus, Euripides and Sophocles testify to Lycurgus’ failure to restrain Sparta’s “bare-thighed” women (3.3–4); in the Life of Cleomenes, Homer, along with Plato, illustrates the ‘old-fashioned’ elision of fear and reverence which explains why the Spartans have a temple to Fear (Cleom. 9.3–4). The key difference between these two sets of poetic intertexts is that, while those in the last paragraph are more strictly ornamental or presentational in their contribution, these serve as evidence for Plutarch’s understanding of Sparta, in addition to augmenting his narrative.11 I close this section with a case that tests this distinction. At the end of his Life of Lycurgus (29.1), Plutarch uses an extended simile to compare Lycurgus to the Platonic deity, drawing on Plato’s Timaeus (37c): κατειλημμένων δὲ τοῖς ἐθισμοῖς ἤδη τῶν κυριωτάτων ὑπ’ αὐτοῦ, καὶ τῆς πολιτείας ἐκτεθραμμένης ἱκανῶς καὶ δυναμένης φέρειν ἑαυτὴν καὶ σώζειν δι’ ἑαυτῆς, ὥσπερ ὁ Πλάτων φησὶν ἐπὶ τῷ κόσμῳ γενομένῳ καὶ κινηθέντι τὴν πρώτην κίνησιν εὐφρανθῆναι τὸν θεόν, οὕτως ἀγασθεὶς καὶ ἀγαπήσας τὸ τῆς νομοθεσίας κάλλος καὶ μέγεθος ἐν ἔργῳ γενομένης καὶ ὁδῷ βαδιζούσης …

10 11

See S. Nevin, “Negative Comparison: Agamemnon and Alexander in Plutarch’s AgesilausPompey,” GRBS 54 (2014) 45–68. This distinction between Plutarch’s narrative and the understanding of Sparta implied by it is separate from the difficult question of to what extent we might distinguish between the understanding of Sparta implied by Plutarch’s presentation and Plutarch’s genuine personal understanding of Sparta. Thus, for example, one might reasonably argue that the Life of Lycurgus presents a more idealized vision of Spartan society than Plutarch actually believed to have ever been the reality.

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When [Lycurgus’] principal institutions were at last firmly fixed in the customs of the people, and his civil polity had sufficient growth and strength to support and preserve itself, just as Plato says that Deity was rejoiced to see His universe come into being and make its first motion, so Lycurgus was filled with joyful satisfaction in the magnitude and beauty of his system of laws, now that it was in operation and moving along its pathway. On the face of it, this is an ornamental intertext, much like the lines of Homer just discussed. But there is an important difference. While both Homer and Plato are key points of reference used to ornament and enrich Plutarch’s narratives, as many scholars have observed, Plato is particularly significant for Plutarch’s understanding of Sparta, and engagement with Plato permeates the Life of Lycurgus.12 Ultimately, my interest in the concept of ‘intertextual Sparta’ is pragmatic, rather than semantic. In this case, I would argue, the wider significance of Plato for Plutarch’s understanding of Sparta lends this Platonic intertext a significance which it would not otherwise possess in terms of how Plato informs Plutarch’s perception of Sparta and its lawgiver. What is on one level an ornamental intertext grants us as much insight into Plutarch’s understanding of Sparta as it does regarding his narrative presentation of it.

3

Experiential Sparta

So far in this chapter, I have emphasized the intertextual character of Plutarch’s understanding of Sparta. However, this leaves unaccounted those aspects of Plutarch’s understanding that derived from his own experience—what I will term his ‘experiential Sparta.’ It is without question that Plutarch had firsthand experience of Sparta. If we are right to identify the Herculanus to whom Plutarch addresses De laude ipsius with Gaius Julius Eurycles Herculanus, then Plutarch was on familiar terms with one of the most influential families in con12

See, inter alia: L. De Blois, “Plutarch’s Lycurgus: A Platonic Biography,” in K. Vössing (ed.), Biographie und Prosopographie: Internationales Kolloquium zum 65. Geburtstag von Anthony R. Birley (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2005) 91–102; J.P. Hershbell, “Paideia and Politeia in Plutarch: The Influence of Plato’s Republic and Laws,” in I. Gallo & B. Scardigli (eds.), Teoria e prassi politica nelle opere di Plutarco. Atti del V Convegno plutarcheo, Certosa di Pontignano, 7–9 giugno 1993 (Naples: D’Auria, 1995) 209–220; P.A. Stadter, “Plato in Plutarch’s Lives of Lycurgus and Agesilaus,” in A. Pérez Jiménez et al. (eds.) Plutarco, Platón y Aristóteles. Actas del V Congreso Internacional de la I.P.S. (Madrid-Cuenca, 4–7 de mayo de 1999) (Madrid: Ediciones Clásicas, 1999) 475–486.

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temporary Sparta.13 Plutarch comments that he found the names of Agesilaus’ wife and daughters among the “Spartan records” (Ages. 19.6: ἐν ταῖς Λακωνικαῖς ἀναγραφαῖς), usually taken to be some form of local archive. He also explicitly attests to his occasional presence in Sparta in his discussion of the Spartan upbringing (Lyc. 18.1): οὕτω δὲ κλέπτουσι πεφροντισμένως οἱ παῖδες, ὥστε λέγεταί τις ἤδη σκύμνον ἀλώπεκος κεκλοφὼς καὶ τῷ τριβωνίῳ περιστέλλων, σπαρασσόμενος ὑπὸ τοῦ θηρίου τὴν γαστέρα τοῖς ὄνυξι καὶ τοῖς ὀδοῦσιν, ὑπὲρ τοῦ λαθεῖν ἐγκαρτερῶν ἀποθανεῖν. καὶ τοῦτο μὲν οὐδὲ ἀπὸ τῶν νῦν ἐφήβων ἄπιστόν ἐστιν, ὧν πολλοὺς ἐπὶ τοῦ βωμοῦ τῆς Ὀρθίας ἑωράκαμεν ἐναποθνήσκοντας ταῖς πληγαῖς. The boys make such a serious matter of their stealing, that one of them, as the story goes, who was carrying concealed under his cloak a young fox which he had stolen, suffered the animal to tear out his bowels with its teeth and claws, and died rather than have his theft detected. And even this story gains credence from what their youths now endure, many of whom I have seen expiring under the lash at the altar of Artemis Orthia. Thus knowing that Plutarch did visit Sparta also makes it easier for us to surmise that he is probably speaking from personal experience on other occasions, such as when he remarks that “one can see” at Sparta the spear of Agesilaus (Ages. 19.4–6): οὐ δεῖπνον ἤλλαξεν, οὐ λουτρόν, οὐ θεραπείαν γυναικός, οὐχ ὅπλων κόσμον, οὐκ οἰκίας κατασκευήν, ἀλλὰ καὶ τὰς θύρας ἀφῆκεν οὕτως οὔσας σφόδρα παλαιάς, ὡς δοκεῖν εἶναι, ταύτας ἐκείνας ἃς ἐπέθηκεν Ἀριστόδημος, καὶ τὸ κάνναθρόν, φησιν ὁ Ξενοφῶν οὐδέν τι σεμνότερον εἶναι τῆς ἐκείνου θυγατρὸς ἢ τῶν ἄλλων. κάνναθρα δὲ καλοῦσιν εἴδωλα γρυπῶν ξύλινα καὶ τραγελάφων ἐν οἷς κομίζουσι τὰς παῖδας ἐν ταῖς πομπαῖς […] ἔστι δὲ καὶ λόγχην ἰδεῖν αὐτοῦ κειμένην ἄχρι νῦν ἐν Λακεδαίμονι, μηδὲν τῶν ἄλλων διαφέρουσαν. [Agesilaus] made no change in his table, or his baths, or the attendance on his wife, or the decoration of his armour, or the furniture of his house, nay, he actually let its doors remain although they were very old—one might say they were the very doors which Aristodemus had set up. His daugh-

13

B. Puech, “Prosopographie des amis de Plutarque,” in ANRW II.33.6 (Berlin-New York: De Gruyter, 1992) 4850–4855.

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ter’s kannathron, as Xenophon tells us, was no more elaborate than that of any other maid (kannathra is the name they give to the wooden figures of griffins or goat-stags in which their young girls are carried at the sacred processions) […] And one can see his spear also, which is still preserved at Sparta, and which is not at all different from that of other men. Plutarch’s ‘experiential Sparta’ takes diverse forms, and frequently appears in dialogue with his ‘intertextual Sparta.’ In the case above, the sight of Agesilaus’ humble spear serves to confirm and augment other testimonies to Agesilaus’ simple tastes—the doors of his house, his daughter’s kannathron—which Plutarch has drawn from Xenophon (Ages. 8.7). A similar dialogue between intertext and experience is probably apparent in the passage above regarding the Spartan upbringing. We do not know its source, but if we assume that the story of the boy and the fox comes from a prior text,14 then, in this case, Plutarch seems aware that this is a somewhat far-fetched story and so provides a justification for its plausibility based upon his own experiences in Sparta. Plutarch also uses his personal experience as a basis for correcting earlier authors. For example, he tells us how, in the closing stages of the battle of Mantinea, the Theban general Epaminondas was slain by a Spartan named Anticrates (Ages. 35.1–2): ὀλίγαις δὲ ὕστερον ἡμέραις περὶ τὴν Μαντίνειαν ἐμαχέσαντο, καὶ τὸν Ἐπαμεινώνδαν ἤδη κρατοῦντα τῶν πρώτων, ἔτι δὲ ἐγκείμενον καὶ κατασπεύδοντα τὴν δίωξιν, Ἀντικράτης Λάκων ὑποστὰς ἔπαισε δόρατι μέν, ὡς Διοσκουρίδης ἱστόρηκε, Λακεδαιμόνιοι δὲ Μαχαιρίωνας ἔτι νῦν τοὺς ἀπογόνους τοῦ Ἀντικράτους καλοῦσιν, ὡς μαχαίρᾳ πατάξαντος. οὕτω γὰρ ἐθαύμασαν καὶ ὑπερηγάπησαν αὐτὸν φόβῳ τοῦ Ἐπαμεινώνδου ζῶντος, ὥστε τιμὰς μὲν ἐκείνῳ καὶ δωρεὰς ψηφίσασθαι, γένει δ’ ἀτέλειαν, ἣν ἔτι καὶ καθ’ ἡμᾶς ἔχει Καλλικράτης, εἷς τῶν Ἀντικράτους ἀπογόνων. A few days afterwards a battle was fought near Mantinea, in which Epaminondas had already routed the van of the Lacedaemonians, and was still eagerly pressing on in pursuit of them, when Anticrates, a Spartan, faced him and smote him with a spear, as Dioscourides tells the story; 14

This story is told in fuller detail in the Apophthegmata Laconica (234A–B). On the relationship of the Sayings to the Lives, see C.B.R. Pelling, “The Apophthegmata Regum et Imperatorum and Plutarch’s Roman Lives,” in Plutarch and History: Eighteen Studies (London: Duckworth, 2002) 65–91; P.A. Stadter, “Plutarch’s Compositional Technique: The Anecdote Collections and the Parallel Lives,” GRBS 54 (2014) 665–686.

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but the Lacedaemonians to this day call the descendants of Anticrates machaeriones, or swordsmen, because he used a sword for the blow. For the Lacedaemonians were filled with such admiring love for him because of the fear in which they held Epaminondas while living, that they voted honours and gifts to Anticrates himself, and to his posterity exemption from taxes, an immunity which in my own day also is enjoyed by Callicrates, one of the descendants of Anticrates. It seems likely that Plutarch knew the Callicrates whom he mentions here, or at least knew of him. On the basis of this knowledge, he applied the title carried by Anticrates’ descendants, ‘swordsmen,’ as evidence against Dioscourides’ claim that Anticrates killed Epaminondas with a spear. Thus, in this instance, Plutarch preferred the authority of experience and tradition to that of intertext. A further consideration arising from this passage is that, if Plutarch did meet this Callicrates, there is no reason to assume that it was in Sparta. Insofar as that encounter enhanced Plutarch’s understanding, we may say that it contributed to his ‘experiential Sparta’ regardless of where it took place. To put it simply, Plutarch’s ‘experiential Sparta’ is not geographically defined. And we can apply this principle to other cases. Plutarch begins his Life of Lysander with a discussion of a statue which stands within the treasury of the Acanthians at Delphi (1.1): ὁ Ἀκανθίων θησαυρὸς ἐν Δελφοῖς ἐπιγραφὴν ἔχει τοιαύτην· “Βρασίδας καὶ Ἀκάνθιοι ἀπ’ Ἀθηναίων·” διὸ καὶ πολλοὶ τὸν ἐντὸς ἑστῶτα τοῦ οἴκου παρὰ ταῖς θύραις λίθινον ἀνδριάντα Βρασίδου νομίζουσιν εἶναι. Λυσάνδρου δέ ἐστιν εἰκονικός, εὖ μάλα κομῶντος ἔθει τῷ παλαιῷ καὶ πώγωνα καθειμένου γενναῖον. The treasury of the Acanthians at Delphi bears this inscription: “Brasidas and the Acanthians, with spoil from the Athenians.” For this reason many think that the marble figure standing within the edifice, by the door, is a statue of Brasidas. But it really represents Lysander, with his hair very long, after the ancient custom, and growing a generous beard. It is understandable that people were unable to distinguish the identity of the statue and assumed from context that it was Brasidas. To judge from Plutarch’s description, the statue’s most distinctive features were the long hair and generous beard typical of a Spartan male—no doubt combined with typical Spartan attire. One might say that, for the observer, the exact identity of this figure was secondary to the fact that this was a representation of a Spartan. In Plutarch’s case, as he observed this statue, he took note of its typical Spartan features,

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and sought to establish who it in fact was. This investigation contributed to his understanding of Sparta—his ‘experiential Sparta.’ The fact that this statue stood outside of the Peloponnese, more than 150 km distant from the city of Sparta, is irrelevant.15 Appropriately, Lysander’s statue serves as the prompt for a rich intertextual discussion regarding the male Spartan custom of growing long hair (1.2): οὐ γάρ, ὡς ἔνιοί φασιν, Ἀργείων μετὰ τὴν μεγάλην ἧτταν ἐπὶ πένθει καρέντων οἱ Σπαρτιᾶται πρὸς τὸ ἀντίπαλον αὐτοῖς τὰς κόμας ἀγαλλόμενοι τοῖς πεπραγμένοις ἀνῆκαν, οὐδὲ Βακχιαδῶν τῶν ἐκ Κορίνθου φυγόντων εἰς Λακεδαίμονα ταπεινῶν καὶ ἀμόρφων διὰ τὸ κείρασθαι τὰς κεφαλὰς φανέντων εἰς ζῆλον αὐτοὶ τοῦ κομᾶν ἦλθον, ἀλλὰ καὶ τοῦτο Λυκούργειόν ἐστι. καί φασιν αὐτὸν εἰπεῖν ὡς ἡ κόμη τοὺς μὲν καλοὺς εὐπρεπεστέρους ὁρᾶσθαι ποιεῖ, τοὺς δὲ αἰσχροὺς φοβερωτέρους. For it is not true, as some state, that because the Argives, after their great defeat, shaved their heads for sorrow, the Spartans, in contrary fashion, let their hair grow long in exultation over their victory; nor was it because the Bacchiadae, when they fled from Corinth to Lacedaemon, looked mean and unsightly from having shaved their heads, that the Spartans, on their part, became eager to wear their hair long; but this custom also goes back to Lycurgus. And he is reported to have said that a fine head of hair makes the handsome more comely to look upon, and the ugly more terrible. Plutarch first dismisses the suggestion that the Spartans adopted long hair because the defeated Argives adopted short hair—an origin story that contains one of Plutarch’s allusions to Herodotus (1.82). Next, he dismisses the connection of the Spartans’ long hair with the Bacchiadae, a story presumably drawn from another textual source. Finally, he gives his own explanation: that this was a Lycurgan invention; here, he draws inspiration from Xenophon’s Constitution of the Spartans (11.3) and also links intratextually to his own Life of Lycurgus (22.1).16

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Lysander makes a further contribution to Plutarch’s ‘experiential Sparta:’ Plutarch apparently visited his tomb, no doubt a familiar sight to him, since he tells us that it stood on the road between Chaeronea and Delphi (Lys. 29.3). On the intratextual richness of Plutarch’s Spartan Lives, see O. Gengler in this volume (pp. 111–128).

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Conclusion

It would be incorrect to imagine that Plutarch’s Spartan narratives display anything approaching parity between the intertextual and the experiential. Plutarch’s understanding of Sparta was pervasively intertextual, even if not every intertext within his Spartan narratives contributed to his ‘intertextual Sparta.’ Additionally, Plutarch does not brandish his personal experience of Sparta at every available opportunity; in some instances, for example when mentioning landmarks such as the temple of Lycurgus that one imagines he must have visited, he is brief, and says little that would suggest first-hand knowledge on his part.17 However, Plutarch’s ‘experiential Sparta’ does play a significant role in shaping his understanding, and, as we have seen, he deploys his experiences within his writings in order to augment, justify and critique intertextual testimonies, as well as to prompt intertextual discussions. It is in the interaction of these diverse influences, intertextual and experiential, that we may best find Plutarch’s Sparta. 17

Lyc. 31.3: δι’ ὅπερ καὶ Ἀριστοτέλης ἐλάττονας σχεῖν φησι τιμὰς ἢ προσῆκον ἦν αὐτὸν ἔχειν ἐν Λακεδαίμονι, καίπερ ἔχοντα τὰς μεγίστας. ἱερόν τε γάρ ἐστιν αὐτοῦ, καὶ θύουσι καθ’ ἕκαστον ἐνιαυτὸν ὡς θεῷ (“Aristotle says that the honours paid [to Lycurgus] in Sparta were less than he deserved, although he enjoys the highest honours there. For he has a temple, and sacrifices are offered to him yearly as to a god”). The same issue arises in the case of the temple of Athena Optilitis: Plutarch describes Lycurgus setting it up in remembrance of his lost eye (Lyc. 11.4), but gives no indication that it still stood on the Spartan acropolis in his time (Paus. 3.18.2). Cf. J. Buckler, “Plutarch and Autopsy,” in ANRW II.33.6 (Berlin-New York: De Gruyter, 1992) 4814–4815.

chapter 34

ὕλη θεολογίας: Religious Lore as Inter‘text’ in Plutarch’s Moralia Rainer Hirsch-Luipold

Abstract Taking inspiration from Plutarch’s well-known quote at the beginning of De defectu oraculorum (410B), this chapter explores the ways in which Plutarch uses religious lore as the material basis (hyle) for his philosophical theology. Plutarch’s inter‘textual’ references to certain material traditions—in our case taken from the sphere of lived religion—are shaped in such a way that allows him to make a specific point in a given argumentative context. The traditional material is reworked according to the role it will have to serve in its new context, just as ancient writers would commonly adjust a written quotation to the context of their argument. This interaction between the traditions of lived religion and the philosophical quest for truth is surely one of the most fascinating forms of intermateriality in the work and thought of the philosopher-priest from Delphi. From a comparative history of religions point of view, the notion of hyle as the carrier of divine truth becomes even more interesting when compared with the not so dissimilar religious hermeneutics of sarx in the biblical Gospel of John.

What is an inter‘text’?1 Not necessarily a text, as I am going to argue, at least not for Plutarch. In the Moralia especially, the erudite from Delphi uses all sorts of eccentric materials—such as asparagus, the Spanish fly, the moon, Egyptian animal worship, musical intervals, medical treatments, and the like—which he assembled on his travels and in libraries, as inter‘texts’. Therefore, when talking about intertextuality in Plutarch, we should not forget these other material tra-

1 On the theoretical aspects cf. the seminal contributions by R. Barthes, “Texte (Théorie du),” in Encyclopaedia Universalis 15 (Paris: Encyclopaedia Universalis, 1973) 1013–1017; G. Genette, Palimpsestes. La littérature au second degré (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1982; the various models of intertextuality are presented concisely at 7–16); J. Kristeva, Σημειωτικὴ. Recherches pour une sémanalyse (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1969), and, more recently, the volume of U. Broich & M. Pfister (eds.), Intertextualität. Formen, Funktionen, anglistische Fallstudien (Tübingen: Max Niemeyer Verlag, 1985).

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ditions with which he interacts in his works. Plutarch creates his ideal ‘text’ to some degree out of the ‘lexems’ of the physical world. The quotation in my title plays, of course, on the well-known quote at the beginning of Plutarch’s De defectu oraculorum (410B). It describes Cleombrotus, one of two holy men who, after travelling the whole world, met in Delphi like the two eagles sent out by Zeus from the corners of the world. On his travels, we are told, the holy man assembled traditions (ἱστορίαν) as the raw material out of which he built his philosophy. This can be taken as a statement of an intertextual approach tout court, if we take inter‘textual’ as a term for interactions with all sorts of materials in a literary text. My title, it has to be underlined, is of course not an accurate quotation. It is rather an abbreviation and a contraction: Plutarch never talks about ὕλη θεολογίας. Instead, he uses the term ὕλη φιλοσοφίας. Cleombrotus is said to have assembled material for a philosophy, which had theologia as its goal (συνῆγεν ἱστορίαν οἷον ὕλην φιλοσοφίας θεολογίαν ὥσπερ αὐτὸς ἐκάλει τέλος ἐχούσης). However, as we will see in the course of this chapter, using traditional material as a ὕλη θεολογίας is indeed what the author Plutarch does throughout his work.2 The interpretation of this passage, however, has been rather controversial. While some scholars, including R. Flacelière, W. Burkert and also myself, tend to take what is said here about Cleombrotus as a programmatic statement describing the philosophical method of the author himself,3 others, like Hirzel or Brenk, dispute that. Cleombrotus, the latter argue, is presented by Plutarch as a rather short-witted man who is being mocked by some of the other speakers in the dialogue because of his simple-minded credulity.4 While there may

2 I thus continue the discussion begun at an earlier IPS-meeting where I spoke about philosophical argumentation based on the interpretation of religious tradition; cf. R. HirschLuipold, “ ‘The Most Ennobling Gift of the Gods’—Religious Traditions as the Basis for Philosophical Interpretation in Plutarch,” in G. Pace & P. Volpe Cacciatore (eds.), Plutarch’s Writings: Transmission, Translation, Reception, Commentary. Proceedings of the IX International Conference of the International Plutarch Society (Naples: Calata Trinità Maggiore, 2013) 203– 217. 3 R. Flacelière, “La théologie selon Plutarque,” in Mélanges de philosophie, de littérature et d’ histoire ancienne offerts à Pierre Boyancé (Rome: Ecole française de Rome, 1974) 273–280; id., “Plutarque dans ses “Œuvres morales”,” in R. Flacelière, J. Irigoin, J. Sirinelli & A. Philippon (eds.), Plutarque. Œuvres morales. Tome I, 1e partie (Paris: Belles Lettres, 1987) vii–ccxxvi, here cxxi and clxi; W. Burkert, “Plutarch. Gelebte Religion und philosophische Theologie,” in T.A. von Szlezák & K.-H. Stanzel (eds.), W. Burkert. Kleine Schriften VIII. Philosophica (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2008) 222–239, here 233; J.J. Hartmann, De Plutarcho scriptore et philosopho (Leiden: Brill, 1916) 188–189; J. Oakesmith, The Religion of Plutarch. A Pagan Creed of Apostolic Times (London-New York-Bombay: Longmans, Green, & CO., 1902) 90. 4 F.E. Brenk, In Mist Apparelled. Religious Themes in Plutarch’s Moralia and Lives (Leiden: Brill,

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be something to that, one has to bear in mind that even the character ‘Plutarch’ is not always taken too seriously by the author Plutarch. I am not saying that it is insignificant who makes a certain statement in Plutarch’s work, but I do advice that we ought not to jump to conclusions too quickly. Instead, I propose we take all the signals given by the author into account and weigh up carefully. As I have argued elsewhere, Cleombrotus shares several aspects with Plutarch the author (for instance that he is a φιλοθεάμων καὶ φιλομαθής). To me this is a clear indication that what Cleombrotus is saying cannot be too far off in Plutarch’s opinion.5 In this chapter, I want to look at the meaning of both ὕλη and θεολογία as well as ἱστορία in this context and in the work of Plutarch as a whole. This, I hope, will allow us to more fully appreciate the ways in which Plutarch uses traditional material as the basis for his philosophical theology.

1

ὕλη

The term ὕλη in Cleombrotus’ quotation, I propose, can be regarded as a key metaphor denoting Plutarch’s intertextuality—or intermateriality, as it were.6 ὕλη in this context means the thread out of which the texture of philosophical, and eventually theological, thought is woven. This ὕλη can be not only thoughts expressed in texts, but also the philosophical logos hidden in all sorts of traditional or natural materials, from religious symbols to phenomena like stones, rivers, or stars. If this is agreed, then Cleombrotus’ method appears to be perfectly in tune with Plutarch’s intertextual method throughout his writings. In order to see how much material, literary and otherwise, Plutarch incorporates in his writings, it may suffice to point to Fuhrmann’s book on images 1977) 91; R. Hirzel, “Plutarch,” in O. Crusius, O. Immisch & Th. Zielinski (eds.), Das Erbe der Alten. Schriften über Wesen und Wirkung der Antike, Bd. 4 (Leipzig: Dieterich’sche Verlagsbuchhandlung, 1912) 11–12. 5 Hirsch-Luipold, “Most Ennobling Gift,” 206. 6 The term is increasingly being used in scholarship in different contexts: e.g. in the context of archaeology by L. Bredholt Christensen & D.A. Warburton, “Ian Hodder and the Neolithic,” in L. Bredholt Christensen (ed.), Handbook of Religions in Ancient Europe (Durham: Acumen, 2013) 45–52, here: 46 (referring to Ian Hodder); in the context of media studies and art history by A. Seier, “From Intermediality to Intermateriality: Actor-Network Theory as a “Translation” of Post-Essentialist Media Studies,” in M. Spöhrer & B. Ochsner (eds.), Applying the ActorNetwork Theory in Media Studies (Hershey, PA: IGI Global, 2017) 38–50; in the context of law studies (e.g. by G. Bassano, “Intermateriality and Enunciation: Remarks on The Making of Law,” STS Italia Conference, Sociotechnical Environments Trento, November 24–26, 2016 [online]).

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in Plutarch.7 Fuhrmann assembles all images and comparisons in Plutarch’s works and groups them into domains: from the arts and sports to daily life, religion and medicine.8 As I have argued in my book on images in Plutarch,9 these manifold images are indeed the material out of which Plutarch creates his philosophical argument. But how does Plutarch proceed in doing so? Following ‘Quellenforschung’ as their leading scientific category, the bulk of German scholarship in 19th and the first half of the 20th century thought of the authors of the 1st and 2nd cent. AD as ‘eclectic’ writers who simply compiled their writings and thoughts out of building blocks—spolia, as it were—of classical writers and philosophers (“Bausteine” is the word still used in Dörrie/Baltes’ monumental project on the Platonic tradition10). If Plutarch were simply a compiler of earlier material and could thus be used as a quarry for older traditions preserved in his work, there would be little or nothing intertextual about his method. But that is not, in fact, how he proceeds. Far from incorporating the material into a new context without change, Plutarch, while trying to be faithful to the traditions he takes up, adjusts his material creatively to fit his own argument. John Dillon, in a volume entitled Traditions of Theology, describes the problem posed by this intertextual method to the historian of philosophy in the following way: “In the case of a figure such as Plutarch of Chaeronea, it becomes a serious problem for exegesis to distinguish what is personal from what he may have inherited from his tradition, which is, of course, the Platonic tradition.”11 While the ‘spolia’ may still be recognizable, as it were, it therefore needs to be added that they have found their place and function within a new architecture. The ὕλη serves a new function and thus works differently once it is crafted to fit its new argumentative context. To give just one example of how Plutarch tends to reshape and adjust his material in the context of his theological thought, even if it is at the center of Plato’s philosophy: being, of course, aware of the theory of ideas, Plutarch consciously subordinates it to, or even substitutes it by, the idea of a personal god.

7 8 9 10

11

F. Fuhrmann, Les images de Plutarque (Paris: Klincksieck, 1964). Fuhrmann, Images, 39–66. R. Hirsch-Luipold, Plutarchs Denken in Bildern. Studien zur literarischen, philosophischen und religiösen Funktion des Bildhaften (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2002). H. Dörrie, M. Baltes & C. Pietsch (eds.), Der Platonismus in der Antike. Grundlagen, System, Entwicklung (Stuttgart-Bad Canstatt: Fromann-Holzboog, 1987–), assemble ‘Bausteine’ of a supposed system of Platonism in antiquity. J. Dillon, “Plutarch on God,” in D. Frede & A. Laks (eds.), Traditions of Theology. Studies in Hellenistic Theology, its Background and Aftermath (Leiden: Brill, 2002) 223–238, 223.

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In doing so, he gives Plato’s ontology a more theological twist.12 Therefore, it is methodologically problematic to read ‘ideas’ where Plutarch talks about god or the divine.13 Conversely, we have to reckon with the fact that, due to his intertextual method, Plutarch’s thought may sometimes get sidetracked by the ideas of his sources. Luc Van der Stockt has shown in several publications how Plutarch in some cases follows the collections of traditional material on his hypomnemata, even if that leads to a certain detour of his argument.14 However, he will use every detour of this kind to creatively form a new idea. The material substrate (ὕλη) he is using will thus affect the thought he wants to express. It functions like the material of a statue,15 be it gold, silver or wood, which likewise contributes something to the image portrayed (to employ the comparison from De Pyth. or. 404C to which we will turn in a moment). The way in which traditional material sometimes tends to spread in Plutarch’s works also affects the demarcation between metaphor and discourse, as well as between myth and history.16 Let us return to the beginning of De defectu oraculorum as an example. Plutarch starts with the traditional myth about two eagles sent out by Zeus, 12

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Franco Ferrari also stresses the “theological” aspect in Plutarch’s philosophical thought, but gives the more traditional account of a coexistence of ideas and a “demiurgic God” in Plutarch; cf. F. Ferrari, Dio, idee e materia. La struttura del cosmo in Plutarco di Cheronea. Strumenti per la ricerca Plutarchea 3 (Naples: D’Auria, 1995); and now id., “Plutarch,” in C. Riedweg, C. Horn & D. Wyrwa (eds.), Grundriss der Geschichte der Philosophie Bd. 5.1: Die Philosophie der Kaiserzeit und der Spätantike (Basel: Schwabe, 2018) 565–580, esp. 570–573. Ferrari speaks of a “theologizing approach” at the end of De E attributing, however, this view to Plutarch’s teacher Ammonius: “Auf diese Weise überträgt Ammonios die Eigenschaften des platonischen Seins (die Welt der Ideen) auf die Gottheit, womit er den theologisierenden Ansatz begründet” (571). More accurately, in my view, is Ferrari’s formulation a few pages earlier (again about Plutarch’s Ammonius): “Ammonios setzt … das platonische Sein (τὸ ὄντως ὄν) mit der Gottheit (θεός) gleich” (568). The equation not of the ideas, but of true being with god can in my view indeed not only be attributed to the thought of Plutarch’s speaker Ammonius, but to Plutarch himself. It is equally problematic to reconstruct the role of Plato’s theory of ideas in Plutarch’s work by looking solely at quotations from Plato, as did C. Schoppe, Plutarchs Interpretation der Ideenlehre Platons (Münster-Hamburg: Lit Verlag, 1994). Only by including more material will it become apparent how Plutarch is indeed reinterpreting the theory of ideas in theological terms. Cf. L. Van der Stockt, “A Plutarchan Hypomnema on Self-Love,” AJPh 120 (1999) 575–599, here 579–580. Note that the same image is used in De Is. et Os. 374E to explain the correct understanding of ὕλη. At the conference, Z. Pleše combined this passage in an excellent paper with De an. procr. in order to distinguish between Aristotelian and Platonic aspects in Plutarch’s usage of the term ὕλη. Cf. C.B.R. Pelling in this volume, esp. pp. 17–23.

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but then proceeds to talk about two holy men. Are those holy men still part of the initial image taken from traditional mythology? Like the two eagles they set out from opposing corners of the world and like the eagles they meet at the omphalos in Delphi. Like the two eagles the two “holy men” are obviously meant to signal the special importance of Delphi as a place of divine revelation. Is the account of these two men mythology or history, then? Is it image or discourse?17

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θεολογία18

In the quotation in question, Cleombrotus is said to have called θεολογία the goal of a philosophy which is shaped on the basis of assembled, traditional material (that is what I take ἱστορία to mean in this context).19 The formulation ὥσπερ αὐτὸς ἐκάλει (“as he himself used to call it”) sounds as if Cleombrotus was habitually using the term in a new meaning. As is well known, Plato was the first one to use the term, in the second book of the Republic (379a), in the sense of responsible μυθολογία, that is, acceptable tales of the poets about the Gods. And Plato establishes some guidelines (τύποι τῆς θεολογίας): (1) God is good and only responsible for good things (379a–380c); (2) God is one, true and unchangeable (380d–383c). Later, Aristotle took the term up and employed it in a number of places.20 While he sometimes uses it in the same sense as Plato for the poets of old, in other places it designates the highest

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In Con. praec. Plutarch begins, in a similarly confusing way, with the image of a tune that arouses horses to mate, and then goes on to talk about marriage and harmony. That this tune is linked to the traditional songs sung by the priestess before the marriage couple withdraws to the nuptial chamber, adds even more overtones to the usage of this memorable image; cf. R. Hirsch-Luipold, “Pferde, Musen und Spargelkranz. Überlegungen zur Bedeutung der Bildersprache bei Plutarch am Beispiel der “Eheratschläge”,” in M. Baumbach & H. Görgemanns (eds.), Mousopolos Stephanos: Festschrift für Herwig Görgemanns (Heidelberg: Winter, 1998) 105–118. Regarding the history of the term cf. Flacelière, “La théologie selon Plutarque”; V. Goldschmidt, “Théologia,” REG 63 (1950) 20–42; F. Kattenbusch, “Die Entstehung einer christlichen Theologie. Zur Geschichte der Ausdrücke θεολογία, θεολογεῖν, θεολόγος,” ZThK 11 (1930) 161–205. For this broader meaning of traditional material in the sense of “knowledge someone obtained or assembled” cf. LSJ, s.v. ἱστορία I.2; of course ‘assembling’ may include the structured presentation, e.g. on a ὑπόμνημα (LSJ, s.v. ἱστορία II: “written account of one’s inquiries”). E.g. Mete. 353a35; Metaph. 1000a9; 1071b27; 1075b26; 1091a34 (about the theologoi of old); cf. also Metaph. 983b29.

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part of the philosophical quest as a metaphysical reflection on the divine.21 To distinguish it from the poetic language about the divine, it is not called θεολογία, but θεολογικὴ φιλοσοφία or ἐπιστήμη.22 But it is in early Imperial times when the terminology begins to boom with the rise of what I would call religious Platonism, and significantly changes its meaning.23 One of our key witnesses for this development is the philosopherpriest from Delphi.24 Plutarch uses the term at times in the same sense as Plato (meaning “traditional material regarding the gods”). He talks about the θεολόγοι of old in the sense of (probably Orphic) poets25 and calls Egyptian religious lore ἡ τῶν Αἰγυπτίων θεολογία.26 The plural μυστηριώδεις θεολογίαι (fr. 157.4 Sandbach) seems to underscore this usage along the lines of Plato. This, however, is Eusebius’ choice of words, who transmits the passage from The festival of images at Plataea; it probably reflects his ‘Platonic’ reading of Plutarch. Later on, when Plutarch is quoted verbatim, it turns out that the Chaeronean is, in fact, using the singular: Ancient natural science, among both Greeks and foreign nations, took the form of a scientific account hidden in mythology, veiled for the most part in riddles and hints, or of a mystic theology (μυστηριώδης θεολογία).27 This last passage leads us towards Plutarch’s second, innovative usage of the word: combining it with Aristotle’s θεολογικὴ φιλοσοφία. For in various places, θεολογία denotes philosophical reasoning about the divine, which is inspired by the interpretation of religious lore or other traditional material carrying some information about the divine. This sense which, as I said, combines Plato’s aspect of “traditional talk about the gods” with the Aristotelian notion of metaphysical reflection on the divine, comes close to the meaning the term will have

21 22

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24 25 26 27

Goldschmidt, “Théologia,” 20–21. Metaph. E 1026a and K 1064b Cf. Goldschmidt, “Théologia,” 21; J.C. Thom (ed.), Cosmic order and divine power: Pseudo-Aristotle, On the cosmos. Introduction, text, translation and interpretative essays (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014) 111. For a more extended treatment of this development cf. R. Hirsch-Luipold, “Theo-logy in John and in Imperial-Era Platonism,” in R. Hirsch-Luipold & R.M. Calhoun (eds.), The Origins of New Testament Theology. A Dialogue with Hans Dieter Betz (Tübingen: MohrSiebeck, 2020) 127–137, esp. 130–133. Another important figure is the Jewish Platonist philosopher Philo of Alexandria. De Is. et Os. 360D; cf. De def. or. 436D. Fr. 190.11. Cf. De Is. et Os. 354C: ὡς αἰνιγματώδη σοφίαν τῆς θεολογίας αὐτῶν ἐχούσης. Babbitt, however, translates: “their religious teaching” which would point to a set of ideas. Transl. Sandbach with some alterations.

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in early Christian literature.28 Thus, part of this new, Plutarchan meaning is the close connection of θεολογία with φιλοσοφία to the extent that θεολογία even becomes the goal of philosophy in Cleombrotus’ quotation.29 Plutarch calls Plato’s discussion of the ἀρχαί and the primary good θεολογεῖν,30 as is the allegorical interpretation of religious lore by the Stoics.31 In a similar sense the Ps.-Aristotelian De mundo calls its project, in the introduction to the work, θεολογεῖν (391b). The religious traditions of the Egyptians, as we have already seen, are referred to as θεολογία by Plutarch,32 and the wise men of old, even preceding the poets and philosophers, are called θεολόγοι.33 To them theological doctrines are ascribed: they praise God, be it in verse or prose, as incorruptible (ἄφθαρτος) and eternal (ἀίδιος), says Plutarch.34 Pherecydes, who wrote a lost work On the Gods, is called a θεολόγος by Plutarch,35 a term which is also used to describe the cult officials in Delphi (οἱ Δελφῶν θεολόγοι36). Plutarch relates that these cult officials allow (ἐῶντες) the poets to say certain things, thereby obviously attributing to them some supervisory authority in matters of theology. It is impossible here to discuss all the passages where Plutarch talks about theological issues.37 Instead, I will turn directly to the phrase ὕλη θεολογίας.

28 29

30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37

Interestingly, in Tatian’s Oration to the Greeks 10.3, the verb is only used once in the polemical sense of “proclaiming someone divine”. Goldschmidt, “Théologia,” 22, claims that Aristotle rejects θεολογία as a term for philosophical reasoning about the divine because of the second part of the word which, taken in the sense of “talking,” comes too close to μυθολογία. If that interpretation is correct, then Plutarch’s understanding precisely of this second part of the word has changed and now takes logos in the sense of “reason” to denote precisely the philosophical understanding of the divine. Quaest. conv. 614D. De Is. et Os. 367C. De Is. et Os. 371A. De Is. et Os. 369B; cf. also De an. procr. 1030B. De E 388E. Sull. 36.3. De def. or. 417F. I have discussed various passages of De Is. et Os., De sera num. and De E in Hirsch-Luipold, Plutarchs Denken in Bildern, but theological argumentation is also important in Plutarch’s anti-Stoic polemics; cf. R. Hirsch-Luipold, “The Dividing Line. Theological/Religious Arguments in Plutarch’s Anti-Stoic Polemics,” in J. Opsomer, G. Roskam & F.B. Titchener (eds.), A Versatile Gentleman. Consistency in Plutarch’s Writing. Studies Offered to Luc Van der Stockt on the Occasion of his Retirement (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2016) 17–36.

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ὕλη θεολογίας

A Platonist may wonder whether ὕλη φιλοσοφίας or ὕλη θεολογίας is even a sensible collocation. For what contribution could the physical sphere—for which ὕλη stands—have to make in matters of theology or regarding our understanding of the divine, intelligible world? Is it not the case that φιλοσοφία and θεολογία are by definition just as non-material as the sphere of ideas or the realm of God? What, then, does ὕλη have to do with it? Can philosophical theology be the result of an interaction with material realities? Of course, Plutarch can point to several useful aspects of such intertextual and intermaterial building blocks: first of all, there is the poetic or didactic aspect, which renders the text more enjoyable to read and easier to remember.38 In addition, such material also displays the erudition of the teacher. But there is a more profound, epistemological reason for the use of such material in the context of Plutarch’s discourses about the divine (which are, if Cleombrotus’ words are indeed to be taken as the author’s opinion, the goal of all philosophy): if God is utterly transcendent, the fundamental problem for anyone trying to do philosophical theology was and still is that there is no basis for any definite statement about God. In more classically Platonic terms: no definite statement is possible about the sphere of ideas, the truth, if there is no contact whatsoever with the physical world. Knowledge requires perception; and perception, at least for human beings,39 requires some physical basis. Thus, some form of mediation is required, which does not compromise the pure status of the divine, if one does not want to opt, like Academic skepticism,40 for a suspension of judgement (ἐποχή). Plutarch explores various ways in which the divine makes itself perceptible within the physical sphere: one example are divine signs like the Epsilon in Delphi to which Plutarch has devoted a whole dialogue. Another one is divination, which involves human mediators like the Pythia or Socrates. The Pythia, like every receptive soul, offers the physical basis (the ὕλη, so to speak) in which the divine is molded like an imprint in wax.41 Plutarch uses the famous Platonic 38 39 40

41

Cf. Con. praec. 138C. That the daimones communicate without a physical basis is discussed in De genio Socr. 581F–582C. J. Opsomer, In Search of the Truth. Academic Tendencies in Middle Platonism (Brussels: Koninklijke Academie voor Wetenschappen, Letteren en Schone Kunsten, 1998); id., “Divination and Academic ‘Scepticism’ according to Plutarch,” in L. Van der Stockt (ed.), Plutarchea Lovaniensia: A Miscellany of Essays on Plutarch (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1996) 164–194. De Pyth. or. 404B–E; cf. Hirsch-Luipold, Denken in Bildern, 92–98.

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image to make a theological and obviously apologetic point: being used by the God as an ὄργανον to transmit his thoughts, the Pythia receives the divine message and clothes it in her own words. According to Plutarch, this explains why the words of the Pythia may well be of an inferior aesthetic quality (due to the lack of education on the part of the Pythia, for instance) and yet truly express the thoughts of Apollo. While the physical ὄργανον makes the represented reality perceptible (which is incomprehensible to us in its pure state, but only becomes visible when filled with the qualities of something else), it will never represent this reality in its original pure and blameless state. Plutarch makes it very clear that the Pythia’s utterances are not the words of the God himself, but rather of his human medium. He applies to the Pythia what was said a little earlier about the human soul in general as God’s prime instrument (404B–C): ψυχὴ δ’ ὄργανον θεοῦ γέγονεν, ὀργάνου δ’ ἀρετὴ μάλιστα μιμεῖσθαι τὸ χρώμενον ᾗ πέφυκε δυνάμει καὶ παρέχειν τὸ ἔργον αὐτοῦ τοῦ νοήματος ἐν αὐτῷ διαφαινομένου, δεικνύναι δ’ οὐχ οἷον ἦν ἐν τῷ δημιουργῷ καθαρὸν καὶ ἀπαθὲς καὶ ἀναμάρτητον, ἀλλὰ μεμιγμένον πολλῷ τῷ ἀλλοτρίῳ, καθ’ ἑαυτὸ γὰρ ἄδηλον ἡμῖν, ἐν ἑτέρῳ δὲ καὶ δι’ ἑτέρου φαινόμενον ἀναπίμπλαται τῆς ἐκείνου φύσεως. The soul came to be the instrument of God, an instrument whose virtue it is to conform as exactly as possible to the agent that employs it by using the capacities bestowed upon it by nature, and to bring forth the product of the thought itself which becomes apparent in it; but to present it not in the form in which it was existent in its creator, uncontaminated, unaffected, and faultless, but combined with much that is alien. For pure design cannot be seen by us, and when it is made manifest in another guise and through another medium, it is filled42 with the nature of this medium.43 That every piece of information from or about the divine needs to be enveloped in some physical entity is the hermeneutical reason why the God in Delphi “neither tells nor conceals but hints” (σημαίνει). This transformation of the divine logos into a physically perceptible entity allows him to be perceived, but only as an image shaped by the physical qualities of the material of a mortal, physical ‘carrier,’ which is subject to movement and alteration. It therefore 42 43

Babbitt translates “contaminated.” While Plutarch employs the language of dying and contamination elsewhere, it is noteworthy how neutral and physical his language is here. Text: Sieveking (Teubner); the translation makes use of F.C. Babitt (LCL) where possible but does not follow his textcritical decisions.

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needs the right hermeneutics to detect the intelligible reality within the physical image. Plutarch explains (404D–E): πρόσλαβε δὲ τούτοις εὖ λεγομένοις καὶ νόησον τὸν ἐνταῦθα θεὸν χρώμενον τῇ Πυθίᾳ πρὸς ἀκοήν, καθὼς ἥλιος χρῆται σελήνῃ πρὸς ὄψιν· δείκνυσι μὲν γὰρ καὶ ἀναφαίνει τὰς αὑτοῦ νοήσεις, μεμιγμένας δὲ δείκνυσι διὰ σώματος θνητοῦ καὶ ψυχῆς ἀνθρωπίνης ἡσυχίαν ἄγειν μὴ δυναμένης μηδὲ τῷ κινοῦντι παρέχειν ἑαυτὴν ἀκίνητον ἐξ αὑτῆς καὶ καθεστῶσαν … Add to these words, which are well said, the thought that the god of this place employs the prophetic priestess for men’s ears just as the sun employs the moon for men’s eyes. For he makes known and reveals his own thoughts but he makes them known through the associated medium of a mortal body and a soul that is unable to keep quiet, or, as it yields itself to the One that moves it, to remain of itself unmoved and tranquil …44 Further examples of this perceptibility of the divine logos in phenomenal realities are the daimonion of Socrates (to which Plutarch, as is well-known, has devoted a whole dialogue) or the order of the stars,45 the course of history, etc. Surprisingly, the philanthropic God takes the first step in this hermeneutical process: he gets in touch through the mediation of ὄργανα such as images, symbols, or extraordinary human beings. Such ὄργανα, Plutarch says, transmit the divine message like refractions of pure light in a rainbow.46 In the context of divine discourse, the material basis of such symbols or images, in so far as they are turned into words in Plutarch’s philosophical interpretations of them, can be regarded as an inter‘text’ or rather pre‘text’ allowing man to talk about God, because it provides a link between the physical and the intelligible realm. De Iside et Osiride is particularly instructive regarding these theological hermeneutics of pictorial ‘material.’ From the very beginning of the text, Plutarch discusses hermeneutical questions. The function of religious symbols (συμβόλοις), he says, is to lead the way to the divine (378A). This is only possible because, while not logos in itself, such material allows the divine logos to be perceived within the physical world. The divine λόγος (Osiris) is imprinted into ὕλη (Isis), the receptacle, bringing forth the perceptible material sphere.47 Because 44 45 46 47

Translation F.C. Babbitt with some alterations. De sera num. 550C–D. The image of the rainbow and the refraction of light is used several times; cf. De Pyth. or. 409C; De Is. et Os. 358F; Amatorius 765D–F. De Is. et Os. 374D–F. The text in fact talks about Penia of Plato’s myth of Penia and Poros

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Typhon has dismembered Osiris and scattered him in the physical world, the task is to reassemble all the bits and pieces and to put them together in order to regain the original picture: the truth represented by Osiris. However, the path to this truth, notes Plutarch, is not without difficulties and dangers (οὐκ ἀκινδύνως, 378A). One can easily go astray, because one has to find the way from the polysemous realm of the world of becoming back to the unity of divine truth. Plutarch, in fact, describes here the hermeneutical basis for his usage of traditional religious material as a pre‘text’ for his philosophical reflection about the divine.

4

Plutarchan ὕλη and Johannine σάρξ as Ways to Attain God48: A Farfetched Comparison?

Having discussed ὕλη in Plutarch as a term denoting the physical carrier of God’s immaterial reality, his λόγος, I would like to draw a brief comparison with the Gospel of John. This comparison may, at first sight, seem far-fetched. However, written roughly at the time when Plutarch composed his writings, the gospel begins with the hermeneutical problem that no-one has ever seen God (Joh 1:18), and presents “the word became flesh” (Joh 1:14) as a solution.49 To overcome the fundamental, epistemological gap between God and man, the divine λόγος became flesh, according to the Gospel of John. By becoming flesh, truth is converted from being into becoming (1:17) and God, the Father, thereby becomes visible in him who is the “way, the truth and the life” (John 14:6 f.). While of course being a narrative text, the Fourth Gospel uses the religious tradition about the Christ-event, as we have it preserved in the Synoptic Gospels, as a pretext for the philosophical search for the truth, which in this gospel is

48 49

(Smp. 203b–e), but identifies Penia with Isis (cf. 381A and 382C–E); Isis is regarded here as ὕλη, her garment shining in many colors while the garment of Osiris, the divine λόγος, is pure and white. Cf. D.A. Lee, Flesh and Glory. Symbolism, Gender and Theology in the Gospel of John (New York: Crossroad, 2002). For a detailed discussion of the philosophical background of the Fourth Gospel, cf. the first chapter of my book Gott wahrnehmen. Die Sinne im Johannesevangelium. Ratio Religionis Studien IV, WUNT 374 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2017) esp. 60–82. Plutarch’s De Is. et Os. was discussed in the context of the hermeneutics of the Fourth Gospel by H.W. Attridge, “The Cubist Principle in Johannine Imagery. John and the Reading of Images in Contemporary Platonism,” in J. Frey, J.G. Van der Watt & R. Zimmermann (eds.), Imagery in the Gospel of John. Terms, Forms, Themes, and Theology of Johannine Figurative Language, WUNT 200 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006) 47–60.

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understood as the realm of God. Christ, as he can be perceived in very physical terms in this gospel, is the divine logos become flesh. This makes God, whom nobody has ever seen, perceptible and thereby “explains” him (ἐξηγήσατο; Joh 1:18). This is the reason why in this gospel, which Clement of Alexandria called the “spiritual gospel” (πνευματικὸν εὐαγγέλιον), the following stories of very physical encounters with the realm of God in Jesus play such a prominent role: after the introductory chapter in Joh 1, the narrative begins with the taste of exceptional wine in Joh 2:1–11; it reaches a turning point with two central stories about the life-giving character of God in Joh 11 and 12 involving the stench of death in the story of the raising of Lazarus (11:39) and the smell of life in the subsequent story where Jesus is anointed and fragrance fills the house (12:3); and it culminates when the risen Jesus offers Thomas to touch his wounds in order to find belief in the new life (which leads Thomas to finally confess: “my lord and my god”; 20:28). While earlier scholarship had a tendency to underline the dualistic aspects in the language of the Gospel and, consequently, to interpret the stories just quoted in light of a supposed general devaluation of the physical sphere, I take their surprising sensuality as an indication of a turn to a more positive appreciation of physicality, of the “flesh,” which, in my view, is a characteristic feature of Imperial Platonism,50 as we find it represented in Plutarch. Here, we find the same tendency for a more positive attitude towards the physical world as a means to attain knowledge about God. The appearance of the divine logos in “flesh,” and thus all the narratives about the encounter of God’s reality (his doxa) in Jesus, become ὕλη θεολογίας in the Gospel of John, to use my contraction of Plutarch’s terminology; i.e. they become the raw material from which statements about God (like Thomas’ final confession) can be derived. Johannine “flesh,” thus, can be seen as the anthropological or Christological equivalent to Plutarchan ὕλη. These ideas, unsurprisingly, provoked fierce attacks from pagan Platonists like Celsus right from the beginning. And quite understandably so, from a Platonist perspective: by aligning God in Christ with the physical world, thereby importing all the problems of corruptibility, destruction and finally death into our concept of the divine, the evangelist is crossing a line even Plutarch would not want to cross.51 Systematic theologians are struggling with the consequences to this very day, but at the same time this idea forms the very core of the Christian message. 50

51

Rather than Stoicism which Troels Engberg-Pedersen claims as the most important background in his recent book John and Philosophy. A New Reading of the Fourth Gospel (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017). Rightly underlined by Engberg-Pedersen, John and Philosophy, 356.

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There is another notable difference between the theological hermeneutics of Plutarch and of the Gospel of John: while Plutarch and his characters assemble the ὕλη for their theological philosophy from all over the world and all over history, the claim of the Fourth Gospel is that there is only one time and place in history where God’s word became flesh.

5

Concluding Remarks

As it turned out in this chapter, an intermaterial interaction between text and material world (especially the traditions of lived religion) is fundamental for the religio-philosophical literature in Early Imperial times. In the Platonic tradition it is built on the idea that the divine logos shaped the material world and is thus recognizable in it. Therefore, the material world, and especially the traditions of lived religion, contain refractions of the transcendent divine truth, which can be extracted by philosophical inquiry. This may, at least in part, answer the question why a not quite so simpleminded character like Plutarch would want to call the goal of philosophy “theology.” The answer to this question is to be found, I contend, in the development of the history of Platonist philosophy in Early Imperial times, of which Hellenistic Judaism, Early Christianity, and pagan-religious Platonism form part. It is the development toward a substitution of the sphere of ideas with the realm of god, and the soteriological conviction that knowledge of God who is true life, will help man to overcome his mortal existence by assimilation to him— ὁμοίωσις θεῷ.

chapter 35

The Power of Bones: An Intertextual and Intermaterial Reading of the Retrieval of Theseus’ Bones in Plutarch’s Life of Cimon Chandra Giroux

Abstract The mythical figure of Theseus is prominent in Plutarch’s work, not only in the Life reserved for him, but also in the Life of Cimon. In the Life of Cimon, the fifth century BCE Athenian general follows an oracular command to retrieve the bones of Theseus from Skyros (8.5). There, he finds a large skeleton (Thes. 36.2), similar to that of the bones of Orestes, the son of Agamemnon, as told by Herodotus (1.67–68). This chapter considers the possibility of Plutarch’s passage in Cimon being influenced by Herodotus’ account, for while the circumstances surrounding the ‘tombs’ of the heroes are very different, the retrieval follows an analogous pattern. This narrative structure is further highlighted through other accounts of the re-appropriation of heroic bones, such as that of Alcmene by Plutarch (De genio Socr. 577E), of Theseus by Pausanias (3.3.7), and of Rhesos by Polyainos (6.53). It is clear from these passages that tales of heroic bone transfers follow a pattern in ancient Greek literature. More importantly, this chapter demonstrates that Plutarch not only recognized this pattern, but he was also cognizant of the power these bones held to boost his hero’s status, partially through the creation of a physical space in which the bones were kept. My chapter focuses on the intertextual and intermaterial aspects of the narratives describing the retrieval of the bones of Theseus to ask how Plutarch uses this episode of bone retrieval for his educational program in Cimon.

It is a tale of pirates, of oracles, and of bones. The makings of a great story that we would expect to find in contemporary theaters. But this story is not one from the big screen; rather, it comes to us from Plutarch’s Life of Cimon, where the fifth century BCE Athenian general follows an oracular command to retrieve the bones of Theseus from the pirate-laden Skyros (Cim. 8.5). On the island, an omen of a raven reveals the location of Theseus’ tomb (Thes. 36.1) and the general Cimon finds within it a skeleton of extraordinary proportions. He then transfers the remains to Athens, erects a shrine for Theseus, and earns the love

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004427860_037

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of the people. This raises many questions for the modern reader who is divorced from the inherent convictions that produced this account. For example, where does the tale of the repatriation of the bones of Theseus fit in the literary tradition of bone retrieval? And, how does Plutarch use this tradition to boost his educational program in the Lives? To begin this analysis, it is necessary to explore instances of bone transfer in ancient literature in order to discern any patterns in the written tradition. This will be followed by a closer look at the literary account of the transfer of Theseus’ bones from Skyros to Athens as told by Plutarch in both his Life of Cimon and his Life of Theseus. This intratextual inquiry will add significance to the transfer narrative in Plutarch by revealing how he employs the literary pattern associated with bone transfer to show how Cimon uses both Theseus’ remains and his legend for his own political advantage. Finally, I will conclude by bringing together the literary analysis with the material space of Athens to see how spatial dynamics add meaning to this episode of bone transfer, both in terms of the intertextuality and intermateriality of Plutarch’s works and in relation to the educational value of the Parallel Lives by enforcing the concept of euergetism.

1

Bone Transfer

Accounts of retrieving a hero’s bones were not so unusual in ancient Greece and have been studied in depth by modern scholars. In particular, Barbara McCauley finds a pattern to the transfer of heroic bones in ancient Greek literature. First, a city is told, usually by an oracle, that the bones of a hero will benefit them. Then, the city locates the bones: with divine help, by stealing them, or by taking them through aggressive means. Finally, a cult is established in the city and the bones have some sort of benefit.1 This local benefit can be multifaceted. The bones create a physical link to the hero,2 organizing the community around the shrine and providing a sense of unity and solidarity.3 Internally, the bones may aid the person, or political faction of a city, who brings them back by providing them with a camp of supporters,4 since, by aligning themselves with the mythical past of the polis, these men show concern for the social well-being of fellow citizens by creating a sort of unity with the past. 1 2 3 4

B. McCauley, “The Transfer of Hippodameia’s Bones: A Historical Context,” CJ 93 (1998) 96. McCauley, “The Transfer,” 94. M. Fragkaki, “The Repatriation of Orestes and Theseus,” Antesteria 5 (2016) 298. McCauley, “The Transfer,” 94, 97.

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In terms of foreign policy, the transfer of heroic bones was of great importance. Taking the bones of a hero meant bringing the protection of that hero to your city, thus legitimizing both the aggressive policies of some poleis and their authority over others.5 This may help explain the surge of activity in bone transfers during the fifth century BCE, when the political climate of the Greek world was volatile with many poleis vying for power.6 As McCauley points out, “religion, politics, and bones are all blended together.”7 In other words, bones are powerful.8 Three case studies will help us reveal this power: the movement of Alcmene’s bones, as told by Plutarch; Polyainos’ rendition of the transfer of Rhesos’ bones by Hagnon; and the famous case of Orestes’ bones, recounted by Herodotus and Pausanias. The diversity of the authors and their works will demonstrate the persistence of the aforementioned pattern of bone transferal in Greek literature. In the first instance, Plutarch relates (De genio Socr. 577E) how Alcmene’s bones are moved from Haliartos in Boiotia to Sparta in ca. 382BCE by king Agesilaos, despite protests from the Haliartans. However, Agesilaos did not seek divine approval to move these bones, and thus both Haliartos and Sparta suffered severe natural disasters until the bones were returned.9 This account highlights that divine approval is vital for bone transfer, indicating the power of both the oracle and the bones themselves. In the second example, the bones of Rhesos are moved from Troy to Amphipolis. This is told by the Macedonian writer Polyainos (6.53),10 who explains that Hagnon, wanting to establish an Attic colony on the river Strymon, was told by the oracle to first retrieve the bones of Rhesos. Hagnon encounters some difficulties, with some barbaroi preventing the men from crossing the river with the bones, but once the bones arrive on site they protect the new polis and her inhabitants while they construct defensive walls.

5

6 7 8

9 10

Fragkaki, “The Repatriation,” 298; R. Garland, Introducing New Gods: The Politics of Athenian Religion (London: Cornell University Press, 1992) 97; McCauley, “The Transfer,” 95– 98. M. Zaccarini, “The Return of Theseus to Athens: a case study in layered tradition and reception,” Histos 9 (2015) 180. McCauley, “The Transfer,” 98. This power is not only evident in the symbolic capabilities of heroic bones, it is also seen in their size. The bones of heroes are generally of unusual dimensions, their colossal size providing a proof of their authenticity (W. Den Boer, “Theseus: The Growth of a Myth in History,” G&R 16 [1969] 3; McCauley, “The Transfer,” 93). McCauley, “The Transfer,” 95. Interestingly, he does not mention that they are of enormous size.

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Similar to the bones of Rhesos is the famous case of Orestes’ bones. Both Herodotus (1.67–68) and Pausanias (3.3.6–7) relate that the Spartans, in another instance of an oracular command, were told to bring back the bones of Orestes, the son of Agamemnon. This occurred in the mid-sixth century BCE when Sparta was in the process of establishing her hegemonic position and was encountering resistance from Tegea, even losing a battle to her.11 Having faced a defeat and the capture of their warriors, the Spartans consulted the oracle who told them that if they wanted victory, they needed to find the bones of Orestes in Tegea, move them to Sparta, and establish a shrine. After an unsuccessful attempt at discovering the tomb, they once again asked the oracle for help. She responded (Hdt. 1.67.4):12 Arcadian Tegea stands in a level plain, There, two winds blow by means of a mighty force, Blow lies upon blow, and woe lies upon woe, There, life-giving earth holds Agamemnon’s son, If you bring him back, you will be lord of Tegea. A clever Spartan by the name of Lichas found the bones in the courtyard of a blacksmith in Tegea—the bellows of the iron being the two winds, the hammer and anvil the blow upon blow, and the forging of iron the woe upon woe. The blacksmith described to Lichas what he had once seen in his workshop, “I wanted to make a well in this courtyard, but while I was digging, I hit a coffin seven cubits long. I never believed that men could be bigger than they are now, so I opened it and saw that the body was equal to the length of the coffin. After I measured it, I covered it again with earth” (Hdt. 1.68.3). Then, Lichas tricked the blacksmith, set up residence in the courtyard, dug up the bones, and brought them back to Sparta. Afterwards, the Spartans were superior to the Tegeans in battle. In all three cases, the bones follow the pattern laid out by McCauley: the need for divine approval to move the bones, as when it is not sought, the cities suffer severe natural disasters, as is the case for Alcmene’s bones.13 Next, there is the locating and retrieving of the bones, and, finally, establishing the bones in their new city with some sort of benefit. However, there is a more specific pattern here, namely, that the people taking the bones find some sort of resistance. 11 12 13

The Battle of the Fetters. Sparta already had control of Laconia and Messenia. See Fragkaki, “The Repatriation,” 286 and McCauley, “The Transfer of Hippodameia’s Bones,” 85. All translations are my own. Plu. De genio Socr. 577E–578A.

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For Alcmene’s bones it is divine resistance, for Rhesos’ remains they encounter unfriendly barbaroi, and for Orestes’ bones we see one rival city opposing the other. In all three cases, the bones themselves represent significant power once moved. We find this and other similarities echoed in Plutarch in the episode of transferring Theseus’ bones.

2

The Bones of Theseus

The importance of hero cults and heroic bone transfer was not lost on Plutarch, who incorporated this theme into both his Life of Cimon and that of Theseus. He explains that Cimon, armed with the knowledge of the oracular response from Delphi (Thes. 36.1), went looking for the bones of Theseus on the pirate-laden island of Skyros, where Theseus was purported to have fallen off a cliff (Cim. 8.5). With the help of an eagle pecking at the ground, an omen from the gods (Thes. 36.1–2), Cimon found the remains with a bronze spear and a sword. And, like the bones of Orestes, Theseus’ bones were also large.14 Cimon brought the bones to Athens in the 470s BCE and erected a shrine to Theseus, the Theseion, in the east of the Agora.15 Plutarch strategically closes this anecdote in Cimon with the key phrase, “This exploit, above all, was the reason the people were well disposed towards him” (8.6). Plutarch was evidently aware of the three-part pattern in literature relating to bone transfer. First, Plutarch reminds his reader (Cim. 8.6) that the Athenians had long ago received an oracle bidding them to bring back the bones of Theseus and to honor him as a hero. The bones are then revealed through divine help in the image of an eagle (Thes. 36.1–2). These bones, like others described in the literature, such as those of Orestes, are larger than those of a regular man. Lastly, Cimon brings the bones home and establishes a shrine to him, the Theseion. Plutarch made absolutely certain that the benefits of bringing home Theseus’ bones would not be lost on his reader through the inclusion 14

15

B. Perrin (Plutarch. Lives, Volume I [Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1914] 85) translates this section of the Greek as “a man of extraordinary size”. While the Greek does not necessarily indicate a body that is as massive as this translation suggests, the use of an adjective denoting a large size implies that the bones were bigger than normal. Whether or not they were as impressive as those of Orestes, we cannot say for certain, but the use of a descriptor word in this text likely hints that the bones were larger than those of a regular man. Paus. 1.17.2–6; D. Castriota, Myth, Ethos, and Actuality: Official Art in Fifth-Century B.C. Athens (Wisconsin: University of Wisconsin Press, 1992) 7; V. Gouschin, “Athenian Synoikism of the Fifth Century BC, or Two Stories of Theseus,” G&R 46 (1999) 169.

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of the not-so-subtle phrase, “This exploit, above all, was the reason the people were well disposed towards him” (8.6). Plutarch thus ensures that his reader understands the gravitas of Cimon’s actions and the power of these bones, the benefits of which were multifaceted for his hero, Cimon. The major benefit of bringing back Theseus’ bones in Plutarch’s Cimon is political. Although in literature and in cult, Theseus is always an Athenian,16 prior to the recovery of his bones, Theseus was likely honored mainly by the aristocracy.17 By taking Skyros to avenge the death of Theseus, and establishing a new shrine to him, Plutarch showcases how Theseus’ presence was cemented with the masses. By aggrandizing his myth, refreshing his legend, and making him more prevalent in the city, Cimon transformed Theseus as not only the founder of Athens, but also created a new conception of him as the hero of Attica. This metamorphosis of his character and pervasiveness of his cult transferred the popularity of Theseus from the elite to the people, as a symbol of their new nationalistic, self-determined spirit.18 As a result of granting this hero to the people, Cimon’s power in Athens increased, albeit for a temporary period. Part of Cimon’s political stratagem was using Theseus’ bones to bring down his rival Themistocles.19 He monopolized the myth of Theseus to rehabilitate

16

17 18

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H.J. Walker, Theseus and Athens (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995) 15. For Theseus as a figure and his importance in Athens, see C. Calame, Thésée et l’imaginaire athénien: Légende et culte en Grèce antique (Lausanne: Editions Payot, 1996, 2nd ed.). Gouschin, “Athenian Synoikism,” 169, 181; Walker, Theseus and Athens, 20. Garland, Introducing New Gods, 93. H.J. Walker reads the frequent renditions of Theseus on pottery as evidence of this boom in popularity, which went from one in every twenty Attic vases to one in every four, replacing Heracles as the most depicted hero on pottery in Athens, if our limited evidence is representative. However, Walker believes that this popularity shift occurred before Cimon brought back the bones of Theseus and that Cimon was capitalizing on the stardom of this hero, though he does agree that the bones gave new life to the cult (Walker, Theseus and Athens, 56–57). It is difficult to imagine that bringing home a relic of the mythological hero would not breathe new life into the spirit of his cult, as the Athenians now had something physical of their hero they could claim to possess. He was now seen by the masses as a generous man, a man who nurtures their mythological past through the donation of a relic and a physical space in which to worship. He used the favor he gained from the masses to cull the popularity of any of his political rivals, specifically, Themistocles. As Edmund Bloedow argues, so beloved was Cimon for bringing back the bones, there was no possibility in undermining his position in the first part of the 470s (E.F. Bloedow, “The Peace of Callias,” Symbolae Osloenses 67 [1992] 51). Emily Varto also believes that this action helped cement Cimon’s popularity (E. Varto, “Stories told in lists: formulaic genealogies as intentional histories,” Journal of Ancient History 3 [2015] note 71).

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his father’s image. Miltiades fell from prominence after his failure on the expedition at Paros, but, Plutarch makes clear, with the action of winning over some contemporaries with this gesture of returning the bones, Cimon grasped the power of mythology in history and used it for his own benefit. Individuals such as Pherecydes, who, according to Felix Jacoby, may have been related to Miltiades and Cimon,20 helped with Cimon’s propaganda campaign by deepening the connection between Theseus’ and Cimon’s family.21 For, as Plutarch tells us in his Life of Theseus (35.8), there was a legend that Theseus came to Marathon to help Miltiades lead the way to victory. By recounting Cimon’s expedition to return the bones of Theseus, Plutarch not only reminds the people of this divine connection and favor held by Cimon’s father, but also of the general’s stellar victory against the Persians, outshining Themistocles’ victory at Salamis. Not only did Miltiades lead the first victory, he did it with the help of a hero, brought by divine favor for the Athenians and Cimon’s family. And now, Miltiades’ son, Cimon, was shown that same favor in finding the bones and fulfilling an oracular response.22 For Plutarch, the bones were powerful, and he could not have been more clever in his presentation of them in Cimon. It is clear, then, that Plutarch believed that bone transfer could be used as an effective tool, particularly in political negotiation. But how does his presentation of the movement of Theseus’ bones aid in our understanding of the interplay of texts of bone transfer?

3

Intertextuality and Intermateriality

It should be noted that a very thorough and convincing study by Matteo Zaccarini places doubt upon the historical reliability of Plutarch’s account of Theseus’ bone transfer, suggesting that two separate themes converged together in Plutarch’s account, namely, (1) the tradition, dating back to Thucydides, regarding the Athenian conquest of Skyros, and (2) the recovery of Theseus’

20 21 22

See BNJ 3 F 2 commentary. See also, F. Jacoby “The First Athenian Prose Writer,” Mnemosyne 13 (1947) 30–33. Castriota, Myth, Ethos, and Actuality, 7. See BNJ 3 F145 commentary. Cimon continued to remind the people of his father’s, and by association his own, importance to Athens through paintings and statues of Miltiades, including one dedicated to Miltiades by Phidias whom many regard as one of the greatest sculptors of ancient Greece (A. Blamire, Plutarch. Life of Kimon [London: Institute of Classical Studies, 1989] 103. See also Paus. 10.10.1).

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bones from the island.23 Zaccarini argues that both traditions arose during the fourth century but that there is no evidence for the two stories mixing until Plutarch.24 For Zaccarini, this intermingling is explained by the literary, intentional construction of Athenian identity and history.25 I believe, however, that the episode should also be stressed as both (1) Plutarch uniting his narrative with the literary tradition of bone transfer and the physical, material space of Athens; and (2) as an integral part of his educational program in this Life. The first-known mention of the transfer of Theseus’ bones is in the second century BCE writings of Heracleides Lembos. The source of this work is possibly a lost part of Aristotle’s Athenaion Politeia.26 But, as Zaccarini points out, it is much more complex than what we see in Plutarch, as earlier accounts of Theseus’ bones have no mention that Cimon brought the bones back, only that they were transferred sometime around the Persian Wars.27 However, Maria Teresa Schettino has shown that Plutarch was very familiar with the works of Aristotle, including the Athenian Constitution, using it not only as the basis for his Life of Solon, but also referencing it in other Lives, such as that of Cimon and Pericles.28 Therefore, it is very likely that Plutarch had an intimate knowledge of the work. He thus either drew the story of Cimon’s involvement from it, or he connected Cimon to the story as the most likely candidate to have brought back the bones during this period, as Cimon was the leading general of this time. Whether or not Cimon was the one who brought back the bones is not what concerns us here, rather it is that Plutarch believed him to be the most likely candidate and chose to emphasize it and its consequences in this Life. Christopher Pelling explains that an audience is more receptive to an account if they recognize a familiar pattern.29 The episode of the bones of The23 24 25 26

27 28 29

Zaccarini, “The Return,” 179. Zaccarini, “The Return,” 189. Zaccarini, “The Return,” 190. McCauley, “The Transfer,” 87 (FHG 2.208); M.T. Schettino, “The Use of Historical Sources,” in M. Beck (ed.), A Companion to Plutarch (Chicester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2014) 425; Zaccarini, “The Return,” 175. Zaccarini, “The Return,” 175. Schettino, “The Use of Historical Sources,” 425, 431. See, for example: Per. 9 = Ath.Pol. 27.3; Per. 10 = Ath.Pol. 25.4; and Cim. 10.2 = Ath.Pol. 27.3–4. C.B.R. Pelling, Literary Texts and the Greek Historian (London-New York: Routledge, 2000) 1–17 (esp. 5–8), for an Athenian audience’s reaction to rhetoric, patterning, and genre. Plutarch’s audience was surely familiar with Theseus and Greek history, and, likely, Athenian landscapes and the patterns associated with bone transfer. Thus, as Pelling (ibid., 5–8) argues, this familiarity would make them more receptive to Plutarch’s account.

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seus as presented by Plutarch falls into the pattern established by McCauley, which we reviewed in the transfer of Alcmene, Rhesos, and Orestes: Athens received an oracle, the bones were revealed through an omen, they were transferred through some sort of resistance, and they brought benefits to the city, specifically, to Cimon himself. Thus, Plutarch’s account of the transfer of Theseus’ bones fits into this literary pattern, a pattern that Zaccarini explains was well-established by Herodotus.30 Interestingly, however, is how alike this account is to that of the bones of Orestes. Pausanias (3.3.7) notices this, saying, “Just like the oracle concerning the bones of Orestes, was the one later given to the Athenians, that they should bring Theseus back from Skyros to Athens, otherwise it would not be possible for them to take Skyros. So then, Cimon, son of Miltiades, who displayed similar wisdom, discovered the bones and shortly after seized Skyros.” He compares the similar oracular command, the desire for the land where the bones originate, the wit of the men who found them, and the victory of the ones who take the bones. This close association between the stories suggests that Plutarch wished to remind his reader of Herodotus’ account, allowing them to see the similarities of Cimon’s actions to that of the Spartans, and the benefits that the bone transfer brought to their respective cities. This also points the reader to Cimon’s pro-Spartan tendencies (e.g. Cim. 4.4), having him mimic the deeds of men from a culture he so admired. Lastly, by linking Cimon with Herodotus’ rich literary legacy, Plutarch creates an opportunity for his reader to become more receptive to the tale through its familiar pattern, one that Pausanias pointed out (3.3.7) and that surely did not escape the notice of other members of his learned audience.31 For who else, besides Herodotus, could be more familiar? Plutarch thus ensures that the episode of Theseus’ bones ties into the extensive literary tradition of bone transfer. Like the bones of Orestes, Rhesos, and Alcmene, the bones of Theseus are powerful. Their presence in the city and their shrine are both forceful and influential. Plutarch does not fail to see this. In fact, he emphasizes their power by telling us that their transfer to Athens was the reason the people took kindly to Cimon. It was not only Cimon’s practices of giving away money, of feeding members of his deme, or other acts of euergetism that won him favor. It was the symbolic power of the transfer of

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For Plutarch’s audience, see, with relevant bibliography, C.B.R. Pelling, Plutarch and History: Eighteen Studies (London: Duckworth, 2002) 267–282; P.A. Stadter, “The Proems of Plutarch’s Lives,”ICS 13,2 (1988) 292–293; and id., Plutarch and his Roman Readers (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014). Zaccarini, “The Return,” 180. For an audience’s receptivity to a familiar narrative, see note 29.

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Theseus’ bones. I believe that emphasis needs to be considered when we analyze Plutarch’s educational program in the Life of Cimon. Plutarch uses the Life of Cimon to outline the importance of euergetism for a city. The significance of Cimon’s euergetism is highlighted when he gives fertile lands to the Athenians instead of keeping it in the wake of the recapture of Eïon (7.2–3); in his grants of the land of the Chersonese to Athens; in his bestowing of Thracian land and gold mines to Athens (14.2); and in his use of the copious revenue he earned from some hostages for the people of Athens by allowing the people access to his fields, putting on a dinner party at his house each evening for the members of his tribe, giving his clothes to elderly needy citizens, and giving money to the poor in the Agora (10.1–3). This example of euergetism, Plutarch reveals (10.3–4), earned Cimon praise in the Athenian playwright Cratinos’ lost work Archilochi, demonstrating the benefits of following Cimon’s example. He also constructed the southern wall of the Acropolis, laid the foundation of the Long Walls to Peiraieus, and beautified the city of Athens with resorts through the spoils he earned after his victory at Eurymedon (13.8). Plutarch uses Cimon as a model of generosity, the main form of praise that Plutarch reserves for the general. The importance of the general’s generosity, as Plutarch’s main moral message in Cimon, is clearest in a passage in which Plutarch writes that Cimon’s generosity surpasses even that of the Athenians of old, who gave mankind things such as agriculture and fire. Through this allusion, Plutarch asserts, Cimon restored the golden age of Cronos (10.6). This is a strong statement for Plutarch to make, and the glory he places on Cimon’s generosity is a calculated effort to show his reader how this genuine form of gifting one’s riches can benefit the state. This comparison may also be linked to Plutarch following the encomiastic tradition. Tomas Hägg explains that encomiasts favored comparing their subjects with mythological characters.32 While Plutarch does not generally partake in such comparisons, he does here to emphasize the moral goodness of Cimon’s actions. It is also worth noting that two of the three times that Plutarch brings up a mythological figure in this Life, here Cronos, familiar to his audience from a literary tradition separate from that of Herodotus, it is in relation to Cimon’s generosity.33

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T. Hägg, The Art of Biography in Antiquity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012) 249, with a brief discussion of Plutarch’s Lives and their relation to encomia at 14. The other instance connects Cimon’s Spartan nature to Euripides’ description of Herakles’ character (Cim. 4.4), possibly again tying together the Life of Cimon with the literary tradition of Herodotus by recalling Cimon’s pro-Spartan partisanship.

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The only other mythological reference in the Life of Cimon compares what Plutarch refers to as Cimon’s Spartan spirit to Euripides’ description of Heracles’ character (Cim. 4.4), calling him plain, unadorned, brave, and true. Here we see Plutarch again referring his reader to Cimon’s pro-Spartan nature, possibly alluding to the close tie of Cimon to Sparta, not just in his character, but also in his actions. In this, can we see Plutarch once again tying his narrative together with Herodotus, strengthening Cimon’s bond to Sparta, and thus consider his actions of returning Theseus’ bones as an echo of the movement of Orestes’ bones? Possibly. Thus, in the three mentions of mythological characters present in this Life, we find Plutarch’s account drawn into a strong literary heritage: that of Herodotus for the bones, of Hesiod for Cronos, and of Euripides for Heracles. All three refer to Cimon’s nature. And so, we have another indication that Plutarch meant for the bones of Theseus to be part of his educational program, with the mythological elements of Theseus, Heracles, and Cronos guiding his reader.

4

Conclusion

I believe that Plutarch’s tale of Cimon’s transfer of Theseus’ bones and his erection of the Theseion should be viewed as part of Plutarch’s moral program in this Life, namely, the importance of euergetism. G. Roskam, in an article detailing instances of euergetism in the Parallel Lives, does not list the retrieval of Theseus’ bones as an example.34 Therefore, I propose that we add the return of Theseus’ bones to this list. Similar to other acts of euergetism, the presence of Theseus’ bones in the Agora and the erection of a physical space to house them, the Theseion, attests to their donation to the people. The bones of Theseus fit

34

G. Roskam, “Philanthropy, Dignity, and Euergetism,” in M. Beck (ed.), A Companion to Plutarch (Chicester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2014) 518–519. Roskam further argues that Cimon only used his euergetic practices to maintain his reputation and not to acquire it. However, if the bones are granted a place in the list of Cimon’s donations, then this statement again does not follow the narrative of Cimon, as Cimon here uses the bones to earn popularity (ibid., 520). Furthermore, it should be noted that the taking of this island is, however, morally ambiguous. Cimon answered the call for help from the Dolopian pirate inhabitants who plundered and imprisoned some Thessalian merchants. Although the Amphictyonic Council ruled in favor of the Thessalians and the other islanders wished for the pirates to make restitution, the pirates refused and called on Cimon to take possession of the city. Cimon did, thus helping the robbers rather than the robbed. This is a strong example of Plutarch not telling his audience what he wishes them to learn, as he does not explicitly approve or disprove of this action.

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the requirements necessary to be considered benefactions for the people and the polis. If studied alongside euergetism as the main moral purpose in this Life, the likelihood of the bones being associated with Cimon’s generous character seems credible. Plutarch’s inclusion of the transfer of Theseus’ bones in the Life of Cimon is complex and layered in meaning and tradition, carrying with it a multifaceted purpose. By closely following a literary tradition of bone transfer established by Herodotus’ account of the movement of the bones of Orestes, as well as by linking two mythological references in this Life to Cimon’s generosity, Plutarch uses the past to add to his own narrative, educating his audience about the importance of euergetism and placing his work in a strong literary tradition that had a material reality. Plutarch wanted his audience to appreciate the importance of euergetism for the polis. Thus, in one episode in the Life of Cimon, Plutarch demonstrates the power of the past, how one man can grasp a legend, or a tale of bones, and transpose its symbolism and power onto himself, not only for the character of the man Plutarch is portraying, but also for the author himself.

chapter 36

Plutarch’s Intertextual References to Tattoos and Brands Christina Harker

Abstract This chapter examines Plutarch’s references to tattoos and brands in light of Kristeva’s (and also the common understanding of) intertextuality. By examining De cohibenda ira, De sera numinis vindicta, the Nicias, the Alcibiades, and other Plutarchan works, I show the ways in which Plutarch uses references to tattoos or brands within his texts as intertexts themselves. Sometimes he responds to them directly as first-level interlocutors but, more often than not, they appear as a second, nested intertext when he quotes other authors who mention them. The result is that Plutarch’s tattoos and brands unite Plutarch and his expected reader (a literate, likely well-read elite man) in both their immunity to the practice and their shared knowledge of the literary texts Plutarch quotes. In this way, Plutarch’s (doubly) intertextual deployment of tattoos and brands creates social cohesion between him and his reader and participates in the identity formation of elite writers and readers in antiquity (in this case, in opposition to a poor, powerless, and, usually, enslaved Other subjected to objectifying violence).

… … nay, a slight thing like a phrase or a jest often makes a greater revelation of character than battles where thousands fall, or the greatest armaments, or sieges of cities.1

∵ 1 Alex. 1.2–3. See J.P. Hershbell “Plutarch’s Concept of History: Philosophy from Examples,” AncSoc 28 (1997) 225–243 for a discussion of Plutarch’s historical methodology and the utility of anecdotes like ‘phrases’ and ‘jests’ (esp. 225–234).

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004427860_038

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Although often forgotten or set aside as small curiosities, tattooing and branding were common practices in antiquity and were fundamental expressions of self and power.2 In Plutarch’s particular society, the emphasis was on the latter. Slaves were often marked (e.g. Appian, BC 4.43; Cassius Dio, 47.10.4– 5; Diogenes Laertius, 4.1; Herodas, 5.65–67, 77–79; Herodotus, 5.35). The Hebrew bible talks about piercing a slave’s ear with an awl to mark ownership and Leviticus forbids Israelites from tattooing or writing in their own skin.3 Among the Greeks it was common to tattoo or brand slaves and among the Romans we have writers who bemoan the use of tattooing and branding to disgrace superior sorts of men and women in a manner earmarked for their inferiors (e.g. Suet. Cal. 27.3).4 This chapter briefly examines where and how these practices appear in Plutarch’s writings, especially in light of how they might function as intertexts for him.5 How do his mentions of tattooing and branding work? How do they 2 The seminal work in this field is C.P. Jones, “Tattooing and Branding in Graeco-Roman Antiquity,” JRS 77 (1987) 139–155. In the article, Jones outlines the history and prominent examples of the practice and distinguishes between tattooing (injecting ink below the top layer of the skin) and branding (scarification with heated implements). For the purposes of this chapter, tattoos and brands are ‘texts’—items that both are and contain manmade content—and, therefore, the distinction can be collapsed insofar as that is true. 3 Exodus 21:6 and Deuteronomy 15:17 both say to pierce a slave’s ear with an awl in front of a door or doorframe in order to make them your slave for life. The doorframe is a purely practical feature in the text; laid flat against a door frame, the ear can safely be pierced. Anyone using an awl to pierce a slave’s ear against their head risks punching into or through their neck or skull. Leviticus 19:28 forbids marking one’s body or tattooing it in memory of the dead. 4 Outside Greece and Rome, tattoos and brands had different social purposes. Caesar writes about the Britons dying themselves with blue ink (woad) (Gal. 5.14; cf. Claudian, On the Consulship of Stilicho 2.247–255 and Hdn. 3.14.7) while literary sources (e.g. Ath. 12 [524E]; Hdt. 5.6) and ancient Greek pottery give us images of tattooed Maenads and Thracians (e.g. an Amphora attributed to Oionokles Painter, [ca. 470 BCE] [E301/ref:1873,0820.363] at the British Museum and an oil flask [lekythos] with the death of Orpheus [ca. 450–440 BCE] [Accession No. 13.202] at the Boston Museum of Fine Art). Someone as well-read as Plutarch would not be unfamiliar with these practices outside his immediate culture, nor would he uncharacteristically understand them on their own terms since he had extremely Hellenocentric attitudes, even to Rome (see D.S. Richter, “Plutarch on Isis and Osiris: Text, Cult, and Cultural Appropriation,” TAPhA 131 (2001) 191–216 and G. Roskam “Plutarch on Self and Others,” AncSoc 34 (2004) 245–273, 259–264). As Whitmarsh comments about Plutarch’s evaluation of Numa as more Greek than Lycurgus, “The very use of the term ‘Greek’ as a term of approbation indicates the partiality of Plutarch’s categories of analysis: Romans may be judged on equal terms, but those terms are resolutely Greek. (Consider as well Plutarch’s essays the Roman Questions and Greek Questions: Greece is analysed from within, Rome as though it were an object of anthropological curiosity.)” (T. Whitmarsh, “Alexander’s Hellenism and Plutarch’s Textualism,” CQ 52 (2002) 174–192, 177). 5 A great deal of work has been done on Plutarch and his use of other texts as a kind of recep-

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function in light of other texts or his historical and social world? Do his authorial choices do any other kinds of work for Plutarch?6 I propose that mentioning tattooing and branding does one thing for him in two ways: it elevates Plutarch and his audience into a private intellectual world through (1) reference to a practice they would never be subjected to on account of their privilege and (2) through use of intertexts that only well-educated readers and writers would be expected to know, unlike the people who have been turned into writing surfaces, who are just props in the conversation. Plutarch achieves this through intertextuality.

1

Kristeva’s Intertextuality

In Julia Kristeva’s thought the overriding logic of language and meaningmaking is the symbolic. The symbolic is a larger, cohesive, and interlocking system where syntax and semantics convey meaning. It is the everyday order within which we make meaning using language. So, for example, within this orderly system, “the undiscovered country” is a verbose description of a place you have not visited. The symbolic is not necessarily predictable language, but, rather, rule-abiding communication and expression. The symbolic conveys content conventionally. tion, but there are perhaps few studies that consider examples where we lack the other text or where the concept of a ‘text’ is broadened to include non-traditional surfaces and implements. Analysis of Plutarch’s relationship and use of Thucydides is an example of this scholarly tradition, beginning as early as the last quarter of the 19th c. and including M. Heidingsfeld, Quomodo Plutarchus Thucydide usus sit in componenda Niciae vita (Liegnitz: Druck von O. Heinze, 1890), P.A. Stadter, “Thucydidean Orators in Plutarch,” in P.A. Stadter (ed.), The Speeches in Thucydides (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1973) 109–123, C.B.R. Pelling, “Plutarch and Thucydides,” in P.A. Stadter (ed.), Plutarch and the Historical Tradition (London: Taylor & Francis, 1992) 10–40, and F.B. Titchener’s, “Plutarch’s Use of Thucydides in the Moralia,” Phoenix 49.3 (1995) 189–200 which discusses the previous literature. 6 Plutarch mulled over the inclusion and exclusion of material, at least insofar as we know he thought deeply not just about the nature of historical truth, but the nature of history-writing itself (in, for example, On the Malice of Herodotus and the lost work How We Should Judge True History). See J.P. Hershbell, “Plutarch and Herodotus—The Beetle in the Rose,”RhM 136 (1993) 143–163, Hershbell “Plutarch’s Concept of History,” 225–243 and J.M. Marincola, “Plutarch’s Refutation of Herodotus,” AncW 25 (1994) 191–203. Given how he adapted his use of Thucydides depending on genre, we should expect equal sophistication in his choices to include or exclude what, at first glance, seem like minor details (see Pelling, “Plutarch and Thucydides”). These minor details can be treated as historically valuable and not incidental. As he did not think of himself as bound by the rules governing historians as a biographer, he was also able to be much more creative with his intertexts (see Richter, “Plutarch on Isis and Osiris”).

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The symbolic is contrasted with the semiotic. Within the semiotic, the ‘unconscious’ of language, it is possible to make new, irruptive meanings, especially within the category of poetic language (this is the “Revolution” of her 1974 title, La révolution du langage poétique). So, for example, just as mathematicians operate within their own established syntax in the written communication of mathematical ideas, a dancer or poet uses new and unexpected means of communication predicated on their own systems (the symbolic) that they actively subvert, augment, and replace. The semiotic deploys words or signs in rule-bending or rule-breaking ways that communicate emotion, intent, and affect. In spoken and written language, the semiotic can also manifest a subject’s internality beyond the bare meaning of the words chosen (as in poetry and, perhaps more so, in performed poetry). Within this arena of “the semiotic,” the phrase “the undiscovered country” can become a metaphor for death. The literal and even the typical allusive meanings of the words are subverted. They are interrupted to create a divergent meaning that breaks with the traditional symbolic order of meaning for these words. The semiotic introduces instability, fluidity, and heterodoxy; it is the subversion of the authoritative mode and it is creative, rather than static. It introduces what is absorbed into the symbolic. New modes and expressions are constantly disrupting the static order of language, enriching it, but coming in from outside its rule-system and the limitations that typically govern it. Kristeva’s concept of intertextuality is related to the way new language and meaning is made through the irruptive, creative force of the semiotic. Intertextuality means that the way texts7 make meaning is through conversation with other texts. The notion of an “undiscovered country” being ‘death’ only makes sense given the range of descriptions of physical afterlives whence “no traveller returns,” starting from our very earliest texts. Otherwise, death would not be so easily conceived of as a place, a “country,” let alone an “undiscovered” one. The semiotic, that is, the novel poetic, then bursts through the symbolic world of set words and meanings, because it makes new/renewed and innovative meaning from a world of terms and thoughts we are expected to share. Intertextuality, as a Kristevan term, refers to this network of meaning-making where meaning and nuance are transposed from one setting to another. Meaning-making happens in light of knowledge of the text at hand, as well as other texts in the world—these are our textual fields. This transposition of meaning from one world of symbols and meanings into another, and specifically, from one mode of expression, like the semiotic, into another, like the symbolic, is what Kristeva

7 Understood in the broadest sense.

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understood by inter-textuality (although even she abandons it to the dominant, ‘banal’ meaning of literary allusion or study of influences). She writes: The term inter-textuality denotes this transposition of one (or several) sign system(s) into another; but since this term has often been understood in the banal sense of “study of sources,” we prefer the term transposition because it specifies that the passage from one signifying system to another demands a new articulation of the thetic—of enunciative and denotative positionality. If one grants that every signifying practice is a field of transpositions of various signifying systems (an inter-textuality), one then understands that its “place” of enunciation and its denoted “object” are never single, complete, and identical to themselves, but always plural, shattered, capable of being tabulated. In this way polysemy can also be seen as the result of a semiotic polyvalence—an adherence to different sign systems.8 This is the link to the typical meaning when we say intertextuality, especially in text-minded circles (as opposed to linguistic or philosophical ones), where it is simply a byword for ‘allusion’ or ‘reference.’ Ultimately, the limits of the textual fields in which all this occurs are ourselves and our textual knowledge. That is, there is nothing outside the text(ual field), if you will. Call-outs, references, allusions, borrowings, reinventions, re-purposings, etc., rely on the overlapping universes and meanings of Kristiva’s intertextuality to make sense.

8 The longer passage observes that the process is emphatically about transference or “passage from one sign system to another.” The movement occurs through what Kristeva calls “displacement and condensation” but, crucially, it requires the “destruction of the old position and the formation of a new one.” In her articulation of intertextuality, the movements are rather stark (from physical environments to written ones, for example). The domestication of the word intertextuality to mean just allusion or reference leads her to recommend “transposition” in its place to describe the abrupt change from one context to another. She continues that no single act of expression or “signifying practice” is limited to monovalent meaning but that all are polyvalent and simultaneously adhere “to different sign systems.” New terms are then required to discuss the different parts of this process or its effects: “transposition” describes the passage from one sign system to a different one, while “representability” covers what a signifier means in a given sign system. In any case, in this passage Kristeva concedes “inter-textuality” to the “banal sense of ‘study of sources’” and creates a new edifice for her philosophical work examining the creation of fresh meaning in language (J. Kristeva, Revolution in Poetic Language [New York: Columbia University Press, 1984] 59–60).

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Plutarchan References to Tattooing

With that in mind, what is happening when Plutarch mentions tattoos or brands? At no point does Plutarch tell us what the markings (στίγματα) mean; nor does he tell us what, as texts or symbols within their own particular sign system, their contents are. However, that does not make much difference; ancient authors often refer to things, sometimes to great effect, that we know existed but that we can no longer read ourselves or that even their own contemporaries could not read. Plutarch himself does this when his Julius Caesar cries while reading how “Alexander, at my age, was already king of so many peoples” (Caes. 11.3). Who does not want to read the book that made Caesar cry for themselves? Therefore, let us treat the tattoos and brands as that: texts that are unknown to us but known to Plutarch, or, perhaps, texts of a type that he and his audience could easily conjure up from a reservoir of previous experiences, like a stock character in a story (‘the femme fatale’ or the ‘hardboiled detective’). Tattoos and brands were typically written on slaves who were likely runaways or as a way to list their previous ‘offenses’.9 In this regard, it is not the contents of the particular text that create meaning; it is the universe of texts, the textual field, that allows the audience to extrapolate the meaning. Reading the actual tattoo or brand is not the only way to understand its meaning. With these texts, the tattoo’s mere existence is more telling than its formulaic contents. So, what work are these unread texts doing for Plutarch? How do they operate in his meaning-making? Each mention happens, like so much of his work, as part of a larger structure of allusion and references that support his arguments. He draws from the wellspring of literature and history to make his points, rather than, say, from only a priori arguments or philosophical and theological extrapolations.10 However, the structure and purpose of his writing differ from those of history. His work is not structured by the demands of history—as a genre or a discipline—but those of ‘truth.’11 To the extent that Plutarch does not set out to be a chroni9 10

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Jones, “Tattooing and Branding,” 139–155. See, for example, C.B.R. Pelling, “Plutarch’s Method of Work in the Roman Lives,” JHS (1979) 74–96, id., “Plutarch’s Adaptation of his Source-material,” JHS 100 (1980) 127–140 [both articles are reprinted in C.B.R. Pelling, Plutarch and History: Eighteen Studies (London: Ducworth, 2002) 1–44 and 91–115] and T.E. Duff “Plato, tragedy, the ideal reader and Plutarch’s Demetrius and Antony,” Hermes 132 (2004) 271–291 for an analysis of his (occasionally critical) use of sources. As Hershbell puts it, “Plutarch claims to be concerned with the manifestations or signs of the human psyche (τὰ τῆς ψυχῆς σημεῖα), leaving it to others to describe great contests

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cler, Plutarch’s writing, including the biographical Lives, can be understood as aspiring to moral instruction, rather than simply being repositories of historical research collected around a particular subject. This is something he says himself in several places and it is his justification for recording the activities of wicked men. He explains that it is not to titillate his reader, but to educate him (a male reader should be presumed). Unlike Plato, Plutarch believes good instruction can come from bad examples.12 If anything, Plutarch drops examples into his texts as a kind of proof-texting; mentions can be quick and limited but they do a lot of descriptive and argumentative work for him. Furthermore, he can also draw on them as internal, nested intertexts within other texts with which he places himself in conversation, always moving towards the ethical education of the reader.

3

Moral Use of Tattoo Examples

One of these ethical mentions of tattoos appears in Praecepta gerendae reipublicae where he compares bodily brands/tattoos favorably to natural moles or warts on faces (800B, E–F):13 αὐτὸς δ’ ὥσπερ ἐν θεάτρῳ τὸ λοιπὸν ἀναπεπταμένῳ βιωσόμενος, ἐξάσκει καὶ κατακόσμει τὸν τρόπον· […] ὅπου καὶ Κίμωνος οὗ τοι τὸν οἶνον, καὶ Ῥωμαῖοι Σκιπίωνος οὐδὲν ἄλλο ἔχοντες λέγειν τὸν ὕπνον ᾐτιῶντο· Πομπήιον δὲ Μάγνον ἐλοιδόρουν οἱ ἐχθροί, παραφυλάξαντες ἑνὶ δακτύλῳ τὴν κεφαλὴν κνώμενον. ὡς γὰρ ἐν προσώπῳ φακὸς καὶ ἀκροχορδὼν δυσχεραίνεται μᾶλλον ἢ στίγματα καὶ κολοβότητες καὶ οὐλαὶ τοῦ λοιποῦ σώματος, οὕτω τὰ μικρὰ φαίνεται μεγάλα τῶν ἁμαρτημάτων ἐν ἡγεμονικοῖς καὶ πολιτικοῖς ὁρώμενα βίοις διὰ δόξαν, ἣν οἱ πολλοὶ περὶ ἀρχῆς καὶ πολιτείας ἔχουσιν, ὡς πράγματος μεγάλου καὶ καθαρεύειν ἀξίου πάσης ἀτοπίας καὶ πλημμελείας. But do you yourself, since you [as a statesman] are henceforth to live as on an open stage … Why, the Athenians blamed Cimon for wine-drinking, and the Romans, having nothing else to say, blamed Scipio for sleeping;

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or struggles (ἀγῶνας),” while he still mines what we consider traditional historical sources such as literature, epigraphy, and monuments for information that reveal the human character that so fascinated him (Hershbell, “Plutarch’s Concept of History,” 226). See Duff, “Plato, tragedy, the ideal reader and Plutarch’s Demetrius and Antony,” 275– 276. All translations from Loeb Classical Library unless stated otherwise.

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and the enemies of Pompey the Great, observing that he scratched his head with one finger, reviled him for it. For, just as a mole or a wart on the face is more unpleasant than brand-marks, mutilations, or scars on other parts of the body, so small faults appear great when observed in the lives of leaders and statesmen on account of the opinion which the majority has of governing and public office, regarding it as a great thing which ought to be clean of all eccentricities and errors. Plutarch’s logic is that what is acceptably hidden on the body is distractingly ugly on the face. It relates to his larger point that what is admissible when hidden among the body politic is unforgivable among prominent statesmen. In addition, what comes from a person automatically has a moral character, what is done to them does not: it does not necessarily reflect on them.14 This is in step with his use of the idea of tattooing and branding in De cohibenda ira to comment on Xerxes’ explosive but ludicrous temper.15 In Xerxes’ case, his temper is so out of control that he threatens Mount Athos and actually has his tattooers and branders brand and lash the Hellespont for defying him (De coh. ira 455D–E): οὐ γὰρ πάντων ἐρῶμεν οὐδὲ πᾶσι φθονοῦμεν οὐδὲ πάντας φοβούμεθα, θυμῷ δ’ ἄθικτον οὐδὲν οὐδ’ ἀνεπιχείρητον· ἀλλ’ ὀργιζόμεθα καὶ πολεμίοις καὶ φίλοις καὶ τέκνοις καὶ γονεῦσι καὶ θεοῖς νὴ Δία καὶ θηρίοις καὶ ἀψύχοις σκεύεσιν […] ὁ δὲ Ξέρξης καὶ τῇ θαλάττῃ στίγματα καὶ πληγὰς ἐνέβαλλε καὶ πρὸς τὸ ὄρος ἐξέπεμπεν ἐπιστολάς, “Ἄθω δαιμόνιε οὐρανόμηκες, μὴ ποιεῖν ἐν ἐμοῖς ἔργοις λίθους μεγάλους καὶ δυσκατεργάστους· εἰ δὲ μή, τεμὼν ῥίψω σὲ εἰς θάλασσαν.” πολλὰ γάρ ἐστι τοῦ θυμοῦ φοβερά, πολλὰ δὲ καὶ γελοῖα· διὸ καὶ μισεῖται καὶ καταφρονεῖται μάλιστα τῶν παθῶν. ἀμφότερα δ’ ἐσκέφθαι χρήσιμον. For we do not love or envy or fear everyone indiscriminately, but there is nothing that temper will not touch and assail: we grow angry with enemies and friends, with children and parents, yes, even with the gods, with wild beasts and soulless implements … And Xerxes not only branded and 14

15

Note, however, that he is not comparing natural marks on the face with involuntary tattoos or brands on the face because that sort of marking was seen as provoked by the slaves’ wrongdoing in trying to run away. For further treatment of anger in this text, see L. Van der Stockt, “Self-esteem and Imagebuilding. On Anger in De cohibenda ira and in some Lives,” in A.G. Nikolaidis (ed.) The Unity of Plutarch’s Work. Moralia Themes in the Lives, Features of the Lives in the Moralia (BerlinNew York: De Gruyter, 2008) 285–296 and L. Van Hoof, “Strategic Differences: Seneca and Plutarch on Controlling Anger,” Mnemosyne 60.1 (2007) 59–86.

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lashed the sea, but also sent a letter to Mount Athos: “Noble Athos, whose summit reaches heaven, do not put in the way of my deeds great stones difficult to work. Else I shall hew you down and cast you into the sea.” For temper can do many terrible things, and likewise many that are ridiculous; therefore it is both the most hated and the most despised of the passions. It will be useful to consider it in both of these aspects. Note, as well, that the meaning of this passage is derived from its intertextuality; it relies on acquaintance with outside texts. Firstly, the idea of punishing the Hellespont with the tortures reserved for slaves takes its meaning and absurdity from realities—real texts written on slaves—outside De coh. ira. Secondly, everything the reader is assumed to know already about Xerxes from outside the text, from the reader’s textual field, contributes further meaning. Plutarch does not have to explain who Xerxes is and, in fact, Xerxes’ activities and persona are doing a lot of the work for Plutarch in making a moral judgment about explosive and destructive temperaments, even, in this case, Xerxes’ own selfdestructive or self-defeating temper. The same cannot be said of other examples in De coh. ira when he talks about nameless slave-owners who mistreat their slaves. In these cases, the intertextuality does not rely on a famous person in history, but instead on quotes and the aforementioned texts commonly written in antiquity on real people that his contemporaries might see in the street. In chapter 11, Plutarch boasts about how he has mastered the discipline of his grateful servants by conquering his own temper. He concludes that (De coh. ira 459B–D), Πάντων δὲ τῶν παθῶν ἐθισμοῦ δεομένων, οἷον δαμάζοντος καὶ καταθλοῦντος ἀσκήσει τὸ ἄλογον καὶ δυσπειθές, οὐ πρὸς ἄλλο μᾶλλον ἔστιν ἐγγυμνάσασθαι τοῖς οἰκέταις ἢ πρὸς τὸν θυμόν. […] μὲν ἐκεινους ἀνεξικακίᾳ χείρονας ποιεῖν βέλτιόν ἐστιν ἢ πικρίᾳ καὶ θυμῷ διαστρέφειν ἑαυτὸν εἰς ἑτέρων ἐπανόρθωσιν· ἔπειτα πολλοὺς ὁρῶν αὐτῷ τῷ μὴ κολάζεσθαι πολλάκις αἰδουμένους κακοὺς εἶναι καὶ μεταβολῆς ἀρχὴν τὴν συγγνώμην μᾶλλον ἢ τὴν τιμωρίαν λαμβάνοντας, καὶ νὴ Δία δουλεύοντας ἑτέροις ἀπὸ νεύματος σιωπῇ προθυμότερον ἢ μετὰ πληγῶν καὶ στιγμάτων ἑτέροις, ἐπειθόμην ἡγεμονικώτερον εἶναι τοῦ θυμοῦ τὸν λογισμόν. οὐ γάρ, ὡς ὁ ποιητὴς εἶπεν, ἵνα γὰρ δέος, ἔνθα καὶ αἰδώς … however true it is that all the passions have need of a process of habituation, which tames as it were and subdues by rigorous training the irrational and obstinate element of the soul, there is no passion that we can better learn to control by practising on servants than temper … it is bet-

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ter to make them worse by forbearance than by harshness and anger to pervert my own self for the correction of the others. In the second place, I observed that many, just because they were not being punished, were often ashamed to be bad, and made pardon, rather than correction, the starting-point of reformation, and, I swear, performed their duties more zealously for the kind of master who gave orders silently with a nod than for the others who used blows and branding-irons, I began to be convinced that reason is more fit than anger to govern. For it is not as the Poet has said, “Where fear is, there is also reverence.” Here, the Poet is of course Homer, and Plutarch repeats this quote elsewhere.16 Plutarch does the same thing again in chapter 15 when describing punitive tattoos on slaves. In the passage, he makes a larger point about how a master sets the tone for the household. Again, the tattoo or brand is not necessarily, or not only, a reflection of the inner character of the bearer. Instead, it reflects the moral character of another person who imprinted their displeasure on a less powerful person’s body. That makes the commentary no less ethical, but it is instead directed at the slave owner since, to paraphrase the Alexander (21.7), it is more regal to rule oneself than others (De coh. ira 463B): διὸ τῶν μὲν ἀσώτων ταῖς οἰκίαις προσιόντες αὐλητρίδος ἀκούομεν ἑωθινῆς, καί “πηλόν,” ὥς τις εἶπεν, “οἴνου καὶ σπαράγματα στεφάνων,” καὶ κραιπαλῶντας ὁρῶμεν ἐπὶ θύραις ἀκολούθους· τὰ δὲ τῶν πικρῶν ἐκκαλύμματα καὶ δυσκόλων ἐν τοῖς προσώποις τῶν οἰκετῶν ὄψει καὶ τοῖς στίγμασι καὶ ταῖς πέδαις· ἀεὶ δ’ ἀοιδῶν μοῦνος ἐν στέγαις ὀργίλου ἀνδρὸς κωκυτὸς ἐμπέπτωκε, μαστιγουμένων ἔνδον οἰκονόμων καὶ στρεβλουμένων θεραπαινίδων, ὥστε τοῦ θυμοῦ τὰς λύπας ἐν ταῖς ἐπιθυμίαις καὶ ταῖς ἡδοναῖς οἰκτίρειν ὁρῶντας. And that is why, when we approach the houses of profligates, we hear a flute-girl still playing in the early morning, and we see “muddy dregs of wine”, as someone has said, “and mangled fragments of garlands”, and tipsy servants reeling at the doors; but the tokens of savage and irascible men you will see on the faces of their servants and in the marks branded upon them and their fetters.

16

Cleom. 9.6.

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“The only music heard with the house of an angry man is wailing cries,” as the stewards are being lashed within and the serving-maids being tortured, so that those who witness the anguish caused by anger in gratifying its desires and ministering to its pleasures must feel pity. As is typical of Plutarch’s attitude toward slaves and slavery, the treatment of slaves here, including the tattooing and branding of slaves, is important because of what it reveals about and how it affects the character of the free men who own them. Slavery and the treatment of slaves is relevant only insofar as it measures the character of the owner since, as Roskam puts it, “respect for slaves proves to be a sharp oxymoron, a contradictio in terminis, since a priori, true respect for the other (as other) is diametrically opposed to a recognition of slavery.”17 Plutarch’s condemnation of branding and tattooing of slaves is not about the experience of the slave, but rather the moral turpitude of the owner. This makes sense when we consider the ideal reader (with whom Plutarch identifies): a rich, educated man, part of the Roman order if not Roman, whose anger might explode—without any consequences—inside his domestic fiefdom out of “selfishness and peevishness, together with luxury and softness” (De coh. ira 461A).18 The experience of slaves is not important to their owners and it is the owners who Plutarch writes for as his own peers. These examples of the very real treatment of slaves are in contrast to the unreal imagery of De sera numinis vindicta where Thespesius is taken to see his father after his father’s death (566E–567A): Μετὰ δὲ ταῦτα πρὸς τὴν θέαν τῶν κολαζομένων ἐτρέποντο. καὶ τὰ μὲν πρῶτα δυσχερεῖς καὶ οἰκτρὰς εἶχον μόνον ὄψεις· ἐπεὶ δὲ καὶ φίλοις καὶ οἰκείοις καὶ συνήθεσιν ὁ Θεσπέσιος, οὐκ ἂν προσδοκήσας, κολαζομένοις ἐνετύγχανε, καὶ δεινὰ παθήματα καὶ τιμωρίας ἀσχήμονας καὶ ἀλγεινὰς ὑπομένοντες ᾠκτίζοντο πρὸς 17

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Roskam, “Plutarch on Self and Others,” 270–271. Roskam concludes: “the other is only respected because and insofar as he meets the standards of the self; to the extent that he fails to do so (and that he gives evidence of his own identity, different from that of the self), he is criticized if not despised. In this, Plutarch was not merely a child of his time: he was in the first place a child of his culture, of the Greek παιδεία which he valued so highly” (272–273). L. Van Hoof “Plutarch’s De cohibenda ira and its Model Reader,” in M. Jufresa et al. (eds.), Plutarc a la seva època: Paideia i societat. Actas del VIII Simposio Español sobre Plutarco (Barcelona, 6–8 de Noviembre de 2003) (Barcelona: Universitat de Barcelona, 2005) 501– 502.

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ἐκεῖνον καὶ ἀνεκλαίοντο, τέλος δὲ τὸν πατέρα τὸν ἑαυτοῦ κατεῖδεν ἔκ τινος βαράθρου στιγμάτων καὶ οὐλῶν μεστὸν ἀναδυόμενον, ὀρέγοντα τὰς χεῖρας αὐτῷ καὶ σιωπᾶν οὐκ ἐώμενον, ἀλλ’ ὁμολογεῖν ἀναγκαζόμενον ὑπὸ τῶν ἐφεστώτων ταῖς τιμωρίαις ὅτι περὶ ξένους τινὰς μιαρὸς γενόμενος χρυσίον ἔχοντας φαρμάκοις διαφθείρας καὶ ἐκεῖ διαλαθὼν ἅπαντας ἐνταῦθ’ ἐξελεγχθεὶς τὰ μὲν ἤδη πέπονθε, τὰ δὲ ἄγεται πεισόμενος, ἱκετεύειν μὲν ἢ παραιτεῖσθαι περὶ τοῦ πατρὸς οὐκ ἐτόλμα δι’ ἔκπληξιν καὶ δέος, ὑποστρέψαι δὲ καὶ φυγεῖν βουλόμενος οὐκέτι τὸν πρᾶον ἐκεῖνον ἑώρα καὶ οἰκεῖον ξεναγόν … They now turned to view those who were suffering punishment. At first these presented only a disagreeable and piteous spectacle; but as Thespesius kept meeting friends, kinsmen, and comrades who were being punished, a thing he never would have looked for, and these lamented to him and raised a cry of wailing as they underwent fearful torments and ignominious and excruciating chastisements, and when he at last caught sight of his own father emerging from a pit, covered with brands and scars, stretching out his arms to him, and not allowed by those in charge of the punishments to keep silent, but compelled to confess his foul wickedness to certain guests he had poisoned for their gold, a crime detected by no one in the lower world, but here brought to light, for which he had suffered in part and was now being taken away to suffer more, Thespesius in his consternation and terror did not dare to resort to supplication or intercede for his father, but wishing to turn back and escape, saw no longer that kindly kinsman who had been his guide … Plutarch describes the father as covered in stigmata, lacerations, and welts, but it emerges that these are manifestations in his body of his immoral behavior in life. He had poisoned visiting guests in order to steal their money. The written text on the body describes the vice and viciousness of the perpetrator, not the victim—and, in this case alone in Plutarch, the bearer is the perpetrator.

4

The Operation of Plutarch’s Doubled Intertexts

The above cases, like the Xerxes one, rely on intertexts that exist more generally for literate and educated people of Plutarch’s time. They know the quotes, or they know who Xerxes was, or, at least, the villainous role he often plays, and they have ‘read’ the other texts he refers to: tattoos written on slaves as a form of punishment. In mentioning tattoos in these passages then, Plutarch creates doubled intertexts. He creates a small circle in which to include himself and

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his audience as people who know their history or their literature and who are also above being tattooed themselves but who understand the violence of the act from either ordering it or witnessing the results. This comes into sharper relief when we examine the Alcibiades and Nicias. In both Lives, Plutarch recounts how these two men found themselves in fierce opposition and quietly moved to have one another ostracized from Athens (that is, exiled for ten years).19 Eventually, the two came together and decided to turn the threat of ostracism on a mutual enemy, Hyperbolus, whose “credit … in the city” made him “a discredit to the city.”20 According to Plutarch, given his extremely low status, the custom was abolished afterward as it had been cheapened by ostracizing Hyperbolus instead of either one of them. In the Nicias, he writes “they thought that even chastisement had its dignity, or rather, they regarded the ostracism as a chastisement in the cases of Thucydides and Aristides and such men, but in the case of Hyperbolus as an honour, and as good ground for boasting on his part, since for his baseness he had met with the same fate as the best men.”21 The crux of the argument follows in a proof-text. Plutarch quotes Plato the Comic Poet and he uses the same proof-text in both the Alcibiades and Nicias (Alc. 13.9 and Nic. 11.7): Καίτοι πέπραχε τῶν προτέρων μὲν ἄξια, αὑτοῦ δὲ καὶ τῶν στιγμάτων ἀνάξια. οὐ γὰρ τοιούτων εἵνεκ’ ὄστραχ’ εὑρέθη. And yet he suffered worthy fate for men of old; A fate unworthy though of him and his brands. For such as he the ostracon was ne’er devised. Plutarch has Plato Comicus do the work for him here, but essentially the elevated circles of society would not admit someone of Hyperbolus’ character, as spelled out by his brands. The main characteristic of Plutarch’s tattoo mentions then, in spite of their deployment in the ethical argumentation already discussed, is not sympathy for those who are involuntarily tattooed but rather the elevation of Plutarch and his reader above those who have tattoos and those who inscribe them.

19 20 21

For more on ostracism in Plutarch, see J. Beneker, “The theory and practice of ostracism in Plutarch’s Lives,” Ploutarchos 2 (2004) 3–10. Nic. 11.3. Nic. 11.6.

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Plutarch and his readers would (1) never be subjected to the practice but also22 (2) be part of a rarefied group that reads the literature he references in mocking Hyperbolus. In other words, they read and write texts as subjects, while slaves are read and written upon as objects. The doubled intertexts of Plato Comicus and Hyperbolus’ tattoos here are encircling Plutarch and his reader, bracketing them into a private and privileged intellectual world.23 Hyperbolus and all the other tattooed and branded figures operate as foils for Plutarch and his reader. In my final example, we can see all of this operating at once (Per. 26.3–4): Οἱ δὲ Σάμιοι τοὺς αἰχμαλώτους τῶν Ἀθηναίων ἀνθυβρίζοντες ἔστιζον εἰς τὸ μέτωπον γλαῦκας· καὶ γὰρ ἐκείνους οἱ Ἀθηναῖοι σάμαιναν. ἡ δὲ σάμαινα ναῦς ἐστιν ὑόπρωρος μὲν τὸ σίμωμα, κοιλοτέρα δὲ καὶ γαστροειδής, ὥστε καὶ ποντοπορεῖν καὶ ταχυναυτεῖν. οὕτω δ’ ὠνομάσθη διὰ τὸ πρῶτον ἐν Σάμῳ φανῆναι, Πολυκράτους τυράννου κατασκευάσαντος. πρὸς ταῦτα τὰ στίγματα λέγουσι καὶ τὸ Ἀριστοφάνειον ᾐνίχθαι· Σαμίων ὁ δῆμός ἐστιν ὡς πολυγράμματος. The Samians retaliated upon the Athenians by branding their prisoners in the forehead with owls; for the Athenians had once branded some of them with the samaena. Now the samaena is a ship of war with a boar’s head design for prow and ram, but more capacious than usual and paunchlike, so that it is a good deep-sea traveller and a swift sailer too. It got this name because it made its first appearance in Samos, where Polycrates the tyrant had some built. To these brand-marks, they say, the verse of Aristophanes made riddling reference: “For oh! how lettered is the folk of the Samians!” In the Pericles, Plutarch achieves several things at once: (1) he quotes another author, connecting with his audience through their shared knowledge of the

22 23

Hence the outrage behind Suet. Cal. 27.3. See also Jones, “Tattooing and Branding in Graeco-Roman Antiquity,” 139–155. This is not unrelated to Plutarch’s moralizing attitudes about the ideal readership for his darker Lives, as Duff argues. Plutarch distinguishes between the casual reader and the serious reader. The former hankers after sensationalist trash, while the latter only inspects such trash for noble erudition. As Duff puts it, this distinction on Plutarch’s part aligns the former reader with “the physical senses” and the latter with “reason.” This is a type of flattery and an expression of common values between the writer and his reader: “‘You are not the sort of readers to take pleasure from reading about the bad behaviour of the great—nor am I the sort of frivolous writer who would aim solely at your pleasure’” (Duff, “Plato, tragedy, the ideal reader and Plutarch’s Demetrius and Antony”, 279).

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quoted work; (2) he makes people into texts to be read, along with the author he quotes (and this is what the joke turns on); (3) he conveys his social status and the social status of his expected reader, since they both know the author and the history; and (4) neither of them are expected to have been reduced to texts, to objects, like the people described, so they can enjoy this punning from a safe distance.

5

Conclusion

When Plutarch refers to tattoos or brands, the mentions can appear alone, in which case just the tattoo or brand operates as an imagined intertext for his reader. In other examples in Plutarch, tattoos or brands crop up in passages where a famous author describes an example of branding or tattooing. The doubled references where Plutarch is talking about a text on a body, now imagined by his and my reader, and another text, typically something known to literate elites (then and now), perform identity-making work. Plutarch’s doubled references create a circle of insiders where those never subjected to involuntary tattooing, to being made into texts, can enjoy their shared insider knowledge. The people referred to are typically inert props in his stories. In contrast to Plutarch, as a writer, they are just a surface for others to write on. So, in these two ways, the doubled intertexts align Plutarch and his reader through shared knowledge of ancient authors and shared social status. In either case, Plutarch uses the imagery of tattooing in sophisticated, intertextual references where the tattoos themselves function as texts that help him create moral meanings, depending on his authorial needs. More importantly, his tattoo references perform identity-making work through intertextuality that relies on the overlapping textual universes he imagines he shares with his audience.

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General Index Academy 4, 7, 47, 178, 254, 257, 354, 463, 474, 482, 499–504, 507, 510, 533 Acanthian(s) 522 Achaea(ns) 80, 92, 94, 96, 164, 167, 169, 171, 175n5, 330–331 Achilles 17, 21, 38n33, 90–94, 178, 402, 422, 424, 427, 467, 471–472, 517–518 Acropolis 98, 429, 524n17, 548 actor(s) 15, 38n33, 185–186, 208, 430, 433, 443–444, 446 Aedepsos 480 Aegisthus 438 Aegospotamoi 73, 516 Aelian(us) 283, 285, 337 Aelius Aristides 337, 347, 509 Aemilius Paulus 166–167, 168n27–29, 197n30, 224, 393, 476 Aeschines 54, 478, 481, 485, 487 Aeschylus 34n20, 51, 236, 332, 394–396, 402 Aesop(ian) 94n23, 324–334 Aetolian(s) 67, 479 Agamemnon 22, 38n33, 90–91, 94–96, 264– 265, 405, 409–412, 414, 417, 419–420, 424, 432, 433n60, 435, 451, 518, 539, 542 Agathon 80, 468n23 Agave 443–445, 448–449 Agesilaus 22–23, 71n27, 78n52, 111–112, 119– 127, 223–224, 226–230, 424n14, 424n16, 432, 485n26, 514, 518, 520–521, 541 Agesipolis 123, 427 Agis 111, 115–116, 122–126, 220, 222, 224, 345, 485n26, 513 agrammaticality 5, 475 aition, aetiology 338, 432n58 Ajax 264–265, 400, 424 Alcaeus 479 Alcibiades 24–25, 129, 130n4, 131, 135–147, 191, 195n22, 220–221, 223–224, 226–228, 315, 332, 411–413, 423n9 Alcman 518 Alcmene 539, 541–543, 547 Alexander (the Great) 21–23, 32, 47, 67, 98, 102, 161, 221–227, 332, 351, 391–393, 396–404, 423n11, 424, 434, 437, 509, 518n10, 556 Alexander (tyrant of Pherae) 433–436

Alexandria(n) 18n14, 50n18, 134n16, 280, 380, 482, 501 allegory 170, 466, 471–472, 473n36, 532 allusion(s), allusive(ness) 1–2, 4, 5n12, 12, 14–15, 23–25, 33n20, 48, 65, 71n29, 72, 88–89, 96, 98–99, 129–135, 136n21, 137– 141, 143–147, 163, 168, 171, 189–191, 197, 200, 259, 261–262, 266, 268, 275, 277, 288, 290n22, 307–308, 319n24, 333, 337–338, 346, 376–377, 380n8, 426– 429, 431–432, 436–437, 470, 474, 497, 523, 548, 554–556 Amasis (Egyptian king) 334 Amazon(s) 251, 338–339 ambition 18, 117–119, 143, 145–146, 184, 310, 319, 330, 470 Ammonius 35, 42, 57n38, 71n28, 72, 98, 186, 352, 529n12 Amphion 422, 423n8 Amphipolis 541 Anacreon 343 anakrazo 150, 152–153, 157, 159–160 anamnesis, cf. recollection anarchy 470 anatomy 376, 381–382 Anaxagoras 316, 516 Andocides 140 andreia 54n28, 80, 89–90, 95, 105–107, 109, 126, 145, 196, 223–224, 226, 228, 272, 287, 397, 426, 428, 431, 437, 468n23, 515n7, 549 Andromache 22, 433 anecdote(s) 2, 31, 44–45, 48, 55, 57n37, 102– 103, 142, 148, 156, 192, 193n15, 265, 269, 278n19, 327, 329, 341, 343–344, 346, 393, 425–426, 428, 433, 437, 442, 447–450, 452–453, 455–457, 478, 482–483, 517, 543, 551n1 anger 48, 57n39, 155, 202n3, 209, 219, 226, 329, 395, 558n15, 560–561 animal(s) 22, 47, 90, 102, 194, 233, 273, 292n31, 333, 358, 369–370, 373–374, 507–508, 520, 525 Anthemion 469 Anthologia Palatina 475, 479, 482, 485–486 anthology 262

626 Anticrates 521–522 Antigone 456 Antigonus I Monophthalmus 268 Antigonus II Gonatas 399n29, 426, 481 Antigonus III Doson 163–164, 330–331, 516– 517 Antiochus (son of Seleucus) 17 Antiochus I (son of Mithridates) 133n12 Antisthenes 136, 317 Antony 14–17, 220–221, 234, 424, 437 Anytus 142–143 Aphrodite (cf. also Venus) 89, 205, 208– 209, 317–320, 422n7, 461n6, 462, 464–468, 471–472, 473n36 Apollo 50–51, 67n15, 71n28, 74–77, 81–82, 84–85, 115, 124, 192, 479, 534 Apollonius (of Rhodes) 467, 472 apophthegm(s) 28, 31–32, 41, 347, 483 Appian 349, 351, 552 Aratus (of Sicyon) 33, 161, 227, 330–331, 358 Aratus (poet) 472 Arcesilaus 500 Archias 430 Archidamus (king) 115–116, 122–123, 125, 516 architextual 299, 301, 303, 364 arete, cf. virtue Argonauts 472 Aristides 37, 196–197, 199, 220, 222, 224, 226–228, 269–271, 274, 476, 563 aristocracy 123, 143, 220, 222, 276, 376, 379– 381, 385, 387, 498, 544 Ariston 298, 313, 371 Aristophanes 15, 24–25, 47, 148, 150–152, 159–160, 332, 343n28, 482, 564 Aristotle 13, 16, 46, 54n28, 65–66, 72–73, 113, 114n10, 148–149, 261, 271, 281n26, 284, 289, 292n31, 293n36, 295, 325, 331, 379– 381, 383–384, 385n22, 387, 392n3, 464, 465n16, 502, 524n17, 529n15, 530–532, 546 Aristoxenus 55, 56n34, 271 Armenia(ns) 132–133, 178, 416–417, 443 Arrian(us) 276, 349, 351, 391, 399n27 Artemis 432, 480–481, 520 Artemon 343–344 Asia (Minor) 22, 57n39, 122, 380, 432, 501, 518 assembly 92, 94, 96, 150, 151n13, 153, 156

general index asyndeton 485 Athena 79, 92, 94–95, 147, 236–238, 240– 241, 244–245, 265, 298, 328, 478, 481– 482, 485n26, 506, 509, 524n17 Athenaeus 140n29, 283, 285, 287, 399 Athens, Athenian(s) 33n20, 67n17, 98– 99, 103, 105, 110, 118, 147–152, 154, 159, 193, 195n22, 196–197, 205, 221, 229, 254, 271n8, 273, 275–276, 278, 280–281, 286, 293, 332–333, 341, 380, 383, 402, 407, 409, 411, 417, 419, 425n19, 435, 450–453, 455–457, 499, 501, 522, 539–540, 543– 548, 557, 563–564 auctorial authority 2–7, 122n33 audience 3, 15–16, 24, 37, 42, 95, 108–109, 125, 148, 151–152, 154–158, 160, 228, 399, 402, 427, 430–431, 435–437, 442, 445–448, 450–453, 455, 457, 462, 499, 546–548, 549n34, 550, 553, 556, 563– 565 augury 201n2, 357, 359 Augustus 102–103, 325, 473n36 Aulis 22–23, 424n16, 431–432 author theatre 11, 13 authority 13, 30n11, 39n38, 40n40, 65, 69, 74, 76–78, 86, 88–89, 93, 96–97, 111–114, 121, 127, 156, 168, 176, 207n21, 226, 272, 349, 426n20, 450, 475, 503–504, 522, 532, 541, 554 Autobulus 24, 459–461, 468, 474 Autolycus 317 Babrius 324–325, 327–328, 332 Bacchiadae 523 bacchic 50, 353–354 Bacchon 24–26, 460, 468–470 Bakhtin (Mikhail) 2, 5, 378n3, 495–496 banquet, cf. symposium barbarian 22–23, 105, 122n33, 164, 334n29, 394n9, 399, 402, 433n62, 517, 541, 543 Barthes (Roland) 5 beauty 26, 54, 76, 91, 107, 129, 131–133, 135, 139–140, 142–144, 147, 170, 307, 310, 320–321, 327, 329, 355, 431, 432n58, 468, 519 bema 149–150, 152–153, 157, 159 Bible 65, 552 biography 3n5, 4–5, 30n11, 38–40, 55, 98– 100, 104, 112, 114–115, 117, 118n18, 119,

general index 146n48, 148, 154, 160–161, 162n4, 171, 189, 198, 203n5, 218, 231–235, 236n8, 237–239, 242–244, 249–250, 268–273, 275–277, 332, 338, 358, 364, 365n10, 376, 379, 391, 393, 398n24, 403, 405– 406, 416, 418–420, 422–425, 428n34, 432n56, 434–436, 438, 440, 444, 447, 452, 462n10, 475–476, 480–484, 488, 517, 553n6, 557 Boeotia(ns) 22, 72, 83, 432n56 Boëthus 69, 75, 349, 351, 355–357, 361 Brasidas 117, 522 bravery, cf. andreia Brutus 20, 220–221, 226 bucolic 484 Cadmea 422, 438 Caesar, Caesarian(s) 19–20, 153, 217, 220– 221, 223, 226–227, 391, 398, 399n29, 401, 403, 415, 552n4, 556 Callias 318 Callicles 509 Callicrates 167n26, 522 Callimachus 66, 477, 482, 486–488 Calliope 509 Callistratus 425n19, 480 Calydonian boar 339 Capaneus 428–429, 436 career 140, 155n23, 156, 189, 194, 204, 216, 228–229, 401, 498, 500 Carneades 500 Carrhae 443, 448 Cassius 20, 221n13, 224–225 Cato the Elder 37, 189–200, 216n8, 220–221, 222n14, 224, 226–227, 229, 303, 308, 312, 338, 345, 476, 484 Catullus 327, 341n24 Cavafy (Constantin) 131–134, 138, 145–147 Celsus 537 Centaur(s) 339 Chaeronea 83, 498–499, 523n15 chance, cf. Fortune and Tyche Chaos 462, 463 Charmadas 499–501, 503–506, 510 Charmides 42, 129, 131–135, 138–141, 144–145, 147 Charon 428–433, 437 Chersonese 548 Chlidon 429

627 Christianity, Christian 54n28, 55, 133, 206n13, 532, 537–538 Chrysippus 29, 39, 338n13, 359 Cicero 35, 151n7, 152, 156–157, 159, 192, 193n18, 217n8, 221, 225, 280, 303, 349, 351, 356n15, 453n52, 499, 503, 509 Cimon 196n26, 218, 224, 226–228, 280, 379– 381, 387, 476, 481, 485–486, 539–540, 543–550, 557 citation(s) 29, 38, 40, 44, 61–62, 67–68, 69n25, 70, 71n27, 72–73, 76–78, 81, 83, 85, 89n14, 128, 130, 132, 141, 174n2, 184n22, 252, 254–259, 261, 301, 303, 332n25, 344, 346–348, 363–364, 370– 371, 375, 378n2, 380, 428, 440–441, 443n14, 444–446, 449–450, 451n46, 452, 454–445, 457, 475–477, 497, 515– 516 civic 105, 219, 323, 399, 403 clarity, cf. sapheneia Claudius 325 Cleitomachus 500, 503–504 Clement of Alexandria 537 Cleombrotus 33, 123, 526–527, 530, 532 Cleomenes (of Sparta) 111, 123–124, 126, 163–164, 220, 222, 224, 330–331, 424n16, 514, 516–518 Cleon 148–155, 157–160, 229 clusters 2n4, 38, 61, 69n25, 71, 137n22, 174n2, 291–292 Clytemnestra 435, 438 Colonus 454–457 Colotes 173, 175–187 comedy 13, 15, 17–19, 25, 33, 38, 43, 66, 99, 151, 266n12, 307–308, 317, 332, 407, 456, 506, 563 commonplace 64, 506–510 connotation(s) 4, 153, 297, 351, 362n2, 364, 368, 370, 372–373, 376–377, 387, 434, 503 Corinth 123, 169, 330–331, 334, 523 Coriolanus 17–18, 195, 226 Cornelius Pulcher 498 corruption 115–116, 118, 149, 195, 532, 537 cosmopolitism 51 cosmos 4, 208, 350, 386, 464–465, 466n19, 471–473 courage, cf. andreia Craton 298

628 Creon 82, 431–432, 456 crocodile(s) 357–358 Croesus 324n1, 332, 333n26, 334, 434 Cronos 548–549 Ctesippus 345 cynicism 51, 258–259, 309n6, 333 Cynoscephalae 479 Cyrus 400–401 daily life 326, 328–330, 528 Damoteles 516 Daphnaeus 469 Darius III 391–403 deixis 442, 445, 458 deeds, cf. ergon Delphi 49–51, 61, 64n7, 65, 67–74, 77, 78n53, 79–80, 82–85, 99, 115, 117, 224, 265, 324n1, 340n18, 349–352, 356–357, 359–360, 479, 522, 523n15, 525–526, 530–532, 534, 543 Demades 268, 366 demagogue 20, 148, 151, 154–155, 159–160, 219 Demetrius Phalereus 164, 166n18, 267–282 Demetrius Poliorcetes 152, 221, 226, 268, 271n8, 275–277, 423n11, 424 democracy 20, 103, 133, 140, 150–151, 154, 222, 242, 248, 280 Democritus 177 Demodocus 466, 471–472 Demon 340, 345 Demosthenes 35, 192, 220–222, 224, 226, 269, 271–272, 332, 340, 476, 483–484 dialectic 485, 500, 502, 507 dialogical 4–5, 47n7, 181, 293n37, 349–350, 357, 371n26, 378n3, 447, 453, 457, 495– 496 didactic 93, 101, 235, 249, 329, 374, 438, 459, 461, 474, 533 Didymus (of Alexandria) 337, 340, 347 dikaiosyne 54n28, 218, 228, 491 dike 37n30, 54n28, 94, 155, 185, 218–219, 223–224, 226, 240, 252, 254–255, 257, 259, 263–266, 322, 376, 384–387, 400, 418, 456, 470, 482 Dio Chrysostom (of Prusa) 30, 462n9, 509 Diomedes 80, 89–90, 92, 94–95 Dion (friend of Plato) 220, 222, 316 Dionysia 25

general index Dionysius (of Halicarnassus) 206–207, 502 Dionysius (schoolteacher) 308, 312 Dionysius (tyrant of Syracuse) 33, 44n46, 268, 333, 434 Dionysus 38n33, 50–51, 205, 270, 299n6, 300, 354, 424, 445n22 Dioscourides 521–522 Dioscouroi 516 Diotima 26, 133n11 divination 75n42, 349–361, 533 divine 18n16, 40, 43, 49–50, 52, 71n28, 81, 116, 147n51, 165, 176, 208, 252, 255–256, 258–259, 265, 317, 320, 350–351, 354– 355, 357–360, 368, 401, 435–436, 508, 510, 516, 525, 529–531, 532n28–29, 533– 538, 540–543, 545 doxa 36n29, 199, 223, 236–237, 250, 276n14, 277–278, 310, 318n23, 319–321, 407–408, 465, 489, 491, 537, 557 drama 17, 24, 33, 36, 38, 42, 44–45, 47, 51, 68, 115n12, 117n15, 124, 133, 139n28, 289, 294, 341, 342n24, 351, 391, 394n7, 396, 412, 416, 420–422, 423n11, 425, 426n20, 427–428, 430–431, 433–434, 436–438, 440–441, 442n7, 444, 446, 449, 451, 453, 455, 458–462, 468, 474 Duris (of Samos) 18, 19n17, 29, 344 dynamics 4, 13, 30, 112, 126, 127, 173–174, 186, 203, 221, 267, 285, 350, 352, 458, 468, 471–473, 495–496, 510, 540 education 1, 13, 49, 52–53, 56, 68, 88n6, 92n20, 98, 106, 115, 118–119, 126, 138, 139n28, 144n45, 145, 171n36, 187, 190– 191, 194n19, 196–198, 200, 244, 318n23, 319, 325, 362, 440, 499, 510, 534, 539– 540, 546, 548, 557 egkrateia (cf. also sophrosyne) 193, 218, 224, 397–398 Egypt(ian) 70, 133, 230n17, 334, 525, 531– 532 ekphrasis 433n60, 467, 471n30, 472, 484 Electra 395, 450–453, 456 elegy 77, 399, 477 Eleusis 383 elite(s) 41n42, 67, 146, 158, 203–204, 211, 510, 544, 551, 565 emotion(s) 19, 33, 38n33, 79, 151–155, 157– 158, 160, 191, 208, 278n19, 315, 396,

general index 403n40, 432–433, 437, 440–441, 447, 449, 451–453, 469, 554 empathy 400, 402, 404, 431n54 Empedocles 23n23, 69, 72, 76, 426n24, 459, 464–468, 470–474 emulation 4, 21, 26n30, 98, 102–106, 109, 118–119, 195n23, 216, 218–221, 312n13, 313–315, 322, 399, 424n16 enargeia 17, 392n2, 445, 458 enigma 79, 81–82, 357 Ennius 206–207, 472, 473n35 Epaminondas 192, 218–220, 222, 226–228, 422–423, 425n19, 427, 429, 438, 521– 522 Ephorus 343–344 epic 21, 23, 38, 88n6, 250–252, 259, 307– 308, 392n3, 393, 401n36, 403, 421–428, 433–438, 442n12, 461, 467, 471–474, 485 Epicurus, Epicureanism 39–42, 49, 56, 61, 69, 73n38, 75, 153, 173–188, 258, 309n6, 320–322, 349, 351, 355–356, 361, 363 epideictic 99, 347 epigram(s) 292n31, 475–494 epigraphy 475, 483, 557n11 epikedeion 399 epimeleia 107, 141n33, 350 Epirus 498 epistemology 1, 177, 353–354, 360, 533, 536 epistolography 366 epitaphios (logos) 98, 100, 104, 109–110, 133n12, 399, 403, 477, 479, 481, 482n18, 483n23, 486 erastes, eromenos 119, 307, 309, 312, 322 ergon 100, 102–104, 107, 110, 241, 248, 476, 481, 483, 488 Eros, erotic 45, 52–54, 80, 135, 147, 208, 309, 317, 322, 338, 461n6, 462–474 Erotianus 385 Erotidia 462, 463n13 erudition 6–7, 41, 44, 48, 61, 67–68, 86–88, 96, 148–150, 154, 158–159, 162, 175, 187– 188, 205, 295n44, 336, 338, 347, 458, 517, 525, 533, 564n23 Eryximachus 23n23, 464 ethics 29, 32, 36–37, 39, 42, 45, 47–49, 54– 55, 215, 217–220, 222–226, 228, 230–233, 241, 256, 263, 268–269, 278–280, 330, 336n2, 362–363, 368, 386, 457, 495– 496, 557, 560, 563

629 ethos 233, 258, 478, 482–484 etymology 244–245, 342, 345–346 Euboea 479 euergetism 540, 547–550 eulabeia 353–354 eunuch(s) 391–394, 402 Euripides 14–15, 34, 50n20, 51, 57, 61, 64, 69–70, 75, 80–83, 205, 208–209, 255n13, 255n15, 279, 321n27, 349–356, 359–360, 394, 395n15, 405, 407, 409– 412, 414–415, 417–420, 422n6, 428, 431, 443–453, 487, 518, 548n33, 549 Eurycles (Gaius Julius) 519 Eurymedon 72n34, 548 exemplum 2, 26n33, 42, 45, 48, 52, 57, 89, 91, 94, 99, 103, 110, 196, 217–218, 222, 230, 267, 269, 279, 282, 338, 424–427, 436 exile 31, 51, 123, 140, 220–221, 223, 226, 267, 276, 279–280, 380, 429, 431, 456, 563 exploratory (moralism, paradigms) 1, 215– 216, 231 Fabius Maximus 166, 168n27, 195, 198, 220– 221, 230 fable 324–334, 374 fear 19–20, 37, 40, 49, 64, 82, 89, 92, 144, 221, 222n13, 242, 248, 265, 275, 308, 311–312, 318, 322, 330, 332–333, 358, 392, 395, 407, 413–414, 423, 426, 430, 447, 518, 522, 558, 560, 562 feasting 173, 257, 327, 415 fiction 68, 74, 78, 169, 324, 336, 421, 428, 432, 436, 438, 442, 445, 458 flattery 4, 11, 13, 117, 138, 143n42, 146, 168, 225, 319, 323, 502, 504, 564n23 Flavianus 459, 461, 474 flesh, cf. sarx Fortune (cf. also Tyche) 22, 40, 47, 117, 163– 165, 171, 193, 197n27, 204–205, 208–209, 221, 226, 310, 356, 392n3, 397, 400, 405, 409–416, 420–422, 426–427, 431n54, 433–434, 437–438 frame, framing 28–29, 30n8, 31, 33–34, 38, 39n38, 40, 56n35, 86, 107, 112, 117n15, 309n5, 376, 387, 412, 461, 463, 497, 510, 552n3 freedom 105, 109, 196, 223, 300, 418, 434n70, 470

630 friendship 13, 35, 39, 57n36, 57n39, 75, 81n59, 83, 89, 91, 94–95, 132, 139–140, 142, 144, 150, 153, 171n38, 176, 194, 280, 284, 289, 299–300, 309, 317–324, 334, 372, 408, 410, 422, 423n8, 427, 431–432, 460, 463–464, 468–470, 498, 543, 558, 562 Gaia 69, 77, 464 Galen 376, 379, 383–385, 387 Gaugamela 398 genealogy 113–114, 122–124, 126, 544n19 generic (enrichment) 18, 22n21, 391–406, 408, 419–420, 421n2, 423n11, 460, 474– 475, 481, 488 genericity 3 genre(s) 2–4, 6, 25, 39, 53n26, 55, 96, 146n48, 151, 170n34, 180–181, 182n18, 252, 284, 295n43, 300, 307–308, 323, 362, 376, 378, 391, 392n3, 393–394, 402–403, 405, 412, 419–421, 423, 432, 435–438, 440, 444, 449, 458–461, 546n29, 553n6, 556 Genette (Gérard) 62, 65–66, 68, 70, 72, 74, 76, 79, 85, 411 geography 204, 211, 474, 484, 522 Getae 367 gnomic 73, 338, 399 god(s) 40, 43, 49–51, 71–72, 74, 76, 79– 83, 90–91, 94, 96, 115, 117, 141n33, 147, 176, 195, 199, 208, 237, 245, 247, 256–259, 261–262, 264–265, 318, 350, 354–355, 357, 359–360, 394–395, 399–400, 432n58, 451, 462–463, 465– 468, 473n36, 478n7, 479n12, 480, 508, 524n17, 528–538, 543, 558 Gorgias 196, 200, 253, 380, 502–505, 509 Gracchi 124, 148–149, 153, 155–156, 160 C.G. 148, 150, 153, 156–157, 159–160, 338 T.G. 150n4, 154–155, 220–221 Gregorius (of Cyprus) 347 gymnasiarch(s) 469–470 Gymnopaedia 517 Hadrian 67n17, 337, 481n17 Hagnon 541 hair 24, 117, 125, 522–523 Haliartos, Haliartan(s) 541 Hannibal 75, 223–225, 230n17

general index hapax legomena 50n20, 484 haruspicy 357 Hecuba 433 hedone, cf. pleasure Hegesippus 477n4, 482, 486–488, 494 Helicon 461–463, 469–470, 474 Heliodorus 427 Hellanicus 338–339 Hellenism 197–198 Hellenistic 30, 131, 161–172, 271n8, 336, 344, 348, 424, 430, 460, 472, 476, 480–481, 484, 486–487, 501, 538 Hellespont 558–559 Hephaestion 21, 434 Hera 95, 314n17, 318n23, 319–320, 451 Heracles 14–15, 113–114, 246–247, 338, 340, 431n55, 432n58, 544n18, 549 Heraclids 113, 114, 117, 122 Heraclides Lembos 546 Heraclides Ponticus 76n47, 343 Heraclitus 69, 74, 79, 301, 466, 471–472n30 Herculanus 519 hermeneutics 46n5, 283, 525, 534–536, 538 Hermes 316–319, 481, 484, 486 Herodorus 247, 338, 339 Herodotus 16, 32n17, 61–63, 69–70, 72, 77, 82n65, 99, 114, 122, 124, 126, 211, 255n13, 332–333, 400, 402, 429n39, 480, 515, 523, 539, 541–542, 547–550, 552 Hesiod 33, 34n21, 61, 69, 252–266, 459–474, 509–510, 549 heterosexual 24–26, 47, 52 hexameter 64n7, 459, 461, 472, 474, 484–485 Himera 331 Hippocrates 363, 376, 379, 381–387 Hippolyte 204–205 Hippolytus (author) 465 Hippolytus 201, 204–205, 207–210, 220, 321n27 Hipposthenidas 429 historiography 16, 100, 113, 161–172, 211, 268, 392n3, 421n1, 428, 429n39, 440, 483 Homer(ic) 18, 21, 29–30, 38, 52, 57, 61, 63– 65, 67, 69–74, 76, 80, 86–97, 108, 113, 146, 169n33, 192, 198n33, 255n13, 341, 345–346, 392n3, 426, 434, 437, 442n12, 443n14, 466–467, 471–472, 476, 509– 510, 517–519, 560 homoerotic 24, 307–309, 313, 322

general index

631

Horace 63–64, 85, 327 horizontal (intertextuality) 45–46, 378 Horodes 443 Hydra 344–345 hyle 525–538 Hyperbolus 151, 563–564 hypertextuality 70, 72, 79–81, 83, 364 hypomnema(ta) 38n32, 289–290, 291n25, 529 hypotext 29, 34n22, 88, 90, 92–94, 96, 115, 118, 120, 174 Hyrodes 416, 418

376–387, 399n32, 400–401, 432, 452, 462, 483n24, 516, 518–519, 521–524, 540, 551, 565 Iphigenia 411, 431, 437–438 irony 20, 89, 103, 122, 169, 199, 298, 347, 364, 370, 372, 374, 398, 445n23, 506, 507n67 irrationality 349, 353–355, 357–360, 495, 497, 559 Ismenodora 24–26, 460, 468–471 Isthmus 240, 273, 480 Italy 75, 123, 169n32, 316, 499 Ixion 318n23, 319–323

Ibycus 518 ideal reader 4, 11, 129, 146, 561, 564n23 idealization 103, 133, 135, 142, 145–146, 289, 456, 497, 514, 518n11 ideology 7, 46, 48–49, 55, 301, 435, 437, 483, 497 Iliad 21, 70, 72, 74, 80, 86, 96–97, 395, 402, 403n40, 426–427, 437, 471, 518 Illyria 164, 517 imitation (cf. also mimesis) 35, 38n33, 41, 54, 56n35, 79n56, 99, 102–106, 109– 110, 120, 195n25, 215–231, 314–315, 331, 445n29, 446, 497–498, 502, 515, 554 immorality 449, 503, 562 Imperial (period, culture) 4, 34, 42n44, 67n17, 71n29, 85, 168, 325, 336–337, 422n5, 426–427, 440, 462n10, 466, 531, 537–538 impiety 265, 432 inscription(s) 113, 130, 167–168, 270, 278, 401, 463, 475, 477–479, 480n15, 481n17, 485, 522 interdiscursivity 2–3, 5n12, 362, 376, 378, 380–381 intergenericity 2–3, 18, 21, 307, 309, 323, 362, 375, 425, 430, 436–437, 440, 475, 481, 488 intermateriality 2, 4, 525, 527, 533, 538–540, 545 intermediality 441, 446n30, 450 intratextuality 2–3, 19, 34, 40, 43, 45–58, 76, 87, 91, 96, 111–128, 137, 140, 179–180, 191, 201–207, 215–231, 235, 238, 243, 249– 251, 253, 266–282, 284n2, 308–309, 312–313, 324, 334, 345, 349, 359, 362,

Jason 339, 467, 472 Jason of Thralles (actor) 443–448, 453, 455 Jesus 537 John (Gospel of) 525, 536–538 Joyce (James) 66, 72, 79 Judaism 538 Jugurtha 310 justice, cf. dikaiosyne and dike kalokagathia 317 kinetic 313–315, 322–323 kingship 40, 119, 123, 398, 400, 403, 509 knowledge 1, 26, 40, 77, 84, 95, 101n15, 107, 117, 125, 129–131, 134–135, 138, 145–146, 193n15, 196, 203, 205, 259, 263, 288– 289, 326–327, 333, 345–346, 357–360, 380, 396, 398, 401, 409, 420, 429n38, 436, 440, 458, 465, 499–500, 522, 524, 530n19, 533, 537–538, 543, 546, 551, 554–555, 564–565 Kristeva (Julia) 5, 11–12, 378, 495–497, 551, 553–555 Lacedaimonion Politeia 111–128 Laius 82, 423n58, 435–436 lamentation(s) 57n39, 393–396, 399, 403, 452 Lamprias 198n33, 349, 351–354, 357, 361 Lamprias Catalogue 162n4, 260, 284n1, 465 laughter 151, 335, 345–346, 365, 469 law(s) 21n20, 111, 114n8, 115–117, 178n11, 196, 222, 229–230, 273, 322, 335, 350, 359, 384n25, 385–386, 400, 463, 470, 519, 527n6 lawgiver 112, 333, 463, 514, 519 Lazarus 537

632 leadership 19, 102, 151, 154, 164, 176, 190n5, 197, 200, 215, 217–218, 223, 226–231, 276n15, 277, 280, 310, 316, 319, 321– 322, 330, 409–413, 450–452, 467, 558 learning 19n18, 36, 102, 106, 192, 196–197, 200, 283–284, 288, 295, 312–313, 321, 325, 341n22, 391n1 legislator 32n14, 115, 178, 271, 273–274, 394 lemma(ta) 338, 340, 343–344, 347 Leonidas 122–126, 424n14, 477n4, 478n8, 486–487, 491 Leontiades 430 Leuctra 428, 431–432, 437, 517 Libanius 336, 347–348 Lichas 542 Livy 202, 206–207, 330 logic 86, 88, 93, 96, 160, 209, 265, 293, 308, 321n26, 351, 353, 356, 475–476, 479, 484, 486, 553, 558 logos 154–155, 196n26, 239, 245, 263, 299, 314, 316–319, 322, 332, 385, 399, 463, 469, 508, 527, 532n29, 534–538 Long Walls 451, 548 love 17, 23–26, 45, 47, 49, 52, 54, 55n31, 57n39, 80, 85, 89–90, 116, 118, 122, 135, 137–147, 200, 205, 226, 286, 307, 311, 313–315, 317–321, 411, 415, 436, 459–474, 522, 539, 558 lover, cf. erastes Lucan 473 Lucian 35, 336–337, 346–347, 482n20 Lucillus of Tharrae 335, 337, 340–341, 345, 347 Lucretius 467, 473 Lucullus 31–32, 220–221, 225–227, 230, 380– 381, 385, 387 Lycurgus 111–128, 220, 222, 224, 226–227, 229, 269, 272–273, 476, 488, 514, 518– 519, 523–524, 552n4 Lydiadas (tyrant) 330 lyric 38, 69, 80, 139, 298n2, 440–458, 486 Lysander 78n52, 111, 115–120, 122–123, 124n36, 126, 130n3, 223–224, 226–227, 229, 514, 516, 522–523 Lysimachus 196, 271, 367 Lysis 129, 133n12, 143–144

general index Macarius 347 Macedonia(ns) 17, 98, 163–164, 166, 167n23, 224–225, 330–332, 391, 402n38, 478n8, 479, 483, 516, 541 Mamercus (tyrant) 481, 487 Mantinea 521 mantis (cf. also seer) 349–361 Marathon 72n34, 271, 545 Marcellus 422n4, 426, 433n63, 438, 492 Marius (Caius) 189–190, 198, 220–221, 223, 227, 229–230, 310 marriage 21, 25n30, 26, 52, 123, 238, 249, 269, 271, 292, 329, 443, 467, 469, 471, 530n17 Mars 437n77, 467, 473 maxim(s) 71, 94n23, 324, 326, 329–330, 334, 336n8, 349–350, 365, 371n24, 434 megalopsychia 223, 397 medicine 1, 3, 258, 284n2, 356, 362–375, 376–387, 525, 528 Meleager 339 memory 2, 7–8, 15, 24, 31, 34n22, 61, 66–70, 72, 108, 120, 122, 142n37, 144n45, 156, 160, 248, 254, 273, 281, 287–280, 293, 320, 337, 367, 422, 433n62, 440, 487– 488, 530n17, 552n3 Menander 34n23, 342, 350n3, 505–507, 510 Menander Rhetor 347 Menelaus 22, 92, 410–411, 518 Menemachus (of Sardis) 498–499 Meno 198–199 Menoeceus 428–429, 431, 437 metaphor 3, 20, 26–27, 48, 142, 194, 195n22, 211, 258n21, 299n6, 301–303, 307, 309, 312, 336n2, 344, 372, 374, 376–387, 417, 507, 527, 529, 554 metaphysical 360, 531 metapoetic 171 metatextual 303, 363, 374 meteor 516 Metrodorus 39, 42, 173, 176–177, 184, 500, 504 mildness (cf. also praotes) 20, 23, 218–219, 223, 273, 344 Milesian tales 326–327, 464n14 military 14, 100–101, 106, 110, 131n7, 166n19, 194, 215, 217–220, 223–224, 225–227, 229–230, 233, 235, 237–238, 272, 365, 375, 396–397, 419, 425, 432, 483

general index Miltiades 218, 221, 545, 547 mimesis (cf. also imitation) 98, 100, 102– 104, 218, 314–315, 459 misanthropos 481–482, 494 miscellanist 283–296 Mithras 395–396 mnemosyne 461 model(s) 11–12, 18, 20–21, 22n22, 46, 55, 86, 88, 92, 96, 110, 129, 131, 134–135, 144, 152, 180, 181n14, 184, 195, 198, 200, 215, 217– 222, 288, 303, 338, 345, 356, 362–364, 370, 372, 375, 422–423n8, 426, 432n58, 436, 447, 472, 483, 496, 525n1, 548 monarchy 20, 103, 275–277 moralism 1, 31, 36–37, 44, 48, 50, 52, 55, 95, 103, 144, 146, 189–190, 193–195, 197n28, 200, 211, 216–218, 222, 230–231, 233, 238, 258, 263, 279, 300, 314, 325, 335, 336n8, 362–364, 366, 374–375, 392, 397–399, 402–404, 411, 413, 421, 426, 436–438, 456, 509, 548–550, 557–565 movement(s) 65, 133n11, 303, 369, 371–372, 374, 395, 397, 534, 541, 545, 549–550, 555n8 Muses 30, 69, 77, 80, 89, 191, 293, 299n6, 318n23, 319, 370, 461–462, 509, 518 music 45, 47, 49, 55–58, 74, 156–157, 271, 293, 295, 370, 441, 444, 446n30, 452, 525, 561 Mysians 378 mysteries 50, 140–141, 176, 248 mythology 235, 245, 255, 338–339, 374, 432n58, 530–531, 532n29, 544n18–19, 545, 548–550 mythos 91, 463, 467, 514–515 narrative 11, 16–17, 19, 21, 23–24, 28, 72n34, 111–113, 115, 118, 121, 123–126, 130, 160, 163, 166n20, 167, 201–202, 204–205, 207–209, 210n25, 211, 228, 231, 301, 326, 341, 347, 353, 393, 404, 406–407, 411n15, 412–413, 415, 422n3, 423n10, 425–426, 428–443, 445–453, 455, 457– 458, 471, 473–474, 476, 517–519, 524, 536–537, 539–540, 546, 547n31, 549– 550 narratology 28, 297, 426 narrator 28, 132–133, 169, 170n33, 413, 432, 436, 442, 446–447, 449–450

633 nature 37, 49, 52, 71n28, 78n52, 96, 101, 106n30, 110, 116, 135, 139–140, 144, 148n1, 194–196, 197n30, 198, 218–219, 221, 223, 228–229, 258, 262, 272, 277, 284, 313– 315, 317, 328, 332–333, 341n22, 346, 349, 354, 376, 379–387, 397, 470, 472n30, 508, 516, 534, 548n33, 549, 553n6 neikos (strife) 67, 429, 465–468, 470n25–26, 471–474 Nephele 320 Nero 33n18, 325 Nicias 148–149, 151n13, 223–224, 227–229, 405–420, 476, 490 Nile 357 novel 5, 25, 427–428, 433, 554 Numa 40–41, 226, 228, 552n4 Odysseus 79, 90–91, 94–96, 198, 335, 345, 400, 411, 424n12 Odyssey 70, 72–74, 86, 96, 198, 319n24, 345, 427n30, 466, 471–472 Oedipus 400, 455–457 oligarchic 133, 140, 275, 277 oracle(s) 51, 61–85, 119, 192, 340n18, 349– 350, 352, 354–355, 357, 359–360, 411, 539–543, 545, 547 orality 2, 6, 28–32, 34–36, 38–39, 41, 42n44, 43–44, 71n29, 74, 75n44, 84n70, 308, 479–480, 486 oratory 89, 99, 148–160, 166n20, 220, 222, 224, 227, 231, 272, 301, 325, 332, 366, 424, 445, 499–500, 503, 505–507 Orestes 539, 541–543, 547, 549–550 ornatus 57, 347 Orpheus 464, 472, 552n4 Osiris 51, 535–536 ostracism 226, 270, 379–381, 412, 563 Ovid 66, 206n13, 207, 209, 473 paederasty 47, 52–54 paganism 55, 537–538 paideia 49, 106, 144n45, 187, 189, 191, 195, 197–198, 363n4, 423, 561n17 palimpsest 7 Panhellenic 437–438 parallel(s) 11, 17, 21, 44n49, 65, 98, 102, 111, 119, 122, 125n38, 139–140, 144, 147, 153, 160, 168n28, 184n22, 191n8, 201, 204– 207, 215–231, 233, 260–261, 265, 290,

634 parallel(s) (cont.) 297, 309n5, 339, 369, 372, 376, 387, 397, 399n32, 400, 405–407, 412–413, 419, 422n6, 428n34, 430n49, 438, 472, 474, 507, 514n4, 518 paratext 62, 85 Parmenides 464–466 parody 74, 76, 132n9, 479 paroemiography (cf. also proverbs) 75, 335– 348, 350n2 Paros 545 Parthia(ns) 16, 131n7, 226, 326–327, 405– 406, 412, 414–416, 420, 433n62, 443– 444, 446–448, 453 passion(s) 19, 37, 57n39, 80, 91, 141, 147, 151, 153–155, 157, 160, 199n37, 208, 256, 313, 318, 333, 349, 364, 370, 398, 407, 434n66, 451, 559 Pataikos 333 pathos 19, 38n33, 45, 48, 254, 419, 431, 437 Patrocleas 256 Patroclus 21, 90, 92, 422, 426–427 Pausanias (author) 67n17, 76n47, 478, 480, 539, 541–542, 547 Pausanias (general) 24, 122n34, 123–124, 317, 323, 398, 462 Pausanias (lexicographer) 340n20 pedagogic 36, 52, 53n26, 55, 136, 142, 181, 188, 300, 303, 374, 424n14, 460 Peirithoos 339 Peisias 25, 469–471 Peisistratus 333 Pelopidas 227–228, 421–439, 476, 491 Peloponnese 164, 171n36, 331, 480, 517, 523 Peloponnesian War 16, 100, 110, 450, 482 pentameter 484–485, 488 Pentheus 354, 417, 424, 443, 445, 447–449, 456 pepaideumenos 41n42, 67, 88, 295, 436 perception 22, 65–66, 78n52, 101–102, 233, 338, 373, 378–379, 433, 445, 504–505, 519, 533 performativity 28, 33–34, 36n28, 441, 446 Periander (tyrant) 334 Pericles 19, 98–110, 151–152, 192, 196n26, 197, 199, 220–222, 224–228, 276, 280–281, 308, 312, 314, 316, 338, 341, 342n23, 343– 344, 424n16, 438 Persia(ns) 101, 166n18, 220–221, 223, 391, 391–404, 545–546

general index Persius 327 personality 13, 160, 267, 269, 280, 414, 425, 515 persuasion 16, 19, 93, 99, 104, 155, 241, 272, 325, 441, 495, 497, 499, 502–510, 516 Phaedrus 23, 129, 135, 137n21, 145–147, 324– 329 Phalaris 331 Pharsalus 17, 221, 224–226, 398 Pherae 433, 435 Pherecydes 338–339, 432, 532, 545 philanthropia 309–311, 391n1, 535 philarchos 310–311 philia (cf. also friendship) 307–309, 312, 316, 318–319, 322, 467 Philinus 76–77 Philip (of Macedon) 75, 102–103, 218, 268, 479 Philip V 331 Philo (of Larissa) 500 philodoxos 309–313, 316, 322 philokalos 309–311 philolaconism 381 philophrosyne 299, 316, 318, 369 Philopoemen 161, 169–171, 219–220, 227 philotimia 119, 126, 310–311 Phocion 220, 222, 224, 272, 276, 280 Phocis 83, 450, 452–453, 455 phone, cf. voice Phrygian(s) 378, 394, 395n10 Phylarchus 161, 164, 342–344, 516–517 physical 25n30, 98–99, 102, 104, 110, 118–120, 168, 196, 239, 246–247, 258, 317–318, 320, 350, 354, 360, 363, 373, 378, 386, 456, 479, 480n16, 484, 508, 526, 533– 537, 539–540, 544n18–19, 546, 549, 554, 555n8, 564n23 physis, cf. nature piety 265, 300, 432 Pindar 61, 69–70, 72, 74, 80–81, 83–84, 255n15, 314n16, 318–319, 518 Plataea 72n34, 123–124, 271, 531, 480 Plato 11, 13, 20–27, 28–34, 37n30, 39–44, 51–57, 61, 65, 69–73, 80, 91, 99, 102– 103, 129–147, 165n15, 178, 180–182, 185, 189–200, 253–255, 257, 259–261, 284, 288, 307, 309, 315–317, 323, 326, 333, 334n28, 335, 344–346, 353, 374, 379–

general index 380, 385n22, 459–464, 471, 482, 499, 501–510, 518–519, 528–533, 535n47, 557 Plato Comicus 563–564 Platonism 26, 30n36, 142n38, 189, 190n7, 193–194, 197, 363, 501, 503, 509–510, 528n10, 531, 533, 537–538 plethos (multitude) 322, 344, 379–381, 497, 508, 544 plausibility 11, 16, 291, 354, 521 pleasure 47, 57n38, 89, 141, 143, 146, 157n25, 178, 185, 187n28, 193, 257, 288n17, 313, 318, 320, 379, 400, 423, 437, 504, 560– 561, 564n23 poetry 12, 29–30, 34, 45, 49, 51–52, 55, 57n38, 62, 65n8, 73, 81, 174, 252–253, 255, 266, 281, 333, 380, 392n3, 418, 421, 423n11, 438, 440–441, 442n12, 444, 449, 458–461, 462n10, 473n36, 474, 515, 517, 554 polemic 29, 41, 49, 115, 173–175, 177n9, 179– 180, 183–184, 186, 206n13, 209–210, 351, 356, 359, 480, 488, 500, 502–504, 532n28, 532n37 politic(s) 3, 20, 31–32, 35, 40, 48–49, 52, 54, 67, 72, 86–97, 103, 105, 107, 110, 114, 126, 133, 143, 144n45, 148–160, 163, 168, 170–172, 175, 178, 190, 194, 198, 208, 215, 217–220, 222–227, 230, 232–233, 235, 237–238, 241, 246, 248, 267–268, 276– 277, 280, 282, 303, 307, 309n5, 310–311, 315–316, 318n23, 320, 322–324, 326, 330, 332–332, 344–346, 363, 365–368, 373, 375–376, 378, 380–381, 386–387, 393, 401, 410–411, 435, 470, 473n36, 495–498, 505, 507, 509–510, 516–517, 540–541, 544–545, 558 politikos 307–323 Polyaenus 443, 539, 541 Polybius 161–172, 346 polymatheia 283–284, 295, 346 Pompey, Pompeian 31, 217n8, 220–221, 224– 227, 230, 310, 398, 399n29, 415, 423n11, 424, 476, 478, 493, 558 popular wisdom 324, 333–334, 336, 362 Pound (Ezra) 63–64, 85 praotes (cf. also mildness) 154, 218, 223, 562 Presocratic(s) 76, 385, 461

635 pre-text 29–30, 33, 44, 495, 498 Priam 90, 94, 402 private life 215–217, 307, 309, 393–403, 424, 553, 564 problemata 284, 298n3 programmatic 86, 100, 114, 182, 190n6, 283, 285, 297, 425–427, 433, 526 progymnasma(ta) 325, 424n12, 436 prolepsis 411, 426, 437 Promaxathres 444 Prometheus 327–328 pronoia 49–50, 255n12, 258–259, 263, 350, 355, 360, 422n3 prophecy 74–75, 81, 351, 349–361 prophet(ic) 32, 40n39, 64n7, 74–75, 79, 82– 83, 349–361, 535 Protogenes 24, 469–470 proverb(s) 64, 73, 75, 89, 91, 335–348, 350– 351, 355, 364, 371, 399, 471, 506–507 Providence, cf. pronoia psychagogia 52, 499, 508, 510 psychological (reading/effect) 18n16, 98, 103, 296, 329, 363 Ptolemy 50n18, 280, 486 public life 90, 105, 137, 215–216, 321, 409, 430 Publicola 220, 222 Pythagoras, Pythagorean 32, 42, 51, 193–194, 198, 200, 316, 362n2 Pythia 66n15, 69–71, 74, 78–79, 82, 85, 355, 360, 533–534 Quellenforschung 163, 377, 528 Quintilian 148, 151n7, 157–160, 325, 503–504 random 283–288, 294, 355, 509 rational(ity) 50n14, 152, 164, 165, 201, 349– 360, 432, 438, 495, 497 reception 6, 86, 178, 185, 325n2, 337, 348, 423n11, 433n60, 441, 447 recollection 6–8, 32, 148–149, 154, 199n36, 287–290, 294n41, 296, 517 religion 1, 3, 41, 45, 49–52, 240, 300, 338, 362n2, 364, 369, 375, 525–538, 541 Remus 201–211 reputation 116, 158, 195n22, 219–220, 224, 226, 276, 278, 307–308, 318n23, 319–321, 408, 549n34 Rhesos 539, 541–543, 547

636 rhetoric(al) 23n24, 34, 37n30, 51, 53n26, 57n39, 86, 94n23, 101n11, 104, 113, 152, 155, 157, 160, 209, 211, 258, 291, 293, 307–308, 325, 329, 334, 336–337, 347– 348, 377n2, 426, 445n25, 475, 495–510, 546n29 rhetorician(s) 324, 499–500, 502 Riffaterre (Michel) 5 Rome, Roman(s) 16–17, 19, 23, 41, 67, 72, 75– 76, 84n69, 85, 124, 148, 150, 153–155, 160–161, 167n26, 168–172, 189–200, 201– 204, 206, 208, 211, 223–225, 252, 288, 326–327, 415, 473, 499, 552n4, 561 Romulus 201–211, 226, 232 Salamis 16, 432, 545 Samos, Samian(s) 18, 29, 341, 343–344, 564 sapheneia 47, 57n37, 262 Sappho 17 Sarapion 74, 76, 355 Sardonic (laugh) 345–346 sarx 514, 525, 536–538 satyr(s) 191, 417 school(s) 19n18, 47, 72n34, 75n42, 86, 88, 92, 94n23, 173, 175–176, 178–187, 271, 337, 500–501, 517 Scipio Aemilianus 90–91, 162, 171n38, 198, 220–221, 223–224 Scipio Africanus (Maior) 162, 166, 195, 226– 227, 557 Scipio Nasica Corculum 166 Scythian(s) 342 Second Sophistic 6, 68, 72, 347 seer(s) (cf. also mantis) 350–353, 357, 359, 431 self 4, 26, 34, 37, 552, 560, 561n17 self-control, cf. egkrateia and sophrosyne self-knowledge 94n23, 300, 326–327 self-praise 167, 301 Sellasia 163, 516 semantic(s) 5, 39, 90, 455, 486, 488, 504, 519, 553 semiotic, semiotics 46n5, 356, 446, 554–555 Semonides (of Amorgos) 373 Seneca 176, 209, 327 Seven against Thebes 201, 428–429, 431n55 Seven Sages 71, 334 Sextus Empiricus 500–503, 504n49 sexual 54–55, 132, 140–141, 326, 329

general index Sicily 149, 405–406, 409–418, 452, 466, 481 simile(s) 86, 88, 91–92, 94, 96, 102, 143, 364– 375, 380–381, 518 Simon (the cobbler) 308, 312 Simonides 34n23, 61, 69–70, 77, 113–114, 365, 477, 480, 485 skepticism 47, 178, 353n10, 354, 500, 501, 509, 533 skopein (cf. also viewing) 98, 101–102 Skyros 539–540, 543–547 skytale 7 slave(ry) 75–76, 152, 157, 324, 329, 331–332, 334, 394, 395n10, 409, 452, 551–552, 556–564 Sosius Senecio 171n38, 202n5, 203, 298 Soclarus 57n36, 470 Socrates 24, 26, 32, 42, 54, 129–147, 191–200, 270–271, 274, 308, 312, 317, 323, 326, 329, 334n28, 335, 344–345, 380, 502–503, 533, 535 Solon 30, 33, 220, 222, 224, 227, 229–230, 269, 273–274, 332–334, 385–387, 394n9, 434, 463, 546 Sophocles 69, 453–457, 467, 468n23, 518 sophrosyne (cf. also egkrateia) 54n28, 142, 398 Sorcanus 307, 309, 322 soul 47, 51, 53, 54, 56n34, 79, 106n30, 120, 137–144, 192–193, 195n22, 198, 200, 316–318, 322, 352–354, 362, 449, 468, 508–509, 533–535, 558–559 sound(s) 15, 28, 42, 93, 155–156, 395, 441, 446, 449, 454 source criticism 5–6 Sparta(ns) 7, 22–23, 31, 65, 73, 101, 111–127, 151, 163, 170n35, 171n36, 227, 230, 273, 330, 345, 369, 375, 381, 427, 429–430, 432n56, 438, 470n26, 478, 480, 483, 513–524, 541–542, 547–549 spectator(s) 102–103, 169, 314, 441–442, 446, 448, 450, 457, 498 speech 24, 28, 32, 34, 39, 42, 47, 61, 65–66, 72, 93, 110, 135, 150–160, 181, 298–302, 318–319, 322, 348n39, 374–375, 393, 403, 442, 468, 505–509 stage 33, 151, 180, 289, 412, 418, 425, 427, 431, 433, 435, 437–438, 440–457, 460 statesman 89–95, 99, 103, 110, 112, 150, 169, 199, 219, 228–229, 267–268, 277, 309,

general index 322, 380n9, 381, 495–497, 507, 509, 557–558 Statira 391, 393–397, 403 Stoic(s), Stoicism 15, 29, 49, 51, 61, 69, 73n38, 93n21, 176n8, 286n8, 355–356, 359–360, 371n24, 502, 532, 537n50 Strabo 478, 480 structure 3, 5, 7, 36, 45–48, 53n26, 58, 63– 65, 158, 173–174, 187, 232–238, 243–245, 249, 259, 283–286, 289, 291–295, 336, 338, 341, 346–347, 358n21, 360, 396– 397, 406n1, 407, 412, 416, 446–448, 451, 455, 460, 497, 509–510, 539, 556 stylistic 5, 29n4, 34, 43, 86, 263, 347–348, 514 Sulla 118, 220–221, 224–225, 227, 310 Surena 326–327, 418 symbol(ism) 342n24, 372, 374, 396, 456, 474, 527, 535, 541n8, 544, 547, 550, 553–556 symposium 41n42, 200, 258, 284–294, 297– 303, 307–309, 312–315, 321–323, 324, 328, 334, 365, 371, 446n19, 450–451, 453 Synesius 336, 347 synkrisis 45–47, 201, 206–210, 217, 231, 232– 235, 431 tattoo(s) 551–565 Tegea 123, 480, 542 Terpander 518 testimonium 57, 237, 251, 280n21, 325n2, 336n1.n7, 340, 341, 347, 476, 478–481, 488, 524 Thales 333–334 theater 11, 13, 17–18, 29, 38n33, 48, 160, 281n25, 320, 321n25, 392n4, 408, 409–417, 420, 423–424, 427, 430–434, 440–458, 469, 498, 539 Thebes, Theban(s) 22–23, 57n39, 82, 201, 276, 279–280, 400, 421–422, 425, 428– 437, 456 thematic 92–93, 96, 100, 118, 147, 195, 232, 259, 265–266, 283–286, 291–295, 360, 496–497, 509–510 Themistius 347 Themistocles 129–130, 192, 196n26, 197, 199, 218–229, 327, 432, 476, 544–545 Theognis 66, 73, 316–318 theology 76, 284, 525–538, 556 Theon 61–85, 173, 180–187

637 Theophrastus 42, 277, 280, 281n26, 500 theorein 98, 102, 379 therapeutikos 308, 311–312, 321–322 Theseion 543, 549 Theseus 14, 201–211, 232–251, 275, 338–340, 455–456, 476, 481n17, 539–550 Thespesius 561–562 Thespiae 462–463, 468–470, 474 Thessaly, Thessalian(s) 167, 434, 549n34 Thrasymachus 335, 345 Thucydides 11, 16–20, 61, 69–70, 77, 98–104, 109–110, 130n1, 150–152, 192, 276, 341– 342, 406, 409, 411, 545, 553n5–6, 563 Timoleon 219–222, 227, 476 Tiresias 82, 90, 198, 199, 354, 431n55 Tireus 391–403 tragedy 11, 13–15, 17–21, 29n5, 47, 68, 69, 72, 81–82, 146, 204–205, 237, 279, 307–308, 392–404, 405–420, 421–439, 440–458, 460 transformative (intertextuality) 7, 41n40, 63, 65–66, 70, 76, 79–85, 441, 446n30, 455, 460n5 transtextuality 5 tribune, cf. bema tropos 483 Troy, Trojan(s) 21–22, 80, 90, 92, 95, 101, 265, 402, 410, 424n14, 433, 541 Tyche (cf. also Fortune) 22, 40, 75, 47, 117, 163–165, 171, 193–194, 204–205, 208– 209, 221, 226, 236–238, 241–242, 279, 302, 310, 355–356, 367, 392, 396–397, 400, 405, 409–416, 420–434, 437–438, 491 tyranny 20, 43n46, 123, 220, 222, 276, 291n25, 324, 326, 330–334, 433–435, 564 Valerius Flaccus 194–195, 198 Venus (cf. also Aphrodite) 437n77, 467, 473 Vergil 65, 72, 79, 206n13, 473 vertical (intertextuality) 45–46, 48, 376, 378 viewing (cf. also skopein) 98, 106 virtue(s) 21, 26, 35, 40, 47, 53–54, 98, 102– 104, 108–110, 122, 124, 139, 144, 189–200, 210, 218–228, 257–258, 276–278, 310– 320, 329, 345, 362, 397, 400, 414, 431, 433, 495, 497, 507, 534

638 voice(s), vocality 5, 6, 21–23, 28–44, 51, 57– 58, 61, 66, 72–75, 85, 122n33, 154–155, 272, 318, 379–380, 430, 496 wine 81, 84, 173, 289, 292, 299–300, 328, 365, 370, 517, 537, 557, 560 women 18, 23, 25, 45, 49, 52, 53, 102, 317, 320, 394n9, 397, 398, 431, 435n74, 437, 451, 469, 470, 518, 552 Xenophanes 464

general index Xenophon 16, 34n22, 54, 111–128, 140, 192, 284, 288, 307, 309, 316–319, 323, 422, 429n39, 517, 521, 523 Xerxes 394, 396, 401, 558–559, 562 Zenobius 335–347 zetema 181–182, 284 Zethus 422 Zeus 24, 64, 67n17, 91–96, 263, 314n17, 317, 328, 333, 424n16, 426, 429, 478n8, 480, 506, 509, 526, 529

Index Locorum Classical Authors Adespota Comicorum Atticorum Fragmenta (CAF, Kock) 461 73n36 Poetae Comici Graeci (PCG 8, Kassel-Austin) 736 38 Poetae Melici Graeci (PMG, Page) 1000 369n17 1002 298n2 Rhetores Graeci (Walz) 6.4–5 502n38 6.16–20 502n39 7.7 503n45 Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta (TrGF, Nauck/Snell-Kannicht) 361 57n39 410–410A 36 Aelianus De natura animalium Epilogos 43–46 Varia Historia 5.3

340n18

Aeschines Contra Ctesiphontem 183–185

478, 481, 487

Aeschylus Agamemnon 717–736 1313–1330 1468 1492 Choephori 429–433 Persae 681–842 908–1077 Septem contra Thebas 435 395–396 855–856

285n4

332n24 395 395 435n74

Supplices 79–133 214 983–1030

395 51 429n37

Aesopus 324–334 Aesopica (Perry = Rodríguez Adrados/Van Dijk) 7 (= 7) 328n13 46 (= 46) 329n14 100 (= 102) 328n12 130 (= 132) 330n18 142 (= 147) 333n27 153 (= 158) 332n23 266 (= 290) 327n7 269a (= 238) 331n21 315 (= 285) 327n8 426 (= 17) 328n11 440 (= 87) 329n17 441 (= 97) 327n9 446 (= 138) 330n20 479 (= 220) 329n16 499 (= 288) 329n15 – (= 18) 332n24 [Vita Aesopi] 324–325, 327n6 69 325n3 97 325n3, 332n23 Alexis Fragmenta (PCG 2, Kassel-Austin) 273.4–5 37 Anacreon Fragmenta (PMG, Page) 16 343

395 396 394 429n38 236n9 236n10 395

Andocides De mysteriis 16 Anthologia Palatina VI 50 VI 130

140 477–494 477n4, 480, 485, 487, 489 477n4, 487, 491

640

index locorum

Anthologia Palatina (cont.) VII 247 479, 487, 492 VII 306 487, 489 VII 313 477n4, 487, 494 VII 313–320 482n18, 486 VII 320, 3–4 477n4, 482, 486, 487, 494 IX 519 479n11 IX 520 479n11 XI 12 479n11 XIII 16 485n26 Antisthenes Fragmenta (SSR, Giannantoni) V A 201 136n18 Apollodorus [Bibliotheca] 3.6.6–3.7.1 Apollonius Rhodius Argonautica 1.498 1.742–746

429n37

472 472

Appianus Bella Civilia 2.21.153.13 4.43

351n4 552

Aratus Phaenomena

472

Aristides, Aelius Orationes 2.304 39n34 2.387–393 509n78 28.79 (= 2.517 Dindorf) 478n7 36.18 34n23 [Technai Rhetorikai] 1.90.1–2 336n7 Ariston Protrepticus Aristophanes Acharnenses 504

313n15

25

850 Schol. in 850 Aves 1549 Equites 50–51 235–302 Lysistrata 809–812 Pax Ranae 1431–1432 Vespae Aristoteles [Athenaion politeia] 25.4 27.3–4 28.3 [De mundo] 391b Ethica Nicomachea 1161b19 Historia Animalium 563f14–15 Metaphysica 984b 1026a 1064b Poetica 1451b17–19 1452a 1454b 1457b 1459a Problemata Rhetorica 1355b26 1393a 1393b8–22 1406b 1407a 1411b 1412a19–1413b1 Fragmenta 130 Rose 539 Rose 790 Gigon

343n27 343n28 482 38 152n15 482 152 332n24 152

148–160, 546 546n28 546n28 149, 153 532 383n18 330n20 464 531n22 531n22 16 427n30 427n30 380 379 284, 289, 293n36 502n39 325 331 380 381 65n11 336n7 65n11 261 340n18

641

index locorum Arrianus Anabasis 4.20.1–4 7.16.6.4 Epicteti dissertationes 3.4.1–12

Catullus 22.21 391, 399n27, 400n33 351n4 498n15

Athenaeus Deipnosophistae 187C–F 555D–556B 603C

140n29 271n7 399n27

Aurelius Victor [De viris illustribus] 1.4

206n15

Babrius 18 34 47 59 62 66 93 103 121

324–334 325n3, 329n14 325n3 325n3 325n3, 328n12 325n3, 327n8 325n3, 327n7 325n3, 332n23 333n27 325n3, 328n13

Bion (Borysthenites) Fragmenta (FPG, Mullach) 42 258 Caesar De bello Gallico 5.14

552n4

Callimachus Fragmenta (Pfeiffer) 178.2 193.37

342n24 342n24

Cassius Dio 1 47.10.4–5

206n12, 207n20 552

Cato Maior Ad Marcum filium

193n16

327

Chaeremon Fragmenta (TrGF, Nauck/Snell-Kannicht) 16 81n61 Chariton 3.4.4 8.8.15

430n49 430n49

Chrysippus Fragmenta (SVF, von Arnim) 3.605 359 Cicero Brutus 7 152n16 79 166n20 120–121 499n19 Cato maior de senectute 192–193 1.3 192 2.6–8 192n14 7 453n52 11.39–12.41 193n18 21.78 192 59 192n14 79 192n14 De divinatione 1.72 357n18 1.125–128 356n15 2.12.5 351n5 2.26 357n18 De finibus bonorum et malorum 1.12 177n9 1.28 177n9 De natura deorum 1.43 176n6 De officiis 2.17.60 280 De oratore 499–509 1.47 504n49 1.84 500n21, 500n26 1.87 499 1.92–95 500n26 3.57 509n76 3.64 176n7 Orator 12 499n19

642

index locorum

Tusculanae disputationes 1.48 176n6 2.9 500n24, 500n28 In P. Vatinium Scholia Bobiensia in Cic. Uat. P.319 206n16 Clearchus Fragmenta (Wehrli2) 67

340n18

Clemens Alexandrinus 2.11 366n11 Clitarchus Fragmenta (FGrHist) 137 F 9

345–346

Curtius 4.10.25–34

391n1, 399n27, 400n33

Demetrius (Phalereus) 267–282 De civibus Atheniensium 274 [De elocutione] 156 336n7 232 336n7 De fortuna 279 De legibus 274 De legibus Atheniensium 274 Socrates 270 Demon Fragmenta (FGrHist) 327 F 5 327 F 6 327 F 18

340 340 345

Demosthenes 3.11 19.136

365n8 89n11

Dio Chrysostomus 2.19–24 2.21 3.49 55.1

509n77 96n24 89n11 462n9

Diodorus Siculus 8.5–6 12.8 12.28 17.54.7 22.11 31.10

207n18.20 151n12 343n26 399n27 478, 487 279

Diogenes Laertius 2.33 4.1 4.28–29 5.75–83 7.163 9.15 9.37 9.57 10.6 10.24

329n15 552 500n25 274, 281 313n15 271 271 271 176n7, 187n28 177n9

Dionysius Halicarnassensis Antiquitates Romanae 1.86–87 206n12, 207 6.83.1 330n19 6.86.1–3 330n19 De imitatione fr. 26 Usener 502n39 Empedocles 459–474 Fragmenta (Diels-Kranz) 17 465–466, 468n23 44 76n48 128 466n19 Ennius Annales 1 fr. 47 Vahlen 1 fr. 50 Vahlen 7 Epicurus Ratae sententiae 25 Fragmenta (Usener) 163

206n11 207n20 472

178 187n28

Epigrammata, cf. Inscriptiones graecae metricae

643

index locorum Erotianus Vocum Hippocraticorum Collectio (Klein) 63.7–8 (= 32.12–13 Nachmanson) 385 Euripides Bacchae

416–419, 424, 433– 450 353n11 445 443–444, 448–449 444 450–453 450–451

298 1135–1142 1169–1171 1179 Electra 167–168 Helena 757 350n3 Hercules furens 268–269 37 474–607 449n55 1250 14 Hippolytus 208, 366–367, 427 11 205 102 320n25 887–890 209 1166–1170 209 Iphigenia Aulidensis 405–412 16–18 37 337–345 410 449 408 513–535 411 1218–1219 37 Medea 824–865 454n53 Orestes 1381–1399 394 Phoenissae 558 279 834–976 431n55 841 431n54 919 431n53 958–959 64, 82 977–985 431n52 991 431n50 Supplices 861–862 428n35 Troades 764 22, 122n33 Fragmenta (TrGF, Nauck/Snell-Kannicht) 369 34

397 420 426 663 [973

80n57 279 321n27 57n39, 80n58 75n43, 350n3]

Eusebius Caesariensis Praeparatio Evangelica 14.5.3 176n8 Eustathius Commentarius ad Homeri Iliadem (Van der Valk) 2.162 340 Florus 1.1

206n11, 206n16, 207n20

Galenus De methodo medendi 10.15.8 Kühn 385 De placitis Hippocratis et Platonis 6.1.8, CMG 5.4.1.2.362.5–6 De Lacy (= 5.507.12–14 Kühn) 385 In Hippocratis librum de articulis commentarii iv 18a320.6–15 Kühn 383 In Hippocratis librum de fracturis commentarii iii 18b323.10–324.16 Kühn 383n17 18b335.7–16 Kühn 383–384 Vocum Hippocratis glossarium 19.101 386n26 Gellius, Aulus Noctes Atticae Praef. 2 1.11.10–16 7.13 20.8.7

285n4 156–157 289n20 260

Heliodorus Aethiopica 8.17.5 10.17.1

427n28 431n54

644

index locorum

Hellanicus Fragmenta (FGrHist) 323a F 16

338

Heraclides Ponticus Fragmenta (Wehrli2) 60

343

Heraclitus Quaestiones Homericae 49.2–4 471n30 69.8–10 466, 472n30 Fragmenta (Diels-Kranz) 22 B 92 74n40 22 B 93 79n54 Herodas 5.65–67, 77–79

552

Herodianus Rhetor De figuris 61

426n25

Herodorus Fragmenta (FGrHist) 31 F 25a

338

Herodotus 1.32.5–9 1.65–66 1.67–68 1.82 3.14.7 4.157 5.32 5.35 7.46 9.82.2–3 9.85

434n69 126n42 542–543 523 395 62–63 124n35 552 401 398 480

Hesiodus [Astronomia] Opera et dies 40 225–247 240 263–273 265–266 413

264n38 252–266 253–254 262 264–265 262–263 253–254, 256, 261 256, 261–262

735–736 257, 261 Theogonia 461–465, 473–474 21–34 461–462 80 509n74 114–115 463n12 116–122 464 120–122 463 Fragmenta (Merkelbach-West) 304 33 Hippocrates (Kühlewein) De articulis 17: 2.141.17–20 (= 4.130.16–19 L.) 383 18: 2.142.11–15 (= 4.132.10–13 L.) 382n16 52: 2.192.7–8 (= 4.230.6–7 L.) 382n16 De fracturis 1: 2.46.1–9 (= 3.412.1–8 L.) 382 3: 2.50.13–51.7 (= 3.426.3–18 L.) 383 42: 2.105.5–6 (= 3.550.3 L.) 384n21 Schol. in 32.6–9 Irmer 384n19 Schol. in 33.8–11 Irmer 384n19 Hippolytus Refutatio Omnium Haeresium 5.20.6 465n17 Hipponax Fragmenta (Degani2) 51 Homerus Ilias 1.343 1.491–492 2.53–54 2.111 2.144–149 2.169 2.372 2.536

342n24

21, 70–74, 86–97, 402–404 90 518 96 37 89 79 96 96

645

index locorum 4.86 4.115 4.130–131 4.175 4.223–224 5.800 7.281 7.358 8.453 9.18 9.55–56 9.57 9.108 9.441 9.443 10.183–184 10.241–247 10.558–560 11.604 12.458 15.1 16.9 16.46 16.89–96 16.685–687 16.856–857 17.157 17.171 18 18.50–51 19.165 19.242 19.284–289 19.409–412 22.71 22.362–363 Odyssea 2.69 2.190 3.1 4.246 5.350 7.107 8 10.494–495 11.72 11.246 12.70 13.408

80 90 92 22, 518 95 95 236n12 95 95 37 92 93 372n27 94, 508n73 93, 508n72 92 90, 94 95 426n26 89 80 92 426 427n27 427n27 37 95 95 471 395n14 96 91 395 90 90 37 70, 72–74, 86–97 94 63–64 76 18n16 89 71n27 466, 471–472 90, 198n33 37 89, 319n24 89 89

Schol. in 13.408 14.532 17.487 19.109–110 19.179 20.300–302 Horatius Carmina 1.36.10 3.2.12 Saturae 2.3.298–299

89n13 89n13 90 91 91 345

342n24 63–64 327

Hymni Homerici Hymnus ad Mercurium 428–429 461n7 Inscriptiones graecae metricae (Preger) 3 487, 491 9 487, 490 41 487, 488 77 487, 489 78 487, 489 92 487, 493 93 487, 493 96 487, 491 98 487, 492 115 487, 491 150 487, 491 153 487, 490 159 487, 490 168 487, 492 219 487, 493 264 487, 494 273 487, 488 Isocrates Orationes 5.134 9.2–3

120n28 120n28

Josephus Antiquitates Judaicae 16.329

395

Justinus Epitoma historiarum Philippicarum 11.12.6–9 391

646 Libanius Progymnasmata 372–437 Livius, Titus 1.6 1.7.1–2 2.32.9–12 38.33.10–11 38.34 38.57.2 44 45.31.6–10

index locorum

403n40

206n11 202n3, 206n16, 207n19.20 330 170n35 171n36 166 167n22 167n26

Menander Comicus Fragmenta 8 (PCG 6.2, Kassel-Austin) 342 472 (CAF, Kock) 506n60 Menander Rhetor 2.392 (= 122.28–33 Russel-Wilson) 347 Metrodorus Fragmenta (Körte) 33 38

177 176n7

Longinus Ars rhetorica (Rhetores Graeci, Walz) 568 430n46

Mimnermus Fragmenta (West2) 1.1–2

37

Lucianus Adversus Indoctum 28 34 [Amores] 43 34n23 Calumniae non temere credendum 1.12 425n19 Iuppiter Tragoedus 16 346 Nigrinus 14 33n18

Nepos, Cornelius Epaminondas 1 6 Pelopidas 1.1

Lucillius 9.183 254n9 Fragmenta (Linnenkugel) 2 345 Lucretius De rerum natura 1.29–43 5.8

467, 473n36 176n6

Macrobius 6.1.15

207n20

Maximus Tyrius 1.1 11.1 12.8 26.1

38n33 34 37n30 34

425n18 425n19 423n10

Numenius Fragmenta (des Places) 24 176n8 Ovidius Fasti 3.69–70 4–5 5.151–152 8.17 Heroides 4 Metamorphoses 15.492–546

207n20 206n13 206n15 206n15 209 209

Parmenides Fragmenta (Gallop) 13

465

Pausanias 1.8.2 1.13.3 1.17.2–6

478n7 478, 487 543n15

647

index locorum 1.29.11 1.30.3–4 3.3.6–7 3.18.2 3.8 7.10.7–11 8.52.1 9.13.1 9.2.5 9.27 10.10.1

478 482n22 539, 541–542, 547 524n17 121n31 167n26 170 429n39 480 462–463 545n22

Philostratus Imagines 10 Vita Apollonii 1.12.2 4.19 6.11.8

433n60 34 35n24 42n

Persaeus (Citicus) Fragmenta (SVF, von Arnim) 451–453 286n8

Photius Bibliotheca 92.69b34–40 175.119b 190.151a34–37 Lexicon α 1011

Persius 4.24

327

Phrynichus (PCG 7, Kassel-Austin) 19.409 482n20

Phaedrus 1.18 1.20 1.26 3.3 3.8 4.4 4.10 4.20 4.24 4.4

324–334 325n3, 329n16 325n3 325n3 325n3, 328n10 325n3, 329n15 331n21 325n3, 327n7 325n3 325n3 325n3

Pherecydes De diis Fragmenta (FGrHist) 3 F 151 Philochorus Fragmenta (FGrHist) 328 F 110

532 338

338

Philodemus Volumina Rhetorica (Sudhaus) 1.14–16 501n29 1.359–360 501n29 2.65 501n29 2.100 501n29

Phylarchus Fragmenta (FGrHist) 81 F 83

276 285n4 340n18 340

342

Pindarus Isthmia 1.68 81n62 2.3 81 2.6 318 Nemea 5.1–2 314n16 Pythia 2.21–48 319 Fragmenta (Snell-Maehler) 104b (= PMG 997 Page) 74n41, 83n66 Plato Alcibiades 103a–b 104a–b 104d 122a 122b 131e 135e Apologia 8b 29b–c 30a

129, 136–138 139 144n45, 145n46 141n33 136n21 136n18 139 144n45 143 143 141n33

648 Apologia (cont.) 30c 31a Cratylus 388b–c Critias 109b–c Charmides 154c–e 155d 176b Epistulae 4 338d1–4 Euthydemus 275d Gorgias 452a–453a 462b–466a 473a 474c 485d 492c 516d 519a 526b Leges 702d 711e–712a 728c 829a 838e–842a Lysis 205c 206a 207b 210e 211a Meno 85c 94a 97c 98a 98c–d 100a Minos 319b–e Phaedo 60c–d

index locorum

37n30 143 317n22 508n69 129, 131–147 139 140 140 138n23 43n46 461n7 196 427502n40 502n41 254n5 254n5 509n75 138n25 379 196n26 196 471n27 40 255 39n34 25n30 142–146 143n44 143 144 143 128 199 197 199n36 199n35 199 198n33 91n19 326

61b 89b Phaedrus 229a 230c 238e–241d 242b 244b–245c 253c–254e 255d 261a 271c Protagoras 341b7–c1 342e Respublica 328d–330a 334d 337a Schol. in 337a 354a 358a–e 379a–383c 426e 487e 490d–495b 491d–492a 494d 499b 501e 569b Symposium

177a 178b 178c–179b 180d 181d 185c 190e 196c–d 203b–e 210a–211e 213c 215a–222b

326 334n28 23–25, 65, 135, 141– 142, 459 23 23 141 471n27 353n9 141 141 499n20 499n20 34n23 34n23 54n28, 137, 141–143, 185, 196, 200 192n14 254n5 335, 345 345 254n5 254n5 530 335, 344 40 138, 195n22 138, 144n45, 194–195 143n42 40 40 20 23–26, 80, 129, 135– 137, 141–145, 284, 288, 307–309, 317, 323, 459 23 464 145 317 317 24 24 468n23 536n47 133n11 139n27 137

649

index locorum 215e 216a 217c 220d–221c 222b Theaetetus Timaeus 29a5–6 31a 35a–b 37c 57a 69d 72a–b

315 144n45 141n33 145 147 72 72 43 42 165n15 518–519 73n38 193n17 353n9

Plinius Maior Naturalis Historia 7.131 7.201 29.14

342n24 343n26 193n16

Plinius Minor Epistulae 3.1.2

90n16

Plutarchus 1. Moralia Ad principem ineruditum 48 780F 91 781C 89, 92 782C 91 Adversus Colotem 175–186 1107E 175 1108A–B 40n38, 180, 184n21 1108C 182n20 1108E–F 177 1115D–1116C 178 1117B 176n7 1120F 177 1122A–D 178 1124D 178 Amatorius 23–25, 47, 52–54, 459–474 748E–749B 461–462 749A 23 749B 57n36, 468 749B–750B 468–469 749F–750A 141n34 753B 24

755A–756A 469–470 755C 31 756A–763F 23, 398, 470 756D–757C 465–467 757C 473 759E 467–468 760D 468n23 762B 57n39, 80 762B–F 137n22, 143n40 763A 8n17 763E–F 463 765D–F 535n46 766A–B 320 767E 507n66 769A 53 769D 38 770B 24 771D 470 An seni respublica gerenda sit 48 785A–B 453–457 785F 31 788C–E 89–90 789C–F 89, 95–96 790F 373n28 791B–C 310–311 791D 37–38 792F 92 793C 37 793F 90, 371n25 795B 93 795E 93 An virtus doceri possit 198n34 Animine an corporis affectiones sint peiores 501A 57n39 501B–D 448–449 Apophthegmata Laconica 215A 120 217F 478, 487 234A–B 521n14 237A–238D 56 Bellone an pace clariores fuerint Athenienses (De gloria Atheniensium) 349A–B 281 Comparationis Aristophanis et Menandri epitome 854B–C 505n59 Coniugalia praecepta 52 138C 291n24, 533n38

650 Coniugalia praecepta (cont.) 139D 329n14 140C 298n4 140E 53n25 141D–F 40n38, 298n4, 329 143E 329n16 144A 329n17 145E 31–32, 41 Consolatio ad Apollonium 104A–B 268, 279 113A 394n9 121E 291n24 Consolatio ad uxorem 52, 58, 394n9 611D 50 De adulatore et amico 59D 58 66A–B 137n22 67F 303n14 69C–D 280 De Alexandri Magni fortuna aut virtute 330E–331A 31–32 338E–339B 400 De amicorum multitudine 93E 422n8 94F 299 95C 57n39 97A 299 De amore prolis 496D 30 497B 38 De animae procreatione in Timaeo 56n34, 360 1012B–C 165n15, 291n24 1014A–B 43 1016A 43 1030B 532n33 De audiendo 40B 301 43B 301 43D 57n39 44B 39, 42 46C–47B 137n22 De audiendis poetis 301, 421 17C–D 37–38 19C 265 19F–20A 56 28D 302n13 33F 508n68, 408n71 36A–B 253–257

index locorum 37A–B 55 De capienda ex inimicis utilitate 86C–D 498n14 88D–E 39n38 De cohibenda ira 453B 8n17 454A 368n15 455A 369n18 455D–E 558 456C 57n39 457D–E 291n24.n25 459B–D 559 461A 561 463B 560–561 463E 37–38, 42 De communibus notitiis adversus Stoicos 49 1065C 151n11 De defectu oraculorum 51, 68–69 410B 525–526, 529–530 414F–415B 71n28 415C–416A 33, 34n21 415E 56n34 417E 51 417F 532n36 420C 42 421B–438D 71n28 430B–431A 354n12 431C 35 431D–438D 352–354 432C–D 75n43, 350–354, 359–361 433B–E 71n28 435A 294n39 436D 531n25 436E 350n1 437D–E 81n61 438E 71n28 De E Delphico 51, 65, 71–72, 76, 529n12 386A 35 386B 71n28 388E 50, 532n34 389F 42 393D–F 71n28 De esu carnium 377n1 994B 370n21 995A–E 362n2, 370n21, 370n22

651

index locorum 996B 426n24 996C 50 997D 373n28 De exilio 601F–602A 280 607C 51, 426n24 De facie quae in orbe lunae apparet 926F–927A 466 De fraterno amore 490C 328n13 De garrulitate 299 502D 57n39 503A 369n18 503E 300 505D 33n18 510E 34n23 512B 42 513A 301n12 513D 302 De genio Socratis 575E 460 577D 357n19 577E–578A 541–542 581F–582C 533n39 582C 507n64 593B 357n19 De Herodoti malignitate 866B 515n7, 125 866D 32n17 867F 480, 487 873B 480, 487 De Iside et Osiride 51, 70 358F 535n46 360D 531n25 367C 532n31 369B 532n33 369D–370C 71n28 370C–E 466 371A 532n32 374D 535n47 374E 529n15 377F–378A 50n14, 535 381A 536n47 382C–E 536n47 De liberis educandis 11C–12A 52–54 [De musica] 47, 55–58 1136E–F 56n34 1138C 56n34

1140E 1142C–D De profectibus in virtute 75F–76D 79A 79C 81D 83A–C 84B–C 84D 84E–85D De Pythiae oraculis 395D–397C 396D 396F–397B 398A 398F–399A 399A–D 400A–D 402A–D 402B 402D–E 403E–F 404A 404B–E

56 55 198n34 190n4 43–44 57n38 17 194n20 195n25 315, 373n28 312–313 51, 61–85 66, 73 355n14 355n14 65 75, 356n16 350n2, 349, 355, 359 76 77 71n28 69n25, 464 70, 77–78 66, 78 79, 529, 533n41, 534– 535 405B 79 405E–F 57n39, 79–80 405F–406B 70n25 406B 81 406F 81 407D 64, 82 408A 62 408D 63–64 408F–409C 72 409B 83–84 409C 535n46 De se ipsum citra invidiam laudando (De laude ipsius) 301, 519 546D 302 De sera numinis vindicta 252–266 548D 256, 262 550B 261 550C–D 535n45 553F–554A 254–257, 261 555D 367n14 556F 324n1 557D 265

652 De sera numinis vindicta (cont.) 558F–559A 265 561C–F 258 562A–B 257, 261 562D 261 566E–567A 561 De sollertia animalium 57n36 960A 294n39 964D 41n40 982C 358 De Stoicorum repugnantiis 49 1038E 29 1049E 39 De superstitione 47 166B–C 56 167C 14 169D 57n39 De tranquillitate animi 464F 290 471C 37–38 473A 81n62 De tuenda sanitate praecepta 362–375, 377n1 122C 378 122C–127B 364–367 128D–E 299n8, 369 130A 369 130E–F 365n9 132A 370 135B 372 135C 280 135D 40n38 De virtute morali 440E–F 371n24 444D–E 199n35.n37 445D 57n39 445F 37–38 446E 373n28 452B 52 De vitando aere alieno 832A 370n23 Decem oratorum vitae 847A–B 478, 487 850B–C 268, 277 Maxime cum principibus philosopho esse disserendum 48, 307–323 776B–D 307–308, 312–315, 371n24

index locorum 776E 89, 91 776F–777A 90, 316 777B–C 69n36, 432n71 777B–778B 316–319 777D 89 779B 89 Mulierum virtutes 52 253E–F 287n11 Non posse suaviter vivi secundum Epicurum 173–188 1086D 39, 175–176, 179, 184 1087A–D 182–184 1089F–1090A 40 1092E–1097A 187n28 1097A–B 39, 41 1099A 36, 38 1100A–C 184 1100E–1107C 49 Praecepta gerendae reipublicae 48, 198n31 798A–C 93, 498n12 800A–801C 496n6, 557 801C–D 495–510 801D–802B 93–94 802C 276 803B 303 805A 90, 198n33 806B–F 309–310 808C 94 809E–810A 95 814A–C 72n34 815C–D 95 817C 90 818C–D 280 819C–E 89 820E 270, 277 821A 90 821C 91 Quaestiones Convivales 181, 283–296, 297– 303, 377n1 612C–D 298 612D–E 286, 288n13, 288n17 613B 294n42 613D 299–300 614A–B 300 614D 532n30 614E 328 615C 286 615F–616A 41n40

653

index locorum 619B–F 621B 621C 621E–F 622C 622D–E 623C–D 625A–C 628F 629C 629D–E 631B–C 635E 643A 645B 645C 654C 657C–D 660A 660B–C 660D 667C 668C–D 673C 673D 686C–D 686E 686E–690B 690B–692A 697D 704C–706E 708D 709A 711C 711E 712B 716D–E 717A 717D (8.1.2) 718A 718C–E 724D–F (8.4) 726C 734D 736C 736E 737D–E 748C–D

294n40 299 303 301n10 57n39, 80, 286 33n20 57n39 294n40 286 289n20 285, 286n7, 288n14, 362n1 302 174n1 299n7 328n12 286n8 89n10, 319n24 57n39 309n5 299 286n8 480 30 355n13 38n33 288n17 286n8 292n33 293n34 299 56 299 370n23 430n46 365n9 505n59 298 286n8 261 43 39n38 83n67 173 294 286n8 57n38, 476n2 293 56

Quaestiones Graecae 284, 289 Quaestiones naturales 284, 289, 377n1 911D–915C (1–13) 292n31 914C–E (10) 292n29 915C–F (14–16) 292n31 915E (16) 292n32 915F–916F (17–19) 292n31 916F–919A (20–28) 292n31 917F (24) 292n32 918E–F (27) 292n29 919B–D (30–31) 292n29.n31 Quaestiones Platonicae 284, 289 1009F 43 Quaestiones Romanae 246–247, 251 263E–264B (1–2) 292n30 271D–272B (29–31) 292n30 279C 90n15 279E–F (65) 292n30 284F–285D (85–87) 292n30 289A–B (105) 292n30 289D–E (108) 292n30 Regum et imperatorum apophthegmata 172D–E 301n11 183E 367n14 189D 280 200A 198n33 200E 90n17 Septem sapientium convivium 299, 324–328, 334, 377n1 147E–F 298n20, 299n5 149C–E 328n10 150A 324n1, 327n8, 334 150B–C 300 151D–E 334 152B 334 152E 328n10 155B 328n10 156A 328n10 156D 300 160E 56 164B–C 94n23 Stoicos absurdiora poetis dicere 49 [Vita Homeri] 2.100–101 467, 472n30 Fragmenta 36 Sandbach 264 38 Sandbach 262

654 Fragmenta (cont.) 39 Sandbach 261 46 Sandbach 261 74 Bernardakis 261 76 Bernardakis 261 89 Sandbach 303 90 Sandbach 261 157.4 Sandbach 531 159 Sandbach 300n9 190 Sandbach 531n26 Commentarius in Hesiodi Opera 252–266 Lamprias Catalogue 7 Epaminondas—Scipio 162n4, 423 28 Scipio 162n4 45 Εἰς Ἐμπεδοκλέα 465 119 Αἰτίαι τῶν Ἀράτου Διοσημιῶν 284n1 136 Πλατωνικὰ ζητήματα 284n1 138 Αἰτίαι Ρωμαϊκαί 284n1 139 Αἰτίαι βαρβαρικαί 284n1 149 Αἰτίαι τῶν περιφερομένων Στωικῶν 284n1 160 Αἰτίαι καὶ τόποι 284n1 161 Αἰτίαι ἀλλαγῶν 284n1 166 Αἰτίαι Ἑλλήνων 284n1 167 Αἰτίαι γυναικῶν 284n1 170 Ἀπορίων λύσεις 284n1 218 Αἰτίαι φυσικαί 284n1 2. Vitae Aemilius Paulus 1.1 190n6, 216 6.8 197n30 15 166, 168n29, 477, 487 15.9–11 484, 492 36.4–9 393 Agesilaus 111–127 1.1 119 2.1–2 119 3 71 3.1–4.1 119n24 4.2 113n39 4.2–5.4 470n26 5.3 119n23 6.4 424n16, 432n56 6.6–10 22

index locorum 8.7 9.2 15.2–4 15.5 15.7 18.1 19.4–6 29.1–5 29.2 31–34 35.1–2 38–39 40.3 Agis 1.1 2.6 3.1–5 3.6 4.1 14.2 19.5 Alcibiades 1–7 1.3 3.1–2 4–7 4.1–4 4.4–5.5 6.1 6.5 7.3–5 10.3 11.1–3 13.9 16.3 17.4 19–21 23.7–8 34.7 37.4 Alexander 1 1.1–3 4.4 5.8 7.2 8.2 9.3

521 34n22, 121 22, 122, 226 518 22 121n32 121, 124n36, 520–521 517 34n22 230n17 521 230n17 125 111, 122–126, 320 319 124 122–123, 125 124 124 124n36, 126n40, 224 220, 222 130–147 191n8 136 130n4, 139, 143 135–138 138, 139n27, 141, 144, 145n46, 195n22 144 136n21, 144 142–143, 144n45 136n21, 145–146 144, 145n46 144 563 332 358 141 119n24 138n25 221 402–403 338, 423n9, 517, 551n1 55 424n14 507n66 21 99

655

index locorum 15.7–9 21 20.11–13 398 20.31–33 398 21.7 398, 560 30 391–404 36 71n27 43.4 399n27, 402 50–52 401n36 69.5 401 74.1 401n36 75 401n36 75.5 434n66 Alexander-Caesar (as book) 392, 401, 403 Antonius 14–18 3.4 424n15 4 15, 18n14 4.2 424n15 4.9 393 6.3 226 24.3 57n39 24.4 424n15 24.7–8 393 29.4 18n14 36.1 141n35 37.1 220 46.6–7 393 60.5 424n15 62.1 14 62.3 221 69.6–7 482 70 482, 487 70.6–8 477n4, 478, 481, 486, 494 84.4–7 393 Aratus 1.1–2 338n13 14 477, 487 14.3 478, 483, 491 16–24 331 24.2 170 30.8 326, 330n20 38.9–10 326, 330–331 38.11 33, 44 43.7–8 358 Aristides 1.1–9 269–270 1.2 191n8 1.9 191n8

2.1 5.9–10 6.2 19 19.7 20 20.6 25.3 25.9 27.3–5 Brutus 13.7–10 40.3 40.5–9 40.7–8 Caesar 11.3 11.5–6 15.3 19.4–5 32.9 33.3 46.1 48.2 57.1 61.5 63 66 Caius Gracchus 1.5 33.8 Cato Maior 1 1.1–2 1.4 2.1–3 2.3–6 3.4–5 4.1 5.3–4 7.1–2 8.3–5 8.7 8.8 8.14 10.5 11.3–4 12.5 16.7

220, 222 271 226 487 477, 480, 485, 489 477, 487 477, 489 226 196n26 55, 191n8, 197n27, 271 393 224–225 393 220 129–130, 403 556 221, 223 227 221, 223 401n36 19 398 399n29 20 394n7 401n36 401n36 155n23 345 189–200 477, 487 195n23 484, 493 195n23 192–193 195, 220–221 224 226 191 192 190n5 220 192 190n5 190n5 193 335

656 Cato Maior (cont.) 17.5 20.3 20.5–12 23.1–2 24.7 26–27 27.6 27.7 31 Cato Minor 4 6 8.1 10 20–21 64.2–5 66.2 67–69 69.1–3 71.1 Cicero 2.3–4 24.6 Cimon 3.3 4.4 5.1 7 7.2–3 7.3–6 7.4 8.5–6 10.2 10.1–6 13.8 14.2 15.3 Cleomenes 1.2 2.3 5.3 9.3–6 10.4 12.3 18.2–4 27 28.1–3

index locorum

192n13 191 197 191, 193, 197n29 226 198n32 192, 198n33 197 96n24 197n28 197n28 224 197n28 229 221n13 221n13 197n28 221n13 221n13 52 35 539–550 218n11 547–549 226–227 477, 487 548 481 477–478, 481, 484– 485, 490 539, 543–544 546n28 548 548 548 381n15 111–115 123 115n10 516 261, 518, 560n16 220, 222 125n38 224 163 516

30.1–2 164, 516 34.3 424n16, 517 Comparatio Agesilai et Pompeii 3.3–4 230n17 4.3 220 4.4–6 18, 227, 230 Comparatio Agidis et Cleomenis cum Tiberio et Caio Graccho 122–124 2.2 345 2.4–5 124 48 163 51.2 164 52 393 Comparatio Alcibiadis et Marcii Coriolani 191 2.4 226 4.5 226, 311n11 Comparatio Aristidis et Catonis 191 3.6 197n27 4.4 226 5.3–4 229n15 Comparatio Cimonis et Luculli 1.1–2 380n6 2.5–6 380 2.7 376–387 Comparatio Demetrii et Antonii 216 93[6].4 17 Comparatio Demosthenis et Ciceronis 3.4 40n39 4.3 226 Comparatio Dionis et Bruti 1.7 226 Comparatio Lycurgi et Numae 3.3–4 518 Comparatio Lysandri et Sullae 3.6–8 118n18 4.2–3 226 Comparatio Niciae et Crassi 405–420 1.2 227 2.1–4 229n15 3.1–5 229n15 3.3–4 227, 229 4.2–5 226 Comparatio Periclis et Fabii Maximi 216

657

index locorum Comparatio Solonis et Publicolae 1.1 237n13 2.1 220, 222 Comparatio Thesei et Romuli 202–218, 232–251 1.4–5 250 3.1–3 208–209 4.4 251 5.1–2 210n25 5.2 250 Comparatio Timoleontis et Aemilii Pauli 216 1–2 312 Coriolanus 1.3 138n23, 144n45 4.3 226 6.3–5 330n18 15.4 138n23 22.4 18n16 32 18n16 Crassus 417–418, 450, 455– 457 2.1–2 414–415 3.1–5 414 3.3 424n16 14.5 413, 415 16–17 413 31.4–6 418 32.4–6 326–327 33.3–6 443–444 33.7–9 416, 418, 434n66 Demetrius 278 1.3 218n11 1.6 216 8.4–9.3 275 9.3 275–277 10.2 275, 277, 280 11.2 152n17 25.3 221 38 17 41.3 224 53.10 17 Demosthenes 1.3 195n22 2.3 424n16 6.4 224 9.1–4 220, 222, 272 11.1–3 272 14.1–2 224, 272

20.1 23.5 26.5 27.7 28.3 28.4 30 30.5 42.6 Dion 10.2–11.1 18.3 53.1 Eumenes 7.13 Fabius Maximus 3.1 5.1–6 11–12 19 27.7 Flamininus 7.3 9 9.2–4 11.3 12 12.11–12 20.6 21.1–8 Galba 1.3 Lucullus 2.4 7.6 8.5–8 19.4–5 24.1–5 26–28 27.9 Lycurgus 1.1–4 2.3–3.1 4.4–6 5.4–5 5.8 9.5

220 332 31 220 268n5 276 477, 487 477–478, 481, 483, 490 424n16 39n36, 333 40n40 43n46 220, 222 399n29 224 230n17 230n17 230n17 226 224 477, 487 479, 481, 492 223–224 487 479, 481, 493 223–224 223–225 40n40 32, 38 370n23 230n17 220–221 230n17 230n17 31 21, 111–117, 123, 516 112–114, 514n2 114 52 220 115n10 114n10

658 Lycurgus (cont.) 10.1 11.4 13.3 18.1 19.4–6 20 20.5 21.3–4 22.1 23.1–2 25.3 25.5 29.1 29.2–30.1 30.4–5 31.3 31.7 Lysander 1.1–2 1.82 2.1–4 4.1–4 11.7–12.7 15.3 18.1–19.1 18.5 18.9 19 22 22.3–6 29.3 30.2 Marcellus 14.11 30 30.2 30.7–8 Marius 1.1–2 2.2–3 6.2 16–21 25–27 41–45 46.1 Nicias 1.1

index locorum

369n16 524n17 226 520 121 477, 487 478, 483, 488, 519 518 523 272 118n17, 119n23 31–32 518–519 115–116, 122 227 524n17 55 111, 117–119, 123, 455– 456 117, 125, 522–523 523 118 119n23 516 450–451 120n25 52 40n38 7 71 119n24 523n15 130n3 40n38 477, 487 434n63 429, 478, 481, 492 195n23 39n38, 190, 192n15 220–221 230n17 221, 223 198n31 40n38 148–160, 405–420 406

1.5 2–6 3.1 5.7 7–8 8.3 9.7 11.3 11.6 11.7 11.9 12–14 17 17.4 23.5 29.2–4 30.3 Numa 20.8–10 22.2–4 Pelopidas 1 1.3 1.7 2.9 3.5 4.2 4.8 8.6 9.6–7 9.10–13 10.6 10.10 11.1–2 12.3 13.4 18.5–6 19 21.2 24.6 26.5 27.1 27.7 28.3–5 29.6 29.9–10 31.1 34.1 34.4–35.1

291n24, 483 407–409 227 408 229 149n3, 153, 159n26 34 563n20 563n21 563 412–413 413 477, 487 477–478, 490 40n40 417, 452 419 40, 44 39n36, 41 421–439 477, 487 426n21, 483 491 426n22 429n36 227–228 427n31 428n33 430n42 430n46, 431n53.54 430n44 430n45 428n33, 430n47 430n48 428n33 432n58 422n7, 432n58 432n56 432n57 218 427n31 427n31 435n72.73 433n62 52, 433n61 427n32 434n65 326, 434n68.69.70

659

index locorum 35.2–4 35.12 37.4 Pericles 1.1–2.4 2.5 3 7.4–8.4 8.4 9 9.1 9.5 10 11.1 12–13 13.16 15–16 16.1–2 22.4 26.3–4 27.4–5 28.2 33.4–34.2 35 39 39.4 Philopoemen 1.4 2.6 3.1 4.7 6 8.4 11.4 14.2–3 16.4 21.1–12 Phocion 2.3 3.1–2 3.4 5.4 7.3 35.4–5 Pompeius 16.8 27 27.3

434n64, 435n71.75.76 435n76 438n78 18–19, 98–110 102–103, 106n30, 109, 216, 218n11, 314 312n14 424n16 220, 222 33 546n28 276 381 546n28 276n12 103–104 312n14 103 276n12 125n38 564 341, 343–344 29 225 225 19 276n13 170 161 219–220 52 163n9 227 34n22 227 170n35, 171n36 168–169, 171 58 276 226 39 220, 222 153n18, 276 125n38 477, 487 478, 484, 493

46.1 63.1 66.4–68.1 68.7 70 72.5–6 80.7 Pyrrhus 8.1 19.1–4 20.4 21.1–3 26 26.9–10 34.8 Romulus 2 2.1–6 3.2–3 3.4 4.1–2 5.1 5.4 6.1–5 7.3 7.5–8 8.6 8.9 9 9.4–10.1 9.6 10.1 11.1 11.4 13.1 13.2 13.4 14.1 14.6 14.8 15.7 16.3 16.7 17.1 17.3 18.4–5 19.9

227 221, 225 225 18 18, 23 398 399n29 225 393 153n19 224 477, 487 477–478, 481, 491 399n29 201–211, 232– 251 238 244, 246, 248 208–209, 250 244 238–239, 245–246 246 251 239–240, 244–247, 250 207 239, 246–247 250 250 208 206n12, 207, 247 247 207 240, 247–248 250 241 248 250 241, 248–249 248 250 249 248, 250 250 247 251 250 241

660 Romulus (cont.) 20.2 21.1 21.3–10 22.1 22.3 23.5 26.1 26.3 27.1–2 27.3 27.4–28.1 28.1 28.2 28.10 29.2 29.6 29.8–9 Sertorius 1.4–5 Solon 3.4–5 3.6–7 6 6.7 14.4 15.1 16.1 21.5–7 22.1–4 23.2 23.3–4 27 28.1 30.3 31.7 Sulla 1.1 2.1 12.6 36.3 Themistocles 1 1.1 2.1–2 3.1–2 3.3–4 5.2 5.5

index locorum

249 240 240, 250 240 250 248 242, 250 250 248–249 226 242–243, 249 249 250 248 250 250 250–251 218n11, 227 546 52 385–386 333 326 31 386 224 394n9 227, 229–230 225 273 332 324n1, 326, 332 333 33–34 118 119 224 532n35 129–130 487 489 219 219 221n12 219 130n2, 219

6 8 8.4 8.5 9.3–10.6 10.4–5 18.6 20.2 28–31 Theseus 1.2 1.2–5 1.4–2.3 2.1–2 2.3 2.15.2 3 3.1–2 3.4 3.5–4.1 5.1 6.1–5 6.6 7.2–3 12 12.2 13 13.1 14.1 16.3 17.2 19.3 19.5 21.3 22 22.4 23.1 23.2–3 23.4 23.5 24.1–4 25 25.1–5 25.4 25.6 26–28 26.1

229 487 480 130n2, 477, 480–481, 489 225 130n2 327n9 219 223 202–211, 294 312n14 204, 209 236–238 218n11 204 237n15 238 244, 250 205, 250 244–245 238, 250 239, 245–246 221n12 240, 246–247 205 250 205 250 250 33n20 246 340 250 250 205 247, 251 274–275, 277 240 250 340 240, 247–248, 250 477, 487 240–241, 248 477–478, 480, 484, 488 250 205, 338 251, 340

661

index locorum 26.3 27.1 28.3 29.1–2 29.3 30.3 31.2 31.5 32.7 33.2–3 35.4 35.6–7 35.8 36.1–2 36.4 Tiberius Gracchus 2.2 2.3–5 4.4 Timoleon 6.4 15.5 15.10 22.1 31 31.1 36.1–4 Polybius 1.1.5 1.4.5 1.43.7 2.38.3–5 2.65–70 3.4.2–3.5.6 10.21.5–8 12.2–4 12.13.10–12 12.20.7 12.22.4 15.6.8 18.6 23.12.3 28.3.7–8 28.6.3–28.7.2 28.13.4–5 29.21–22

250 250 205, 250 241, 248–250 339 250 250 250 251 250 241, 249 242, 249 545 243, 249, 539–540, 543 250 148–160 149n4, 153–154, 159n26 154–155 220–221 199n35 55 33, 44 220, 222 477, 487 477, 481, 484, 491 219–220, 227 161–172 166n18 166n18 165n15 164, 165n15 164 166n18 170n34 167n26 280 165n15 164 165n15 346 170n34 167n26 167n26 167n24 164, 166n18

29.24.7–9 29.31 30.7.5–7 30.13.8–10 32.1–12 33.17.4

167n26 279 167n26 167n26 167n26 164

Pollux Onomastikon 4.108

434n67

Polyaenus 6.53

539, 541

Posidippus Fragmenta P.Mil.Vogl. 309

483n23

Posidonius Fragmenta (FGrHist) 87 F 44

478, 492

Proclus

260–261, 264–265

Ptolemaeus Chennus Fragmenta (Chatzis) 5.21

340n18

Quintilianus Institutio Oratoria 2.12.6 2.12.9–11 2.15.1–2.16.12 2.17.41 6.2.29–32 8.6.8–9 9.2.40–44 11.3.22

157n25 158 502–505, 509n79 502n36 445n26 380 445n25 154n22, 159n26

Seneca De ira 2.28.8 Epistulae 33.4 Phaedra 945–948 1117–1118

327 176n8 209 209

662

index locorum

Servius Commentarius in Vergilii Aeneida 1.273 206n16, 207n19 Semonides Amorgensis (ALG 3, Diehl) fr. 5 373n28 Sextus Empiricus Adversus Mathematicos 2.1–20 2.2 2.20–43 2.61

502n37 503n44 500n22 503n43

Simonides (PMG, Page) 577 69n23 582 316n10 Solon Fragmenta (West2) 9.1–2&12 11.5–7 18 26 36.16 Sophocles Ajax 121–126 Antigone 133 Oedipus Coloneus 607–628 668–673 720 841–843 1211–1248 Oedipus Tyrannus 4–5 50–51 1528–1530 Fragmenta (Radt) 771 869

385 333 33 33 386

400 429n37 453–457 455 454 456 456 455 399, 427n30 57n39 400 434n69 81n63 507n65

Stesichorus Fragmenta (PLG III, Bergk) 104 331

Stobaeus, Joannes 2.31.82 3.37.17 4.20.3

300n9 506n60 321n27

Strabo 3.5.5 9.1.6 9.2.25 9.2.31 17.1.9

478, 480, 487 478, 481, 487 463n13 480 482n19

Suetonius Caligula 27.3

552, 564n22

Suidas α 1338 o 849

340 339

Theon Progymnasmata 94 112

424n12 424n12

Thucydides 1.1.1–1.23.3 1.18.1 1.22.1 1.115–117 1.130.1 2.14–17 2.34–46 2.65.9 3.82–83 4.27–28 5.84–116

98–110 100–101 115n11 109n31, 110 341 398n26 19 104–109 103, 276 19 151n13 153n20

Timaeus Fragmenta (FGrHist) 566 F 64

345

Trypho De tropibus 203

426n26

Tyrtaeus 7.31

89n12

663

index locorum Vergilius Aeneis

65, 72, 79

Vitruvius 7, praef. 16–17

281

Xenocrates Fragmenta (Isnardi Parente) 91 503n43 Xenophon Agesilaos 2.9 8.6–7 11.7 Anabasis 5.3.5–6 Hellenica 2.4.19 3.3.1–4 5.4.1 5.4.4 6.4.16 Institutio Cyri 8.7.17–22 Lacedaimonion Politeia 1.1–2 10.8 11.3 14.1–3, 7 Oeconomicus 4.20–25

111–128 111–112, 120–121 121n32 121n30 120 121n32 133 119n24 422, 429n40 430n42 517 192n14 111–117, 125–126 116 114 523 116–117

Symposium 1.1 1.10 2.17–20 3.8 4.31 8.9–10

316–323 34n22, 517 2318 365n9 317 140 317

Zenobius Recensio Athoa 1.6 1.10 1.21 1.63–64 1.67 2.76 2.78 3.153 Recensio B 46 731 Vulgata 5.33 5.48

335–348 338 340 334 339 342–343 340 340n15 340n15 340n15 340n19 339 339 340

Zenon Fragmenta (SVF, von Arnim) 1.73 502n36 Zonaras 7.3

192n14

202n4, 206n12, 207n20

Biblical Texts Old Testament Deuteronomy 15:17 Exodus 21:6 Leviticus 19:28

552n3 552n3 552n3

New Testament John 1:14 1:17 1:18 2:1–11 11:39 12:3 14:6–7 20:28

536 536 536–537 537 537 537 536 537

664

index locorum

Modern Literature Cavafy, Constantine Charmides

131–135, 145–147

Lincoln, Abraham Gettysburg Address

203

Pound, Ezra E.P. Ode pour l’élection de son sépulchre 69–71 63–64

72, 79

Wilde, Oscar Charmides

James, Henry The Figure on the Carpet

Joyce, James Ulysses

110

147