Religious Dimensions of the Self in the Second Century CE 3161522435, 9783161522437, 9783161523519

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Studien und Texte zu Antike und Christentum Studies and Texts in Antiquity and Christianity

Herausgeber/Editors Christoph Markschies (Berlin) · Martin Wallraff (Basel) Christian Wildberg (Princeton) Beirat/Advisory Board Peter Brown (Princeton) · Susanna Elm (Berkeley) Johannes Hahn (Münster) · Emanuela Prinzivalli (Rom) Jörg Rüpke (Erfurt)

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Religious Dimensions of the Self in the Second Century CE Edited by

Jörg Rüpke and Greg Woolf

Mohr Siebeck

Jörg Rüpke, born 1962; Director of the International Research group “Religious Individualization in Historical Perspective” at the Max Weber Centre of the University of Erfurt. Greg Woolf, born 1961; Chair of Ancient History at the University of St Andrews.

e-ISBN PDF 978-3-16-152351-9 ISBN 978-3-16-152243-7 ISSN 1436-3003 (Studien und Texte zu Antike und Christentum)

The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliographie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2013 Mohr Siebeck Tübingen. www.mohr.de This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, in any form (beyond that permitted by copyright law) without the publisher’s written permission. This applies particularly to reproductions, translations, microfilms and storage and processing in electronic systems. The book was typeset by Martin Fischer in Tübingen, printed by Laupp & Göbel in Nehren on non-aging paper and bound by Buchbinderei Nädele in Nehren. Printed in Germany.

Table of Contents Jörg Rüpke and Greg Woolf Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . VII

Rethinking Philosophical Tradition Eran Almagor Dualism and the Self in Plutarch’s Thought . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 Jula Wildberger Delimiting a Self by God in Epictetus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23

Religious Concepts of the Self Jörg Rüpke Two cities and one self: Transformations of Jerusalem and reflexive individuality in the Shepherd of Hermas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49 Harry O. Maier Dressing for Church: Tailoring the Christian Self through Clement of Alexandria’s Clothing Ideals . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66 Christoph Markschies Das „Selbst“ in der valentinianischen Gnosis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90 Anders Klostergaard Petersen Justin Martyr in Search of the Self . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 104 Anna Van den Kerchove Self-affirmation and Self-negation in the Hermetic revelation treatises . . . . 130

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Richard Gordon Individuality, Selfhood and Power in the Second Century: The Mystagogue as a Mediator of Religious Options . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 146

Second Sophistic Perspectives Wolfgang Spickermann Philosophical Standards and Individual Life Style: Lucian’s Peregrinus/Proteus – Charlatan and Hero . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 175 Dorothee Elm von der Osten Habitus Corporis: Age Topoi in Lucian’s Alexander or the False Prophet and The Apology of Apuleius . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 192

Practices of the Self Zsuzsanna Várhelyi Self-Care and Health-Care: Selfhood and Religion in the Roman Imperial Elite . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 221 Elena Muñiz Grijalvo Votive Offerings and the Self in Roman Athens . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 243 Peter Gemeinhardt Wege und Umwege zum Selbst: Bildung und Religion im frühen Christentum . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 259 General Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 279 Index of Sources . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 291

Introduction Jörg Rüpke and Greg Woolf Did new senses of the self emerge in the High Roman Empire, and if so what were the religious corollaries? Le souci de soi, the third volume of Michel Foucault’s Histoire de la Sexualité appeared in 1984 and was enthusiastically welcomed as offering a seductive and subtle account of the emergence of a new sense of the individual between the Hellenistic period and Late Antiquity. Peter Brown and Paul Veyne are just the most distinguished of those who took up these ideas. The approach they pioneered has stimulated conferences, university courses, doctorates and monograph series, and provided the basis for major works of scholarship, notably Brown’s own Body and Society and the essays gathered in the first volume of the Histoire de la Vie Privée over which Veyne presided. Hellenistic philosophy, medical texts and the literature of the so-called Second Sophistic have all been recruited to this debate. A concern with the growing place of the individual has been seen as central to much Hellenistic philosophy, a phenomenon discussed for example in Martha Nussbaum’s Therapies of Desire. A more critical response to these ideas, spanning philosophy and literature, is provided by Christopher Gill’s The Structured Self in Hellenistic and Roman Thought. The same concerns are central to the critical works of Averil Cameron, Tamsyn Barton, Catharine Edwards, Eric Gunderson and Jim Porter among others. Art historians like Barbara Borg and Jaś Elsner have found ways of connecting discussions of Selbstdarstellung to this different approach to the self. Both philologists and art historians have incorporated new sensibilities into their accounts of the intellectual culture of the second Sophistic. Religious studies have not always been central to this debate. But at times this new sense of the self has been represented as a prefigurement of Christian sensibilities, especially in so far as a special concern with the body and with personal experience is concerned. Some of the arguments deployed also evoke earlier debates about the uniqueness of the so-called oriental cults. The focus on the differentiation of the individual can also be connected to A. D. Nock’s arguments in Conversion and Jonathan Z. Smith’s in Drudgery Divine in their very different essays in mapping religious change over Hellenistic and Roman antiquity. This volume sets out to examine these issues, by bringing together key protagonists in these debates within the separate spheres of philosophical, literary

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and religious studies. The contributions are based on papers presented at a workshop held in the Augustinerkloster of Erfurt in June 2010. It was conducted within the framework of the research programme Religious Individualization in Historical Perspective, a multi-disciplinary and multi-period investigation based at the Max Weber Center of the University of Erfurt, and funded by the German Research Foundation (DFG). The volume is opened by chapters dealing with the rethinking of philosophical tradition in what might be called “the long second century”, the period which lies at the heart of our inquiry. Eran Almagor deals with some treatises of the philosopher Plutarch and with his interpretations of Plato. He points out how knowing oneself is for Plutarch also a matter of grasping a divine element within the world. However, this access is of a type, which at the same time implies a sense of an infinite hiatus between the self and the divine. Humans need to develop a sense of humility as a characteristic dimension of their care for their selves. Jula Wildberger analyses a religious concept of the self presented in the works of Epictetus. Her inquiry reveals a complex notion of the self, one which is at the same time intimately related to, and also clearly separated from, god. Each time the self prays in adversity to God to lead it to whatever place he has assigned for it, it performs a volitional gesture, prohairetic of God’s won volition: what was previously outside, and ‘God’s business’, thereby becomes the self’s own. By making God a part of itself, the self at the same time acknowledges that it is a part of God and belongs to him. Self and God have become blended, not despite their separation, but because of the existence of a separate self. A second group of contributions deal with religious concepts of the self. Jörg Rüpke’s chapter explores textual strategies of shaping the self within the new religious framework offered to Roman Jews by the ekklesia of god and his mighty angel Christ. The multi-layered text known as the “Shepherd of Hermas” offers many metaphors and thought experiments for the individual hearer and reader to reflect on his or her own conduct and priorities, and to position his or her self accordingly. Central to the text are metaphors of the city. Rüpke claims that the prominence of these metaphors reflects the attraction exercised by the urban and social fabric of the city of Rome, against the backdrop of the destruction of Jerusalem in the age of the Bar Kochba insurrection. Harry O. Maier’s analysis of the work of Clement of Alexandria focuses on another medium of shaping the self, namely dress. Again, it is the urban context of the metropolis of Alexandria, which shapes the precepts but in a negative way, remaining tacit about the civic context. Making use of a long tradition of philosophical thinking about the relationship between one’s dress and one’s self, Clement develops ideals for a specifically religious dress code. As Maier points out, the gender bias of these dress codes, recommending male ideals for women gaining in strength, characterize Greco-Roman civic as Christian religious norms.

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The interaction of philosophical thought and the concern for a contemporary, specifically religious self is also at the centre of Christoph Markschies’ contribution. For his analysis of texts from the pupils of the Roman teacher Ptolemaeus (who presented themselves as pupils of the orthodox teacher Valentinus, but were classified as Gnostic heretics by Irenaeus of Lyon), Markschies concentrates on the terms physis and psyche. It is part of their Platonic inheritance to conceptualize a tripartite human nature, in which the soul binds body and spirit together. Conversely, the idea that the demiourgos has a soul belonging to the realm of the shadowy corporeal world, falls short of philosophical standards of rigour. The effort to make this comprehensible to interested religious individuals seems to take precedence over a correct interpretation of Plato’s Timaios. Anna van den Kerchove explores the religious dimensions of the self that can be disentangled from the Hermetic corpus. Here too the influence of Platonic models is clear, but discovery of the self is presented as part of a broader theological enquiry and education. Anders Klostergaard Petersen inquires whether or not Justin Martyr can plausibly be seen as a precursor of modern individualism. The chapter demonstrates the difference between the historical Justin and the narrative character presented in the Dialogue. In the Dialogue we find a deliberate thematization of the differences between the world-views of philosophy and that of religion proper. His search is a good example of what might be called a reflective individuality, and he offers himself as a model for others. Richard Gordon addresses in the final chapter of this section religious specialists, mystagogues or “magicians” in the terminology of Max Weber. Such religious roles offered channels within which a religious individuality might be developed in relation to the power-structure of Graeco-Roman society. The religious services these specialists offered were accommodated within these structures, but they also permitted (and perhaps demanded) constant innovations. Those innovations did not challenge social structures, but they did offer space for individuation and so maintained the viability of the religious system as a whole. Religious thinking in the second century cannot be dealt with without paying attention to the larger intellectual context known as the “Second Sophistic”. Wolfgang Spickermann analyses an essay written by one of the key figures of the period, Lucian of Samosata. He argues that the image of the demi-god Heracles, as developed in Lucian’s writings, provided a model for the figure of Peregrinus, who himself served as a literary model for Lucian. Individual life-styles did not preclude attempts to live according to philosophical models. Dorothee Elm von der Osten also deals with Lucian, and broadens the analysis by taking Apuleius of Madauros into account as well. Her analysis takes up a topic already developed by Harry Maier in relation to Clement, that of outward appearance. But in this chapter the stress is laid not upon dress, but on the bodily habitus, on the manner in which these figures presented their age, gender, education and social status. Lucian seeks to explore the discrepancies between the persona

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that the pseudoprophet Alexander wishes to present, and the man he ‘really’ is. Apuleius’ tactic works in the opposite direction, as he seeks to erase the persona his accusers attributed to him, and to present himself as the philosopher he really is. Richard Gordon’s chapter approaches Alexander from a different direction, as a well attested case study of the widespread phenomenon through which religious specialists he terms mystagogues offered individuals the resources with which they might fashion new religious selves, and so escape from the identities and status ascribed to them in the hierarchical social order of the early empire. In a final set of contributions, very specific religious practices of caring for or expressing the self are placed under scrutiny. Zsuszanna Várhelyi starts from a group of philosophical texts that describe religious practices, in particular prayer, offered by, or asked of, friends visiting sick persons. The discrepancy of the manner in which authors like Seneca distanced themselves from popular religious customs, is striking. These practices seem to have been not merely widespread, but even deeply ingrained among members of the upper class. Várhelyi advances the hypothesis that ritual public expressions of concern for the emperor’s health might lie at the root of this shift. Elena Muñiz Grivaljo begins from a succinct discussion of the degree of “individuality” we might expect to find in votive offerings. Individual ritual action cannot be correctly understood without reference to the framework of meaning provided by the general religious system to which it refers. As a consequence of this principle, she analyses changes in the votive offerings dedicated to the goddess Athena and links those changes to other more general ones within that framework of reference. A new position of votive offerings and, therefore, of individual initiative within the religious system might help to explain changes in the number of votive offerings dedicated to Athena in Roman Athens. Finally, Peter Gemeinhardt inquires into the role of education in the deliberate shaping of Christian selves. Justin Martyr, Tertullian, the Pseudoclementines, and Origen form the basis of his analysis. The personal preferences and experiences of these authors differed widely. Notably they attributed very different roles to classical philosophical learning, which was variously presented as having the potential to help form one’s Christian orientation, or else to threaten it offering an alternative construction of the self. All the texts he considers support the thesis that religion and education were already strongly entangled in the second century CE. At the end of this introduction, we would like to thank many people and institutions. The Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft financed the conferences, the Augustinerkloster provided once more a productive and amiable venue for our discussions. Elisabeth Begemann helped us in taking care of the manuscript, Emerson Stevens corrected the English of several contributions, and Diana Püschel arranged the files for the typesetting. But most of all we would like to thank the

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contributors, for their cooperation, their willingness to respond to questions and criticism and for their patience. Jörg Rüpke Greg Woolf University of Erfurt University of St. Andrews

Rethinking Philosophical Tradition

Dualism and the Self in Plutarch’s Thought Eran Almagor Γνῶϑι σαυτόν, (know thyself), the famous saying inscribed on the pronaos of the temple of Apollo in Delphi (Paus. 10.24.1),1 was not unknown to Plutarch (c. 45–120 AD). The essayist, biographer and philosopher was initiated into the mysteries of Apollo, functioned as the senior of the two priests of the Greek god at the Oracle of Delphi,2 and fulfilled the role of an epimeletes of the Amphictyonic Council in that city, not far from his own Boeotian home town of Chaeronea.3 This aphorism is mentioned by Plutarch several times,4 often as a principle that should guide life and conduct. One of the treatises in the Lamprias Catalogue – a list that dates from the third to the fourth century AD and which supposedly offers the titles of all of Plutarch’s known works – is given as “On the saying ‘Know thyself’” (number 177).5 It certainly provided Plutarch with a starting point for his ethical pursuits, as much as it is said to have done for other famous Greek philosophers, such as Heraclitus (cf. frag. 101 DK) and Socrates (cf. Plat. Apol. 21bc). There is a growing recognition among scholars that Plutarch’s moralism, as it is displayed in his biographies, demands this sort of self-awareness. In many cases, the divergences in the themes and issues between the Parallel Lives and the formal comparisons at the end of most pairs of biographies, as well as the utter contradictions in substance and interpretation between the two parts, force the audience to reflect, investigate, draw its own conclusions on the heroes, and reassess the relation between different vices and virtues, or between vice and 1  It was considered a divine command and presumably falsely attributed to the first Greek philosopher, Thales (Diog. L. 1.13). I would like to thank the kind and generous selves of Prof. Jörg Rüpke and Prof. Greg Woolf for inviting me to take part in the workshop in Erfurt and to be part of this volume. I would like to thank the participants for their useful comments on this paper. 2  Plut. An seni 792 f. (Καὶ μὴν οἶσϑά με τῷ Πυϑίῳ λειτουργοῦντα πολλὰς Πυϑιάδας). Cf. Quaest. conviv. 7.2.700 e. 3  For Plutarch’s connection with the city of Delphi and its sanctuary, see Swain 1991; Stadter 2004. On the manner in which the religious background of Plutarch played an important part in his philosophy see Brenk 1987, 330–6. 4  Demost. 3.2; Quom. adolesc. poet. 36 a, 49 b; Quom. adulat. 49 b, 65 f; De capiend. ex inim. 89 a; Cons. ad Apoll. 116cd; Septem 164 b, De E 385 d, 392 a, 394 c; De Pyth. oracul. 408 e; De garrul. 511 b; Adv. Colot. 1118 c. Cf. Courcelle 1974, 43–7. 5  See Dillon 1977, 188, on its presumed content and form.

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political success.6 The ethical judgement involved in these passages could be seen as ‘exploratory’ rather than ‘expository’ moralism, leading the reader to find the right way of conduct for him‑ or herself. 7 But what exactly is the self that needs to be known? How can the ‘I’ that chooses the right way of life be defined in his or her course of self-improvement?8 Does it make sense to talk about the ‘self ’ in Plutarch’s thought? When addressing these questions we should bear in mind several obstacles barring us from attaining a clear notion. Firstly, the problem is not a cross-cultural given. The identity of the individual person is a highly difficult philosophical issue in itself, one that has evolved through the ages, assuming different shapes and notions along its history. Ancient philosophers, even ancient sceptics, generally placed the self more securely in the objective real external world than did their later, Cartesian counterparts.9 The ancients certainly did not formulate this problem in modern terms of ‘subjectivity’10 and did not provide solutions similar to the possibilities we may be familiar with. There is always a risk in ‘translating’ the questions and answers of a different culture, removed in both time and in space, to that of our own. Some nuances may get lost in this ‘translation’ or otherwise be falsely attributed. Secondly, Plutarch’s thought on the matter may not represent either a comprehensive or a coherent whole. Our knowledge of his philosophy is deduced from the extant treatises, written in dialogue format and addressing specific metaphysical or ethical issues that do not touch directly on the matter at hand.11 Because the issue is viewed in various passages from different angles – metaphysical, psychological or ethical  – the ‘self ’ in Plutarch’s writing may either succumb to different definitions depending on context, or it may even be possible that there are several notions of the ‘self ’ in his thought, depending on the field of discussion and the specific components chosen for emphasis. Some of the works that might have shed direct light on the problem are regrettably lost.12 This loss  6  Cf. Duff 1999, 390: “This book has emphasized throughout ways in which Plutarch’s texts resist simplistic univocal presentation of the past, but are complex, exploratory, and challenging: they invite the reader to challenge and to ponder”. Cf. 37–42, 68–71.  7  To use the distinction made by Pelling 1995, 207.  8 I here agree with Sorabji 2006, 32, that the reflexive Greek heautos, implied indeed in the famous aphorism quoted, is one of the ancient terms that correspond closely to the modern notion of ‘self’.  9  See Burnyeat 1982, 8, 13–4, 18–20, 25, 36–7. Admittedly, the break between things “outside” and an inner (subjective) world of images and appearances may have begun with Augustine (Contra Academicos III 26). Cf. Matthews 1977. Yet, Augustine does not give the subjective states of the ‘self ’ a privileged status, unlike Descartes. See Burnyeat 1982, 28–9, 33. 10  Cf. McDowell 1986; Fine 2003, 209–14. 11  On the caution which must be employed with regard to Plutarch’s dialogues and the ideas put into the mouths of his figures see Dillon 1977, 190–1. Cf. 198: “his true views on ethical questions are frequently obscured in the more rhetorical treatises”. 12  Like the treatise “on the soul” (Lamprias catalogue number 209) of which several fragments are preserved, the work “That the soul is imperishable” (number 226), “What is the telos accord-

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impairs our understanding of how Plutarch conceived of the ‘I’. Moreover, in the extant dialogues, there are usually several interlocutors, and it is assumed that their conversation represented real-life debates of his day. Yet, in this fictional depiction of an argument, it is difficult to know to which view Plutarch himself subscribed, even though one dramatic figure may represent the author himself.13 This difficulty, which ironically highlights the problem of the true self, leads us to the third obstacle, which is more philosophical in nature. It is not clear whether the ‘I’ in itself is a given entity. In classical antiquity, there was a strand of thought that held that the ‘self ’ was an ideal being, a sought after and achieved reality, an end result rather than a given starting point.14 As such, it would also be inferred that the ‘I’ is constantly constructed rather than being the fixed object for introspection. In this chapter, it is proposed to consider yet another facet of Plutarch’s thought, in order to present the problem and concept of the ‘self ’ or at least grasp its complexity. One of the key catch-phrases in treatments of Plutarch’s philosophy is his dualistic frame of mind.15 Dualism is the belief that reality essentially consists of two entities, two kinds of things, independent of each other and irreducible one to another.16 What precisely it is that is dual in Plutarch’s thought is not the same in all these modern accounts, nor is his dualism described in identical terms, with the inevitable consequence that there is no lucid overarching picture. Yet, even a cursory reading of Plutarch would reveal that he is trying to advance some sort of dyadic framework in his works. This is an aspect of his thought that cannot be ignored, but it is usually not taken into consideration as such in discussions of the self in Plutarch. It might seem ironic to address the question of the unique in-dividual ‘self ’ by focusing on duality and divisibility of the person. However, I shall argue that it is precisely through this division – with its implications of strife, movement, or variety – that the ‘I’ might be revealed. It might be suggested that the concept of ‘self ’ logically necessitates the existence of two conflicting principles. For instance, the persistence of the self through changes involves something that is really modified and something that remains ing to Plato?” (number 221) or even the treatise “On the saying ‘Know Thyself’” mentioned above (number 177). 13  As in De E Apud Delphos, in which Plutarch as a young man offers his own account of the mysterious letter E inscribed on the Delphic temple of Apollo, or in the Quaestiones Convivales, banqueting with friends. 14  See Long 2001. 15 Cf. Dillon, 1977, 202–8; Froidefond 1987, 215–7; Bianchi 1987; Alt 1993; Chlup 2000; Bos 2001. 16  Here should be cited the definition of Fontaine 1986, xiv: “two utterly opposed conceptions, systems, principles, groups of people, or even worlds, without any intermediate terms between them. They cannot be reduced to each other; in some cases they are not even dependent on each other. The opposites are considered to be of different quality – so much so that one of them is always seen as distinctly inferior and hence must be neglected, repudiated, or even destroyed”.

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the same; when taken to its metaphysical full implications, this theory may introduce an ontological dualism.17 Similarly, when the question of the ‘self ’ has relevance to introspection, self-awareness or even self-knowledge in the sense mentioned earlier, it is the ‘me’ as subject of cognitive perception and at the same time its object18 that implies some sort of epistemological duality; and with the clear assumption of choice between virtue and vice, some ethical duality between good and evil as ends or as sources of action is assumed. So that methodologically, choosing this road might be a reasonable option. This chapter does not propose to provide an exhaustive account of Plutarch’s dualism, nor to supply an unambiguous clear cut answer to the problem(s) of the ‘self ’ in his writings, but only to raise questions and to promote discussion concerning the way duality should be linked with his portrayal and concept of the individual person. In what follows, some points of contact would be suggested between the study of the ‘self ’ presumed by the discussions of the dualistic frame of mind and the philosophical world view imagined by the theories of the ‘I’ ascribed to Plutarch. There may in fact be a number of ‘dualisms’ in Plutarch’s thinking, as there may be several ‘selves’. Ways to examine the ethical and religious dimensions of Plutarch’s definition of the self seen to correspond with this dyadic structure of the self would emerge from these points. Besides tackling these issues, it is interesting to reflect on the fact that studies of these philosophical concepts and Plutarch’s notion of the individual tend at times to focus either on Plutarch’s Lives or on his Moralia, the great parts of his output that were sadly divided and should be discussed together.19 When it comes to Plutarch’s dualism, research literature provides us with a variety of instances where this thread is visible. They are to be differentiated by philosophical question, and theoretical influences or affinities. Sometimes this notion is explicitly mentioned by Plutarch and at times it is assigned to his world view by the modern interpreter.

17  Even in monist philosophies, that presuppose only one kind of being in the world, there is a variation between the thing that subsists and another that is altering. For instance, in Stoic materialism there is some difference of degrees of natural attachment (οἰκείωσις) felt by ‘me’ to my mind (διάνοια) and to my body and my external circumstances, including other people, so that the mind is closer to ‘me’ (yet, not excluding a close sense of attachment of ‘me’ to my body). See Hierocles ap. Stob. 4.671.7–16. Cf. Marcus Aurelius’ deprecation of his own bodily self (2.2), with Sorabji 2008, 22. In early modern idealism, there is an implied difference between the ‘ideas’ or perceptions and the mind. Cf. Berkeley 1710, § 2–3. 18  This is, broadly speaking, apparently what Richard Sorabji referred to in his account of the ‘self ’ as an embodied individual owner who sees himself or herself as ‘me’ and ‘me again’. See Sorabji 2006, 4, 22–32, 47–50. 19  See Geiger 2008.

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1 Two Ontological Principles Plutarch’s dualism shows a mutually exclusive dichotomy between the immaterial and the corporeal worlds. First there is a transcendent standard, static and immaterial, the final cause and object of aspirations.20 In the sublunary realm, everything is corporeally predicated, the celestial entities as well as the minds and souls of human beings. The latter are the only sublunary creatures that have a potentiality for intellect, which when realized shows a likeness to this transcendent God. That there are two ontological principles in the world is the basis for the attack on the Stoic (i.e., Chrysippus’) position (in De virtute morali) that the soul is unitary, and that there is no such thing as a distinct irrational part. The first step on the way to understand the individual human being is therefore to grasp that the soul itself is divided. Pythagoras and Plato are cited as persons aware of this fact that the soul is twofold rather than unitary (441 e): ὅτι δ’ αὐτῆς ἔστι τῆς ψυχῆς ἐν ἑαυτῇ σύνϑετόν τι καὶ διφυὲς καὶ ἀνόμοιον, ὥσπερ ἑτέρου σώματος τοῦ ἀλόγου πρὸς τὸν λόγον ἀνάγκῃ τινὶ καὶ φύσει συμμιγέντος καὶ συναρμοσϑέντος, εἰκὸς μέν ἐστι μηδὲ Πυϑαγόραν ἀγνοῆσαι … But that there is some element of composition, some twofold nature and dissimilarity of the very soul within itself, since the irrational, as though it were another substance, is mingled and joined with reason by some compulsion of Nature – this, it is likely, was not unknown even to Pythagoras …21

Plato developed this theory, Plutarch continues, to maintain that the soul of the universe is neither simple, uniform, nor uncompounded, but a being mixed, as it were, and made up of that which is always the same and of that which is otherwise. In yet other places it is divided into motions and circles, one contrary to the other, whence are derived the beginnings and generation of differences in things. The structure of the human soul is similar to that of the world soul, of which it is a copy or a part (441 f ): ἥ τ’ ἀνϑρώπου ψυχὴ … οὐχ ἁπλῆ τίς ἐστιν οὐδ’ ὁμοιοπαϑής, ἀλλ’ ἕτερον μὲν ἔχει τὸ νοερὸν καὶ λογιστικόν, ᾧ κρατεῖν τοῦ ἀνϑρώπου κατὰ φύσιν καὶ ἄρχειν προσῆκόν ἐστιν, ἕτερον δὲ τὸ παϑητικὸν καὶ ἄλογον καὶ πολυπλανὲς καὶ ἄτακτον ἐξεταστοῦ δεόμενον The soul of man … is not simple nor subject to similar emotions, but has as one part the intelligent and rational, whose natural duty it is to govern and rule the individual, and as another part the passionate and irrational, the variable and disorderly, which has need of a director.

20 21

 Cf. De Is. 372ef; Amat. 770 b. Cf. Arist. Metaph. Λ 7.1072b3, Phys. A 9.192a16.  All translation from the Loeb Classical Library Series.

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2 Soul, Mind and Body Radek Chlup22 has drawn attention to the fact that in the treatise De animae procreatione in Timaeo (On the Generation of the soul in the Timaeus) 1014 e, Plutarch differentiates between the ‘soul in itself’, which is an uncreated and eternal cause of activity and whose actions are irrational,23 and Intellect, which is the source of order and form. The starting point for the creation of the universe is the primary opposition of Soul (ψυχή) and Intellect (νοῦς). Each of these is autonomous, that is they are independent of one other and function differently: the soul is the cause and principle of motion, a movement which is entirely irregular and disorderly, while Intellect is the cause of order, which is unable to move of itself (1015 e, 1024 a). A ‘creation’ of the soul, according to Plutarch, would mean that the Demiurge combines the primal soul and Intellect together, generating a whole, which has both order and energy. It is the World Soul, which is ‘generated’ in the respect of being the result at a given moment in time of two eternal constituents. Chlup goes on to describe how this theory is in fact irreconcilable with many Platonic passages, and is even incoherently set together with Plutarch’s own theory and other pairs of contrast which are associated with the Soul-Intellect opposition, as if Plutarch were trying to accommodate Academic speculations with his own dualistic scheme. Plutarch would thus seem to interpret Plato’s Politicus myth, with its overtones of cosmic cycles, as an illustration of this opposition, with divine unity in one course and multiplicity in another (De anim. proc. 1026ef). This cyclicity is therefore depicted by Plutarch as two concurrent movements within the universe: order against irrational motion (cf. De Is. 369 c). Bos (2001) has argued that the dualism seen in these passages is more “Aristotelian” than “Platonic” in that it differentiates between the Mind (or Intellect) and the (embodied) Soul. If in Plato’s ontology the division is between corporeal and non-corporeal reality, corresponding to the differentiation between (visible) corpus and (invisible) soul, so that the intellect is always the utmost and most divine facet of the soul, in Aristotle’s metaphysics there is a consistent division of Soul and Intellect.24 While for Aristotle the soul is immaterial, it is always embodied,25 as opposed to the intellect, which as pure intellect is essentially ‘separated’ from material reality. Although the intellect can be actualized in the soul, it diverges profoundly from the latter since it is not attached to the body as such. It is now commonly acknowledged that Plutarch’s Platonism had absorbed many Aristotelian ideas.26 An important passage to illustrate Plutarch’s view is  Chlup 2000, 139–40.  Explaining Plat. Tim. 30 a and 52 d–53 b on chaotic movements existing before the generation of the universe. 24 Cf. Arist. DA II 2.413b24. On this view in his school see Sharples 2007. 25  Cf. Arist. DA II 1.412a27–8, 412b5–6, II 2.414a19. 26  On the question of how far Plutarch can justifiably be said to be an ‘eclectic’, see Donini 22 23

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his philosophical myth at the end of De facie in orbe lunae (On the face which appears in the orb of the moon),27 in which a foreigner comes from the ‘Great Continent’ beyond Oceanos and reveals what happens to man after his death on earth. The key formulas here are that μόριον … εἶναί πως ψυχῆς οἴονται τὸν νοῦν, οὐδὲν ἧττον ἐκείνον. ἁμαρτανοντες, οἷς ἡ ψυχὴ δοκεῖ μόριον εἶναι τοῦ σώματος. – “The Intellect is not a part of the soul, just as those who think the soul Err those who think part of the body” and νοῦς γὰρ ψυχῆς, ὅσῳ ψυχὴ σώματος ἄμεινόν ἐστι καὶ ϑειότερον – “The Intellect is so much more excellent and divine than the soul as the soul is in relation to the body”.28 The first of these statements seems to be in clear opposition to Plato’s belief that Intellect does not subsist separately and independently. The Mind is stated to be the utmost part of the soul.29 Although Soul and Intellect are described as entirely independent forces, this dualism only exists in the sublunary realm, and there is no ultimate independence of these two cosmic principles. Corresponding to the belief in a strong contrast between soul and intellect, John Dillon30 finds in Plutarch’s description a dichotomy he terms a ‘double’ or two-stage death, found in the myth of the dialogue (945bc), that is, first a liberation of the soul and then of the mind. This matches Aristotle’s idea that the soul ‘retires’ and ‘shifts’ at the death of the individual,31 evidently from the sublunary realm to the celestial sphere. Plutarch indeed quotes Aristotle’s lost Eudemus (Consol. ad Apoll. 115be = Arist. fr. 6 Ross) on the happy condition after death.32 It would appear that in this scheme the ‘self ’ is to be regarded as an embodied individual composite with actualized intellect.

3 Two Powers or Gods Plutarch’s dualism sometimes takes the form of two fundamental Powers struggling against each other in our world. In the treatise De Iside et Osiride (On Isis 1988, 128. See Dillon 1977, 186. 193 for the view that Plutarch was indebted to the Peripatetics for many formulations and that his terminology of virtue and happiness is Aristotelian. Dillon 1977, 195 argues that Plutarch uses Aristotelian ethics to combat the Stoics: “It is interesting that Plutarch, although in other respects dependent on Alexandrian Platonism, takes in ethics an Aristotelian tack”. On the nature of Plutarch’s Platonism see Jones 1916; Whittaker 1980; Dillon 1986; Opsomer 2005. 27  De fac. 941 f–942 b. 28 De fac. 943 a. 29  Phaedr. 247 b. Cf. Donini 1988. 30  Dillon 1986, 221–2. 31  Cf. Bos 2001 on Arist. DA I 4.408a28, 409a29, I 5.411b8. 32  The main character is Silenus who discloses to Midas that after death life is better than the earthly one. This figure of Silenus might evoke that of Dionysus, the ‘liberator’ and ‘loosener’ of bonds; see Bos 2001. In the second stage of that state, after the soul has departed from the worldly body, and at the final point of its ascent, the intellect is finally set free.

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and Osiris) 369 a–371 c he summarizes ancient theories of opposing principles, designed to illustrate one basic – dualistic – fact: εἰ γὰρ οὐδὲν ἀναιτίως πέφυκε γίνεσϑαι, αἰτίαν δὲ κακοῦ τἀγαϑὸν οὐκ ἂν παράσχοι, δεῖ γένεσιν ἰδίαν καὶ ἀρχὴν ὥσπερ ἀγαϑοῦ καὶ κακοῦ τὴν φύσιν ἔχειν For if it is the law of nature that nothing comes into being without a cause, and if the good cannot provide a cause for evil, then it follows that Nature must have in herself the source and origin of evil, just as she contains the source and origin of good.

According to Plutarch, the great majority and the wisest of men believe that there are two rival forces or gods: the one the originator of good and the other of evil. He then goes on to cite the Zoroastrian example, in which the prophet called the good deity ‘God’ and the evil one ‘Daemon’, or Oromazes and Areimanius, respectively.33 The struggle between them is ruthless, but shall be eventually decided in favour of the good:34 ἔπεισι δὲ χρόνος εἱμαρμένος, ἐν ᾧ τὸν Ἀρειμάνιον λοιμὸν ἐπάγοντα καὶ λιμὸν ὑπὸ τούτων ἀνάγκη φϑαρῆναι παντάπασι καὶ ἀφανισϑῆναι, τῆς δὲ γῆς ἐπιπέδου καὶ ὁμαλῆς γενομένης ἕνα βίον καὶ μίαν πολιτείαν ἀνϑρώπων μακαρίων καὶ ὁμογλώσσων ἁπάντων γενέσϑαι. Θεόπομπος δέ φησι κατὰ τοὺς μάγους ἀνὰ μέρος τρισχίλια ἔτη τὸν μὲν κρατεῖν τὸν δὲ κρατεῖσϑαι τῶν ϑεῶν, ἄλλα δὲ τρισχίλια μάχεσϑαι καὶ πολεμεῖν καὶ ἀναλύειν τὰ τοῦ ἑτέρου τὸν ἕτερον, τέλος δ’ ἀπολείπεσϑαι τὸν Ἅιδην· καὶ τοὺς μὲν ἀνϑρώπους εὐδαίμονας ἔσεσϑαι μήτε τροφῆς δεομένους μήτε σκιὰν ποιοῦντας, τὸν δὲ ταῦτα μηχανησάμενον ϑεὸν ἠρεμεῖν καὶ ἀναπαύεσϑαι χρόνον [καλῶς] μὲν οὐ πολύν [τῷ ϑεῷ], ὥσπερ ἀνϑρώπῳ κοιμωμένῳ μέτριον. But a destined time shall come when it is decreed that Areimanius, engaged in bringing on pestilence and famine, shall by these be utterly annihilated and shall disappear; and then shall the earth become a level plain, and there shall be one manner of life and one form of government for a blessed people who shall all speak one tongue. Theopompus says that, according to the sages, one god is to overpower, and the other to be overpowered, each in turn for the space of three thousand years, and afterward for another three thousand years they shall fight and war, and the one shall undo the works of the other, and finally Hades shall pass away; then shall the people be happy, and neither shall they need to have food nor shall they cast any shadow. And the god, who has contrived to bring about all these things, shall then have quiet and shall repose for a time, no long time indeed, but for the god as much as would be a moderate time for a man to sleep.

In this eschatological depiction, humankind will no longer be affected by the struggle of the deities, and indeed shall throw away its bodily existence, neither requiring any food nor casting any shadow. Bearing in mind the possibility that the human ‘self ’ may be construed as an embodied individual, it follows that accepting this form of dualism would imply not only a transcendent strife of powers, but also an immanent one, within ‘myself’. The good and evil divinities De anim. proc. 1026 b.  Cf. also Proc. An. 1026 b. Dillon 1977, 191 is convinced that such Persian influence and knowledge about Persian religion came to Plutarch primarily from his teacher. 33 Cf. 34

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may find a place inside ‘me’ and conduct their struggle from within. If this is the case, the ‘self ’ may be simply a combination of these conflicting powers. Indeed, it is the possibility of an intermediate existence to which Plutarch proceeds. He includes other diverse myths of sages, where the dualism is more complex, as in those of the Chaldeans – according to whom there are two tutelary gods who are beneficent, two maleficent and others who partake in both qualities. Among the Greek philosophers he mentions, it is interesting to note his presentation of Plato’s Leges (10.896 d ff.): ἐν δὲ τοῖς Νόμοις ἤδη πρεσβύτερος ὢν οὐ δι’ αἰνιγμῶν οὐδὲ συμβολικῶς, ἀλλὰ κυρίοις ὀνόμασιν οὐ μιᾷ ψυχῇ φησι κινεῖσϑαι τὸν κόσμον, ἀλλὰ πλείοσιν ἴσως δυεῖν δὲ πάντως οὐκ ἐλάττοσιν· ὧν τὴν μὲν ἀγαϑουργὸν εἶναι, τὴν δ’ ἐναντίαν ταύτῃ καὶ τῶν ἐναντίων δημιουργόν· ἀπολείπει δὲ καὶ τρίτην τινὰ μεταξὺ φύσιν οὐκ ἄψυχον οὐδ’ ἄλογον οὐδ’ ἀκίνητον ἐξ αὑτῆς, ὥσπερ ἔνιοι νομίζουσιν, ἀλλ’ ἀνακειμένην ἀμφοῖν ἐκείναις, ἐφιεμένην δὲ τῆς ἀμείνονος ἀεὶ καὶ ποϑοῦσαν καὶ διώκουσαν … In his Laws, when he had grown considerably older, he [Plato] asserts, not in circumlocution or symbolically, but in specific words, that the movement of the Universe is actuated not by one soul, but perhaps by several, and certainly by not less than two, and of these the one is beneficent, and the other is opposed to it and the artificer of things opposed. Between these he leaves a certain third nature, not inanimate nor irrational nor without the power to move of itself, as some think, but with dependence on both those others, and desiring the better always and yearning after it and pursuing it …

Plutarch proceeds to the myths of the Egyptians, allegorizing the myth of Osiris by employing the parts of soul: ἐν μὲν οὖν τῇ ψυχῇ νοῦς καὶ λόγος ὁ τῶν ἀρίστων πάντων ἡγεμὼν καὶ κύριος Ὄσιρίς ἐστιν, ἐν δὲ γῇ καὶ πνεύμασι καὶ ὕδασι καὶ οὐρανῷ καὶ ἄστροις τὸ τεταγμένον καὶ καϑεστηκὸς καὶ ὑγιαῖνον ὥραις καὶ κράσεσι καὶ περιόδοις Ὀσίριδος ἀπορροὴ καὶ εἰκὼν ἐμφαινομένη· Τυφὼν δὲ τῆς ψυχῆς τὸ παϑητικὸν καὶ τιτανικὸν καὶ ἄλογον καὶ ἔμπληκτον, τοῦ δὲ σωματικοῦ τὸ ἐπίκηρον καὶ νοσῶδες καὶ ταρακτικὸν ἀωρίαις καὶ δυσκρασίαις καὶ κρύψεσιν ἡλίου καὶ ἀφανισμοῖς σελήνης οἷον ἐκδρομαὶ καὶ ἀφηνιασμοὶ Τυφῶνος. So in the soul Intellect and reason, the Ruler and Lord of all that is good, is Osiris, and in earth and wind and water and the heavens and stars that which is ordered, established, and healthy, as evidenced by season, temperatures, and cycles of revolution, is the efflux of Osiris and his reflected image. But Typhon is that part of the soul which is impressionable, impulsive, irrational and truculent, and of the bodily part the destructible, diseased and disorderly as evidenced by abnormal seasons and temperatures, and by obscurations of the sun and disappearances of the moon, outbursts, as it were, and unruly actions on the part of Typhon.

Here Plutarch seems to indicate that the struggle is indeed immanent, internal to the World Soul. It would be interesting to ask whether the human embodied ‘self ’ should thus be viewed as constantly in strife. For here Plutarch appears to point out that the struggle is eternal: ἀπολέσϑαι δὲ τὴν φαύλην παντάπασιν ἀδύνατον, πολλὴν μὲν ἐμπεφυκυῖαν τῷ σώματι, πολλὴν δὲ τῇ ψυχῇ τοῦ παντὸς καὶ πρὸς τὴν βελτίονα ἀεὶ δυσμαχοῦσαν – “it is impossible for the bad to be completely

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eradicated, since it is innate, in large amount, in the body and likewise in the soul of the Universe, and is always fighting a hard fight against the better”.

4 A Cycle One passage in the treatise De E Apud Delphos (The E at Delphi 388 e–389 c) in particular presents us with a divine dualism that should perhaps be emphasized in a discussion of the ‘self’. It is a speech put in the mouth of Plutarch as a young man, in which Apollo is identified with the supreme god. Yet, opposite this deity, another divinity is mentioned, namely Dionysus, who was also present at Delphi,35 apparently presiding over the oracle for the three winter months, while Apollo was away. Plutarch portrays the relation between the two deities in one condensed passage (389ab): καὶ ᾄδουσι τῷ μὲν διϑυραμβικὰ μέλη παϑῶν μεστὰ καὶ μεταβολῆς πλάνην τινὰ καὶ διαφόρησιν ἐχούσης … τῷ δὲ παιᾶνα, τεταγμένην καὶ σώφρονα μοῦσαν, ἀγήρων τε τοῦτον ἀεὶ καὶ νέον ἐκεῖνον δὲ πολυειδῆ καὶ πολύμορφον ἐν γραφαῖς καὶ πλάσμασι δημιουργοῦσι· καὶ ὅλως τῷ μὲν ὁμοιότητα καὶ τάξιν καὶ σπουδὴν ἄκρατον, τῷ δὲ μεμιγμένην τινὰ παιδιᾷ καὶ ὕβρει [καὶ σπουδῇ] καὶ μανίᾳ προσφέροντες ἀνωμαλίαν To [Dionysus] they sing the dithyrambic strains laden with emotion and with a transformation that includes a certain erratic wandering and dispersion … but to Apollo they sing the Paean, music orderly and temperate. Apollo the artist represents in painting and sculptures as ever ageless and young, but Dionysus they depict in many shapes and forms; and they attribute to Apollo in general a similarity, order, and unadulterated seriousness, but to Dionysus a certain irregularity combined with playfulness, wantonness, seriousness and frenzy.

The Dionysiac aspect of reality is characterized by irregularity, continual changes in shapes and appearances, and emotional effects. As Chlup36 has shown, the context of this passage is a form of a cyclic theory, in which the cosmos is perceived as progressing in two phases, an orderly stage which is followed by a multiple and manifold one. The cyclical alternations of Apollo and Dionysus in their presiding over Delphi are thus philosophically allegorized, in an allusion to the cyclicity of nature, without assuming that the alternating phases indicate that the two deities are two aspects of one godhead. While Plutarch usually does not reduce deities to mere philosophical notions,37 in the subsequent speech of the essay, delivered by the figure of Ammonius, Plutarch’s teacher, Apollo is 35  ἀλλὰ καὶ πρὸς τὸν Διόνυσον, ᾧ τῶν Δελφῶν οὐδὲν ἧττον ἢ τῷ Ἀπόλλωνι μέτεστιν. Cf. Chlup 2000, 138. 36  Chlup 2000, 142–4. 37 Chlup 2000, 147 n. 30 points out that in the De Iside et Osiride, the situation is exactly the reverse of the De E: it is Osiris-Dionysus who represents Being, and Apollo-Horus stands for the visible cosmos of Becoming.

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presented as the archetype of unchangeable Being and Unity, in sharp contrast with all multiplicity: οὐ γὰρ πολλὰ τὸ ϑεῖόν ἐστιν, ὡς ἡμῶν ἕκαστος ἐκ μυρίων διαφορῶν ἐν πάϑεσι γινομένων ἄϑροισμα παντοδαπὸν καὶ πανηγυρικῶς μεμιγμένον· ἀλλ’ ἓν εἶναι δεῖ τὸ ὄν, ὥσπερ ὂν τὸ ἕν. ἡ δ’ ἑτερότης διαφορᾷ τοῦ ὄντος εἰς γένεσιν ἐξίσταται τοῦ μὴ ὄντος For the Divine is not many things, in the sense in which each one of us is made up of ten thousand different and successive states, a scrap-heap of units, a mob of individuals. No, that which is must be one, as that is which is one. Variety, any difference in being, passes to one side to produce that which is not (393bc).38

Ammonius goes on to explain the perfect epithet ‘Apollo’ as etymologically meaning ‘Not-Many’,39 denying plurality and excluding multitude. He emphatically denies (393 f–394 a) that the god ever changes, as the divinity is concerned with sustaining and preserving, so that the transformations conventionally attributed to the supreme god should really to be referred to some other secondary god,40 a subordinate daemon, whose office is concerned with Nature in dissolution and generation (in the sublunar realm). This god or daemon may properly be termed ‘Hades’. The only sense, thus, in which deities could be involved in transformation is in their being associated with the sublunar world, given to the care of ‘Hades’. This hierarchy of divine entities offered in Ammonius’ speech may in fact cohere with Plutarch’s description of an irreducible duality, when the contrast of Apollo and Hades and the clash of Apollo and Dionysus would seem to apply to different ontological layers. In the metaphysical scheme, the dyad, or the two principles, are conceived of as subordinated to the perfectly good supreme god and single principle. Only in the realm of Nature the duality of Apollo and Dionysus subsists.41 In themselves the gods are pure, simple and unchanging, in this world, divinity is more complex and is entangled in conflicts and changes. This point entails a question with relation to the problem of the self: we may assume that subordinate fluctuating divine beings in our level of reality, like daemons, are to be understood as invariable Gods on the divine sphere (and can therefore act as intermediates). Does it make sense to speak here of the same deity or only of a (separate) counterpart in the upper ontological levels? Interpreting sections of reality as signifying respectively the Gods Apollo and Dionysus may point out that human souls are split in a similar manner. Chlup42 points out that Plutarch uses Dionysiac imagery to portray the irrational soul, depicting it like this deity in his moments of uncontrolled madness.43 Like Dio De E 393bc.  Ἀπόλλων μὲν γὰρ οἷον ἀρνούμενος τὰ πολλὰ … 40  Cf. Dillon 2002, 226. 41  Chlup 2000, 149. 42 Chlup 2000, 156–8. 43  De virt mor. 451cd: οὔτε γὰρ οἶνον οἱ φοβούμενοι τὸ μεϑύειν ἐκχέουσιν οὔτε πάϑος οἱ δεδιότες τὸ ταρακτικὸν ἀναιροῦσιν ἀλλὰ κεραννύουσι  – “For neither do those who fear 38 39

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nysus, this aspect of the soul can be of use; the harmonized emotional component in the soul should be curbed as to be useful. The Apollo-Dionysus pattern has thus ethical consequences. The rational side needs the passions within the soul (452 b).44 Yet, we should harmonize the irrational and the rational elements. Having said this, we should recall here that the model of Apollo and Dionysus is also essentially cyclic, which may partially explain why the irrational side even when restrained for some time, has the potential to be disruptive again. This pattern may explicate sudden (but surprising and indeed relatively rare) occasions in which changes in character are noticeable.45 This picture thus points at the divine element within the ‘self’, or rather divine components (in plural), for the Apollonian is there just as the Dionysian, both divine also in respect of being fixed aspects within the individual. Preceding the dichotomy of the German philosopher Nietzsche46 and his aesthetic usage of the concepts47, Plutarch already advanced the terms as applicable to the realm of the human condition, the mind and the ‘self ’ alongside the dominion of religion and cult. They do not appear to carry here the significance of a formal individuating facet.

5 Transcendent God and Immanent Passions The supreme object (τέλος) of human life is likeness to God, not conformity with nature (De Sera 550 d ff.). This deity is understood here as transcendent. As God is essentially a pattern of divine excellence,48 human virtue is rendered as assimilation to the divinity, i.e., ‘following God’. Man derives the greatest blessing and virtue by copying and aspiring to the beauty and goodness that are his. Yet, the important ethical task is not to repress the soul-principle within us on behalf drunkenness pour out their wine upon the ground, nor do those who fear passion eradicate the disturbing element, but both temper what they fear”. 44  We should thus not be like Lycurgus, suppressing violent emotions and pretending to be only rational, for it would deprive our reason of energy. 45  Plutarch was long seen as ascribing a static ethos to his heroes, thus making ostensible dramatic changes, such as cruelty, to be understood as the revelation of true character traits, which were concealed for various reasons (cf. Philip’s case in Arat., 49.1). Nevertheless, this approach has been challenged by scholars who believe that Plutarch espoused a belief in the possibility of an altered character. See Brenk 1977, 176–81; Swain 1989. Cf. De sera, 559bc. According to this modified view, Plutarch holds that a person confronted with great changes in circumstances, or vitiated by undeserved calamities, may lose his internal balance between the rational and irrational. Compare the notable case of Sertorius (Sert. 25.6). See Russell 1966, 146; Bucher-Isler 1972, 79–80, for the opinion that Plutarch believes in the constant nature (physis) of a hero, i.e., his inborn qualities, as opposed to his changeable character. Cf. De tranq. an. 475 d–476 a. On this uncertainty, see Almagor 2009, 142. 46  Nietzsche 1872. 47 On the picture Nietzsche portrays by the employment of these concepts, see Del Caro 1989. On his relation to Plutarch’s writings (but not to this dichotomy) cf. Ingenkamp 1988. 48  Cf. Plat. Theat. 176 e.

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of the Intellect but rather to attain a union of the two in which the energy of Soul would be cultivated and brought into intelligent order. As the Demiurge did not eradicate the Soul but united it with Intellect and made it orderly, it is the task of the human being to nurture his or her emotions and bring them into agreement with reason (De virt. mor. 451cd): καὶ γὰρ ἕξει συνέχεται καὶ φύσει τρέφεται καὶ λόγῳ χρῆται καὶ διανοίᾳ. μέτεστιν οὖν αὐτῷ καὶ τοῦ ἀλόγου, καὶ σύμφυτον ἔχει τὴν τοῦ πάϑους ἀρχήν, οὐκ ἐπεισόδιον ἀλλ’ ἀναγκαίαν οὖσαν, οὐδ’ ἀναιρετέαν παντάπασιν ἀλλὰ ϑεραπείας καὶ παιδαγωγίας δεομένην. ὅϑεν οὐ Θρᾴκιον οὐδὲ Λυκούργειον τοῦ λόγου τὸ ἔργον ἐστί, συνεκκόπτειν καὶ συνδιαφϑείρειν τὰ ὠφέλιμα τοῖς βλαβεροῖς τοῦ πάϑους, ἀλλ’ ᾗπερ ὁ φυτάλμιος ϑεὸς καὶ ἡμερίδης, τὸ ἄγριον κολοῦσαι καὶ ἀφελεῖν τὴν ἀμετρίαν, εἶτα τιϑασεύειν καὶ παριστάναι τὸ χρήσιμον For he is controlled by his acquired disposition, nurtured by his natural disposition, and makes use of reason and intellect. He has, therefore, some portion of the irrational also and has innate within him the mainspring of emotion, not as an adventitious accessory, but as a necessary part of his being, which should never be done away with entirely, but must needs have careful tending and education. Therefore the work of reason is not Thracian, not like that of Lycurgus – to cut down and destroy the helpful elements of emotion together with the harmful, but to do as the god who watches over crops and the god who guards the vine do – to lop off the wild growth and to clip away excessive luxuriance, and then to cultivate and to dispose for use the serviceable remainder.

And in another place (De Mor. Virt. 444 c): ἡ δ’ ἀναγκαία διὰ τὸ σῶμα καὶ δεομένη τῆς παϑητικῆς ὥσπερ ὀργανικῆς ὑπηρεσίας ἐπὶ τὸ πρακτικόν, οὐκ οὖσα φϑορὰ τοῦ ἀλόγου τῆς ψυχῆς οὐδ’ ἀναίρεσις ἀλλὰ τάξις καὶ διακόσμησις the virtue which is necessary to us because of our physical limitations and needs for its practical ends the service of the passions as its instrument – does not destruct or abolish the irrational in the soul but orders it and regulates it.

Thus, it might be said that the ‘self ’ is constructed by aspiring to assimilate the transcendent God and by ordering the immanent passions – two undertakings that highlight the dual nature of the human being.

6 Character, Personality and Self The heuristic usefulness of Christopher Gill’s distinction between ‘character’ and ‘personality’ to describe the two main approaches to the self in ancient and modern periods, is acknowledged and cannot be undermined.49 According to this division, a ‘character-viewpoint’ regards the person as the possessor of good or bad qualities that merit praise or blame, involves subsuming the individual to a category, and is more judgmental. ‘Personality-viewpoint’, on the other hand, 49

 For this distinction, see Gill 1983. Cf. Gill 1986; Gill 1990.

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assumes a definition of the uniqueness and identity of the individual and how he or she is different from others. It also entails an understanding of the person, explanation of the individual’s actions in an ethically neutral way, and is interested in charting the transient phases of the person’s psychological life. In the first articulation of this scheme, Gill suggested that Plutarch is typically more concerned with character (in an evaluative way), whereas modern biography has to do with personality.50 While Christopher Pelling basically agrees with Gill’s conclusion, that Plutarch’s interest is more in ‘character’, he has reservations.51 Indeed, Plutarch is not trying to ‘get into the skin’ of his heroes, to see the beginning of their special emotions, to work out why they acted in a certain way or to connect it to what was individual in the person’s background and circumstances. This interest corresponds to the focus on a typical class of ‘character’, inviting ethical judgement and the exemplary moral to be drawn. The psychological understanding of a figure, claims Pelling, may sometimes be present, along with the reconstruction of a very individual set of circumstances and influences. Yet, it is indeed a means to an end, to guide our moral judgement. Nevertheless, Pelling argues against the universal applicability of these categories in Plutarch’s descriptions: firstly, Plutarch does seem to be considering at times what sort of background and experience must have led to the formation of a particular personality (e.g., in the Coriolanus). Secondly, Pelling discerns a characterization method, also used by other ancient authors, to the effect that the depiction is done initially in a very general terms and then is gradually corrected and redefined till it becomes more a singular, subtler and individual picture; in other words, the biographer may begin with portraying a ‘character’ but then might proceed to illustrate an individuated ‘personality’.52 In all, Pelling is of the opinion that both viewpoints are discernible in Plutarch. It may be suggested that if a ‘character-viewpoint’ stereotypically sees the person from the ‘outside’ while the ‘personality-viewpoint’ tends to understand the individual from the ‘inside’, then one feature of Plutarch’s dualistic frame of mind may elucidate the manner in which it is possible to understand the ‘self ’ from both viewpoints. We may notice that Plutarch, like other Middle Platonists53 is viewing the Ideas as well as the Logos as both immanent and as transcendent. The Ideas, for instance, in their immanent aspect, are the content of the immanent Logos. As transcendent, they are the thoughts of God. The Supreme Being himself, as the totality of ideas, is the model (παράδειγμα) for the physical

50  Gill 1983, 472–4. Gill is aware that that does not rule out Plutarch’s interest in the development of character (474). 51  Pelling 2002, 308–12, 321–2. 52 Pelling 2002, 292–7, 311 gives examples for this technique in the Alcibiades and the Lysander. 53  Cf. Dillon 1977, 201.

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world and particularly for man.54 There are two moments of Osiris, in the Egyptian myth: at one point he is his soul (eternal, transcendent and indestructible) and in another moment he is his body (which is repeatedly torn by Typhon, and constantly reassembled by Isis).55 These two moments may perhaps be applied to the human state itself, and be used in addressing Plutarch’s fluctuation between a depiction of the person ‘from within’ as developmental and of his character ‘from without’ as a paradigm or an archetype.

7 Self and Narrative Richard Sorabji56 has pointed out that in Plutarch’s works there is an advanced and unique way of viewing the self – as part of an explosion of new ideas in the second century AD – by linking the ‘I’ with narrative.57 Writing about tranquility, Plutarch suggests securing it by using our memories to weave our lives into a unified whole. This continuous self is thus not given but is rather constructed, even though the building-blocks were there (De tranqu. anim. 473 b–474 b): ἀλλ’ ὥσπερ ὁ ζωγραφούμενος ἐν Ἅιδου σχοινοστρόφος ὄνῳ τινὶ παρίησιν ἐπιβοσκομένῳ καταναλίσκειν τὸ πλεκόμενον, οὕτω τῶν πολλῶν ἀναίσϑητος καὶ ἀχάριστος ὑπολαμβάνουσα λήϑη καὶ κατανεμομένη πρᾶξίν τε πᾶσαν ἀφανίζουσα καὶ κατόρϑωμα καὶ σχολὴν ἐπίχαριν καὶ συμπεριφορὰν καὶ ἀπόλαυσιν οὐκ ἐᾷ τὸν βίον ἕνα γενέσϑαι συμπλεκομένων τοῖς παροῦσι τῶν παρῳχημένων, ἀλλ’ ὥσπερ ἕτερον τὸν ἐχϑὲς ὄντα τοῦ σήμερον καὶ τὸν αὔριον ὁμοίως οὐ τὸν αὐτὸν τῷ σήμερον διαιροῦσα πᾶν τὸ γιγνόμενον εὐϑὺς εἰς τὸ ἀγένητον τῷ ἀμνημονεύτῳ καϑίστησιν. οἱ μὲν γὰρ ἐν ταῖς σχολαῖς τὰς αὐξήσεις ἀναιροῦντες, ὡς τῆς οὐσίας ἐνδελεχῶς ῥεούσης, λόγῳ ποιοῦσιν ἡμῶν ἕκαστον ἄλλον ἑαυτοῦ καὶ ἄλλον, οἱ δὲ τῇ μνήμῃ τὰ πρότερον μὴ στέγοντες μηδ’ ἀναλαμβάνοντες ἀλλ’ ὑπεκρεῖν ἐῶντες ἔργῳ ποιοῦσιν ἑαυτοὺς καϑ’ ἡμέραν ἀποδεεῖς καὶ κενοὺς καὶ τῆς αὔριον ἐκκρεμαμένους, ὡς τῶν πέρυσι καὶ πρῴην καὶ χϑὲς οὐ πρὸς αὐτοὺς ὄντων οὐδ’ ὅλως αὐτοῖς γενομένων. But like that painting of a man twisting rope in Hades, who permits a donkey grazing nearby to eat it up as he plaits it, so insensible and thankless forgetfulness steals upon the multitude and takes possession of them, consuming every action and success, every pleasant moment of leisure and companionship and enjoyment; it does not allow life to become unified, when past is interwoven with present, but separating yesterday, as though it were different, from to‑day, and to‑morrow likewise, as though it were not the same as to‑day, forgetfulness straightway makes every event to have never happened because it is never recalled. For those who in the Schools do away with growth and increase on the ground that Being is in a continual flux, in theory make each of us a series of persons different from oneself; so those who do not preserve or recall by memory former events, but allow them to flow away, actually make themselves deficient and empty each day and dependent  Cf. De Sera 550 d. De Is. 373ab. 56  Sorabji 2006, 172–180. Cf. Sorabji 2008, 21–2. 57  Sorabji also attributes this view to Seneca, De Brev. Vitae 10.3–6. 54

55 Cf.

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upon the morrow, as though what had happened last year and yesterday and the day before had no relation to them nor had happened to them at all.

The question here regarding the self concerns the relation of the ‘life’ we are weaving together or building and the ‘I’. What is the concept of ourselves that we are acquiring by the act of assembling past actions and memories? What unity over time will this act achieve? There is always the risk of appropriating false memories into the concept of the ‘self’, and there is another risk of continually adopting different personae. An intriguing question would be to trace the relevance of this weaving of a ‘life’ and Plutarch’s own project of biographies. It is interesting to think that Plutarch as an author constructs the life of others, and as a person – also that of himself. In what way are the two processes similar or dissimilar? Another fascinating approach to this link would be to trace the way in which Plutarch the biographer lets his characters ‘weave’ their own lives, undo them and then start constructing them once again. The dual element in this action is Plutarch’s instruction that we should construct the self as something made of differences, keeping an inner tension between the good and bad elements together: δεῖ δ’ ὥσπερ ἐν πινακίῳ χρωμάτων ἐν τῇ ψυχῇ τῶν πραγμάτων τὰ λαμπρὰ καὶ φαιδρὰ προβάλλοντας ἀποκρύπτειν τὰ σκυϑρωπὰ καὶ πιέζειν. ἐξαλεῖψαι γὰρ οὐκ ἔστι παντάπασιν οὐδ’ ἀπαλλαγῆναι· ‘παλίντροπος γὰρ ἁρμονίη κόσμου ὅκωσπερ λύρης καὶ τόξου’, καὶ τῶν ἀνϑρωπίνων καϑαρὸν οὐδὲν οὐδ’ ἀμιγές … ἀλλ’ ὁ πᾶσι χρῆσϑαι καὶ μειγνύναι πρὸς τὸ οἰκεῖον ἐπιστάμενος, οὕτω καὶ τῶν πραγμάτων ἀντιστοιχίας ἐχόντων … ὥσπερ ἁρμονικοὺς ἀμβλύνοντας ἀεὶ τοῖς κρείττοσι τὰ χείρονα καὶ τὰ φαῦλα τοῖς χρηστοῖς ἐμπεριλαμβάνοντας ἐμμελὲς τὸ τοῦ βίου μῖγμα ποιεῖν καὶ οἰκεῖον αὑτοῖς. Like colors in a painting, so in the soul it is right that we should place in the foreground bright and cheerful experiences and conceal and suppress the gloomy; for to wipe them out and be rid of them altogether is impossible. ‘For the harmony of the universe, like that of a lyre or a bow, is by alternatives’ (Heracleitus, Frag. 51 DK) and in mortal affairs there is nothing pure and unmixed … but rather the man who knows how to use all and to blend them properly, so also in human affairs, which contain the principles of opposition to each other … like musicians who achieve harmony by constantly deadening bad music with better and encompassing the bad with the good, we should make the blending of our life harmonious and conformable to our own nature.

This has a close resemblance to Plutarch’s understanding of his art and of the biographical genre in the beginning of the Life of Cimon (2.5): ὥσπερ γὰρ τοὺς τὰ καλὰ καὶ πολλὴν ἔχοντα χάριν εἴδη ζῳγραφοῦντας, ἂν προσῇ τι μικρὸν αὐτοῖς δυσχερές, ἀξιοῦμεν μήτε παραλιπεῖν τοῦτο τελέως μήτ’ ἐξακριβοῦν· τὸ μὲν γὰρ αἰσχράν, τὸ δ’ ἀνομοίαν παρέχεται τὴν ὄψιν· οὕτως ἐπεὶ χαλεπόν ἐστι, μᾶλλον δ’ ἴσως ἀμήχανον, ἀμεμφῆ καὶ καϑαρὸν ἀνδρὸς ἐπιδεῖξαι βίον, ἐν τοῖς καλοῖς ἀναπληρωτέον ὥσπερ ὁμοιότητα τὴν ἀλήϑειαν. τὰς δ’ ἐκ πάϑους τινὸς ἢ πολιτικῆς ἀνάγκης ἐπιτρεχούσας ταῖς πράξεσιν ἁμαρτίας καὶ κῆρας ἐλλείμματα μᾶλλον ἀρετῆς τινος ἢ κακίας πονηρεύματα νομίζοντας οὐ δεῖ πάνυ προϑύμως ἐναποσημαίνειν τῇ ἱστορίᾳ καὶ περιττῶς, ἀλλ’ ὥσπερ αἰδουμένους ὑπὲρ τῆς ἀνϑρωπίνης φύσεως, εἰ καλὸν οὐδὲν εἰλικρινὲς οὐδ’ ἀναμφισβήτητον εἰς ἀρετὴν ἦϑος γεγονὸς ἀποδίδωσιν.

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We demand of those who would paint fair and graceful features that, in case of any light imperfection therein, they shall neither wholly omit it nor yet emphasize it, because the one course makes the portrait ugly and the other unlike its original. In like manner, since it is difficult, nay rather perhaps impossible, to represent a man‘s life as stainless and pure, in its fair chapters we must round out the truth into fullest semblance; but those transgressions and follies by which, owing to passion, perhaps, or political compulsion, a man’s career is sullied, we must regard rather as shortcomings in some particular excellence than as the vile products of positive baseness, and we must not all too zealously delineate them in our history, and superfluously too, but treat them as though we were tenderly defending human nature for producing no character which is absolutely good and indisputably set towards virtue.

Bearing in mind this innate duality, one may also inquire about the limits of the self. When Plutarch intentionally wrote his Lives as parallels, would it make sense to view the coupled statesmen as displaying two embodiments of the same soul of interpersonal ‘self’?58

8 Knowing the Self The end of the treatise De E binds the famous Greek aphorism concerning the self, with which this chapter began, with the discussion of the nature of the divine, as if by knowing one, a person is also necessarily familiar with the other (394 c): αὶ γὰρ ὁ αὐλὸς ὀψὲ καὶ πρῴην ἐτόλμησε φωνήν ‘ἐφινερϑίσιν’ ἀφιέναι· τὸν δὲ πρῶτον χρόνον εἵλκετο πρὸς τὰ πένϑη, καὶ τὴν περὶ ταῦτα λειτουργίαν οὐ μάλ’ ἔντιμον οὐδὲ φαιδρὰν εἶχεν, εἶτ’ ἐμίχϑη πάντα πᾶσι. μάλιστα δὲ τὰ ϑεῖα πρὸς τὰ δαιμόνια συγχέοντες εἰς ταραχὴν αὑτοὺς κατέστησαν. ἀλλά γε τῷ εἶ τό ‘γνῶϑι σαυτόν’ ἔοικέ πως ἀντικεῖσϑαι καὶ τρόπον τινὰ πάλιν συνᾴδειν· τὸ μὲν γὰρ ἐκπλήξει καὶ σεβασμῷ πρὸς τὸν ϑεὸν ὡς ὄντα διὰ παντὸς ἀναπεφώνηται, τὸ δ’ ὑπόμνησίς ἐστι τῷ ϑνητῷ τῆς περὶ ὐτὸ φύσεως καὶ ἀσϑενείας For it was quite late, indeed only the other day, that the flute ventured to let itself speak ‘on themes of joy’; in early times it trailed along in mourning, nor was its service therein much esteemed or very cheerful; then there came a general confusion. It was specially by mingling things which were of Gods with those which were of daemons that the distinction of the instruments was lost. Anyhow, the phrase “KNOW THYSELF” seems to stand in a sort of antithesis to the letter “E”59, and yet, again, to accord with it. The letter is an appeal, a cry raised in awe and worship to the God, as being throughout all eternity; the phrase is a reminder to mortal man of his own nature and of his weakness.60 58 It

would appear that the only suggestion so far to insinuate an idea partially close to this concept is that of Boulogne 2000, 33–4. 41–4. Addressing the formal comparisons (synkriseis) Boulogne proposes that they are to present an ideal picture of a ‘third man’, combining the two excellences of the two heroes. Note that this is a moral ideal, and not an actual interpersonal entity. 59 Which also means, ‘Thou art’. 60  In the translation of Sir Thomas Browne (1683) Certain Miscellany Tracts, Tract XI: Of the answers of the Oracle of Apollo.

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Thus, there seems to be a sense in which knowing oneself is also grasping the divine element within the world, and that discerning one entails knowledge of the other. A sense of the infinite hiatus between the self and the divine brings us back to the duality between this world and the transcendent one. The ensuing humility felt by this awareness goes well with the third of inscriptions on the temple of Apollo in Delphi, the aphorism ‘nothing in excess’ (μηδὲν ἄγαν), to which Plutarch also adheres (De E 387 f ), and which also acts as a way to construct our individual selves.61

Bibliography Plutarch, Live of Cimon. Trans. by Bernadotte Perrin: Plutarch’s Lives: in eleven volumes. Vol. 2. Loeb Classical Library 47. London 1948. Plutarch, Moralia. Trans. by Frank Cole Babbitt: Plutarch’s Moralia in sixteen volumes, Vol. 5. Loeb Classical Library 306. Cambridge, Mass. 1936, reprint 1969. – Trans. by William Clark Helmbold: Plutarch’s Moralia in sixteen volumes, Vol. 6. Loeb Classical Library 337. Cambridge, Mass. 1939. – Trans. by Harold Cherniss and William C. Helmbold: Plutarch’s Moralia in sixteen volumes, Vol. 12. Loeb Classical Library 406. Cambridge, Mass. 1957. Almagor, Eran 2009. “A ‘barbarian’ symposium and the absence of philanthropia (Artaxerxes 15),” in J. Ribeiro Ferreira, D. Leão, M. Tröster, P. Barata Dias (eds.), Symposion and Philanthropia in Plutarch. Coimbra, 131–146. Alt, Karin 1993. Weltflucht und Weltbejahung. Zur Frage des Dualismus bei Plutarch, Numenios, Plotin. Akademie der Wissenschaften und der Literatur. Mainz. Berkeley, George 1710. A Treatise Concerning the Principles of Human Knowledge. Dublin. Bianchi, Ugo 1987. “Plutarch und der Dualismus”, ANRW II.36.1, 350–365. Bos, Abraham P. 2001. “The Distinction between ‘Platonic’ and ‘Aristotelian’ Dualism Illustrated from Plutarch’s Myth in de facie in orbe lunae”, in A. Pérez Jiménez, F. Casadesús (eds.), Estudios sobre Plutarco: Misticismo y religiones mistéricas en la obra de Plutarco. Madrid /Málaga, 57–70. Boulogne, Jaques 2000. “Les synkriseis de Plutarque. Une rhetorique de la synkrisis”, in L. van der Stockt (ed.), Rhetorical Theory and Praxis in Plutarch. Acta of the IV International Congress of the International Plutarch Society, Leuven, July 3–6, 1996. Louvain, 33–44. Brenk, Frederick E. 1977. In Mist Apparelled: Religious Themes in Plutarch’s Moralia and Lives. Leiden. 61  It is done through the constant choice of a moderate course of action. It would seem that Plutarch believes that virtue consists in the attainment of the right ‘mean’ between two extreme passions (De virt. mor. 444 c–445 a, 451de), following Aristotle. The latter’s doctrine of the mean (Arist. NE 1106a23–4, 1106b35 ff.) stresses the habitual choice of the right action, which creates a permanent disposition (hexis), where the passions are continuously restrained. The extent to which the rational part of the soul succeeds or fails to control passions through habit constitutes a person’s character (cf. De virt. mor. 443cd).

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– 1987. “An Imperial Heritage: The Religious Spirit of Plutarch of Chaironeia”, ANRW II.36.1, 248–349. Bucher-Isler, Barbara 1972. Norm und Individualität in den Biographien Plutarchs. Bern / Stuttgart. Burnyeat, Myles 1982. “Idealism and Greek Philosophy: What Descartes Saw and Berkeley Missed”, Philosophical Review 90, 3–40. Chlup, Radek 2000. “Plutarch’s dualism and the Delphic cult,” Phronesis 45, 138–158. Courcelle, Pierre 1974. Connais-toi toi-meme. Paris. Del Caro, Adrian 1989. “Dionysian Classicism, or Nietzsche’s Appropriation of an Aesthetic Norm”, Journal of the History of Ideas 50, 589–605. Dillon, John M. 1977. The Middle Platonists. London. – 1986. “Plutarch and second-century Platonism”, in A. H. Armstrong (ed.), Classical Mediterranean Spirituality. New York, 214–229. – 2002. “Plutarch and god: Theodicy and Cosmogony in the Thought of Plutarch”, in: D.  Frede, A.  Laks (eds.), Traditions of Theology. Studies in Hellenistic Theology, Its Background and Aftermath. Leiden/Boston/Köln, 223–237. Donini, Pierluigi 1988. “Science and metaphysics. Platonism, Aristotelianism, and Stoicism in Plutarch’s On the Face in the Moon”, in John M. Dillon, Anthony A. Long (eds.), The question of “Eclecticism”. Studies in later Greek Philosophy. Berkeley, 126–144. Duff, Timothy 1999. Plutarch’s Lives: exploring virtue and vice. Oxford. Fine, Gail 2003. “Subjectivity, Ancient and Modern: the Cyreniacs, Sextus, and Descartes”, in: John Miller, Brad Inwood (eds.), Hellenistic and Early Modern Philosophy. Oxford, 192–231. Fontaine, Petrus F. M. 1986. The Light and the Dark: A Cultural History of Dualism. Amsterdam. Froidefond, Christian 1987. “Plutarque et le platonisme”, ANRW II.36.1, 184–233. Geiger, Joseph 2008. “Lives and Moralia: How Were Put Asunder What Plutarch Hath Joined Together”, in: Anastasios Nikolaidis (ed.), The Unity of Plutarch’s Work: “Moralia” Themes in the “Lives”, Features of the “Lives” in the “Moralia”. Berlin/New York, 5–12. Gill, Christopher 1983. “The Question of Character-Development: Plutarch and Tacitus”, CQ 33, 469–487. – 1986. “The Question of Character and Personality in Greek Tragedy”, Poetics Today 7, 251–273. – 1990. ‘The Character-Personality Distinction’, in: Christopher Pelling (ed.), Characterization and Individuality in Greek Literature. Oxford, 1–31. Ingenkamp, Gerd 1988. “Der Höhepunkt der deutschen Plutarchrezeption: Plutarch bei Nietzsche”, ICS 13, 505–530. Jones, Roger W. 1916. The Platonism of Plutarch. Menasha. Long, Anthony A. 2001. “Ancient Philosophy’s Hardest Question: What to Make of Oneself?”, Representations 74, 19–36. Matthews, Gareth B. 1977. “Consciousness and Life”, Philosophy 52, 13–26. McDowell, John 1986. “Singular Thought and the Extent of Inner Space”, in: Philip Pettit, John McDowell (eds.), Subject, Thought and Context. Oxford, 137–168. Nietzsche, Friedrich 1872. Die Geburt der Tragödie aus dem Geiste der Musik. Leipzig. Opsomer, Jan 2005. “Plutarch’s Platonism Revisited”, in: Mauro Bonazzi, Vincenza Celluprica (eds.), L’eredità platonica. Studi sul platonismo da Arcesilao a Proclo. Napoli, 161–200.

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Pelling, Christopher 1995. “The moralism of Plutarch’s Lives”, in: Doreen Innes, Harry Hine, Christopher Pelling (eds.), Ethics and Rhetoric: classical essays for Donald Russell. Oxford, 205–220. – 2002. Plutarch and History. London. Russell, Donald A. 1966. “On Reading Plutach’s Lives”, Greece & Rome 13, 139–154. Sharples, Robert W. 2007. “Peripatetics on soul and intellect”, in: Richard Sorabji, Robert W.  Sharples (eds.), Greek and Roman Philosophy 100 BC–200 AD. 2 vol. London, 607–620. Sorabji, Richard 2006. Self: Ancient and Modern Insights about Individuality, Life, and Death. Oxford, 172–180. – 2008. “Graeco-Roman Varieties of Self”, in: Pauliina Remes, Juha Sihvola (eds.), Ancient Philosophy of the Self. Dordrecht/London, 13–34. Stadter, Philip 2004. “Plutarch: A Diplomat for Delphi”, in: Lukas de Blois, Jeroen Bons, Ton Kessels, Dirk M. Schenkeveld (eds.), The Statesman in Plutarch’s Works. Volume I: Plutarch’s Statesman and His Aftermath: Political, Philosophical, and Literary Aspects. Leiden / Boston, 19–31. Swain, Simon 1989. “Character Change in Plutarch”, Phoenix 43, 62–68. – 1991. “Plutarch, Hadrian, and Delphi”, Historia 40, 318–330. Whittaker, John 1980. “Plutarch, Platonism, and Christianity”, in: Henry J. Blumenthal, Robert A. Markus (eds.), Neoplatonism and early Christian thought: essays in honour of A. H. Armstrong. London, 64–78.

Delimiting a Self by God in Epictetus1 Jula Wildberger 1 Introduction The word ‘self ’ is a variable for that which is being denoted when people use the singular personal pronouns ‘I’ and ‘you’. The connotation and thus definition of ‘self ’ changes with the individual user or class of users of the word, but three essential features restrict the range of meanings that the variable can take. Selves occur with2 people: only people use the word ‘self ’ and they use it only with reference either to themselves or to other entities that they treat like people. Selves are reflexive: the user of a personal pronoun implies that the entity referred to not only exists but is also aware of its existence.3 Selves presuppose some form of symbolic, conceptual thought, as is implied in the pronouns or the deixis expressed by them. It is clear that Epictetus,4 the philosopher who is the subject of this paper, does propose an understanding of ‘self ’ in the basic sense outlined above. He shares the Stoics’ general concern about language and reason (both: λόγος) as the distinguishing mark of people, and also the Stoic interest in the reflexive side of agency. Activity of both non-rational and rational animals is explained by οἰκείωσις, self-appropriation and the perception of things as something appropriate for the individual agent.5 Humans, however, differ from animals in that this firstlevel reflexive relation of appropriation is made explicit in a further, second-level  I wish to thank Thomas Bénatouïl for his valuable comments on a first draft this paper. preposition ‘with’ was chosen to avoid locating the self and to counter Anscombe’s objection (1975) that ‘I’ has no referent. Even if there is no such thing as a self, people still say ‘I’ and believe that they are referring to something, so that the term has a certain meaning for them. 3  This is obvious in the case of ‘I’. The speaker using the word ‘you (sg.)’ also expects the addressee to understand that it is the addressee he is referring to, which is only possible if the addressee is aware of himself as a self. Reydams-Schils 2005 a, 15 and 17 regards reflexive pronouns as the signifiers of ‘self’. 4  By ‘Epictetus’ I mean the speaker presented in those texts that have been transmitted to us as documenting the words uttered by the 1st/2nd century philosopher Epictetus. For the purpose of this paper it is not necessary to distinguish the historical from the reported Epictetus or from Arrian, the author of the Discourses. 5  See, e.g., 1.19.9–15; 1.22.14 and 19; 1.27.12–14. References to the Discourses will be made by number only. 1

2 The

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reflexive step involving their faculty of reason. They are not only aware of what is appropriate for them, but also tell it to themselves and assent to what they tell themselves.6 Epictetus explores this reflexive relation of the agent to himself and provides us with clear-cut distinctions in terms whose technicality and lack of variation indicate that their purpose is to express a thoroughly considered and well-defined overall conception of ‘self’.7 At the same time, Epictetus adds, or enhances, a feature of selves that is not essential according to the general meaning indicated above but becomes important if one wishes to understand how the self relates to God. According to Epictetus, the human self is delimited by distinguishing it from everything else. It is what is ‘my own’ (ἐμόν) in contrast to what is ‘not my own’ (οὐκ ἐμόν) or ‘alien’ (ἀλλότριον). This basic demarcation is accompanied by other classificatory features, most of which can be sorted according to the two basic categories of what is one’s own and what is not. Very important, for example, is a distinction between inside and outside, with the self and that which is one’s own being located inside, whereas the outside is not one’s own and alien. But even within the range of what one normally might call ‘inside’, the place occupied by the self is further narrowed down. The body, for example, is not self,8 nor the psyche as a whole; only in the leading part of it, the ἡγεμονικόν, can the self be found. The Stoics did not undertake a further spatial subdivision of this part of the soul but distinguished different functions or powers (δυνάμεις) within it, and Epictetus uses such a functional subdivision to further delimit that which really is one’s own: it is only a certain function performed by the leading part of the soul, namely the ‘use of appearances’ (χρῆσις τῶν φαντασιῶν). The final demarcation line, however, is drawn with yet another concept: prohairesis,9 which is the faculty whose activities are assent (συγκατάϑεσις), impulse (ὁρμή) and striving with its counterpart recoiling (ὄρεξις and ἔκκλισις) as well as all those activities themselves.10 As such, prohairesis is also a particular type of cause11 and responsible for those things that are ‘in one’s power’ (ἐπ’ ἐμοί, ἐφ’ ἡμῖν). Accordingly, it is prohairesis that serves as the basic criterion for further  Sen. Epist. 113.18 (most probably reporting a standard Stoic tenet); Epict. 1.1.1–5; 1.20. Bonhoeffer 1894, 16 and Gourinat 2005, 105 n. 60.  8  Long 2002, 158–61.  9 I regard this word as untranslatable. The best attempt I know of is Bénatouïl’s (2009) ‘résolution’. 10  In this I follow Gourinat 2005, 108 and 114 (“une faculté dont les activités sont l’assentiment, l’impulsion et le désir”) and disagree with Long (2002), who translates prohairesis as ‘volition’ or ‘will’ and argues for a less strictly delimited understanding of the term (28–9): “The crucial idea is that volition is what persons are in terms of their mental faculties, consciousness, character, judgements, goals, and desires: volition is the self, what each of us is, as abstracted from the body. […] You and I are not our bodies, nor even do we own our bodies. We, our essential selves, are our volitions.” The self thus is “the purposive and self-conscious centre of a person” (207). 11  Gourinat 2005, 113.  6

 7 Pace

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divisions fundamental to Epictetus’ world-view and ethics (2.5.4–8), such as: object of prohairesis vs. not to be taken by prohaireis (προαιρετικόν / ἀπροαίρετον), free vs. slave (ἐλεύϑερον/δοῦλον) or unimpeded vs. impeded (ἀκώλυτον / κωλυτόν). Prohairesis is a narrower concept than simple ‘use of appearances’. It is a faculty characteristic exclusively of the minds of people and does not occur in animal minds. Animals, too, use appearances according to Epictetus, but humans do it differently, adhibiting a further important faculty specific to rational beings: parakolouthēsis, the reflective observation and evaluation of self and others.12 The prohairesis activities listed above imply assent to something that the reflecting mind tells itself when it has an appearance, and thus also the possibility of error. As a result of this, the natural activity of humans is not just the use of appearances, as it is for animals, but the correct use of appearances.13 This understanding of prohairesis as correct, or in the case of failure incorrect, use of appearances further implies that mental activities which do not involve judgments, e.g. having appearances without assenting to them or conceiving of something like a centaur without believing that centaurs exist, are not part of prohairesis in the proper sense of the word. A human being’s world thus seems to have a clear antithetical structure according to Epictetus. Yet things are not quite as easy as that. There are several areas where we might expect fuzzy or dissolving boundaries between inside and outside, between what is mine and what does not belong to me. Body and psyche, for example, interact according to mainstream Stoic theory, and it is not even clear what exactly a body is supposed to be. There is also the interface between the external world and mind through sense perception (αἴσϑησις) and appearance (φαντασία): here inside and outside seem to meet in such a way that the contribution of each is difficult or maybe even impossible to delimit. What about friends (the other selves) and social relations, that which Epictetus calls σχέσεις? How does the self, which according to the Stoics is essentially social, both immerse and distinguish itself from the networks in which it is entangled?14 Another such problem is the place and role of the divine in the apparently clearcut distribution of things and faculties in the world, and it is this last problem that I wish to address. ‘The divine’ for Epictetus is first of all the divinity that he calls ‘Zeus’ or ‘God’ (ὁ ϑεός) and to whom he attributes the creation and management of the cosmos.15 How do human selves fit into this universal creation? Who makes them, who manages them and what is their place in the whole? Such questions are usually explored from the human side by looking at how humans  1.6.12–17; 2.8.4–8.  See, e.g., 1.1.7; 1.12.34; 1.20.15; 2.19.32; 2.22.29; 2.23.40; 3.22.20; 4.12.12; Diss. Frg. 4 (Stob. 2.8.30). 14 This question is addressed in Reydams-Schils 2005 a. 15  Radice 1982 analyzes the use of theological terms in Epictetus. On God and Zeus see in particular 15–29. 12 13

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develop and manage their self or how the self is educated and plays its role in a social or cosmic nexus.16 Here I wish to approach the problem from the perspective of physics and ontology and discuss three intimately linked questions. – How is the self delimited from God? God is all-pervading according to standard Stoic theology. If this is also true for Epictetus, where is God to be placed in the dichotomies of own and alien or inside and outside? – In which way is God the cause, creator and shaper of the self? And how does this relate to the self-shaping that humans perform themselves, especially that undertaken by the philosopher in progress? – If, as will become apparent in the discussion of the previous questions, the shape and activities of human selves originate from God and should be perfectly aligned with God, in which sense can we still speak of a separate, individual human self?

2 Delimiting the self from God: ‘inside’ or ‘outside’? The first and most elementary question to start with is whether God is ‘inside’ or ‘outside’, different from the self or the same. If God is ‘outside’, he is excluded from the sphere of that which can be good or bad and would have to be regarded as irrelevant. If God is ‘inside’, i.e. in the self, how can we still speak of a self, instead of just omnipresent God? It is clear that such questions lead us into a hotly debated area, that of Epictetus’ alleged theism in contrast to the more pantheistic theology of other Stoics. However, I am not sure whether these modern terms are particularly helpful for understanding Epictetus’ position on the issues he himself is interested in, and will therefore not resort to them for classifying my findings.17 2.1 Selves as parts of God and humans as parts of the cosmos As simple as our question whether God is inside or outside might sound, Epictetus’ answer is far from clear. For example, he refers to God as ‘a different one’ 16 Almost every study of Epictetus touches upon this aspect of his philosophy. See in particular Long 2002, 207–30 and passim, but also Gill 2006, 371–91 and 2008, Sorabji 2006, 181–97 and 2007 as well as both scholars’ discussion of each other’s views in Remes, Sihvola 2008. 17 An excellent treatment is Algra 2007 (see also 2009 b, 244). Algra highlights the width and thus imprecision of the terms (2007, 37) and engages with the views of Long 2002, 142–79. A more detailed review of earlier literature is given by Vanhaegendoren 2004, who regards Epictetus as a theist. Radice 1982, 83–91 argues against a pantheistic reading of passages in which Epictetus talks about God and, without explicitly saying so, rejects the use of a terminology that is not Epictetus’ own. Bonhoeffer’s conclusion (1894, 2) that one finds a “für unsere Begriffe kaum verständliches Gemisch von Theismus, Pantheismus und Polytheismus” encapsulates the problem: our categories are not Epictetus’ own.

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(ἄλλος),18 while also stating more than once that God is inside.19 One solution to this paradoxical evidence consists in assuming a part-whole relation. It is noteworthy that Epictetus does not use the word ‘someone else’ (ἕτερος) when referring to God as different from the self. According to a distinction attributed to Stoics in general, the whole is neither ‘the same as the parts’ (τὰ αὐτὰ τοῖς μέρεσιν) nor ‘something else’ than or ‘beside the parts’ (ἕτερα παρὰ τὰ μέρη), and in fact, Epictetus does describe God and man as standing in such a relation to each other.20 It might therefore seem natural to assume that man is a part of God and wonder, with A. A. Long,21 “how we as individuals are capable of thinking for ourselves and able to assume responsibility for our own lives” “if our minds are simply and directly ‘parts’ of God’s mind.” However, as with pantheism and theism, this might not have been the way in which Epictetus viewed the problem. As it turns out, he seems to envisage different types of part-whole relations between God and man. For example, it is less clear than one would expect who of the two is the part and who the whole of which the other is a part. Sometimes, [a] humans or their souls are described as parts of a whole, namely God,22 but then again [b] humans appear as wholes that contain a part of God.23 One even finds both relations back to back in the same passage: [Interlocutor:] “So what? Aren’t they [i.e. plants and animals] works of gods too?” [Epictetus:] “They are, but they are neither primary nor parts of gods. [a] But you, you are a primary being, you are a detached portion (ἀπόσπασμα) of God. [b] You’ve a part of him in yourself”. (2.8.10–11)24

These two different relations are to be explained by an important distinction that Epictetus makes when speaking about the cosmos and God and the parts of each. [a] When speaking of humans as selves, as individual prohaireseis, he describes them as parts of God and, in fact, the only parts of God. [b] When speaking of humans as the complete body-soul compound and three-dimensional body, he regards them as wholes into which God has placed a part of himself. [c] As such wholes of body and soul, humans are parts too – not of God, however, but of the cosmos, ‘the whole’ or the cosmic city.25 Epictetus never explicitly identifies the  1.25.13; 1.30.1; 2.5.22; 3.1.43; 3.3.13; 4.1.103. both refers to God (1.14.13–14 ὁ ϑεὸς ἔνδον ἐστὶ; 2.16.33) or a god (2.8.12–14) inside. These are the most unequivocal passages; more passages can at least be interpreted in a similar sense. 20 Sext. Emp. Pyrrh. Hyp. 3.170 (SVF 3.75); 1.1.12; 1.14.6; 1.17.27; 2.8.10–11. 21  Long 2002, 148. 22  1.14.6; 2.8.10, where the plural ‘gods’ is used. 23  1.1.12; 1.17.27; 2.8.11. 24  All translations are my own, made with the intention to render the Greek as literally as possible. 25  1.12.26; 1.14.10; 1.20.16; 2.5.13; 2.5.25–26; 2.10.3; 2.10.5; 4.1.78; 4.7.6–7. A similar distinction is made by Sorabji 2006, 182: “[…] the student is to be narrowed down to his will, and 18

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cosmos with God. This does not mean that he did not regard the cosmos as a divine, immortal living being ensouled by an active principle,26 but it clearly shows that he took care to use the name ‘God’ in a more restricted manner. Further ambiguities can be identified if we consider the nature of the partwhole relation. As we have seen, a human self in Epictetus can be defined spatially, as the leading part of the soul in contrast to all the rest, or in a functional and causal sense, as a specific faculty (prohairesis) and its appropriate activities or ‘works’ (ἔργα). Accordingly, we could ask whether human selves are spatially extended parts of God or rather parts in a different, qualitative, causal or functional manner. There are clear indications that Epictetus regards the human soul-body compound as a spatio-temporal part of the cosmos. It is there for a certain time, taking up space that it must leave again for others to come.27 Just as all other bodies and beings that are part of the cosmos, the human soul-body compound is also a functional part in an organised whole: like a limb, a human being exists for the benefit of the whole organism and is, accordingly, less important and subordinate to the community of parts.28 However, this is only true of the human body-compound as part of the cosmos. Matters seem to be different when Epictetus talks about human reason and thus the prohairesis-self: Don’t you know how minute a part [you are] in comparison to the whole? But only with regard to the body, since with regard to reason you are in no way inferior to the gods nor even smaller. The size of reason is assessed not by length or height, but by beliefs. (1.12.26)

Nor does the relation between prohairesis-self (part) and God (whole) seem to be a causal one, in such a way that the part would be a sub-cause of the whole and thus unable to become active as a cause against or independently of it. Epictetus asserts that Zeus cannot overcome a prohairesis (1.1.23), not even the prohairesis of a fool.29 his will to what is under its control. And the agent who does the narrowing is the embodied person who walks the streets at dawn.” However, for Sorabji the body-soul compound is the ‘total entity’ and prohairesis only an aspect of the whole (187). 26  Only rarely is the cosmos spoken of in terms applicable to God. In 1.12.14 someone blames the cosmos for his misfortunes; in Diss. Frg. 3 [Stob. 4.44.66] everything obeys and serves the cosmos. In 1.9.1, 6 the attribute κόσμιος (‘citizen of the world / belonging to the world’) is explained with the fact that humans have their origin from God. On the other hand, there are passages in which God seems to be separated from the cosmos as something which he has produced (4.7.6) and has use for in a specific state (1.29.29). However, also the cosmos itself may have use for something (3.24.94 χρείαν ἔσχεν). Vanhaegendoren 2004, 506 concludes: ‘Mit dem Kosmos ist Gott somit auf keinen Fall identisch.’ See also Radice 1982, 41–3 and below, n. 40 and n. 45. 27  2.5.13–4; 3.24.10; 3.24.92–4; 4.1.106. 28  2.5.24–6; 2.10.5; 4.7.6–7. 29 That this is true also of fools can be seen from passages such as 4.6.5–6 and 4.9.18, where Epictetus states God’s inability to make people wise or happy, i.e. make them have the right beliefs. Beliefs are the exclusive possession of each individual human (4.7.35; see also 4.2 below).

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So far, we have seen two reasons why prohairesis-selves would not be parts of God at all: in terms of capacity and quality they are, at least potentially, equal to or coextensive with God; as causes, they are independent and act separately. And there is yet a third understanding of the relation between God and human selves that also seems to preclude a part-whole relation in the proper sense. Men are described as sons of Zeus;30 human selves are thus genealogically related to God.31 Epictetus presents it as common Stoic knowledge that “seeds have fallen from God […] into all that is born and grown on earth, primarily, however, into the rational beings […]” (1.9.4–5). In other passages, he calls human souls, humans or selves “detached portions” (ἀποσπάσματα) of God.32 It is very likely that this word is a technical term. Zeno is said to have defined it as “a part and detached portion of the soul” of the parent, and in other Stoic texts the word always indicates detached portions of God that are humans or their minds.33 Often, this is taken as reference to ‘seed-descriptions’ (λόγοι σπερματικοί), which are inside all bodies and living beings of the cosmos and, at the same time, contained in the divine cosmos and its cosmic λόγος, the active principle as a whole.34 However, the term ἀπόσπασμα seems to point to a different relation. It is not used with regard to non-rational beings, which also have λόγοι σπερματικοί, and the literal meaning of ἀπόσπασμα indicates that something is pulled away from a In 4.1.100 the objects of prohairesis (προαιρετικά) are exempt from the circle of destruction and reconstruction. See also Sorabji 2006, 191–2. 30  1.13.3–4; 2.14.27; 3.24.95; 4.1.154; Heracles is the mythical hero that exemplifies this relationship: 2.16.45; 3.24.16. – God is not described in motherly terms but clearly as father (πατήρ), and there is no passage where Epictetus refers to women as God’s daughters. Of course, this does not mean that the theory does not apply to women as well, but he never expresses the idea in such a gender-neutral manner. 31  1.9.11; 1.9.13; 2.8.11 (συγγένεια). 32 1.14.6; 1.17.27; 2.8.11. 33  Zeno in [Galen], Defin. medic. 94, 19.370–1 Kühn (SVF 1.128, 2.742); Reydams-Schils 2005 a, 124; further discussion and references in Wildberger 2006, 228–9 with note 1128. Most scholars do not assume a more specific meaning of the term but treat it as equivalent to other expressions for parts of God. According to Long 2002, ἀποσπάσματα are “literally ‘offshoots’ of God, parts of God that God has assigned to be the mind or self of each person” (145) and “integral parts” (148). Does this imply that God without these offshoots would be incomplete? Algra (2007; compare already Bonhöfer 1894, 78–9) proposes a non-biological interpretation of the ‘father-son’ relationship between God and man (45–6): God is ‘father’ as a providential cause that endows humans with reason; humans are ‘sons’ if they “exhibit a special [i.e. filial] attitude to god” (46). This reading complements the one proposed here. Taking the descriptions in a more literal, biological sense has, however, two advantages: it explains why God is the father of all human beings, not just those who have a filial attitude towards him, and it explains why humans should have this filial attitude. In a later article (2009 a), Algra explains ἀπόσπασμα more precisely as “in a literal and physical sense a derived part” of the same kind (365), but also “a separate, individuated substance, not just a continuous part” (367–8). According to Tieleman 2002, 193 ἀπόσπασμα, when applied to humans, refers to the seed after it has been detached from the parent’s body. 34  For a more detailed discussion and references see Wildberger 2006, 205–8.

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whole35 so that, just as seed in the ordinary sense of the word, it is no longer part of the whole but detached as a separate entity. 2.2 The evidence of Discourse 1.14 We have seen that humans are detached causally, at least in the sense that they have become independent causal agents. Are they also spatially detached? This is a question difficult to answer when interpreting the Stoics in general, but even more so when reading Epictetus. The texts we have do not offer extensive descriptions of the cosmos’s physical make-up, and it is not unlikely that sometimes we are dealing with figurative speech. When God and humans are separate, the human being has come from God (2.8.11; 3.24.95) and, as it seems, from heaven. Seed has fallen down into the bodies on earth (1.9.4; 1.13.3). God is looking down from heaven (1.30.1), while humans are looking up to God and the divine (1.13.5), expecting to shed their bodily weight in death and return home to the heavens and God (1.9.11, 13–4). This latter passage, in particular, is strongly reminiscent of Plato’s Phaedo. However, even such allusions do not help to clarify the question because Plato can also be read in a Stoicising sense. While Plato has Socrates visualize a radically dualist conception of body and soul in figurative language, many Stoics regarded the ascent of the leading part of a sage’s soul as a physical reality.36 Similarly, the use of the word ‘place’ (χώρα) is ambiguous when Epictetus, again imitating Socrates in the Phaedo, exhorts a (fictitious) youth not to take his life but stay at the ‘place’ (χώρα) assigned to him by God (1.9.16). A Platonist would read χώρα in the common figurative sense of ‘task’ or ‘role’; a Stoic could also understand the more literal sense of physical location.37 There is one section, however, in which Epictetus seems to discuss the spatiotemporal position of God and the physics of the relation between God and his detached portions. In Discourse 1.14 Epictetus has been asked to make plausible the idea that God oversees each single action performed by a person. Epictetus gives an answer in two parts, arguing first that it is physically possible for God to perceive every detail in his creation (1–11) and then that God is also present inside humans (12–7). The first argument develops from two conceptions that Epictetus takes for granted as common and well-known Stoic tenets: that ‘all things are unified’ (ἡνῶσϑαι τὰ πάντα) and that there is ‘co-affection’ (συμ­ πάϑεια) between them. In traditional Stoic physics something is ‘unified’ if it has

35  This is confirmed by Epictetus’ use of ἀποσπάω in a non-technical sense (1.23.2; 1.25.10; 2.4.8; 4.1.112). 36  Hoven 1971; Algra 2009 a; 369–72; further references in Wildberger 2006, 223–5. 37  Epictetus often blends the two meanings, e.g. 1.2.26; 1.9.16; 4.1.109.

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one single pneuma38 that permeates it and holds it together (συνέχειν). There is only one such pneuma capable of unifying and holding together the cosmos as a whole: God, the active principle of the world.39 Epictetus could therefore argue that God is everywhere in the cosmos and so perceives everything, pointing out that God can also be regarded as the soul of the cosmos. However, in the extant texts, Epictetus never describes God as such a cosmic psyche and only sometimes refers to him as “nature (φύσις) of the whole”.40 Here in Discourse 1.14, he offers a more complex argument that implies a specific location of God in the world: God in the proper sense, he who is called ὁ ϑεός or Zeus, seems to reside in heaven. Epictetus highlights the special case of co-affection between heaven and earth, as if it were necessary to explain how someone in heaven can be aware of what happens on earth. Things on earth, also human bodies, are affected by the phases and movements of the moon and the sun (4–5), and plants undergo regular changes initiated by God. From where does [it come about] in such a regular fashion, as if by order of God, that plants blossom when he tells them to, grow buds when he tells them, bring forth fruit when he tells them, let them ripen, and again wait and rest when he tells them to throw off [their fruit] and shed their leaves, to gather themselves in themselves and wait quietly and rest? (1.14.3)

In the quoted passage Epictetus does not explain a causal mechanism. God’s command is introduced as a comparison (καϑάπερ) that leaves it open how exactly the plants learn and do what God ‘tells them to’. Nevertheless, it is clear that the affection is transmitted spatially from one place above to another on earth below, and this fact is also enhanced by the repeated use of the local interrogative adverb πόϑεν (3, 4). Later on, Epictetus compares God’s access to everything in the world with the sun’s ability to shed light all over the world. And God should not be able to oversee all things, to be present with all and receive some kind of transmission from all of them? So the sun is able to illuminate such a big part of all the world, leaving only a small [area] unilluminated, as much as can be covered by the 38  This is yet another untranslatable and highly debated Stoic term. I understand it as referring to God as a whole, the shares of God that constitute individual bodies, the Stoic elements air and fire, and god-matter mixtures that belong to the expansion range of these two elements (Wildberger 2006, 22–4. 60–80. 208–40). 39 Chrysippus in Alex. Aphr. Mixt. 216.14–7 Bruns (SVF 2.473); further references in Wildberger 2006, 16–7. Compare also 4.1.102. 40  Long 2002, 143 n. 2 and, e.g., 1.16.4; 1.16.9; 1.19.60; 1.20.16. It is not always clear whether the word is applied to an individual nature or to cosmic nature. That the cosmos has a φύσις means that he is a living being, at least at the level of plant life. Radice 1982, 58 observes a “superiorità di Dio sulla natura per ciò che concerne gli aspetti cosmologici, ed una sostanziale identità fra i due termini per ciò che riguarda l’aspetto provvidenziale e la sfera dei rapporti con l’uomo.” – On God as the soul of the cosmos see Wildberger 2006, 20 with notes.

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shadow cast by the earth, but the one who has made even the sun and leads him in a circle, as a small part of himself in comparison to the whole, that one should not be capable of perceiving all things? (1.14.9–10)

Epictetus takes up the idea that the cosmos is a unified body in which all parts are co-affected, as the term ‘transmission’ (διάδοσις) seems to indicate. It occurs in a Stoic argument for the existence of God in which the influence of celestial bodies on the sea, the atmosphere and beings on earth is used as evidence that the cosmos is a unified and not just a composite body. Only in a unified body, the anonymous Stoic argues, is such co-affection or affection ‘by transmission’ (κατὰ διάδοσιν) possible.41 One such instance of transmission is the communication between the leading part of the soul and the senses or other parts of the same soul.42 That Epictetus is thinking about some spatially extended connection that can relay information to or from God is also supported by the example of the sun whose light permeates the atmosphere. Interestingly, he calls the sun “a small part of [God] in comparison to the whole”. As we have seen, the human soulbody compound is no such part of God, but only contains a part of God. The sun, on the other hand, is fully part of God and led by him in a circle. If we take this literally, God, i.e. the whole of which the sun is a part and by which it is led in a circular motion,43 is the heaven. This is the closest Epictetus ever comes to describing God in the specific Stoic sense of the leading part or mind of the cosmos, which was identified with the ether, the fiery outer layer of the cosmos, or the purest uttermost part of it.44 Just as the leading part of a human soul is in touch with the whole soul-body compound that it perceives and directs, so God as the leading part of the world is in touch with, directs and, of course, perceives everything that happens in the cosmos. In this sense, then, God and humans (whether soul-body compounds or prohairesis-selves) would be spatially separate but intimately connected through the active, all-pervading principle of the cosmos that other Stoics, but not Epictetus, also call God.45 41  Sext. Emp. Math. 9.79–80 (SVF 2.1013). In Math. 9.256–7 διάδοσις implies complete blending, i.e. that one body permeates the other and does not just touch it from the outside. That passage is, however, not of Stoic origin, nor was διάδοσις an exclusively Stoic term. Further parallels, e.g., Cic. Nat. deor. 2.19 are listed in Dobbin 1998, 151. Radice 1982, 80–3 points to the ‘automatic’ character of διάδοσις. 42  On διάδοσις as a technical term in this sense see Tieleman 2002, 190–2. Laurand 2005, 525–6 points out that Epictetus in Discourse 1.14 is less interested in the co-affection between single parts of the cosmos but explains how these parts are perceived by a single agent. I only disagree with his designation of the agent as “un tout agent”, which he then identifies with the active principle (“la raison agissant dans la matière du cosmos”). 43  Radice 1982, 36 n. 34 and 87–9 refutes readings according to which ‘the whole’ is the cosmos and not God. 44 Wildberger 2006, 22–3 with further references. 45  Algra 2007, 36 proposes to frame the question of theism and pantheism in terms of Stoic conceptions: pantheism would correspond to an identification of God with the cosmos (which

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However, it is exactly in this Discourse that Epictetus insists that our souls are not only in touch (συναφεῖς) and cognate (συμφυεῖς) with God, but also his parts and interwoven with him (1.14.6). The use of the term ἀπόσπασμα indicates that Epictetus is here referring to the leading parts of human souls or to their prohairesis, i.e. the human self in the narrower sense. The imagery of binding or braiding as an expression for the particular relationship of God and rational beings reoccurs in another, particularly cryptic passage that also discusses humans as beings that contain seeds of God (1.9.4–5). According to that passage, seeds of God have primarily fallen into rational beings (λογικά) because they are the only ones whose nature it is “to partake (κοινωνεῖν) with God of a companionship, being interwoven [with him?] according to [by? / through?] reason”.46 There are at least two possible conclusions one can draw from these passages about the relationship of God and human selves. One possibility is to read them as references to [a] a functional or qualitative relationship of parts and whole, that might also have a spatial dimension. Epictetus states that the οὐσία of God is “mind, knowledge, right reason” (2.8.2). We may take οὐσία as referring to the essence, the essential features of God.47 Then we could say that humans are parts of God in a qualitative sense, insofar as they have the same essential features. If, on the other hand, we take οὐσία as substance, we could say that [b] humans are parts of God, insofar God is, or extends over, all that is rational in the world. This latter reading is confirmed by a reference to the scala naturae, the hierarchy of beings, and the local adverbs used in the context:48 if one wishes to find something good, one must look for it where God is, i.e. in rational beings, not in plants or speechless animals.49 According to this latter reading [b], God would not be one single unified body but bits of rational pneuma spread out all over the cosmos, wherever there is a some rational animal. However, the passage (1.9.4–5) seems also to indicate [c] a social community between God and humans, for which humans are qualified by their specific make-up as rational animals (λογικά). Humans have reason in common with the Epictetus rejects or downplays; see n. 26); theists would identify God with the active principle that permeates the cosmos. Long 2002, 148 remarks that Epictetus describes God as mind rather than the cosmos, but understands this as a reference to ‘universal mind’ (= the active principle?) and, similar to Radice 1982, assumes that Epictetus simply refrained from explaining (and thus conceiving [149–52]) God’s “presence throughout nature […] in physical terms”. 46  1.9.5 ὅτι κοινωνεῖν μόνον ταῦτα πέφυκεν τῷ ϑεῷ τῆς συναναστροφῆς κατὰ τὸν λόγον ἐπιπλεγμένα. The reading τῷ ϑεῷ is the result of a correction (maybe from pl. to sg.) in the archetype. Compare also 2.14.27 and Radice 1982, 95. 47  This is the reading preferred by the translators Oldfather (“true nature”), Souilhé (“Dieu en reálité?”) and Dobbin (“divine nature”). 48  On the scala see Wildberger 2006, 208–43 with further references. 49 2.8.1–4. See in particular 1 ὅπου ἡ οὐσία τοῦ ϑεοῦ, ἐκεῖ εἶναι καὶ τὴν τοῦ ἀγαϑοῦ; 3 ἐνταῦϑα […] ζήτει […]. The phrase ἐν τῇ παραλλαγῇ τῇ πρὸς τὰ ἄλογα, on the other hand, supports a reading in which spatial expressions are metaphors for conceptual relations.

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gods (1.3.3), and this reason endows them with citizenship of the cosmic polis.50 As in 4.1.102, the imagery of interweaving might therefore point to a social bond and not to some physical or qualitative connection. Their rationality, which includes parakolouthēsis, allows humans to contemplate, appreciate, assent to and thus share in God’s perfect management of the cosmos. Man has come into the world “to live on earth with a little bit of flesh, to contemplate God’s management, to partake in his sacred procession and to celebrate the festival with him for a little while”.51 Here, human selves are parts of God insofar as they mirror, confirm and, so to speak, retrace God’s activities, thus introjecting them as true perceptions and volitions about what is happening in the world. Similarly, Epictetus in Discourse 1.14.7–9 presents human cognition as an argument a minore ad maius to prove that God must have some such cognitive faculty too. Human selves would then be parts of God in that their actions and thoughts somehow overlap with the corresponding thoughts and actions of God himself. Readings [a] and [b], the first two of the three readings suggested here, can be more easily aligned with the second argument that Epictetus proffers in the same Discourse to persuade his addressee that God perceives everything one does or thinks, namely that “God (ὁ ϑεός) is inside [us] and is our divine spirit (δαίμων)”.52 This divine spirit is a human being’s reason that is part of all the reason in the cosmos; as something rational and thus sharing the substance and/or essence of God, it is divine and has the power of parakolouthēsis. On the other hand, the nature of the good is such that, once it has been attained, all three readings coincide. If a human swears the oath of allegiance to “this god here” (1.14.15), i.e. his inner divine spirit, he commits himself to exactly the loyal behaviour that is required by God as the manager of the whole. Observing and following that manager, assenting to the truth he observes and wanting the things that happen, a human cannot help but carry God around within himself (2.16.33) also in the third sense. To sum up what has been worked out so far: God can be regarded as both outside and inside the self. Spatially and functionally, God is inside the self insofar the self is part of cosmic reason and the pneuma as that is the bearer of cosmic reason and its faculties. But God is also outside the self both insofar as he is located in heaven and the self within a body on earth and insofar as he as well as his management of the world are objects of human perception. This perception is also called parakolouthēsis but different from parakolouthēsis as self-perception. 50  See n. 26 and 2.5.26; 2.10.4; 3.22.4; 3.24.11; 4.1.155; Wildberger 2006, 254–60 with further references. In 2.20.7 Epicureans are criticised for denying that “among rational beings there is a natural partnership” (φυσικὴ κοινωνία τοῖς λογικοῖς πρὸς ἀλλήλους). The sociable nature of rational beings is asserted, e.g., in 1.19.13. 51 4.1.104. Compare also, e.g., 1.16.21; 3.5.10; 4.7.7. 52  1.14.14. On “internal demons” see Algra 2009 a, 365–9. For Epictetus see in particular Long 2002, 163–8.

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Only the body-soul compound, not the prohairesis-self is called a part of the cosmos, and as a cause, the self appears to be more independent of both the cosmos and God than one would expect if something were just a part of a whole. The rest of this paper will be devoted to a better understanding of the self as a cause which is either independent or embedded and bound-up in a whole.

3 Formation of the self by God: nature, nurture and necessity I will start with a discussion of the manner in which God forms, i.e. creates and determines the shape of a human self. We have already seen that human selves are a special type of divine seed, a detachment of the pneuma that is God, the father of human beings. A seed (σπέρμα) was defined by the Stoics as “that which is capable of generating beings like those from which it was discharged”; as Chrysippus had clarified, a seed in the Stoic sense was only the pneuma in what was called a seed or semen in ordinary language (Diog. Laert. 7.158–9 [SVF 2.741]). Epictetus’ characterisation of human selves as seeds and detached portions, then, indicates that God shapes human selves by giving them a certain type of pneuma, their soul, that is capable of developing in a specific manner. In fact, the natural make-up of humans is an important parameter for the formation of their selves. This make-up comprises far more than what is usually listed under the heading of rationality. In Epictetus’ discourses, human selves are delimited and determined by a detailed construction grid. The faculties of parakolouthēsis and prohairesis are only part of their ‘preparation’ (παρασκευή)53 or ‘constitution’ (κατασκευή),54 to which they are appropriated; they also have a rich selection of ‘powers’ (δυνάμεις)55 and ‘starting points’ (ἀφορμαί)56 that make them capable and inclined to perform certain acts and behave in a specific manner. As a result, certain unchangeable laws are, so to speak, wired into human nature.57 For example, a human being’s use, evaluation and reaction to an object will necessarily be determined by the belief he has formed about it (1.3.4), and this faculty of forming beliefs is further restricted by an inability to accept as true what is perceived as contradictory (2.26.3). If something appears as a good, then the agent has no choice but to go for it, just as he would necessarily move away from it if it appeared as something bad (3.3.1–4). Necessarily, too, the good of human beings must be located in their self, i.e. their prohairesis, since no animal 53 1.2.30–1;

1.6.37 and 43; 3.22.107 and 109; 4.8.41–3.  1.6.10, 15–8; 1.17.27; 1.19.13; 2.8.18; 2.10.4; 3.6.10; 3.24.63. 55  Examples of such powers are a sense of decency, natural loyalty, love for others, altruism and tolerance (2.10.21–3) or greatness of soul, courage and nobility (1.6.28, 37 and 40; 1.12.30– 1; 4.1.109; 4.5.14). There is no definite number of powers, but a hierarchy with the power of prohairesis at the top (2.23.5–22). 56  1.6.37 and 43; 1.29.39; 3.5.8; 3.24.3; 4.1.51; 4.7.7; 4.10.14. 57  Long 2002, 187–8; Bénatouïl 2009, 174–5. 54

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can help but love itself and want its own benefit (see n. 5). Humans have to obtain their good from themselves and no one else58 but cannot achieve it for themselves without acting sociably at the same time (1.19.13–5). Even the precise nature of their good is predetermined for humans: they have been designed by God for a certain purpose.59 Toward this goal they are steered by an interaction between the driving forces provided by their natural make-up (2.20.15) and a second factor that serves as a redirecting or inhibiting corrective for such impulses. This second factor is necessity, both internal and external. External necessity, e.g. the unavoidable reality of death, must be recognized and accepted.60 Humans cannot but fail if they strive to become masters of what is outside the causal power of their prohairesis (ἀπροαίρετα) and recoil from what they cannot avoid. If they do not stop such attempts and turn in the right direction, internal necessity, the unchangeable laws described above, will unavoidably lead to the concomitant punishment: since human nature is unable to bear failure in striving or recoiling, they must inevitably suffer mental pain and unhappiness.61 But humans need not just stumble around, bumping into impossibilities and searching for alternative routes through open spaces of possibility like someone trying to reach the other side of a cluttered room in the dark. There is a third factor, that allows them to shape their selves according to the design envisioned for them by God. This factor is learning and education, in short: philosophy.62 Shaping a proper human self requires knowledge. If someone does not know who he is and for which purpose he came into being; in what kind of world he is here and in community with whom; what is good and bad and what beautiful and ugly – reflecting (παρακολουϑῶν) it neither by reason nor proof –; [if he does not know] what is true and what false, being unable to tell them apart, then he will neither strive according to nature nor recoil nor have impulses nor set himself a purpose nor assent nor reject nor defer [judgement]. All in all, he will walk around deaf and blind, appearing to be someone but, in fact, a nobody. (2.24.19)

This is so, because humans do not have a finished constitution (κατασκευή). Not everything is unchangeably fixed and determined in them. They have a natural preparation (παρασκευή) given to them by God, but this preparation must be completed by further self-preparation.63 Everything they need is there, but their inborn internal structure offers only starting points from which to begin, among them starting points for ‘finding the truth’, for answering the questions raised 58 1.29.4.

See also n. 29 and Algra 2007, 44.  2.14.27 ἔργον; 1.16.15–8. 60  1.27.7; 2.6.16; 2.11.1; 2.13.8; 3.22.101; 3.24.10; 3.24.28; 4.1.78; 4.1.90; 4.1.110; 4.10.11. 61  2.13; 1.4.19; 1.19.16; 1.27.13; 2.1.12; 2.2.25; 2.6.16; 2.16.47; 2.17.17; 3.1.9; 3.19.1; 3.22.61; 4.1.56–61; 4.4.32–8; 4.5.27; 4.7.10–1; 4.10.6; 4.13.21. See also Algra 2007, 44–5 on passages where this is presented as a punishment by God. 62  A recent discussion of this topic in imperial Stoicism is Reydams-Schils 2010. 63  1.1.31; 1.2.32; 1.20.13; 1.30.6; 1.30.7; 2.6.3; 2.6.23; 3.10.6; 3.13.6; 4.1.81; 4.4.11; 4.4.30. 59

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in the quoted passage by means of reasoning and reflection, and for completing God’s design once it has been understood.64 From these starting points, the philosopher will gain an understanding of the factors discussed above; he will become aware of his power, but also his weaknesses and the limitiations set for him by internal and external necessity (2.11.1; 2.17.17). Cutting back his striving and recoiling to that which is an attainable object of his prohairesis, he will develop, augment and strengthen the powers that he has.65 In particular, reflection will show him what he can do and thus reveal the only safe and satisfying way through the obstacle course of mortal life: that one wants everything to happen exactly as it does. The job of the philosopher is “to harmonize his own volition with what is happening, so that nothing that happens happens against our will and nothing that does not happen does not happen although we wanted it to”.66

4 Self and individuality Here is not the place to expand on the well-discussed question why and how Epictetus arrives at this description of correct, educated agency. Instead, I wish to devote this part of my paper to the question of how such a conception of humans as mere assenters to the will of another is compatible with the idea of a self. As we have seen, the formation of a human self is determined by three factors: the natural make-up given by God; internal and external necessity; and education. Of these only the third factor is something for which the agent himself, i.e. the self inside, is responsible. But now it turns out that this inside activity has only one purpose: to align the inside exactly with the outside. If the self thus becomes nothing more than a mirror image of what happens in the world outside, is this still a self at all, or does the philosopher, in fact, learn to no longer have a self of his own? And if this mirror-self still is a self, what could be the purpose and meaning of the concept? Why would Epictetus insist again and again on the distinction between inside and outside, me and other, instead of just distinguishing the possible from the impossible and advising us to go only for that which is possible? 64  4.1.51; 4.7.7; 4.10.14. Bénatouïl 2009, 179 observes that Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius “conçoivent leur entreprise simultanément comme un perfectionnement immanent de nos capacités naturelles et comme la réalisation d’un projet divin”. He also raises the question whether the natural make-up is sufficient for attaining perfection in every individual (159–61). However, even if it were insufficient, individual agency and responsibility would still consist in using one’s natural faculties as best as one can. 65 2.18.1, 7; 2.20.21. 66  2.14.7. See e.g. also 1.12.12–9; 1.17.14, 28; 2.6.9–15; 2.10.5; 2.14.7–13; 2.16.4, 47; 2.17.22–3; 2.17.29; 3.5.9–10; 3.24.96–103. 8; 4.1.99–101, 145; 4.3.10; 4.4.21, 29–32; 4.6.21; 4.7.20.

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There is one question I do not wish to raise since it is raised and answered by Epictetus himself. An interlocutor objects that freedom cannot consist in wanting that which is happening. On the contrary, the interlocutor would want those things to happen that seem right to him, however they might be like (1.12.11). This, according to Epictetus would be madness. One would not write the letters of a word in an arbitrary order either, and similarly, there is a right way for things to happen in the world. No one knows better what should happen than God, the one who has designed the cosmos and manages it (1.12.12–6). In the perfect Stoic world, which is ordered by God qua artful Reason, Providence and Law, it makes no sense to wish for things to be different from how they are. Changing this world would not be desirable according to Epictetus. In Stoic and Epictetus’ terms we must rather ask how a prohairesis-self can still be a self at all, if as a faculty it is a product of God’s design and if, in the ideal case, the thoughts and volitions as well as the resulting actions and mental states this faculty produces should follow, affirm and reproduce God’s thoughts and descriptions (qua Reason), volitions (qua Providence) and directives (qua Law).67 The answer is to be found in the nature and the source of that agreement between man and God. As we have seen, the prohairesis-self is partly a Godgiven state (that one possesses a certain faculty which functions in a certain way) and partly the thoughts, volitions and actions produced by this faculty: assent, impulse and striving with its negative counterpart recoiling. It is this latter component of the prohairesis-self where education comes to bear and where, in the previous passage, we had located the core of human responsibility and thus also individuality. Unlike the faculty of prohairesis, the self as such prohairetic activity is not a state but a continuous series of processes by which the agent reacts to incoming appearances. This fact, I would suggest, is the basis for attributing individuality even to a self that perfectly mirrors the world and God’s volitions outside. The self’s specific individuality consists in its agency as the one, and the only one, who is capable of bringing about alignment with the world outside in an ongoing process – not only when an individual learns to become a perfect mirror of God by way of education but also after such perfection has been attained. Even then, the perfect self has to maintain its perfection by continuous performance of the right acts that the perfected faculty of prohairesis is designed to perform. In short, a prohairesis-self is not just a certain content or form that could be attributed to various individuals at the same time, but an activity that requires separate performing agents if it is to happen independently and in addition to the activity of God. 67  Discussion and evidence for the different mental activities implied in the various names of God is to be found in Wildberger 2006. The alignment of human action with divine volition (βούλησις) is part of Chrysippus’ description of the end (Diog. Laërt. 7.88 [SVF 3,4]). See also Reydams-Schils 2005 b.

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4.1 The self as a process: the image of the statue in Discourse 2.8 That selfhood according to Epictetus is not a punctual state or condition but a continuous process of completion, perfection and maintenance by an internal cause is nicely illustrated with the famous image of the self as a statue, which ultimately derives from Xenophon’s Socrates but receives an original treatment in Discourse 2.8. What is important to note is that Epictetus actually gives us not only one but a sequence of four different images that gradually unfold various aspects of his conception of self.68 He begins with an illustration of the idea that humans (i.e. the human body-soul compounds) have a god inside them: their divine spirit, which is their prohairesis-self. If there were a sculpture of the god (τοῦ ϑεοῦ)69 nearby, you would not dare to do any of the things you are doing right now. With the god himself present inside, overseeing and listening to everything, aren’t you ashamed to think and act like this, numb as you are to your own nature and hated by god (ϑεοχόλωτε)?70 (2.8.14)

The basic idea at this point is that people tend to and should behave respectfully in the presence of a god. Just as the prohairesis-self of the interlocutor might not yet be a particularly fine, high-quality specimen, the statue is respected not because of any particular quality of its own. It is to be respected because of what it represents and stands for: a god. Accordingly, Epictetus demands even more respectful behaviour if that which is present is, in fact, a god and not just an image of one, and if the distance between the divine observer (the statue or self) and the agent is reduced to zero. In the next passage, a further actor enters the stage: the artist. The interlocutor, on the other hand, is now identified with the statue, i.e. with his own self. But if you were the sculpture of Phidias, his Athena or Zeus, you wouldn’t forget who you are and who’s the artist, and if you had some sense, you would try not to do anything unworthy of the one whose work you are or of yourself and avoid appearing in an undignified posture to those who see you. Yet now that Zeus has made you, because of this you won’t care about how you present yourself? And is the one artist in any way comparable to the other or one artwork to the other? (2.8.18–9)

Again, the main issue is Epictetus’ exhortation to behave well out of respect for someone or something. The objects of respect are now two: both the statue and the artist. The reason for being respectful is twofold as well: the statue and the artist deserve respect because of the art in both the producer and the artwork he has produced; the other reason for respect is divinity: the statue of Phidias re­  Coulardeau 1903, 243–4 and Algra 2009 b, 245 discuss it as one single image.  In principle, this could be read as a reference to God, but it is more likely that the article has an anaphoric function here, referring back to “a god” that the interlocutor is carrying around inside himself (2.18.12) and “some [god] outside made of silver or gold” (13). 70  He is hated by god because he, i.e. his god inside, does not like him in this condition and because he, i.e. his god inside, maltreats and harms himself by behaving so badly. 68 69

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presents a god, while the artist who has sculpted the human self is a god himself. In this section of the comparison, the self is valuable and worthy of respect not only because it is a god but also because it embodies and demonstrates the art of a god, its divine creator. By identifying the artwork with the self and suggesting that the artwork should assume dignified postures, Epictetus begins to indicate that, unlike a statue, the self is not a just an immobile, fixed state but something that implies certain activities. This is developed in the next step, where the valuable artwork is entrusted to the self as its own curator, who must continuously maintain the good state of the artwork. He has handed you over to yourself and says: “I didn’t have anyone in whom I could trust more than in you. Take care of this one here for me, keep him in his natural state: decent, loyal, sublime, undaunted, unaffected and imperturbable.” So, won’t you take care of him? (2.8.23)

Epictetus thus clarifies the idea of respect introduced already at the first stage. The artwork must be kept in its natural state of decency (αἰδήμων), i.e. its sense of respect for self and others must be maintained. That the self behaves respectfully, beautifully and in the manner worthy of a work of God is the very quality that makes it so wonderful and valuable. As wonderful as a “self-moving, breathing, appearance-using, evaluating” (20) sculpture might already be, the real beauty of this most perfect artwork consists in just the excellences the curator both has to maintain in the entrusted artwork and needs himself in order to do so. In other words, if the statue-self were not given to the curator-self, so that it could demonstrate and practice its virtues, it would not be the artwork, and self, it is. This idea that a self must be maintained in a continuous process and that this process constitutes both the existence and value of the self is further developed in the fourth and last step. Epictetus imagines the remonstrations that such highflown talk about oneself as Zeus’ masterpiece might provoke and confesses that, indeed, he is not yet worthy of it. I’m still not confident in what I’ve learnt and assented to, I still fear my own weakness. But wait, let me gather confidence: then you’ll see me with the look and the posture befitting [a god], then I’ll show you the masterpiece when it has been perfected and polished. (2.8.24–5)

As we learn now, the statue is still unfinished. What exactly the statue looks like is not described, but we know that Zeus must have provided the basic natural design: a human prohairesis-self with a certain constitution and preparation, with powers and starting points. It is the job of that self itself to shape this roughly forged object, and there are a range of possibilities what it could become. The speaker whose voice Epictetus assumes in this passage has devoted himself to education and seems to be a man far in progress, someone who is almost a sage

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and a god. In other cases, where the self has made different choices, the final product might turn out to be a fox or a worm.71 It is both as a cause of a process and as this embodied process itself that the self has an important function in Epictetus’ thought. The shape of a perfect self is predetermined by God in the sense that a person’s natural make-up together with the internal and external necessities deriving from that make-up and the nature of the world in which the individual is placed determine what would be a correct choice for that self in each particular situation.72 However, it is the self that must make the choice and suffer failure and imperfection if it chooses incorrectly. For immobile perfection there would be no need to differentiate an independent self from the cosmic continuum. But that which God has made is not unmoving or finished once and for all. The execution of this artwork and its maintenance are the tasks of the prohairesis-self, i.e. of the artwork itself, and not of God. It is precisely the fact that it has been designed to be self-shaping and self-maintaining in this manner that makes it different from everything else and something that has an inside and an outside. 4.2 The essential particularity of the self Why this is so becomes clearer if one considers how the prohairesis-self shapes itself, namely by accepting or rejecting appearances, i.e. that which Epictetus calls the use of appearances. In this act three aspects of individuation and selfhood can be observed: the causality and process discussed above; the opposition of inside and outside; and the concretisation of an ideal plan in the execution of an individual token. The appearance is the interface by which the self communicates with the outside world. Having or not having appearances, and also the kinds of appearances one has, is not in the power of the self and not part of prohairesis.73 Prohairesis is the correct use of the appearances that happen to occur in the leading part of a soul. Others have discussed the implications of this conception of agency, including questions of subjectivity and constructivism.74 The important point here is that the self must do more than just haughtily ignore what reaches it from outside or ‘switch off the noise’ as a Buddhist might recommend. There is no dissolution of the self in a more perfect whole, no fatalist resignation that doggedly accepts the load or disinterestedly lets things pass however they happen to turn out. The purpose and perfection of a prohairesis-self is something different: the enthusiastic acceptance of everything that happens as something good. It does not only bear adversities, it goes for them when it realizes that it is God’s  1.3.7; 2.20.10; 4.1.142; 4.11.32.  Compare Bénatouïl 2009, 174–5. 73 2.18.15–26 is a lively dramatisation of the self’s struggle with impressions trying to force their way into it. 74  See e.g. Bénatouïl 2006 a, 2006 b and 2009; Reydams-Schils 2005 a, 26–7; Long 1996. 71 72

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plan to have them happen to it (2.6.8–14). The proper function of a prohairesisself is to want whatever is happening. A. A. Long underscores “the enthusiasm with which [Epictetus] commends obedience to God”, which for him implies “a literal association between the person of God and the individual self”.75 It is clear that the prohairesis-self can only enter into such a personal and thus also social relation with God if it is a separate agent performing separate acts of volition. The mirror imagery is misleading in this respect: it does not make a difference whether the same thing is reflected in one or a thousand mirrors, or whether there exist one or a thousand identical statues. What human selves do when they agree with God is more than mere reproduction, as if millions of mindless dancers were imitating the movements of a master. The important difference is that humans successfully imitating God share his ideas and volitions. They know what they are doing and appreciate it. To use Epictetus’ imagery: even if there is only one festival, there can now be many different visitors enjoying the event in addition to the one who has organised it. Furthermore, as Jean-Baptiste Gourinat (2005, 110) points out, “pour Épictète, dire de quelque chose qu’elle est eph’hemin, c’est seulement dire au pluriel de quelque chose qu’elle dépend de moi, et c’est seulement si un moi individuel peut en être la cause et la contrôler entièrement que nous disons de quelque chose qu’elle dépend de moi ou de nous. […] seules les décisions individuelles sont au pouvoir d’un individu.” Turned the other way round, this means that Epictetus cannot conceive of responsibility and agency without, at the same time, imagining an individual self that, as a cause of its own, performs concrete, individual token actions. The activities of prohairesis, and thus of the self and that which is in our power, concern those areas (striving / recoiling, impulse and assent) in which humans exercise their faculty of choice.76 Whenever a human being has an appearance, he must choose among three options: assent, rejection or deferral (2.24.19). If the appearance is rejected or deferred, nothing happens; it stays outside the self (1.18.19). If the appearance is assented to, it is allowed inside and becomes a belief, an impulse or an act of striving or recoiling. In this manner the preforged object made by God becomes the statue we see. It is the responsibility of the self and in its power either to make itself ugly by accepting the wrong appearances or to beautify itself (κοσμῆσαι) by using correctly whatever

75 Long

2002, 147. It is this attitude that Colardeau 1903, 239–81 identifies as Epictetus’ unusually strong and personal “sentiment religieux”. “Pour lui, en effet, la vie est bonne, parce que Dieu est bon” (262). On Stoic ideas about God’s love for humans and the friendship between God and the sage, see Wildberger 2006, 263–75. 76  Gourinat 2005, 106. Bénatouïl 2009, 170 describes prohairesis as “an acte ou […] la ­faculté de choisir une conduite (générale ou particulière)”. While the choice might concern a general course of action, the prohairetic act itself is performed on single, concrete token ­appearances.

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appearance comes its way.77 Now, it is important to note, that this responsibility extends only to single, concrete token instances of a self having to decide whether it will take in this particular appearance. God did not make one ideal, perfect normative self of which the selves of human individuals are imperfect approximations.78 Lacking particularity, such a universal normative self would lack essential characteristics of the self as Epictetus conceives of it and thus not be a self in his sense at all. Every single self, and also a perfect human self, is constituted both as an ongoing process and something unique. It is continuously built in its own singular manner from individual encounters this particular human being has with the world around him via the particular appearances produced in this particular human being’s mind. For Epictetus there can only be individual selves continually constructing, maintaining and defining themselves through each single decision about where to set up the border between inside and outside and whether that which is presented to them from outside belongs to them or not.79 So, each time when in the face of an adversity the self prays to God to lead it to whatever place he has assigned for it, it performs a prohairetic act that constitutes an answer to our initial question whether God is inside or outside the self: God’s volition, that which was outside and ‘God’s business’,80 has become the self’s own.81And by thus making God a part of itself, the self at the same time acknowledges that it is a part of God and belongs to him. Inside and outside, self and God, have become blended, paradoxically precisely because there is a separate self that can “look up to God and say, ‘Make use of me from now on for whatever you want. I have the same views as you, I am yours’” (2.16.42). 77  1.6.37; compare also 1.20.11. Long 2002, 172 interprets κοσμῆσαι as “make a cosmos of myself”. 78 Such a Platonic reading of Epictetus was proposed by Long 2002, 163–8 and commented upon by Algra 2007, 43 and 2009 a, 366–7. Long arrives at his theory of the normative self mainly from two observations: the divine spirit sometimes appears different from the person addressed, and it appears as a righteous, supervising super-ego. The first problem can be solved if one assumes, as has been suggested here, that the body-soul compound can also be treated as the referent of ‘I’ and thus a self in a wider sense. The second phenomenon can be explained by the internal necessity arising from the fixed rules that are part of a human’s natural make-up. 79  My reading comes close to one of the two kinds of selves distinguished by Reydams-Schils 2005 a: “a general principle common to all adult human beings” and the selves of concrete individuals that function as mediators between internalised ideal and the reality of “concrete life situations” (17). The problem with this kind of self is that it tends to dissolve, just as a good mediator would. After all, it is “not its own final end” (13). But this is a consequence that Reydams-Schils accepts for the advantages that she sees (44): “[…] because the Stoics make room for the encounter between generally applicable regulative principles and concretely lived experiences, they are entitled to a notion of ‘self ’ to which the Platonist viewpoint cannot do justice.” 80  3.1.43; Long 2002, 153. 81  Algra 2007, 48–50 explains such prayers in Epictetus as “a way of telling oneself that one should follow the cosmic ordering” (49). This is true as long as the prayer appears as something one should learn and have ‘ready at hand’ (πρόχειρον). However, as soon as the prayer is actually spoken, it is an act of assent and endorsement of what God has brought about. For further discussion and references see Wildberger 2006, 294–9.

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Bibliography Epictetus, The Discourses. Fragments. Encheiridion. Trans. W. A. Oldfather, Cambridge, Mass. / London 1925–28. –, Épictète, Entretiens. Trans. Joseph Suilhé and Amand Jagu, Paris 1943–65. –, Discourses and selected writings. Trans. Robert Dobbin, London 2008. Algra, Keimpe 2007. “Epictetus and Stoic theology”, in Scaltsas, Mason 2007, 32–56. – 2009 a. “Stoics on souls and demons: reconstructing Stoic demonology”, in Dorothea Frede, Burkard Reis (eds.), Body and soul in ancient philosophy, Berlin/New York, 359–388. – 2009 b. “Stoic philosophical theology and Graeco-Roman religion”, in Ricardo Salles (ed.), God and cosmos in Stoicism, Oxford, 224–51. Anscombe, Elisabeth 1975. “The first person”, in Samuel Guttenplan (ed.), Mind and language, Oxford, 45–65. Bénatouïl, Thomas 2006 a. Faire usage: la pratique du stoicism, Paris. – 2006 b. “L’usage de soi dans le stoïcisme impérial”, in Carlos Lévy, Perrine GalandHallyn (eds.), Vivre pour soi, vivre dans la cite, Paris, 59–73. – 2009. Les stoïciens III: Musonius – Épictète – Marc Aurèle, Paris. Bonhöffer, Adolf 1894. Die Ethik des Stoikers Epiktet, Stuttgart. Colardeau, Théodore 1903. Étude sur Épictète, Paris. Dobbin, Robert F. 1998. Epictetus. Discourses book I, Oxford. Gill, Christopher 2006. The structured self in Hellenistic and Roman thought, Oxford/ New York. – 2008. “The self and Hellenistic-Roman philosophical therapy”, in Alexander Arwei­ ler, Melanie Möller (eds.), Vom Selbst-Verständnis in Antike und Neuzeit/ Notions of the self in Antiquity and beyond, Berlin/New York, 359–80. Gourinat, Jean-Baptiste 2005. “La prohairesis chez Épictète: decision, volonté ou personne morale?”, Philosophie antique 5, 93–134. Hoven, René 1971. Stoïcisme et stoïciens face au problème de l’au-delà, Paris. Laurand, Valéry 2005. “La sympathie universelle: union et séparation”, Revue de métaphysique et de morale 4, 517–35. Long, Anthony A. 1996. “Representation and self in Stoicism”, in Stoic studies, Cambridge, 264–85. – 2002. Epictetus: A Stoic and Socratic guide to life, Oxford. Radice, Roberto 1982. La concezione di dio e del divino in Epitteto, Milano. Remes, Pauliina, Juha Sihvola (eds.) 2008. Ancient philosophy of the self, Berlin. Reydams-Schils, Gretchen 2005 a. The Roman Stoics: self, responsibility, and affection, Chicago / London. – 2005 b. “Le sage face à Zeus. Logique, étique et physique dans le stoïcisme impérial”, Revue de Métaphysique et de Morale 4, 579–96. – 2010. “Philosophy and education in Stoicism of the Roman Imperial era”, Oxford Review of Education 36, 561–74. Scaltsas, Theodore, Andrew S. Mason (eds.) 2007. The philosophy of Epictetus, Oxford. Sorabji, Richard 2006. Self: ancient and modern insights about individuality, life, and death, Chicago. – 2007. “Epictetus on proairesis and self”, in Scaltsas, Mason 2007, 87–98.

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Tieleman, Teun 2002. “Zeno and psychological monism: some observations on the textual evidence”, in Theodore Scaltsas, Andrew S. Mason (eds.), The philosophy of Zeno: Zeno of Citium and his legacy, Larnaca, 187–219. Vanhaegendoren, Koen 2004. “Individuelles religiöses Erleben auf dem Hintergrund stoischer Vorgaben? Aspekte von Epiktets Gottesbild”, Hermes 132, 495–510. Wildberger, Jula 2006. Seneca und die Stoa: Der Platz des Menschen in der Welt, Berlin/ New York.

Religious Concepts of the Self

Two cities and one self: Transformations of Jerusalem and reflexive individuality in the Shepherd of Hermas Jörg Rüpke This chapter will argue that reflection on the self does not stop with the use of concepts like “self ” or “soul”. Instead, institutionalized self-reflection needs further concepts, images, and imagined situations that are propagated through texts. Starting from the second century Roman text called “The Shepherd of Hermas”, I identify the imagery of two rivalling cities as just such an attempt to develop a reflexive individuality.1 The attractiveness and efficiency of this concept will be traced to the rivalry of Rome and Jerusalem that led to the destruction of the latter city and will be followed by modifications of earlier apocalyptic imagery by Hermas. Thus, the search for individualization detects processes of group formation as well as developments of religious individuality deeply embedded in the contingencies of Mediterranean history of the late first and early second century AD.

1 The Shepherd of Hermas If the process of canonization had finally ratified the decision of the Codex Sinaiticus to include the “Shepherd of Hermas”, this text would have been the by far longest book of the New Testament. Despite its length, the text was much more popular than, for instance, the gospel of Mark, which had found hardly any readers in antiquity.2 The length of the text was the result of a probably lengthy process of growth. The sequence of the text betrays different phases of additions, traces which have even given rise to the idea of multiple authors. If the latter thesis has lost in favour with interpreters of the “Shepherd”, it is the unity 1  For the concept of different individualities see Rüpke 2013 a (forthcoming). – Apart from the participants of the conference I am grateful to audiences at Aarhus and Toronto and to Reinhard G.  Kratz, Göttingen, Markus Vinzent, London, and Elisabeth Begemann, Erfurt, for critical remarks. 2  Stökl 2010.

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of the imagery, the fundamental identity in the outlook of these parts, and the lack of any indications of different publications which suggest a single author.3 The visionary dialogues of the first person narrator addressed as “Herma” with various revelatory figures explicitly point to activities of oral and written communication.4 This process has to be imagined for an unknown period during the second quarter of the second century,5 a period before any substantial formation of the collection of texts later known as New Testament. The text itself offers visionary, apocalyptic literature like 4 Ezra or John, that tries to come to grips with the realities of Roman power, but unlike the other apocalyptic texts (apart from John) its plot is clearly autobiographical and intensively localized.6 Hermas is struggling with the problem of every diviner, that is, how to establish the plausibility and authenticity of the contents of his message. This problem looms particularly large in textual prophecy, given its lack of institutional and instrumental plausibility and the possibly de-personalized mode of reception in the form of reading. Whereas John – a somewhat earlier contemporary, if we date him to the early second century rather than to the reign of Domitian – is drawing on both prophetic traditions and on astrology7 in order to underline his authority,8 Hermas on the other hand very carefully develops the notion of apocalypsis in the terms of contemporary concepts about the possibilities of visionary divination.9 How is an extraordinary contact with the divine possible? Hermas’ answer is not a general theory of the soul, but an attempt at clearly locating himself in the middle of contemporary society and his religious group.10 His autobiographical sketch, which opens the book, argues that it was his everyday style of life that qualified him in particular for special contact with the divine. This was not a necessary way for the argument to proceed. A roughly contemporary apocalyptic text, 4 Ezra, which might have been produced in the city of Rome, too (it claims to be written in “Babylon”),11 demonstrates the acceptance of the genre of apocalypsis in the pseudepigraphic mode. In that case, a sharply individualized figure from history is invoked as the subject of the visionary experience.  3 E.g.

Hilhorst 1988, 682–701, here 685; Ehrmann 2003, 166. For the unity Henne 1992 and Rüpke 1999 for the unity of the imagery.  4 Leutzsch 1989, 17; see also Osiek 1999, 10. 13.  5  Cf. Ehrmann 2003, 169: 110–140 CE.  6  See Osiek 1999, 24; Rüpke 2013 b (forthcoming).  7 Satake 2008, 126; Malina 2002.  8  Taeger 2006, 162 f.; see also Wilckens 1998, 260.  9  Analyzed in detail in Rüpke 2005. Visionary authority as an additional moment is of course important in many other earlier texts, see e.g. Chester 2007 for the role of visions in the creation of first century Christology (for instance 179–86 on Paul). 10 For the use of the term “group” see Rüpke 2007. 11  Stone 1990, 10 speculates about a production in Judaea, if the Babylon reference is not meant historically. He postulates an Hebrew original (ibid., 1).

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2 Textual visions and practices of religious self-fashioning Visionary individuality, if I might coin such a term, is not restricted to the mode of production of visionary texts. Hermas’ text(s) aim(s) at the practice of fashioning the self. This is primarily to be effected through reading the text.12 The public character of such a reading is not at odds with my claim of “individuality” in such practices. Communal reading in different groups aims at the institutionalisation of situations that lead the audience to reflect on its own inner and moral state. The extreme problem of sins of the mind, which opens the earliest layer of the text,13 is a case in point: You need to be provoked from outside to detect such an inner problem. The earliest part of the book points to different institutional settings, beginning with the reading of the text within the circle of presbyteroi and episcopoi.14 But Hermas did not stop there. Evidently, this first reading of his visions  – popularizing a text that is existent in written form already in heaven – aims at garnering larger audiences for Hermas. Perhaps such an audience offered the place for the explicit vituperation of a Maximus.15 The text is to be reoralized by a certain Grapte for widows and orphans and should be diffused in written, epistolary form by a certain Clemens.16 This is a command by the female revelatory figure with a clear indication of institutionalisation as repetitive publication (vis 2.4 [8]): (2) “The elderly woman came and asked if I had already given the book to the presbyters. I said that I had not. ‘You have done well’, she said, ‘for I have some words to add. Then, when I complete all the words, they will be made known through you to all those who are chosen. (3) And so, you will write two little books, sending one to Clement and the other to Grapte. Clement will send his to the foreign cities, for that is his commission. But Grapte will admonish the widows and orphans. And you will read yours in this city, with the presbyters who lead the church.”17

Admonitions of the revelatory figures to distribute their message are implied in later passages of the book, too. The very growth of the text with its repetitions and variations points to the reiteration of such form of publications, at least partly controlled by the author (if the hypothesis of his unity is accepted), as I have argued above. It is this form of recitation that is criticized by the Muratorian fragment, restricting the recommendation of the text to individual reading.18 The aim of such receptions, however, remains the same. Such practices of fashioning 12 Cf.

Inwood 2009 for the Senecan authorial self.  PH vis 1.1 [1]: 8; cf. vis 1.2 [2]: 1. 14  PH vis 2.4 [8]: 3. Cf. Maier 1991, 63 for an attempt at defining the relations of these nearly synonymous terms. 15  PH vis 2.3 [7]: 4 with Leutzsch 1989, 70 f.; see Rüpke 2005. 16 PH vis 2.4 [8]: 3. 17  Trsl. by Bart D. Ehrmann, Loeb Classical Library. 18  Canon Muratori l. 77–80. 13

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a specific religious self will change the individual position in the ekklesia as a consequence of self-reflection and behavioural changes, metanoia. Such practices of the souci de soi offer the possibility of a “democratisation” of visionary experience. As the revelation to Hermas is conceptualised as a sequence of female and male revelatory figures leading to the Shepherd and an angel, the self is externalised in the course of the book as an internal space for witnessing the struggle between spirits and angels. In particular, a polar pair of angels who themselves are a part of a demonology or rather angelology that offers the semantics for pneumatic as Christological reflections and has been dealt with extensively.19

3 Roman imagery Angels were a powerful tool of the Jewish tradition for cosmological as well as moral reasoning.20 In the text of the Shepherd they are employed in the series of mandata, which form the second largest layer of the book, particularly in the second half of the text. As I have argued elsewhere, for Hermas, a specifically religious individuality was the solution to the more general problem of a lack of distinction between the members of the new ekklêsia in his contemporary world.21 Every single person has to reflect on his own status, his moral and religious stance, in order to belong to that new ekklêsia. The angels offered a figure of thought for such reflection. In the following, the third of at least four clearly discernible parts of the book (I reckon the ninth and the concluding tenth simile as a further layer of composition), the angels are not discarded, but the revelatory figures serve only to introduce several similia, starting with the two cities. It is crucial for my argument that this collection of images is more Roman in tone than any part before. This is a pervading characteristic that modifies the classification of the sequence as arbitrary.22 The second simile, of an elm tree and vine, had been characterized as very Italian.23 In content, the reference to the institution of patronage and the exchange of services between patron and client24 strengthens this impression further. The third and fourth simile, of the trees in winter and summer, formulate the central concern of the whole series. For people embedded in the day-to-day business of a society it is hardly possible to tell the bad from the just. Only in the coming aeon will this be easy (sim 3 [52]: 3): 19  See Longenecker 1970, 26–32; Bucur 2009; again such figures are part of a long tradition of prophetic calls for repentance. 20  For the Greco-Roman world see now Cline 2011. 21  Rüpke 2013 b (forthcoming). 22 Thus Brox 1991, 283. 23  Osiek 1999, 162. 24  Rankin 2004, 306.

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“For just as the trees that shed their leaves in the winter all look alike, with the withered indistinguishable from the living, so too in this age it is not clear who the upright are and who the sinners, but they all appear alike.”

In the following simile the Latin loan word statio (sim 5 [54]: 1) – one out of only four loan words in the text25  – and its explicit explanation continue to stress local, Roman colours, as does the verbal simile of the slaves as co-heirs, a notion exclusive to Roman law.26 To dress the shepherd in a yellow dress, as is done in the following, sixth simile, again is best explained as a Roman image of luxury.27 Finally, the crowns of palms given as rewards in simile eight might have reminded reader of Roman military decorations.28 Against this background it is time to return to the first parable (sim 1 [50]), the text of which must be quoted in full. (1) He said to me: “You [pl.] know that you, the servants of God, live in a foreign land, for your city is far away from this city. So if you are aware of your own city in which you are about to live, why do you arrange for fields, costly arrays, buildings, and silly housing arrangements? (2) The one who sets up these things in this city does not expect to return to one’s own city. (3) You stupid, doubleminded, unfortunate person, do you [sg.] not see that all these things are alien and under the control of someone else? The lord of this city will say: ‘I do not want you to live in my city, so leave this city, because you do not use my laws.’ (4) Then you who have fields and houses and many other possessions, when he throws you out, what will you do with field and house and all the rest that you have prepared for yourself? For the lord of this land rightly says to you: ‘Either use my laws or leave my land.’ (5) Then what will you do, since you have a law in your own city? Because of your fields and the rest of your possessions, will you completely deny your law and proceed according to the law of this city? Watch out lest it be futile to deny your law, for if you wish to go back, you will never be received back, because you have denied the law of your city and will be shut out of it. (6) So you, watch out: as one living in a foreign place, arrange no more for yourself than what is necessary and be ready, so that when the master of this city wants to expel you for resistance to his law, you will leave his city and go out to your own city and use your own law gladly and without harm. (7) Watch out, then, you [pl.] who serve the lord and hold him in your heart. Do the works of God, remembering the commandments and promises made by God, and trust that God will keep them if his commandments are kept. (8) So instead of fields, buy suffering souls, as each one can, and take charge of widows and orphans and do not neglect them, but spend your wealth and all possessions that you have received from God for such fields and houses. (9) This is why the Master has made you wealthy, in order to carry out these ministries for him. It is much better to buy such fields, possessions, and houses, which you [sing.] will find in your city when you arrive there. (10) This wealth is full of beauty and happiness; it brings no sadness or fear, but rather joy. So do not deal with the wealth of outsiders. It is unhelpful for you [pl.], the servants of God. (11) Deal with your own wealth, in which you can rejoice, and do not  Brox 1991, 308. 5 [55]: 8; Leutzsch 1989, 148. 27  Thus Brox 1991, 334. 28  Briefly Rüpke 1990, 204–6. 25

26 Sim

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imitate or touch what is alien, or even desire it, for it is evil to desire what is alien to you. Just do your [sing.] own work, and you will be saved.”29

Like other passages before it, this chapter engages in a central concern of the whole text. Beyond paraenetics and repentance the image of an imagined community,30 to use the phrase of Benedict Anderson, is developed. It is the “church”, ekklêsia, a word that does not connote any buildings,31 but seems to be an easy replacement of “Israel”.32 It is interesting to see how this idea is developed in several images. The image of the city, I shall claim, is much more than another strand of theological reflection in a text that does not seem particularly coherent in dogmatic terms. Thus the first parable or simile offers more than just some thoughts on the topos of ecclesiology. My thesis in what follows is that the motif of the “two cities” is a central figuration for the reflection of the self. It is the imagination of two cities and the related thought experiments of behaviour, inside, outside, and towards these cities that is offered as an instrument for reflexive individuality and caring for a self that is not a freely formable soul but part of a person fully integrated in local and contemporary society. The motif is most explicit in the very first parable,33 but as I will show the image of the city is enlarged by the image of the tower as developed in similes eight and nine – the latter a book in itself34 and probably a new layer, that is, a next phase of growth of the text.

4 Two cities or one? Within the series of parables and the concerns of Hermas discussed so far, it does not seem adequate to simply follow for instance Norbert Brox in his reading of the text, which merely takes the two cities to be synonyms of heaven and earth.35 Neither does it seem helpful to follow the detailed analysis by Martin Leutzsch, which stresses the difference from other apocalyptic traditions and identifies an early theology of martyrdom.36 Instead, Hermas is taking up older, more collective lines of thought, ultimately leading back to the imagery

 Trsl. by Osiek 1999.  Cf. Thomassen 2004, 252: “Hermas’s views on the Church may be taken both as a testimony to the divisiveness characterizing Roman Christianity in his time and as a reaction against it.” 31  Rightly Leutzsch 1989, 61. 32  See Brox 1991, 525 and Martín 2007 for the eschatological content of the notion. 33  Osiek 1999, 157 34  Thus Brox 1991, 377. 35 Brox 1991, 285. 36  Leutzsch 1989, 196–208. Such a thesis would have to be revisited in the light of Vinzent’s dating of the rise of the topos of Christ’s resurrection in reaction to Marcion (2011). 29 30

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and personifications of the city of Jerusalem and Babylon by the time of the first destruction of Jerusalem, 37 but he radically individualizes them. First, the text is to be read as a text written from within the Roman empire. A central notion is that of the laws or constitution of a city. Citizenship included the particular “civic way of life (politeuesthai)” of that city.38 The discussion of the “patrioi nomoi” of a minority group is as old as the Hellenistic empires, present for example in the text of 2 Maccabees (2 Macc 6).39 The same condition of empire suggested the motif of the two fatherlands (patriae) on Roman citizens stemming from Italian municipalities, as is discussed in Cicero’s “Laws”.40 In that case, however, the one citizenship does not exclude the other. In the same logical vein is the argument of the Letter of Diognetus, which tries to balance the legal obligations of both.41 This line of argumentation is present in Hermas, too. But is that all? The imagery of the city is powerfully present in several apocalyptic texts composed at least a bit earlier. Given Hermas’ extensive use of the apocalyptic terminology in the earliest layer of the text,42 texts from this tradition claim special attention. In 4 Ezra, probably written by the end of the first century,43 Ezra sees a wonderful city.44 Michael Stone relates this to the tradition of “the revelation of the ideal temple city in Ezekiel 40–48”.45 The city would have been used as a metaphor for the heavenly realm of god and the setting of his throne. John’s Apocalypse would strengthen this interpretation in its equation of the heavenly city’s temple with god himself.46 The passage and its context merit a closer look. In 4 Ezra 10, the revelation is the explanation of an earlier vision of a woman, as is shown by the immediately preceding passage: The woman who appeared to you a little while ago, whom you saw mourning and began to console – (42) but you do not now see the form of a woman, but an established city has 37  Here Second Isaiah (see e.g. the confrontation of the fall of the virgin Babylon and the mother Jerusalem in 47 and 49.14–50.3) is important, as is the exhortation to accommodate in the city of the exile in Jeremiah (Jer 29; cf. 32.43 f. for the renewal of accommodation in Jerusalem); the first exile offered many a blueprint for the interpretation of later experiences (I am grateful to Reinhard G. Kratz, Göttingen, for these references). For other contemporary uses of Jerusalem as a symbol see Cape 2011. 38  Lieu 2004, 243. 39 See ibid. and Kippenberg 1986. 40  Cic. leg. 2.5. Cf. the discussion on Jews in Alexandria in Ios. c. Apion 2.6 41  Diogn. 5–6. 42 See Rüpke 1999 in detail. 43  Dated to the end of the 1st century AD by Longenecker 1995, 13–4, concurring with Stone 1990, 10: the latter part of Domitian’s rule. 44  10.51–6. This has already been prepared in 8.52: “Paradise is opened, the tree of life is planted, the world to come is prepared, delight is provided, a city is built, rest is provided” (trsl. Stone). 45  Stone 2007, 405. 46  Ibid., n. 12 on Rev 21.22–3.

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appeared to you – (43) and as for her telling you about the misfortune of her son, this is the interpretation: (44) This woman whom you saw, whom you now behold as an established city, is Zion. (45) And as for her telling you that she was barren for thirty years, (it is) because there were three thousand years in the world before any offering was offered in it. (46) And after three thousand years Solomon built the city, and offered offerings; then it was that the barren woman bore a son. (47) And as for her telling you that she brought him up with much care, that was the (period of) residence in Jerusalem … (51) Therefore I told you to remain in the field where no house had been built, (52) for I knew that the Most High would reveal all these things to you. (53) Therefore I told you to go into the place where there was no foundation of any building, (54) for no work of man’s building could endure in a place where the city of the Most High was to be revealed (trsl. Stone).

The woman47 had been mourning the fate of Jerusalem, historically destroyed one generation before (70 CE). The envisaged restoration of Zion48 occupies a totally new place, thus dealing with the problem of the destruction of Jerusalem without claiming a renovation on the spot. Basically, we are dealing with the metamorphosis of one city, Jerusalem. There is no clear temporal index, consigning the project to an unforeseeable future. The centrality of the contents of this vision is stressed by its connection to a previous vision; it is the turning point of the whole text.49 John’s Apocalypse gives the descent of the heavenly city comparable space (21 f.), indulging in the description of its wall and gates. The destruction of the first Jerusalem remains implicit, but is compensated for by an extensive description of the eschatological destruction of Babylon, clearly a cover for the city of Rome (17 f., in particular 18). In 4 Ezra the vision of the city is followed by a very explicit treatment of the Roman emperors.50 Another nearly contemporaneous text, tentatively dated to the early Hadrianic period, the fifth Sibylline oracle, probably composed in Egypt, also imagines the replacement of the destroyed city of Jerusalem by a heavenly city (408–27).51 But now there came up against it an inglorious and unholy king, to throw down the holy place and leave it a ruin, with a great host and men of renown in war. (411) Yet he perished [Titus] … (418) He [god] took and utterly burnt with fire the cities of them who before had done evil, (420) and the city which God loved he made more bright than the sun, moon and stars: her he adorned, and … he made a holy house in visible shape, pure and beautiful, of many furlongs he made it in magnitude, (425) with a great tower reaching to the very clouds, visible to all men.52

 For the female personifications of Jerusalem see Maier 2009 and Häusl 2011 a.  Thus Stone 1990, 334. 49  Häusl 2011 b, 38–9. 50 4 Ezra 11–2. 51  See Gauger 1998, 455. 52  Trsl. H. N. Bale, The Sibylline Oracles: books III-V. London: MacMillan, 1918. 47 48

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Just as in John’s Apocalypse, the direct confrontation is made explicit and the cities of the enemy – a plural also given in Apc 16.19 – are destroyed by fire. There is no need and no reason to choose: Rome is the enemy, and the eschatological Jerusalem the future home. Kenneth R. Jones has reviewed these and other contemporary Jewish texts in a recent monograph. His analysis supplements my findings. Taking up discourses about the Babylonian destruction of Jerusalem, the authors find difficulties in finding new ways to deal with the oppressing and probably lasting reality of the Roman Empire. The solution that presented itself was to call for an end to Jewish sinfulness, to merely hope for the political fall of Rome and to conceptualize Jerusalem as a heavenly city.53 How does Hermas fit into this image? It is easy to recall a thesis developed one hundred and thirty years ago in the monographic study of Theodor Zahn, who already identified the present city as Rome.54 His arguments can be enlarged and historically contextualized. The preface of Flavius Josephus’ “Jewish War” demonstrates that Jews, and particularly those being led to Rome as captives, interpreted the Flavian destruction of Jerusalem as part of a distant duel of two cities55 rather than a clash of totally different people.56 The contemporary rebuilding of the Roman central temple for Capitoline Jupiter might have strengthened such a perspective; in his historical narrative, Tacitus explicitly refers to the role of its divine owners, the Capitoline triad, as the leading tutelary deities of the empire (praesides imperi), probably referring to the actual formula of the prayer.57 Against such a backdrop, the renewal and elaboration of the idea of a heavenly city gains a clear – in fact, a political – and contemporaneous meaning.

5 Architectural details And yet, Hermas stands out from these texts with their typically provincial concerns.58 The explicit discussion of two cities and two citizenships remains isolated in a book that is characterized by its many repetitions. Evidently, sim 1 is addressed to all those for whom the alternative is not evident. To elaborate on that, Hermas concludes his series of similes by one that starts with a willow, but in fact returns to the city and its most prominent feature, a tower, recalling the prominent and representative of acropoleis or Capitolia of Greco-Roman cities already featured in the Fifth Sybilline Oracle, but also taking up an important biblical and  Jones 2011.  Zahn 1868, 121–4. Explicitly rejected by Brox 1991, 285, n. 10. 55  See Ios. bell. Iud. pr. 3–4 with § 9. 56 See Barclay 2007, 362–9 on Josephus’ view of the Romans. 57  Tac. hist. 4.53.3. 58  See Jones 2011, 277–8 for such “local Jewish concerns”. 53 54

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postbiblical image.59 The rewards allotted in sim 8 regulate admittance to a tower (sim 8.2 [68]: 1), which is at the same time differentiated from the wall (sim 8.6 [72]: 6; 8.7 [73]: 3) and at the same time its central feature, directly accessed by the gates, as the later simile nine makes clear (79 f.). For Hermas, the inhabitant of Rome and visionary of a new ecclesia, it is not the old Jerusalem, which has to be re-imagined. The image of two cities was a starting point, not an end. In the Shepherd, the image of the tower is an old one, already introduced at length in vis 3, which portrayed the “ecclesia” in its function of an alternative place of living, a tower rather than a city.60 The location of the vision of the building in the fields used for the production of salt adds a local and professional flavour to the imagery and its details.61 Vis 3.2 (10): (4) “She said to me, ‘Look, do you not see a great tower being built upon the water across from you, with bright, squared stones?’ (5) The tower was being built in a square by the six young men who had come with her. And thousands of other men were bringing stones, some of them from the depths of the sea and some from the land, and they were handing them over to the six young men, who were taking them and building. (6) Thus they placed all the stones drawn from the depths in the building; for they fit together and were straight at their joints with the other stones. And they were placed together so that their joints were invisible. The tower building seemed to have been made out of a single stone.”62

This vision is interpreted in the subsequent dialogue: Vis 3.5 [13]: (1) “Hear now about the stones that go into the building. On the one hand, the squared and white stones that fit together at the joints are the apostles, bishops, teachers and deacons who live reverently towards God and perform their duties as bishops, teachers, and deacons for the chosen ones of God in a holy and respectful way; some of these have fallen asleep, but others are still living. And they have always been harmonious with one another and at peace with one another, and they have listened one to another. For this reason their joints fit together in the building of the tower.” (2) “But who are the ones drawn from the depths of the sea and placed into the building, who fit together at their joints with the other stones already built in it?” “These are those who have suffered on account of the name of the Lord.” (3) “But I also want to know, Lady, who the other stones are, the ones brought from the dry land.” She said, “Those that go into the building without being hewn are ones the Lord has approved, because they walk in the uprightness of the Lord and carry out his commandments …” (3.7 [15]: 3) “But who are the other ones, which fall near the water but cannot be rolled into it?” “These are the ones who have heard the word and wanted to be baptized in the name of the Lord. But then when they recall what the life of purity involves, they change their minds and return to pursue their evil desires.”

 See Busi 1999, 235–9. Schneider 1999, 372–4. 61  Rüpke 2005. 62  This and the following translations are by Bart D. Ehrmann, Loeb Classical Library. 59

60 Thus

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Traditional imagery is given a baptismal dimension here,63 apart from the text’s interest in differentiating as many cases as possible. The latter is important and will be repeated in many passages of the whole text. As indicated in the beginning, actual behaviour in the many fields of daily life leads to endless nuances in the moral standing of group members.64 Such observations, however, beg the central question. Why must the “Church” compete in architectural terms? And why are details so important? For Hermas’ readers, Rome is not an imaginary opponent as for other apocalyptic texts quoted. They are confronted with the real Rome, the marble city of Flavian and Trajanic-Hadrianic times.65 Hermas is aware of the enormous attraction of the city and its society and social rules;66 his presence at Rome (probably shared by the author of Hebrews, who had to design an alternative priesthood)67 only strengthens this factor. The author happens to live on this alien soil.68 Following another trend in the post-70s apocalyptic literature, Hermas turns inward. The alternative of an incommensurable, eschatological, imagined city would be a distant one, an image whose radicality is not fitting to the problems of daily life. Dominant in the text is not the apposition of the two cities, but the image of the tower. The shift to the tower does not exclude differences. Competition is realised in details. The whiteness of the tower – that is the ekklêsia and the alternative city – is not only the ideal white of Hermas’ professional experience, of the salt, but it is competing with the white of Rome’s marble buildings. An important technical and visual detail is repeated: (Sim 9.9 [86]: 7) When the shepherd saw that the tower was beautiful built, he was extremely cheerful. The tower was so built that I marvelled at the construction. For it was built as if it came from a solitary stone, without a single joint. The stone seemed to be chiselled out from the rock; for it looked like a monolith to me.

Other instances could be added. The same ekklêsia uses a subsellium, a chair of magistrates, inserting a Latin loan word into the Greek text.69 She is accompanied by six young men caring for her chair like apparitores.70 Roman technique – per Schneider 1999, 313–4. stated by Lipsett 2011, 43. 65  On the latter see Boyle, Dominik 2003. 66 Stressed for the author of Hebrews by Harry O. Maier, see Rüpke 2012; cf. Nasrallah 2010 for cities in the East. 67  Rüpke 2012. 68 See Leutzsch 1989, 198, and Dunning 2009, 78–90, for Hermas’ conceptualisation of his contingent existence on such a soil. 69  PH vis 3.1 [9]: 4. 70  PH vis 1.4.1 and 3; vis 3.1.6 and 3.2.5. Interpreted as angels by Osiek 1999, 50 ad loc. The role of the companions speaks against the interpretation of the subsellium as ‘sigma bank’ for the presbyters (thus Schneider 1999, 441). Schneider tends to use much later evidence for the interpretation of the early 2nd cent. text of the Pastor Hermae, thus supposing unchanging continuity. 63

64 Also

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haps of fountains – is obviously implicitly admired, since explicitly rejected: it cannot pump the water up to heaven.71 Such references are more than local colour. In Hermas’ argumentation they have an important function. In his view, many people find it is so easy to believe that they do so without clear thought72 – why should they not add another god, I would like to add. But the same people are much more reluctant – or easily forget – to exchange the real for the imagined community. Hermas offers the thought experiment of the closer than eschatological tower as an exercise for fashioning one’s self,73 but it is embedded in the thought experiments of architectural competition, of an architectural miracle facing all the problems implied by its human building material and one yet to be built. Hermas’ “cities” are not comparing their walls. Points of reference are the fields owned (referring to sustenance and wealth), and the houses, the primary focus of social self-representation. At the end of simile one (50.8–10) metaphorical relationships mitigate74 the alternative: caring for widows and orphans and winning souls in this city are the fields and houses of the proper city.

6 Self, identity and power: Empire and individualisation Obviously, such constructions of oneself are polemical. The imaginary city-like tower is part of such boundary constructions. The fight for the dominance of a place is an important part in every struggle for power.75 It is not by chance that in 4 Ezra even the future aion is a space for living rather than a period.76 Rome, however, was not just a city, but, as Pliny the Elder claimed in the early 70s CE, a common home for the whole world: una cunctarum gentium in toto orbe patria.77 The destruction of Jerusalem had been a watershed moment78 in the history of what was slowly to become a religion.79 Jews like Christians reacted by creating an identity that was not primarily a local one.80 In fashioning such an identity, they could stress the negative, the loss of any home. Such was the strategy of the  PH mand 11 [43]: 18. mand 12.4 [47]: 5. 73  Similarly now Lipsett 2011, 52: “salvation by an elaboration of techniques of self-scrutiny”. 74  Cf. Lipsett 2011, 42, stressing “restraint” as a common demoninator. For philosophical models of such a conduct and its importance in paraenetic literature of the time see Kloppenborg 2010. 75  Perkins 2009. 76  See Harnisch 1969, 104. 77  Plin. NH 3.39; see Perkins 2009, 33 for further references from the early empire. 78  Stroumsa 2009 79 Rüpke 2010. 80  See Nasrallah 2008 on the Acta apostolorum, interpreted as demonstrating the creation of an empire-like network of cities. 71

72 PH

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Letter to Diognetus.81 The claim to a categorically different place, a town, was another one, proffered by apocalyptic literature. But the main thrust of the Shepherd’s discourse was not directed towards the Roman empire, but towards the self. Hermas’ stress on the individual was not exceptional. In post-destruction Judaism “the view became more and more prominent that sins could be atoned for … by means of prayer, fasting and proper behaviour, all in living dedication to God” notes Longenecker in his analysis of 4 Ezra.82 In 3 Baruch the problem of the destruction of Jerusalem was also solved by a turn to individual behaviour, a turn which had been observed by god and therefore already occurred.83 In the “Shepherd” the stones used are living ones. They live, even according to the letter to Diognetus, practically as everybody else does.84 The transcendent tower was above all an instrument in the shaping of the self, it was a tower in the making. But it was a consequential image, and it offered institutionalisations within a discourse that might be seen as an element in a larger process. This larger process could be termed individualisation, characterized by reading practices, communal meetings of the few, and the permanent reflection on one’s position in society. Such an individualisation is not opposed to institutionalisation; after all, citizenship was a collectivising and homogenising institution. It was the oppressive and increasingly pervasive presence of the Roman Empire, enforcing appropriation of its values by its coercive power as well as by its attractiveness that provoked the stress on individuality by distancing and drawing boundaries.85 It was the growing of individuality in cities, in the quantitive mode described by Georg Simmel,86 that provoked the institutionalisation of alternative options. This correspondence seems to be a historical truth about individualisation. The more city, the more self. Or in the short history of the motif of the two cities from 70 CE to the tower of Hermas: dual citizenship is possible.

81  Perkins 2009, 32 on Diogn. 5.1. In chapter 6, the author of the letter to Diognetus compares the Christians to the all-pervading (Stoic) soul, in order to explain difference and local presence. 82  Longenecker 1995, 16. 83  Collins 2000, 258–9. This was combined with a construction of a Jewish identity via a specifically Jewish history (ibid., 274–5). See also Jones 2011, 111–42 on the exceptional position of 3 Baruch. 84 In particular 5.4–5. 85  For the notion of boundaries see Lamont, Molnár 2002. 86  Simmel 1917.

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Bibliography Barclay, John (ed.) 2007. Flavius Josephus: Translation and Commentary. 10, Against Apion, Leiden. Benz, Ernst 1969. Die Vision: Erfahrungsformen und Bilderwelt, Stuttgart. Boyle, Anthony J., William J.  Dominik (eds.) 2003. Flavian Rome: Culture, Image, Text, Leiden. Brox, Norbert 1991. Der Hirt des Hermas. Kommentar zu den Apostolischen Vätern 7, Göttingen. Bucur, Bogdan G. 2007. “The Son of God and the Angelomorphic Holy Spirit: A Reading of the Shepherd’s Christology”, ZNW 98, 120–42 – 2009. Angelomorphic pneumatology: Clement of Alexandria and other early Christian witnesses, Leiden. Busi, Giulio 1999. Simboli del pensiero ebraico: lessico ragionato in settanta voci, Torino. Carlini, Antonio (ed.) 1991. Papyrus Bodmer XXXVIII: Erma: Il Pastore, Genf. Capes, David B. 2011. “‘Jerusalem’ in the Gabriel Revelation and the Revelation of John”, in Matthias Henze (ed.), Hazon Gabriel: New Readings of the Gabriel Revelation. SBL Early Judaism and Its Literatur 29, Atlanta 2011, 173–88. Chester, Andrew 2007. Messiah and Exaltation: Jewish Messianic and Visionary Traditions and New Testament Christology. Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament 207, Tübingen. Cline, Rangar H. 2011. Ancient Angels: Conceptualizing Angeloi in the Roman Empire. Religions in the Graeco-Roman World 172, Leiden. Collins, John J. 2000. Between Athens and Jerusalem: Jewish Identity in the Hellenistic Diaspora. The Biblical Resources Series. 2nd edition, Grand Rapids. Dunbabin, Katherine M. D. 1989. “Baiarum grata voluptas: Pleasures and Dangers of the Baths”, PBSR 57, 6–46. Dunning, Benjamin H. 2009. Aliens and Sojourners: Self as Other in Early Christianity, Philadelphia. Ehrmann, Bart D. 2003. The Apostolic Fathers: Volume II. Epistle of Barnabas. Papias and Quadratus. Epistle to Diognetus. The Shepherd of Hermas, Cambridge. Fagan, Garrett 1999. Bathing in Public in the Roman World, Ann Arbor. Gauger, Jörg-Dieter (Hg.) 1998. Sibyllinische Weissagungen: griechisch-deutsch. Auf der Grundlage der Ausgabe von Alfons Kurfess. Sammlung Tusculum, Zürich. Hahnemann, Geoffrey M. 1992. The Muratorian Fragment and the Development of the Canon, Oxford. Harnisch, Wolfgang 1969. Verhängnis und Verheißung der Geschichte. Untersuchungen zum Zeit‑ und Geschichtsverständnis im 4. Buch Esra und in der syrischen Baruchapokalypse. Forschung zur Religion und Literatur des Alten und Neuen Testaments 98, Göttingen. Häusl, Maria (ed.) 2011 a. Tochter Zion auf dem Weg zum himmlischen Jerusalem: Rezeptionslinien der “Stadtfrau Jerusalem” von den späten alttestamentlichen Texten bis zu den Werken der Kirchenväter, Leipzig. – 2011 b. “Auf dem Weg: Längsschnitte durch die Forschung und die Texte”, in: Ead. (ed.), Tochter Zion auf dem Weg zum himmlischen Jerusalem: Rezeptionslinien der „Stadtfrau Jerusalem” von den späten alttestamentlichen Texten bis zu den Werken der Kirchenväter, Leipzig, 11–49. Henne, Philippe 1990. “Canonicité du Pasteur d’Hermas”, Revue Thomiste 90, 81–100.

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– 1992. L’unité du Pasteur d’Hermas: Tradition et rédaction. Cahiers de la Revue biblique 31, Paris. Hilhorst, Anton 1988. “Hermas”, RAC 14, 682–701. Hill, Charles E. 1995. “The Debate over the Muratorian Fragment and the Development of the Canon”, Westminster Theological Journal 57, 437–452. Inwood, Brad 2009. “Seneca and self assertion”, in: Shadi Bartsch, David Wray (eds.), Seneca and the Self, Cambridge, 39–64. Janowitz, Naomi 2000. “Rethinking Jewish Identity in Late Antiquity”, in: Stephen Mitchell, Geoffrey Greatrex (eds.), Ethnicity and Culture in Late Antiquity, London. Joly, Robert 1993. “Le milieu complexe du ‘Pasteur d’Hermas’”, ANRW II.27,1, 524–51. Jones, Kenneth R. 2011. Jewish Reactions to the Destruction of Jerusalem in A. D. 70: Apocalypses and Related Pseudepigrapha. Suppl. to the Journal for the Study of Judaism 151, Leiden. Jung, Matthias 2006. “Making life explicit – The Symbolic Pregnance of Religious Experience”, Svensk Teologisk Kvartalskrift 82, 16–23. Kaestli, Jean-Daniel 1994. “La place du Fragment du Muratori dans l’Histoire du canon: A Propos de la Thèse de Sundberg et Hahneman”, Cristianesimo nella storia 15, 609–34. Kippenberg, Hans G. 1986. “Die jüdischen Überlieferungen als patrioi nomoi”, in: Richard, and Renate Schlesier (eds.), Die Restauration der Götter: Antike Religion und Neopaganismus, Würzburg, 45–60. Kloppenborg, John S. 2010. “James 1:2–15 and Hellenistic Psychagogy”, Novum Testamentum 52, 37–71. Lampe, Peter 21989. Die stadtrömischen Christen in den ersten beiden Jahrhunderten: Untersuchungen zur Sozialgeschichte, Tübingen. Leutzsch, Martin 1989. Die Wahrnehmung sozialer Wirklichkeit im “Hirten des Hermas”, Göttingen. Lieu, Judith M. 2004. Christian Identity in the Jewish and Graeco-Roman World, Oxford. Lipsett, Barbara Diane 2011. Desiring conversion: Hermas, Thecla, Aseneth, New York. Longenecker, Richard N. 1970. The Christology of early Jewish Christianity, London. Longenecker, Bruce W. 1995. 2 Esdras. Guides to Apocrypha and Pseudepigraphica, Sheffield. Lusini, Gianfrancesco 2001. “Nouvelles recherches sur le texte du Pasteur d’Hermas”, Apocrypha 12, 79–97. Maier, Christl M. 2009. “Daughter Zion as Queen and the Iconography of the Female City”, in: Martti Nissinen, Charles E. Carter (eds.), Images and Prophecy in the Ancient Eastern Mediterranean. Forschungen zur Religion und Literatur des Alten und Neuen Testaments 233, Göttingen, 147–62. Maier, Harry O. 1991. The Social Setting of the Ministry as Reflected in the Writings of Hermas, Clement and Ignatius, Dissertations SR 1, Waterloo, Ontario (= Diss. Oxford 1987). Malina, Bruce 2002. Die Offenbarung des Johannes: Sternvisionen und Himmelsreisen, Stuttgart. Marin, Marcello 1982. “Sulla fortuna delle Similitudini III e IV di Erma”, Vetera Christianorum 19, 331–340. Markschies, Christoph 1997. “Innerer Mensch”, RAC 18, 166–312.

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Martín, José Pablo 2007. “El ‘Pastor de Hermas’ en el sieglo II: de la apocalíptica al historia”, Circe 11, 175–94. Nasrallah, Laura Salah 2008. “The Acts of the Apostles, Greek cities, and Hadrian’s Panhellenion”, Journal of Biblical Literature 127.3, 533–66. – 2010. Christian Responses to Roman Art and Architecture: The Second-Century Church amid the Spaces of Empire, New York. Osiek, Carolyn 1983. Rich and Poor in the Shepherd of Hermas: An Exegetical-Social Investigation, Washington, D. C. – 1999. Shepherd of Hermas: A Commentary, Minneapolis. Perkins, Judith 2009. Roman imperial identities in the early Christian era, London, New York. Peterson, Erik 1954. “Die Begegnung mit dem Ungeheuer”, Vigilae Christianae 8, 52–71. Rajak, Tessa 2009. “The Greek Bible Translation among Jews in the Second Century CE”, in: Lee Levine, Daniel Schwartz (eds.), Jewish Identities in Antiquity: Studies in Memory of Menahem Stern, Tübingen, 321–32. Rankin, David I. 2004. “Class Distinction as a Way of Doing Church: The Early Fathers and the Christian Plebs”, Vigilae Christianae 58,3, 298–315. Rüpke, Jörg 1990. Domi militiae: Die religiöse Konstruktion des Krieges in Rom, Stuttgart. – 1999. “Apokalyptische Salzberge: Zum sozialen Ort und zur literarischen Strategie des ‘Hirten des Hermas’”, Archiv für Religionsgeschichte 1, 148–60. – 2005. “Der Hirte des Hermas: Plausibilisierungs‑ und Legitimierungsstrategien im Übergang von Antike und Christentum”, Zeitschrift für antikes Christentum 8, 276–98. – 2007. Gruppenreligionen im römischen Reich. Sozialformen, Grenzziehungen und Leistungen. Studien und Texte zu Antike und Christentum 43, Tübingen. – 2010. “Hellenistic and Roman Empires and Euro-Mediterranean Religion”, JRE 3,2, 197–214. – 2012. “Starting sacrifice in the beyond: Flavian innovations in the concept of priesthood and their repercussions in the treatise ‘To the Hebrews’”, Revue d’histoire des religions 229, 5–30. – 2013 a. “Introduction”, in: Idem (ed.), The Individual in the Religions of the Ancient Mediterranean, Oxford, 3–38. – 2013 b. “Fighting for differences: Forms and limits of religious individuality in the ‘Shepherd of Hermas’”, ibid., 315–41. Russell, David S. 1982. “Apokalyptik – Prophetie – Pseudonymität”, in: Klaus Koch, Johann M. Schmidt (eds.), Apokapylptik. Wege der Forschung 365, Darmstadt, 311– 26. Rutgers, Leonard V. 2009. Making Myths: Jews in Early Christian Identity Formation, Leuven. Satake, Akira 2008. Die Offenbarung des Johannes. Kritisch-exegetischer Kommentar über das Neue Testamtent 16, Göttingen. Schneemelcher, Wilhelm (Hg.) 1990. Neutestamentliche Apokryphen in deutscher Übersetzung 1: Evangelien, Tübingen. Schneider, Athanasius 1999. “Propter sanctam ecclesiam suam”: Die Kirche als Geschöpf, Frau und Bau im Bußunterricht des Pastor Hermae, Roma. Simmel, Georg 1917. Grundfragen der Soziologi, Berlin/Leipzig. Simonetti, Manlio 2006. “Roma cristiana tra vescovi e presbiteri”, Vetera Christianorum 43,1, 5–17. Staats, Reinhart 1986. “Hermas”, TRE 15, 100–8.

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Stökl Ben Ezra, Daniel 2010. “Markus-Evangelium”, RAC 24, Stuttgart, 173–207. Stone, Michael E. 1990. Fourth Ezra: A commentary on the book of Fourth Ezra, Minneapolis. – 2003. “A Reconsideration of Apocalyptic Visions”, Harvard Theological Review 96,2, 100–8. – 2007. Scriptures, Sects, and Visions: A Profile of Judaism from Ezra to the Jewish Revolts, Eugene. Stroumsa, Guy 2009. The End of Sacrifice: Religious Transformations in Late Antiquity, Chicago. Sundberg, Albert C. 1973. “Canon Muratori: A Fourth Century List”, Harvard Theological Review 66, 1–41. Taeger, Jens-Wilhem 2006. Johanneische Perspektiven: Aufsätze zur Johannesapokalypse und zum johanneischen Kreis 1984–2003. Hg. von David C. Bienert und DietrichAlex Koch. Forschungen zur Religion und Literatur des Alten und Neuen Testaments 215, Göttingen. Thomassen, Einar 2004. “Orthodoxy and heresy in second-century Rome”, Harvard Theological Review 97,3, 241–56. Vinzent, Markus 2011. Christ’s Resurrection in Early Christianity and the Making of the New Testament, Farnham. Völter, Daniel 1900. Die Visionen des Hermas, die Sibylle und Clemens von Rom: Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte der altchristlichen Literatur, Berlin. Whittaker, Molly 1967. Die apostolischen Väter 1: Der Hirt des Hermas, GCS 48, Berlin. Wilckens, Ulrich 1998. Das Neue Testament Deutsch. 4, Das Evangelium nach Johannes. 17. Aufl. Göttingen. Wilson, John C. 1993. Toward a Reassessment of the Shepherd of Hermas: Its Date and Its Pneumatology, Lewiston. – 1995. Five Problems in the Interpretation of the Shepherd of Hermas: Authorship, Genre, Canonicity, Apocalyptic, and the Absence of the Name ‘Jesus Christ’, Mellen Biblical Press Series 34, Lewiston. Zahn, Theodor 1868. Der Hirt des Hermas, Gotha.

Dressing for Church: Tailoring the Christian Self through Clement of Alexandria’s Clothing Ideals Harry O. Maier Clothes maketh the man. How we dress and how we think about how we dress arise from a series of social ideals, institutional requirements, and cultural modalities that make sense of us as selves in a social world.1 Dress tailors the self to play one’s part in processes of deliberation and choice, to the social and institutional codes in the social construction of the self.2 This essay examines the role of clothing in the construction of the Christian self in one of the early church’s most prolific moral theologians, Clement of Alexandria.3 Clement’s Paedagogus and Stromateis treat the contemporary reader to some of the most sustained reflections concerning the role of clothing in making the self in the ancient world. His fashion code is an important component in his idealization of the Christian drama of redemption played out in his Alexandrian churches, both at its elementary and its more advanced levels. In offering his exhortations Clement takes his part in a Greco-Roman tradition of sartorial reflection.4 His treatises are invaluable for the window they offer into the sources of the construction of 1  The theoretical orientation I deploy in this essay is guided in the first instance by the social psychological work of Goffman 1959, de Certeau 1984, Bourdieu 1977 and 1984. Debt to Foucault’s final two volumes, especially to his notion of a genealogy of power, in History of Sexuality, will be obvious. These authors offer a socio-historical interactionist account of practices of the self in the context of overarching cultural scripts and practices, as well as institutional and epistemological configurations. Additionally Lavan, Swift, Putzey 2007 invite a consideration of the social space of dress and the construction of space through dress in the visual culture of Antiquity. There are a variety of approaches to this topic in the Greco-Roman period under consideration. For a survey see Colburn, Heyn 2008. 2 For a representative contemporary study of clothing and social identity, Horn, Gurel 1968; McDowell 1993. 3  A focused study of Clement’s clothing ideals has not been undertaken. Brown 1988, 122– 40 offers an insightful account though related specifically to sexual renunciation; Chadwick 1966, 31–67 remains an invaluable contextualization of Clement’s ideals. 4  Classicists, especially those working in reconstructing the social life of women in Antiquity, offer lively discussion in recovering this tradition: in addition Colburn, Heyn 2008, see Edmonson, Keith 2008 with extensive bibliography; Cleland, Harlow, Llewellyn-Jones 2005; Stout 1994, as well as Sebesta, 2007, Parano 2007; Harlow 2008; Olson 2008; Köb,

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the self in Christian Antiquity, and the unique appropriation of pre-existing and contemporary moral traditions that transformed a classical heritage into a mode of cultural understanding and practice peculiar to the requirements of the new institutional needs and structures of an emerging Christian movement. The following contextualizes Clement’s social construction of the Christian self in the second century church by tracing a genealogy of clothing reflections beginning with Xenophon’s ideals addressed to an aristocratic householder, then Plutarch’s advice to aspiring young rulers in the imperial period, followed by a consideration of clothing ideals presented by Stoic philosophers, especially Musonius Rufus. These treatments offer different modalities of the self realised in part by clothing ideals, formulated for differing institutional arrangements. Clement’s ideals presented for the Christian self, realised through the practices enjoined for second century Alexandrian Christians, offers an appropriation of these earlier philosophical teachings concerning dress, developed for a new cultural setting and the realization of a new notion of the Christian self.

1 Ischomachus Teaches His Wife How to Dress It is better to be than to seem. Ancient philosophers, teachers of rhetoric, and moralists conspired to assure that their disciples appeared to be what they spoke and learned. Dress was a primary means of self-performance in ancient elite and literary culture amongst which we may number the writers we will take up in the discussion that follows. Both Plato and Aristotle indicated the ideals of the philosophically oriented citizen of the ancient city-state by indicating that external comportment in dress was to indicate the interior regulation of the philosophically trained male. In the regulation of pleasures, Plato instructs, the true philosopher dissociates the soul from the body by despising luxuries in clothing and ornamentation (Phaedo 64 e–65 a). Dress is a deceptive means of hiding the true state of the soul with exteriors (Georg. 465 b). Here the right dress is regulated not by the desire for luxury but by an ascetical relationship to the self whereby clothing and ornament give way to the cultivation of the soul’s freedom from the body and its higher and lower appetites. In the city-state the ideal citizen is the one who has tamed bodily appetites to live in harmony with nature’s demands; Plato’s myth of political origins has humans without need of clothing living with God as their shepherd (Pol. 271 e). For Aristotle the ideal citizen’s life constitutes a mean between privation and profligacy, between abstemiousness in dress and luxuriating in purple and finery (Eth. Nic. 1127 b 25–30). Rather the good properly self-regulated citizen is one whose voice, gait, clothing, Riedel 2005; Maier 2004; Chausson, Inglebert 2003; Harlow 2004, though regrettably with little attention to Clement of Alexandria (214, n. 28); also Martorelli 2004.

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and demeanor reflect a mean in accordance with nature, ready for noble undertakings and participation in civic life (EN 1125 a 13–17). In these considerations philosophical practice and exercise constructs a subjectivity oriented toward the governance of civic affairs and the right negotiation of the challenges and demands of civic life. The care, regulation and uses of pleasure, of which the pleasures of clothing are a part, form a relation of care of self for the sake of the civic order. Amongst Theophrastus’ characters is the pretentious man whose love of finery belongs to a larger satirical profile of vices that undermine the city state (Characters 23.8). Xenophon’s Oeconomicus offers us a snap-shot of the role of clothing ideals in the regulation of the members of the fourth-century BCE aristocratic Athenian household. The right ordering and display of clothing belong to a larger concern regarding the philosophical harnessing of desire as a means of assuring the best form of domestic governance for the sake of the polis. In an imagined conversation between an Athenian estate owner Ischomachus and Socrates concerning his governance of his household, Ischomachus outlines his achievement in regulating his wife, slaves, and household. The correct ordering of his household, as Foucault famously observed, is the goal of Ischomachus’ relations with his wife and the regulation of their pleasures for domestic order and by extension the state. Clothing figures importantly in Ischomachus’ representation of the relations between husband and wife. In the first place is regulation of clothing for the sake of order and control. He has instructed his wife in placing the right clothing for the right time – religious sacrifices and battles (Oec. 9.6–8, 15). As goes the household so too his wife. Alongside order is the avoidance of false appearances. In a long passage (10.2–13) Ischomachus turns his instructions to his wife concerning dress and cosmetics. “I could advise her one point” he explains, “how she might make herself really beautiful, instead of seeming to be so” (10.9). “[M]y wife’s dress and appearance are in accord with my instructions,” he concludes (10.13). Once when Ischomachus discovered his wife applying cosmetics to her face he instructed her not to disguise her true appearances with make-up and dyes, but to remain “undisguised and as she should be” (10.8). What preserves the bond of husband and wife for Ischomachus are not cosmetic arts, but his wife’s correct regulation of the household. For “wives who sit about like fine ladies, expose themselves to comparison with painted and fraudulent hussies” (10.13). Socrates commends Ischomachus for cultivating in his wife “a truly masculine mind [ἀνδρικήν γε ἐπιδεικνύεις τὴν διάνοιαν]” (10.1). True beauty lies in her management of the household – which includes the supervision of slaves’ clothing and appearance as appropriate to the part they play. His wife, through her fitting appearance and behavior, preserves the properly regulated household which in turn preserves the bond between husband and wife, and so promotes the correct regulation of the state, for which Ischomachus periodically leaves his lands and agricultural arts to travel to the city and play his part. Clothing ideals

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here are in the service of a subjectivity that makes possible a model of political and economic organization.

2 Plutarch’s Mirror Five centuries later, in a Roman imperial context, philosophical reflection on clothing remained a commonplace, but now with a view to shifting institutional realities and demands. Plutarch furnishes us with reflection delivered in a Platonising modality on the place of clothing in the philosophical pursuit of the regulation of the passions – metriopatheia.5 His clothing guidelines – what to wear and when, how to adorn oneself, the ascetical disciplines of desisting from aristocratic habits of dressing luxuriously – offer us a sustained view into the households of aristocrats in the imperial east. In doing so, they shift our attention to a new modality of the clothed self in an imperially charged cultural, social and political situation. It is notable how Plutarch invites the young married couple, Pollianus and Eurydice, aristocrats in early second century Delphi, to imagine themselves.6 In his Advice to a Bride and Groom he invites them to picture young men and women considering themselves in front of the mirror. It was the advice of Socrates, that when young men looked at themselves in the mirror, those who were not handsome should become so through virtue, and who were so should not by vice deform their beauty. So also is it for the matron, when she has the mirror in her hands, if not handsome to say to herself, “What should I be, if I were not virtuous?” and if beautiful to say to herself, “How good it were to prefer virtue to beauty!” for it is a feather in the cap of a woman not beautiful to be loved for herself and not for her beauty (24.141D).

Looking in the mirror indicates a more interior view of the subject than we find in Xenophon’s idealization. It also suggests a different appraisal of clothing, riches, adornment, and the self that goes along with them. In the happily married home, Plutarch advises, wives can be heard to say to their husband, “My dear husband, what are you to me – guide, philosopher, and teacher in all that is most lovely and divine” (ἄνερ. ἀτὰρ σύ μοί ἐσσι καϑηγητὴς καὶ φιλόσοφος καὶ διδάσκαλος τῶν καλλίστων καὶ ϑειοτάτων, 48.145C). The woman, he says, who learns geometry “will be ashamed to be a dancer.” Accordingly, her studio will be free of extravagances – of dress, of ornaments, of luxuries – but only if the husband’s side of the house models such freedom for her. Indeed in the marital union of shared philosophical pursuit, the husband exercises regulation of his wife’s desire for luxury not by force but by reason: “if [women’s] husbands try to curtail by force their luxury and extravagance they are vexed and fight for their 5 For

the uses rather than renunciation of passions in the progress of virtue and self-cultivation generally, see On Moral Virtue 6, 444D–446C. 6  For the identity and the instruction under Plutarch, Bowersock 1965, 267–70.

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rights, but if they are convinced by reason, they peaceably put aside these things and practice moderation” (11.139E). Plutarch here imagines both women and men sharing a stake in the arts of philosophical instruction – indeed, Eurydice was probably a pupil of Plutarch’s. For if women are “not well informed by good precepts, and share with their husbands in intellectual advancement, they left to themselves generate many inappropriate things and poor motivations and emotions” (μηδὲ κοινωνῶσι παιδείας τοῖς ἀνδράσιν, αὐται καϑ’ αὑτὰς ἄτοπα πολλὰ καὶ φαῦλα βουλεύματα καὶ πάϑη κυοῦσι, 48.145E). They are, with their husbands, to exercise self-control and regulation; such women having their husbands as philosophical partners free themselves from the desires for jewels and costly apparel only the rich can afford, and instead join themselves to the harder won clothing: “these [the virtues] one may array oneself in without money and without price, and so adorned lead a happy and famous life” (48.145E). Thus it is that the young married couple is to prepare itself for taking up its role in its civic context. Michel Foucault, following Paul Veyne, read Plutarch’s advice to Pollianus and Eurydice as evidence of a transition toward a shared philosophical pursuit to help negotiate the uncertainties traditional aristocracies met in the face of the intruding power of the emperor and his imperial in civic affairs.7 Indeed, in his advice to a young magistrate Plutarch reminds the aspiring ruler not to exceed his bounds, for the Roman boot is just over his head. Foucault found in this a transposed configuration of power and knowledge. Imperial intrusions into traditional aristocratic hierarchies prompted the appearance of a new modality of the self that drove aristocrats from the agora to the salon, from the public life of regulation of pleasures for the sake of the common good, to the interior life of self-examination for the sake of self-rule and regulation. The interior dialogue of the young bride and groom prompted by the mirror’s reflection of ugliness and beauty expresses the self that has learned to know and care for itself, having transcended the arts of self-deception and self-delusion. The mirror suggests a contest with the self, the agonistic refinement of the subject toward control of passions and hence the cultivation of an interior tranquility, expressed preeminently now in the bond of love between husband and wife. On this account, the properly clothed self expresses the refinements of self-invigilation, and the nurturing of the male and female subject for the sake of domestic unity, a unity whose goal is the peaceable philosophical life. More recently, however, Simon Swain has imagined a slightly different appraisal of the social context such self-reflective practices, not as a means toward encouraging an interior self-regulation to withstand imperial insecurities, but as a concern for the marital bond as a means toward domestic homonoia in the 7  Foucault 1990, 81–95; Veyne 1978, 35–63, at 37; more popularly followed up by id. 1992, 1–234, at 95–116.

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service of an idealized civic concord. Swain however does not recognize enough the imperial context of homonoia that the husband and wife are to achieve. For such marital harmony finds its place in an imperial idealization of Concordia as one of the Empire’s most enduring and insisted upon achievements. The numerous Trajanic and Hadrianic appearances of speeches on Concord hold up civic unity in and amongst states as the ideal of civic life.8 On this account Plutarch’s mirror is more than – as on Swain’s account – a reflection of domestic unity as a means to secure civic concord. Rather, it mirrors back to the husband and wife standing in front of it the need for sharing in the nurturing of harmoniously ordered and governed selves for the sake of an imperial vision. In the visual culture of the Empire, the unity of husband and wife was a favored means of displaying the ideals of political concord, whether on imperial currency advertising imperial abundance bursting forth from the Concordia of the imperial household, or on the reliefs of contemporary grave stele representing husbands, wives, children, freepersons, and slaves staring out from the windows of their presumably perfectly ordered houses. Suzanne Dixon has aptly called such imperial iconographical schemes advertisements for the “sentimental ideal of the Roman imperial family” – an ideal that of course found its way into the New Testament and, as we shall see, into the idealizations of domestic life promoted by Clement of Alexandria.9 The picture of clothing in iconography speaks a thousand words: women properly coifed and arranged display modesty and temperance that promotes civic concord. The imperially gendered representations of the conquered nations at the Sebasteion at Aphrodisias made properly dressed women the prime example of the achievements of an imperial family divinely appointed to bring about a universal Concordia. There we discover the properly dressed matron, Agrippina, represented as Concordia crowning Nero. On this account Plutarch’s mirror expresses a colonial ideal. In either case, whether Veyne’s or the revision of Swain’s model, I am proposing a philosophical pursuit shared equally by husband and wife that offers a mode of clothing regulation in a register different from Xenophon’s. It is not the house-holder’s regulation of the desires and order of household members as the preeminent means of preserving the state, but a shared regulation of husband and wife of the desire for luxury and its deceptions.10 Philosophy as the means of regulating desire for luxury is an important consideration Plutarch raises in the governance of the state. In his precepts for governing Plutarch advises the would-be civic magistrate to remain inconspicuous “by things invidious for  8  See Plutarch Precepts 805D, expressing an imperial context, and more generally in the speeches of Dio Chrysostom (Or. 38; 39; 40) and Aristides (Or. 23; 24) declaiming upon the ideals of homonoia. For the imperial register, especially Aristides Or. 26.31; Sheppard 1984; Kampmann 1998, 385. With reference to the imperial context generally, Jones 1972.  9  Dixon 1991. 10  Swain 1999.

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luxury and sumptuousness,” but “to be equal and like to others in his clothes, diet, education of his children, and the garb and attendance of his wife, as desiring in his comportment and manner of living to be like the rest of the people” (Precepts of Government 31.823B). This is the fruit of care in the growth and exercise of virtue; so to arrange one’s affairs that they keep discord from the city, and to regulate oneself and one’s household in a manner conducive to the ideals of civic concord. He extols the senator who would “make my whole house so transparent that all the city may see how I live” (4.800F). In his Precepts to an Uneducated Ruler he exhorts the aspiring magistrate to regulate himself in accordance with the justice and the law, so he shows himself to be “the image of God.” “For as God has placed the sun and moon in heaven as manifest tokens of his power and glory, so the majesty of a prince is resplendent on earth, as he is his representative and vice-regent. One finds likeness to God in a prince’s wisdom and understanding, not in statues outfitted with the divine paraphernalia of sceptre, thunderbolt, and trident.” For such a prince, the capacity to govern justly by law can only arise once he “learns how to govern his own passions and to endue his mind with a tincture of princely virtues, and afterwards to make his subjects conformable to his example” (3.780F; similarly 5.782A). With correct dress and walk he is to appear in public with his wife and children, who are to be similarly rightly regulated, and share the common life with those he governs even as he rejects the desire for display of luxury. The statesman who has learned through philosophy to govern passions by reason and to control the desire for luxury has learned to stop worrying about dress and its deceptions and instead nurtures virtues that are conducive to civic rule.

3 Dressing for Exile With Musonius Rufus, “the Roman Socrates” and his pupil Epictetus we come to two other philosophical formulations of clothing ideals in the cultivation and formation of the second century self. These again are self-consciously couched in the context of an imperial context: Musonius was exiled from Rome – twice by Nero and once by Vespasian – and his instructions for the pursuit of the philosophical life can be read as a means of ascesis to practice a kind of external exile from the misleading passions and desires right reasoning teaches one to leave behind and renounce. Here in the Roman capital we are closer to the construction of the imperial subject sketched out by Paul Veyne – namely, a comportment and relationship to the self that seeks the equilibrium and tranquility necessary to negotiate changes of and threats to social status on account of a burgeoning service aristocracy. Paul Veyne and Pierre Hadot have looked at the role of philosophical tutelage in the homes of the well-to-do who learned from resident teachers elements of the philosophical life and their daily practice and the role

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and social location of daily exercises and regimens of self-examination appointed by philosophical guides as a means toward cultivating a care of the self conducive to correct engagement with daily life as well as the achievement of tranquility.11 To seek a philosophical centre in the face of exile is to deploy the agonistic model of the subject for a care of the self directed toward steering a steady course through a sea of troubles. Musonius’ teaching takes the form of advice in the pursuit of philosophical practice. His writings offer a daily ascetical practice for his readers to follow. They are especially instructive because of their direct influence on Clement’s moral reflections and so are important for noticing similarities and differences in the conception of the self in Musonius’ Stoic conception of the philosopher and in Clement’s Christian.12 For Musonius the goal of philosophy is to instruct all people in the means of attaining the good life, a life that is won through daily ascetical exercise and practice. Through a philosophical formation that should begin in infancy one learns to live in accordance with nature. Such a life is nurtured and won slowly in the practical application of reason. All people – men and women – are to strive for mastery of self by means of a temperance whose daily practice teaches the toughening of body and of mind. By such means all may through the practices of prudence, justice, temperance, and courage achieve self-mastery and the life God has assigned as the specific end of humans. That life is to resemble God, who similarly governs not by pleasure, greed, desire, envy or jealousy, but by virtue: In general of all creatures on earth man alone resembles God and has the same virtues that He has, since we imagine nothing even in the gods better than prudence, justice, courage, and temperance. Therefore, as God, through the possession of these virtues, is unconquered by pleasure or greed, is superior to desire, envy, and jealousy; is high-minded, beneficent, and kindly (for such is our conception of God), so also man in the image of Him, when living in accord with nature, should be thought of as being like Him (οὕτω καὶ τὸ ἐκείνου μίμηα τὸν ἄνϑρωπον ἡγητέον, ὅταν ἔχῃ κατὰ φύσιν, ὁμοίως ἔχειν) and being like Him, being enviable, and being enviable, he would forthwith be happy, for we envy none but the happy (17.14–29).13

In outlining this telos of life Musonius joins himself to a philosophical tradition whose chief aim is to be as much like God as possible, in the practice and care of the self.14 At home in the imperial Roman world, he takes part in the agonistic 11 Hadot 1981; Veyne 1992; similarly Francis 1995 for an overview of socially conservative asceticism in the service of aristocratic households and elite culture; for sophists, rhetoricians, and philosophers in the homes of elites more generally, Bowersock 1969. 12 Thus Marrou 1960, 52: “le Pédagogue trait les mêmes sujets, dans le même esprit, et souvent en se servant des mêmes expressions que les Diatribes de Musonius ….” Marrou discovers in Clement’s moral instruction concerning the correct uses of clothing, ornamentation, and care of hair direct dependence on Musonius. Thus clothing (Paed 2.10bis (11) – Musonius 19), costly vessels (2.3–20); and hair (3.3–21). See also Wendland 1886, which offers a compendium of parallel of texts. 13  Translations from the Greek text are from Lutz 1947, 3–147. 14  For a full discussion of a lengthy tradition, Merki 1952.

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conception of the subject. So his philosophy centers on teaching the practices of everyday life – what to wear, eat, sexual behavior, how to consider misfortunes, and so on, all of which is directed by self-control, for the sake of the common good, in the context of civic life. Repeatedly his ideal reader is the student of philosophy – one whose philosophical training in the care of the soul is lifelong. The self as combatant emerges in Musonius’ philosophical teaching on clothing: “… he said that one ought to use clothing and shoes in exactly the same way as armour, that is the protection of the body and not for display” (19.3–4). The best clothes, like the best armour, is that most useful. The opposite of this is the clothing leading to “smoothness and delicacy of skin” or those who wear such clothing “make their bodies worse, inasmuch as plainly the pampered and soft body (τεϑρυμμένον σῶμα καὶ μαλακὸν) is much worse than one that is sturdy and bears evidence of hard work” (19.11–12). Rather those who with their clothes “strengthen and invigorate the body (ῥωννύντες καὶ κρατύνοντες)” benefit it (13–14). Experiencing heat in summer and cold in winter, the wearing of one cloak rather than two, as well as walking barefoot Musonius promotes as a regimen for training the self. In these precepts Musonius encourages his disciples to dress up for a life that will preserve the life God has given them. Through the application of reason and the training of the self the goal is to learn to “become of like mind with God” (συμψήφους χρὴ τῷ ϑεῷ γενέσϑαι) and by deploying reason use correctly things controllable by human choice, and the rest “gladly yield to it whether it asks for our children, our country, our body, or anything whatsoever” (38.5–7). Dress then reveals the Stoic ideal to live in conformity with a nature given and appointed by God. Epictetus, Musonius’ disciple, promotes further the agonistic relation to the self taught in Musonius’ writings. In his discourse on clothing (Disc. 3.1) Epictetus follows Musonius in privileging the ability to use sense impressions rationally as distinguishing human nature. To live rationally is to live “in accordance with nature and perfectly” (3.1.27). Dress and adornment exist only for the sake of this outcome. Epictetus invites us into his social setting in his imaginary dialogues with would-be pupils. The philosophical school becomes a training ground for achieving a life in conformity with nature. Epictetus’ discourses and Musonius’ aphoristic teaching presume a setting where philosophers meet one on one or in small circles for direction and guidance, or where teachings are passed along to disciples. These Stoic teachings on dress locate the imperial modality of the self amidst civic enterprises of promotion of a life of self-government to achieve a mastered self for the sake of the common order. A cosmopolitanism accompanies these reflections – a universality of teaching drawn from earlier Stoic tradition, but redeployed now in an imperial setting for all to pursue and learn from, in a worldwide agon dedicated to the care of self and by extension a common now imperial humanity.

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4 Dressing for Church The self-cultivation outlined above from the classical and imperial periods promotes an agonistic construction of the self, guided by philosophical disciplines to help achieve forms of household management and self-mastery conducive to the governance of civic and imperial life. In the texts discussed above, philosophers idealize clothing ideals to fit every man and woman, but their ideas are targeted in the first instance to social elites who are to try them on. The Christianity of the second century Clement of Alexandria represents the moral-philosophical and theological appropriation of these universal ideals aimed at a more broadly-based application in a transfigured institutional setting of the church. The church now becomes the institution from which the call to philosophize comes. Clement affirms that all, no matter what their station, God exhorts to pursue moral ethical ideals: [T]he church is full of those, as well chaste women as men, who all their life have contemplated the death which rouses up to Christ. For the individual whose life is framed as ours is, may philosophize without learning, whether barbarian, whether Greek, whether slave – whether an older man, or a boy, or a woman, for self-control is common to all human beings who have made choice of it. And we admit that the same nature exists in every race, and the same virtue, as far as respects human nature, the woman does not possess one nature and the man exhibit another, but the same (Strom. 4.8.58.2–59.1). μεστὴ μὲν οὖν πᾶσα ἡ ἐκκλησία τῶν μελετησάντων τὸν ζωοποιὸν ϑάνατον εἰς Χριστὸν παρ’ ὅλον τὸν βίον καϑάπερ ἀνδρῶν οὕτω δὲ καὶ γυναικῶν σωφρόνων. ἔξεστι γὰρ τῷ καϑ’ ἡμᾶς πολιτευομένῳ καὶ ἄνευ γραμμάτων φιλο – σοφεῖν, κἂν βάρβαρος ᾖ κἂν  Ἕλλην κἂν δοῦλος κἂν γέρων κἂν παιδίον κἂν γυνή· κοινὴ γὰρ ἁπάντων τῶν ἀνϑρώπων τῶν γε ἑλομένων ἡ σωφροσύνη· ὡμολόγηται δ’ ἡμῖν τὴν αὐτὴν φύσιν κατὰ γένος ἕκαστον τὴν αὐτὴν καὶ ἴσχειν ἀρετήν. οὐκ ἄλλην τοίνυν πρὸς τὴν ἀνϑρωπό – τητα φύσιν ἔχειν ἡ γυνή, ἄλλην δὲ ὁ ἀνὴρ φαίνεται.15

This remarkable quotation arises in no small measure from the universalized ideals championed in the New Testament. Here of course Paul’s baptismal formula furnishes the backdrop for Clement’s universal call to cultivate the self. In the same canon Clement found recurring applications of clothing ideals, irrespective of social station, to pursue his ideals. Paul’s letters construct ideal readers who are celebrated as putting on a new identity, or are exhorted to make correct adornment the outer sign of belonging to a community of the saved in the church. It is in these texts that Clement discovers the door to bring the clothing ideals of his philosophical contemporaries into the church with the result that both are transformed. It is also here that he finds an entry point for the promotion of an idealized performance of the agonistic self found everywhere in Roman imperial culture and in the literature of its moralists. The new self 15

 Translations unless otherwise stated are slightly modified from Foxe 1979.

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emerging from the waters of baptism initiated into a life of battle with the self to realize eschatological hope: Clement discovered in the New Testament a new engagement with clothing as a source for constructing and caring for the self. “You have put off [ἀπεκδυσάμενοι] the old nature and put on [ἐνδυσάμενοι] the new nature” acclaims the author to the Colossians (3.9–10; cf. Eph. 4.22–24) in a passage that represents an often recurring application of clothing metaphor.16 Here in Colossians, as elsewhere, language invoking baptismal ritual favors clothing as a central vehicle for communicating a new sociality of the church.17 Often alongside such language Clement also discovered an invocation of clothing ideals closely linked to a universalized performance of gender. 1 Tim. 2.9–10 and 1 Peter 3.3–5 draw directly from Greco-Roman and Jewish moral teaching to instruct wives how properly to adorn themselves, again with a view toward a universal moral application.18 Elsewhere, he saw the use of clothing metaphor to represent a new eschatological reality of a diverse community, whose ending is promised (or threatened) for all.19 In the New Testament Clement discovered resources for deploying a philosophical heritage of moral persuasion to a new social setting, discovered a new social source for the self and helped to promote a whole new repertoire of performances – technologies and daily practices of the self – in a new set of institutions emerging from the house churches of his Greco-Roman urban world. In the urban imperial setting of the church Clement creates the stage for instructing his disciples how to dress to play their role in a drama of salvation. In doing so like Plutarch he encourages a trans-local civility, but no longer amongst the governing elites seeking domestic harmony through the philosophical arts for the sake of imperial Concordia, but a civic vision transplanted into an alternative catholic vision made ever more acute by its transpositions of pre-existing cultural claims amongst a shared humankind. We might say that Clement teaches his audience how to dress to practice imperial politics by other means. The household where Clement’s Paedagogus trains its family members for growth and maturity is the house church of Alexandria and its ancillary insti16 Thus

similarly, 1 Thess. 5.8; Gal. 3.17; 2 Cor. 5.2,3,4; Rom. 13.12; Eph. 6.11,14; 1 Tim. 2.8– 10. Outside of Paul, 1 Peter 3.3–5; for deployment of the stereotype of unregulated female luxury to represent imperial idolatry, Rev. 17.4; for luxurious clothing as sign of imperial economic oppression, 18.12; also, for command to practice discipleship through clothing, Mt. 10.9 par. 17  For an excellent survey focusing on the Pauline corpus in a broader Graeco-Roman philosophical context and with reference to the New Testament more generally, Kim 2004. 18  For example, the Pythagorean Phyntis (fourth–third century BCE), On the Temperance of a Woman 153.15–28; Perictione (fifth century BCE), On the Harmony of a Woman 143.26–28 – for text and commentary, see Waithe 1987, 26–39 – and the Neo-Pythagorean Epistle of Melissa to Clearete (ca. second century CE) – for text and commentary, Städele 1980, no. 3, 160; Plutarch, Consolation 609C; Philo, On Special Laws 1.102; 3.169–71; Abel and Cain 26–27; outside of Philo, T. Reuben 5.1,5; also Winter 2003, 97–108; for 1 Peter, Balch 1981. 19  Thus, 1 Cor. 15.49, 53, 54; 2 Cor. 5.1–5; Rev. 3.4, 18; 7.9.

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tutions of instruction where Clement plays a central role.20 Clement’s nimble philosophical application of a Stoic, Platonist, and Aristotelian heritage has been well documented.21 But too often this is done without sufficient attention to the changed socio-historical and socio-performative application of these traditions, as well as the emerging urban context of a steadily acculturated Christianity coming to be housed amongst urban elites. As in the case of contemporary GrecoRoman philosophical schools Clement’s Paedagogus instructs his disciples to philosophize. But unlike the schools, he aims at a more universal scope, including men and women, slave and free. Clement’s universalism is in part derived from the universalizing aspects of contemporary Pythagoreanism and Stoicism, but more critically he supports them by appeals to the Bible and the implications of Christian ritual. Even Clement’s Gnostic pursues a universalizing goal, for he or she exercises his or her gnosis for the sake of the rest of the community – what Clement calls a martyrdom of love – and so promotes the same universal result aimed at in Clement’s most rudimentary moral teachings.22 Clement has Christ the Paedagogos teach the baptized how to dress and in so doing transforms a philosophical heritage into a new fashion code. His beginning point is baptism, which anticipates an eschatological reality all are to practice, and some express perfectly in this life. Baptism initiates for Clement the Alexandrian Christian into a new life that is expressed in clothing both metaphorically and literally. “Truly we are the children of God, who have put aside the old man, and stripped off the garment of wickedness, and put on the immortality of Christ; that we may become a new, holy people by regeneration, and may keep the man undefiled” (Paed. 1.6.32). Clement exegetes the universal application of such a regeneration with the help of his philosophical tradition. In a passage that celebrates “the one universal salvation of humanity” in which “there is the same equality before the righteous and loving God” he invokes the baptismal formula of Gal. 3.26–28 and rejects the Gnostic notion that distinguishes between illuminated gnostikoi and psychikoi amongst those who receive baptism (Paed. 1.6.31.1–2). Such a universal salvation also establishes the basis for the universal pursuit of the moral discipline championed amongst Clement’s contemporaries, but now linked to the perfecting results of Christian ritual. In baptism all people, no matter what their economic station or origins, are equally reborn and conformed to the Word who is the perfect image and likeness of God, 20  For a reconstruction of the social setting of Clement’s instruction in Alexandrian households see van den Broek 1996, 197–205; White 1981, 328–50. For an alternative view that proposes a more institutionalized, ecclesially controlled and endorsed, public setting: Méhat 1966, 62–70. 21  Thus for example, Bigg 1913; Lilla 1971; Wyrwa 1983; van den Hoek 1988; Clark 1977; Spanneut 1957; Wendland 1886. 22 For a full treatment of Clement’s Gnostic Christians and their relationship to the community, including the service of love, see Völker 1952, 153–60, 446–506; for martyrdom, 559–79; for martyrdom of love: Strom. 4.13.2; 4.14.1–3; 4.41.1; 2.54.17–26; 2.55.3; 2.26.22–5.

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an image and likeness a prelapsarian humanity was created to reflect (for example, Paed. 1.12.98.2). In the Stoic tradition one trains oneself so to use reason to discern the origins of impulses so as regulate one’s passions and desires in the quest of apatheia – detachment from and sovereignty over irrational impulses. The life lived in accordance with nature is a life governed by reason. Clement takes these ideals and conforms them to a new universalized theological system where to live in accordance with nature and steered by rational choices is to live in conformity with the new nature created in baptism whereby the image and likeness of humankind is restored as one rises from the waters of rebirth clothed with the new man, Jesus Christ. Clement’s moral vision becomes by definition a universal one. It is also an eschatological one. For the men and women who emerge as newborns in the waters of baptism, ready to drink the breast milk of the Word’s teachings, are at the same time already what they have been recreated to become.23 “Straightway upon our regeneration we attain that perfection after which we aspired,” writes Clement (Paed. 1.6.25.1). “Nurslings who listen to the Word meditate upon their heavenly citizenship according to which they are now already deified” (Paed. 6.12.98.3). His eschatology is however a partially realized one – the Paedagogos teaches his newborns to celebrate the even now while struggling to conform themselves during the routine everydayness of the not yet. It is here that the philosophically constructed subject makes its chief appearance and where dress becomes a chief external means of discerning the passions and the desires of the self and one’s success in their regulation. One practices now what is one’s destiny, namely an ever becoming toward the image and likeness of God. Even as the Son “the spotless image” is “without sin, without blame without passion of soul so we must try to resemble him in spirit as far as we are able” (Paed. 1.2.4). Later in the Stromateis Clement idealizes the Gnostic as practicing a life of assimilation to the likeness of God as far as possible.24 Here Clement transforms a philosophical heritage of homoiosis – of living so as to practice one’s eternal origins, into a life the agonistic self practices through philosophical ascesis. Critical in Clement’s ascesis is his transformation of its metaphysical origins and telos. Amongst Clement’s Greco-Roman philosophical contemporaries, assimilation to the divine image is innate or natural  – a return to the true self imprisoned in the body or whom the individual Logos is to conform himself to through apatheia to cohere with the universal divine Logos as a part of the whole. Clement rejects such innate or natural being with the divine, but rather affirms a created self, whether as prelapsarian humankind, or assumed through regenerating baptism. Clement preserves the ontological division between humankind and God with the result that the philosophical practices of self-care are 23 24

 See similarly, Behr 2000, 156.  For example, Strom. 2.18,19,22; 4.4,22,26.

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not so much a return to or practice of origins as they are a realization of rebirth and renewal whose eschatological realization is always present and one is always growing toward. This is reinforced by Clement’s repeated celebrations of those under the Instructor’s care as newborns, infants, children: In contradiction therefore to the older people, the new people are always called young, having learned new blessings; and we have the exuberance of life’s morning promise in this youth which knows no old age (ἔστιν ἡμῖν τὸ ουϑαρτῆς ἡλικίας ἡ ἀγήρως αὕτη νεότης), in which we are always maturing in understanding, are always young, always gentle, always new: for those must necessarily be new, who have become partakers of the new Word. And that which participated in eternity is wont to be assimilated to the incorruptible: so that to us appertains the designation of the age of childhood, a life-long springtime, because the truth that is in us (ὡς εἶναι ἡμῖν τῆς παιδικῆς ἡλικίας τὴν προσηγορίαν ἔαρ παντὸς τοῦ ζῆν διὰ τὸ ἀγήρω), and our habits saturated with the truth, cannot be touched by old age (Paed. 1.5.20.3–4; trans. Behr 2000, p. 158).

In this “lifelong springtime” one must learn how to live and how to assess oneself under steady therapeutic guidance of the Instructor. Clement here takes up his place in a long tradition of philosophy as both diagnosis and cure.25 Salvation for Clement is healing and instruction (Strom. 1.27). The Word teaches and gives advice. “Healing of the passions follow as a consequence. The Educator strengthens the soul [through persuasion] and then He gives the nourishing, mild medicine, so to speak, of His loving counsels to the sick that they may come to a full knowledge of the truth” (Paed. 1.2.1). His moral philosophy and theology form a therapy of desire by means of diagnosing the passions, impulses, and promptings to which the unexamined life all too quickly falls captive. “The Word is our Educator, who heals the unnatural passions of our soul with His counsel. The art of healing, strictly speaking, is the relief of the ills of the body, an art learned by human wisdom, Yet the only true divine Healer of human sickness, is the holy Comforter of the soul when it is the Word of the Father” (Paed. 1.2.6.1). Such therapy gives way to an “art of living” (τέχνη περὶ βίον) arising from the right understanding of things human and divine, an understanding that is to preside over the whole human race (Paed. 2.2.25.3).

5 Dressing Like a Man for Church It is here in the Paedagogos’ ecclesial clinic where he performs his healing arts and where the “not yet” of Christian destiny steadily unfolds that Clement’s philosophically constructed subject makes its chief appearance and where dress becomes a chief external means of discerning the passions and the desires of the self and one’s success in their regulation. The healing arts of the Word take the 25  For the tradition of philosophy as diagnosis and therapy of desire, Nussbaum 1994, especially her discussion of imperial era philosophical schools.

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form of an extraordinarily detailed set of instructions on how to walk, talk, eat, and of course dress. Clement’s discourses on dress (2.11.102–12.129.4; 3.11.53– 12.101.3) belong to a reconfigured philosophical fashion code. Like Musonius he expects his disciples to dress in accordance with nature, but the nature Clement imagines is the Word who offers humankind a new redeemed nature. The Instructor permits us … to use simple clothing … So that, accommodating ourselves not to variegated art, but to nature as it is produced (μὴ τέχνῃ ποικιλλομένῃ, φύσει δὲ γεννωμένῃ οἰκειούμενοι), and pushing away whatever is deceptive and belies the truth, we may embrace the uniformity and simplicity of truth (Paed. 3.11.53.4).

To dress properly is to dress in a way that expresses the image and likeness of God – to show by exterior appearance one’s growing assimilation to the Word who dwells within oneself and the Word whose future one already lives. “It is absurd for those who have been made to the image and likeness of God to adopt some unnatural means of ornamentation, disfiguring the pattern by which they have been created, and preferring the cleverness of humans to that of their divine Creator,” Clement comments instructing women not to adorn themselves with gold and change their appearance with cosmetics (3.11.66.2). Opposite to adornment as a deceptive means of making oneself what one is not, Clement advises the philosophical ideal of knowing oneself. But to know oneself here is to know one as the image after whom all humankind has been created. [T]he greatest of all lessons is to know one’s self, for if one knows himself, one will know God; and knowing God, one will be made like God, not wearing gold, or long robes, but by well-doing and by requiring as few things as possible. … [T]he one [ἄνϑρωπος ἐκεῖνος] in whom reason dwells does not keep shifting, makes no false pretenses, retains the form dictated by reason, is like God and possesses true beauty with no need of artificial beauty. Beauty is what is true, for it is in fact God. Such a person [ἐκεῖνος ὁ ἄνϑρωπος] becomes God because God wills it (Paed 3.1.2.4).26

The inclusive translation can be misleading. Clearly Clement presumes his ideals for both men and women, but in outlining this beautiful life Clement deploys all the commonplaces of the agonistic struggle to become masculine through the regulations of reason; luxury as in his philosophical contemporaries always lies close to effeminacy.27 For Clement the deceptive arts of cosmetics unveils oneself as not yet masculine. It is the male in the first instance “who does not keep shifting.” Like his contemporaries, Clement offers a fluid model of gender. Men are not born but are made, and as such if not made properly they become women, or worse remain in the unformed feminine condition in which they were born. 26  Similarly, Strom. 5.4; to know oneself reconfigured as knowledge of self as image of God, or creation of God through the Logos, or by means of divine revelation is a recurring motif: Strom. 1.28; 2.16; 5.4. Similar to knowledge of self is the care of the self: Strom. 4.10, 24. 27  Paed. 2.8.64,68; 2.10.115; 3.3.15–8; 3.11.53.

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Conversely, the woman who has learned to be temperate and self-controlled becomes ever more masculine. Thus in advising husbands and wives to pursue philosophy after fulfilling God’s command to procreate, he enjoins them to live as brother and sister, for a wife “is destined to become a sister after putting off the flesh” (ἀδελφὴτῷ ὄντι ἐσομένη καὶ μετὰ τὴν ἀπόϑεσιν τῆς σαρκὸς τῆς ­ιαχωριζούσης, Strom. 6.12.100.1). “Souls,” he adds, “are neither male nor female, when they no longer marry nor are given in marriage. And is not woman translated into man, when she is become equally unfeminine and manly and perfect?” (Strom. 6.12.100.3–101.1).28 In Clement’s exegesis of men and women made in the likeness of God, a God who is Father and whose Word is the Son, he draws on the philosophical ideals of a constructed masculinity. He imagines both men and women aspiring to live as like God as possible and to mirror in the practices of daily life the divine nature after whom they are made. Accordingly Clement has been rightly celebrated for his inclusive vision, a vision that we have seen arising preeminently from the sacred texts that in the first instance nurture it. “[T]he church is full of those, as well as chaste women as men, who all their life have contemplated the death which rouses up to Christ,” Clement acclaims in the passage cited earlier (Strom. 4.8.58.2). Clement’s husbands and wives dressed for church make a public display of their selfregulation and so reveal themselves as subjects properly conformed to the ideals they pursue. Like Plutarch and Musonius he idealises marriage as a philosophical partnership whose cooperation expresses itself in the public display of fruits of self-regulation. He imagines husbands and wives going to church: “Woman and man are to go to church decently attired (ἐστολισμένους κοσμίως), with natural step, embracing silence, possessing an unfeigned love, pure in body, pure in heart, fit to pray to God” (Paed. 3.11.79.3–4). Yet not far from remarkable passages such as these are Clement’s less genderneutral ideas appropriated directly from contemporary Greco-Roman physiognomy. Clement remains preoccupied throughout his clothing instructions with the dangers of feminizing dress. Indeed the passage just cited comes on the heels of a lengthy discussion of sexually intemperate women wanton in their public displays of luxury as well as of men who through soft dress Clement criticizes as rendering themselves soft and thus passive – effeminates who have not yet learned what it is through practice to become a man. Accordingly, for Clement’s disciples rightly to imagine men and women in church “decently attired” one requires first elaborate instructions concerning gender and dress. The New Testament of course offers precise instruction concerning right dress, particularly for women in the context of the patriarchal household.29 These together with 28  αὐταὶ γὰρ καϑ’ αὑτὰς ἐπ’ ἴσης εἰσὶ ψυχαὶ αἱ ψυχαὶ οὐϑέτεραι, οὔτε ἄρρενες οὔτε ϑήλειαι, ἐπὰν μήτε γαμῶσι μήτε γαμίσκωνται· καὶ μή τι οὕτως μετατίϑεται εἰς τὸν ἄνδρα ἡ γυνή, ἀϑήλυντος ἐπ’ ἴσης καὶ ἀνδρικὴ καὶ τελεία γενομένη. 29  1 Tim. 2.8–15; 1 Pet. 3. 3–5; Col. 3.18–4.1; Eph. 5.21–33; 1 Tim. 3.1–5; Tit. 1.6–9.

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Old Testament texts concerning the properly attired virtuous wife are Clement’s opening for drawing on the physiognomic ideas of his contemporaries in assessing and promoting what makes men and women. In the physiognomic codes of his contemporaries, gender is a highly fluid and problematized notion. Male and female are unstable categories not necessarily linked to anatomical sexual divisions. As Maud Gleason has shown, the masculine and the feminine in the medical and philosophical discourses of Clement’s contemporaries belongs to both men and women and gives rise to disciplines of decipherment so as to diagnose subjects in a variety of disciplines ranging from medicine to rhetoric, and, in Clement of Alexandria, in an emerging Christian institution.30 Clement himself engages in such physiognomic exercises, deciphering from female and male dress the presence or lack of internal regulation and the virtues and vices that go with it. All of this results in a significant tension that arises between Clement’s more universalizing ideals, and the undermining of those ideals through the assertion of physiognomically oriented considerations of gender. Henry Chadwick described Clement as “curiously confused” in his reflections on Christian men and women and Christian marriage.31 But Clement was perhaps not so much confused as caught in a real contradiction between his baptismal theology and his appropriations of a Hellenistic heritage. Thus although Clement can teach that both men and women are to philosophize, male philosophizing is preferable to women’s “unless they [males] have become effeminate” (φιλοσοφητέον οὖν καὶ ταῖς γυναιξὶν ἐμφερῶς τοῖς ἀνδράσι, κἂν βελτίους οἱ ἄρρενες τα τε πρῶτα ἐν πᾶσι φερόμενοι τυγχάνωσιν, ἐκτὸς εἰ μὴ καταμαλακισϑεῖεν, Strom. 4.8.62.4). Clement idealizes the masculine performance of the self and reinforces it by giving over the greatest amount of his attention to ways in which excesses of dress amongst women and men are impediments to a masculine model of self-mastery in the quest to assimilate oneself to the Logos. Both men and women fall equally under the discipline of clothing regulation, “for it is common to both to be covered, as it is to eat and drink. The necessity, then, being common, we judge that the provision ought to be similar” (Κοινῆς οὖν οὔσης τῆς χρείας τὴν ὁμοίαν κατασκευὴν δοκιμάζομεν. ὡς γὰρ τὸ δεῖσϑαι τῶν σκεπόντων κοινὸν ἑκατέροις οὕτως καὶ τὰ σκέποντα παραπλήσια εἶναι χρή, Paed. 2.11 [10bis].107.1). But in both extended discussions of dress in the Paedagogos (Paed. 2.11 [10bis].102.2–111.3 and 3.1.1–11.82) Clement lavishes the most detailed discussion on limiting excesses of female clothing and the feminizing consequences resulting from male pursuit of luxurious dress, jewelry, cosmetic arts, and depilation. Clement follows Greco-Roman medical wisdom that sees women on account of their weakness “desiring more” and the male who 30 31

 Gleason 1990 and 1995, here especially, 21–83.  Chadwick, Oulton 1954, 33; in a similar vein, Kinder 1989/90.

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has not been educated properly toward masculinity becoming “more female than women” (φαύλοις διαίταις ἐντρεφόμενοι ἄνδρες γυναικῶν γεγόνασι ϑηλύτεροι, 2.11 [10bis].107.2). The readers constructed by his extensive discussion are men and women dedicated to similar provisions of dress. But the focus of female dress is oriented toward masculinity: in Paed. 2.11 after an ekphrastic account of the revealing nature of luxurious female dress and the vanities of dye and colour (2.11 [10bis].107.4–109.3), he advises unmarried and married women to pursue chastity in dress to assure devotion to God and to household duties (Paed. 2.11.109.4). Later in Paed. 3 he reveals the same masculine orientation but now with by more extensive ekphrasis. In 3.2.4–14 he takes up women who expend their husband’s money making themselves beautiful by jewels, gold and cosmetics and so “have little care for managing household expenses for their husbands” (αἳ τῆς παρὰ μὲν τοῖς ἀνδράσιν οἰκουρίας ὀλίγα φροντίζουσιν, 3.2.5.4). He has the male reader take himself firmly into view as Clement continues with a lengthy discussion of the male practices of cosmetic arts and depilation as feminizing (3.3.16–23). “Over refinement in comfortably living” Clement explains, leads to a feminization of men (τὰ γυναικῶν οἱ ἄνδρες) who become the passive mate in sexual relations and to “women acting as men (γυναῖκες ἀνδρίζονται)” (3.3.21.3). Male passivity reveals itself physiognomically in clothing – men advertise their passivity and femininity by “their fine robes, their sandals, their bearing, their way of walking, the cut of their hair, and their glances.” Passivity expresses itself in an unmanly voice and in homoerotic relations (3.3.23). Later in 3.11.53–82 Clement repeats these themes. The husband’s gaze is to guide women whose duty is to care for the home (3.11.58). Women render themselves beautiful to their husbands not by cosmetic arts of deception, but through virtue (3.11.64). Proper dietetics and exercise are the technologies of self women practice to transform themselves into beautiful images of the Word. Clement teaches women to attend to “posture and look and gait and speech (τὰ σχήματα καὶ τὰ βλέμματα καὶ τὰ βαδίσματα καὶ τὰς φωνάς)” with a view to the erotic dangers of women potentially pose for men – those who have not so attended have become prostitutes (3.11.68.1). In all this Clement lavishes detail on female arts of deception and the wantonness lack of regulation unleashes. Clement reads Paul’s exhortations to both the men and women of Colossae in Col. 3.5–6 to put to death fornication, uncleanliness, passion, and so on as to women alone. The virtuous woman reveals herself physiognomically: Women should not, Clement commands, walk like a man in a frenzy[, but she] cultivates a gait that is dignified and leisurely, yet not dilly-dallying. We should not sway from side to side, either, as we walk, or our eyes about, staring at everyone we meet to if they turn to look at us, for the world as if we were on a stage parading about grandiosely and point with our finger (Paed. 3.11.73.4)

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Αποσκορακιστέον δὲ ἡμῖν καὶ τοῦ περιπάτου τὸ μανιῶδες, τὸ δὲ σεμνὸν καὶ τὸ σχολαῖον ἐκλεκτέον, οὐ τὸ βάδισμα τὸ μελλητικόν, οὐδὲ τὸ ἐν ταῖς ὁδοῖς σαλεύειν καὶ ἐξυπτιάζοντα παραβλέπειν εἰς τοὺς ἀπαντῶντας, εἰ ἀποβλέπουσιν εἰς αὐτόν, καϑάπερ ἐπὶ σκηνῆς ἐμπομπεύοντα καὶ δακτυλοδεικτούμενον.

Similarly in men there must be no traces of softness visible in the face of a good man, or for that matter in any other part his body, so that there will be no unbecoming effeminacy either in his movement or in his posture. Ἀνδρὸς δὲ γενναίου σημεῖον οὐδὲν εἶναι δεῖ περιφανὲς ἐν τῷ προσώπωμαλακίας, ἀλλ’ οὐδὲ ἐν ἑτέρῳ μέρει τοῦ σώματος.Μὴ τοίνυν μηδὲ ἐν κινήσεσιν μηδὲ ἐν σχέσεσιν εὑρεϑείη ποϑ’ ἡ ἀσχημοσύνη τῆς ἀνανδρίας (3.11.74).

In offering these considerations Clement transposes a fashion code borrowed from his Greco-Roman contemporaries to construct Christian male subjects and the females who ideally accompany them in the contemplative life as members tailored for church. Both Clement exhorts to philosophize since both fall under the gaze of the Word their instructor, and so are in their respective roles to practice the new selves they have become through the waters of baptism, in becoming the images and likenesses of God. The fashion codes Clement outlines for men and women are for the preparatory work of all the baptized amongst whose number some flower into Clement’s idealized Christians, Gnostics. Gnostic Christians are those who have trained themselves to become “the third divine image” (τρίτην τὴν ϑείαν εἰκόνα, Strom. 7.3.17.3). This third image has come to know him/herself as the post-lapsarian image after whom s/he has been remade as the Christian subject, but now practices a life in assimilation to the Word so as to replicate Jesus’ apatheia – such a total regulation of human appetites in conformity with a divinely orchestrated nature as to use creation’s goods free from any desire, or degree of it, other than that necessary for bodily maintenance (Strom. 6.9.71.1–5). Clement idealizes the married male Gnostic as the man who after fulfilling the command to procreate lives with his wife as a sister. The emphasis on the male here is instructive: the masculine is the active agent in the act of procreation as we have seen above; he it is who controls the times, places, and frequency of intercourse. Clement is not as clear, however, about the Gnostic wife’s possibilities for growth in contemplation. But he hints that her life is also to aspire to a similar ending however distantly to her husband’s: destined to become a sister after death, [the flesh] separates and limits the knowledge of whose who are spiritual by the peculiar characteristics of the sexes. For souls, themselves by themselves, are equal. Souls are neither male nor female, when they no longer marry nor are given in marriage. And is not woman translated into man, when she is become equally unfeminine, and manly, and perfect (Strom. 6.12.100.1)?32 32  The ideal female as becoming male in second century Christian discourse has received much attention (Aspergren 1990). Intriguingly in Clement, the Word and the Father are

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Here, however, even as a more distant possibility qualified by the characteristics of her weaker sex, the masculinizing ideal remains. Thus does Clement bring together the Greco-Roman problematization of desire, read them through the prism of biblical texts, and so configure men and women into ecclesial subjects who continue to replicate traditional patriarchal roles, while becoming subjects of the Christian church.

6 Alexandrian Christian Hybridity Clement’s fashion code invites us into a potent civic hybridity in which the idealized Christian embodies simultaneously Christian institutional norms and the ethical and visual ideals drawn from a rich Greco-Roman philosophical tradition. The baptized of Clement’s church realize a social self-construction and an emerging model of the Christian subject framed by larger currents of contemporary philosophical culture, at the intersection of an elite paedeia and urban civic identity. If Clement famously celebrates Plato as a Moses speaking Greek, he also makes his Moses dress like Plato. This creates in Clement a unique blend of Greek paedeia and biblical texts united for the purpose of articulating norms and goals for a newly created institutional subject, the Christian created in baptism, and honed and practiced through the life and disciplines of the church. This creates a unique formulation of a culturally doubled subject at once at home in the larger social and cultural world while at the same time – as the multiple exhortations to repentance in the Protrepticus attest – estranged from it. The estrangement is also apparent through Clement’s silences: his writings are conspicuous for the fact that they nowhere describe political and civic ideals. The closest Clement comes to a consideration of political and civic horizons outside the walls of his church is in his exhortation to his audience to populate the world in fulfilment of the God’s command to be fruitful and multiply (Paed. 2.10.83.2; 2.10.96.1–102.1).33 “Marry by all means for the sake of the state, and for the succession of children, and as far as we are concerned for the perfection of the cosmos” (Γαμητέον οὖν πάντως καὶ τῆς πατρίδος ἕνεκα καὶ τῆς τῶν παίδων διαδοχῆς καὶ τῆς τοῦ κόσμου τὸ ὅσον ἐφ’ ἡμῖν συντελειώσεως, Strom. 2.23.140.1). Even here, however, the exhortation is motivated more by a rejection of Encratism than a desire to realize the reproductive desiderata of his political contemporaries. Antonine-Severan Alexandria passes by without a mention in his voluminous writings. treated with female metaphors of giving birth and lactation (for example, Paed. 1.42.1–2; 1.43.4; 1.46.1). Kimber Buell 1999 shows how even here Clement privileges the male “milk” of the Father and the Paedagogus as offering true nourishment that female breasts cannot offer (Paed. 1.41.3). 33  For discussion, Broudéhoux 1970, 79–83.

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Nevertheless, Clement furnishes his audience with a form of dress, of speech, of daily habit that would have served the cultural and political ideals of an imperial second century city well. Clement’s Christians wore their theology and in doing so confirmed the civic ideals of their Greco-Roman contemporaries. Clement’s clothing ideals had the effect of reconfiguring a series of contemporary translocal and transnational philosophical ideals championing universal assent and transmogrifying them into the peculiarities of a newly emerging religious movement. The second century subject created in Clement’s church walked the streets of Alexandria with a strange familiarity, a sameness couched in a new formulation of the self and a net set of social practices and rituals to which that self belonged. A universal affirmation of a life jointly acculturated to the social boundaries of an emergent monotheistic movement and to the ideals of a philosophical paedeia, reckoned for all irrespective of social status, gender, age, or origins furnished the possibility of a new civility and a reconfigured civics even if Clement never explicitly explores them. Clement’s clothing ideals helped to tailor a self for church and in doing so created the possibility for a new arrangement of the subject, reconfigured for a new institutional reality that would in due course be of enormous value to the state even as it would in the end transfigure it.

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Waithe, Mary Ellen 1987. Ancient women philosophers 600 B. C. – 500 A. D., Dordrecht. Wendland, P. 1886. Quaestiones musonianae: de musonio Stoico Clementis Alexandrini aliorumque auctore, Berlin. White, L. Michael 1981. “Scholars and patrons: Christianity and high society in Alexandria”, in: E. Ferguson (ed.), Christian Teaching: Studies in Honor of Lemoine L. Lewis, Abiline. Winter, Bruce W. 2003. Roman Wives, Roman Widows: The Appearance of New Women and the Pauline Communities, Grand Rapids, Mich. Wyrwa, Dietmar 1983. Die christliche Platonaneigung in den Stromateis des Clemens von Alexandrien, Berlin.

Das „Selbst“ in der valentinianischen Gnosis Christoph Markschies Bevor wir über „das ‚Selbst‘ in der valentinianischen Gnosis“ sprechen können, müssen wir erst einmal wissen, wovon wir reden, wenn wir „das ‚Selbst‘“ sagen, denn es reicht natürlich nicht zu, die Verantwortung für diesen Teil des Titels meines Beitrags und damit für den nämlichen Begriff auf die abzuschieben, die mich einst zu Tagung und Vortrag eingeladen haben. Es wäre auch wenig befriedigend, wenn ich der Einfachheit halber im Folgenden das Konzept der Veranstalter für die ursprüngliche Tagung „Religious Dimensions of the Self in the Second Century CE“ zugrundelegen würde. Denn dieses Konzept besteht eben darin, unterschiedlichste Zugriffsformen auf die Geistes‑ und Sozialgeschichte der frühen Kaiserzeit, die ein religiöses „Selbst“ voraussetzen – genannt sind im Exposé Foucault, Brown, Veyne, Nussbaum, aber auch Christopher Gill und Averil Cameron – anhand von literarischen Texten und archäologischen Befunden zu überprüfen und im Blick auf die Religionsgeschichte zu ergänzen. Was sollen wir also unter dem „Selbst“ verstehen? Ich muss Sie nun bitten, sich auf eine längere Vorbemerkung zum Begriff „Selbst“ einzustellen – aber es wird an deren Ende hoffentlich deutlich werden, dass wir im Grunde mit solchen scheinbaren Vorüberlegungen bereits mitten im Thema sind. Erst dann folgt ein längerer Abschnitt über einen magistralen Text der sogenannten valentinianischen Gnosis und der Beitrag endet mit einem Schlussabschnitt, der die Ergebnisse zu anderen Befunden des zweiten Jahrhunderts ins Verhältnis zu setzen versucht.

1 Selbst Also nochmals gefragt: Was sollen wir unter dem „Selbst“ verstehen? Bei Christoper Gill kann man bereits auf den ersten Seiten seiner Monographie The Structured Self in Hellenistic and Roman Thought nachlesen, dass es sich bei diesem Terminus nicht um einen präzisen, technischen Begriff handele: „The English terms, ‚self‘, ‚personality‘, also ‚personhood‘, or ‚personal identity‘ or ‚character‘, are not precise, technical terms, but have a range of, partly over-

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lapping connotations.“1 Tatsächlich zählt das „Selbst“ vermutlich zu den ganz schwierigen Begriffen im wissenschaftlichen Diskurs, weil es in diversen Wissenschaftsdisziplinen so unterschiedliche Bedeutungen annehmen kann, daher in interdisziplinären, aber leider auch in disziplinären Arbeiten oft sehr unbestimmt und letztlich unklar verwendet wird. Was bedeutet beispielsweise genau der Terminus „Selbst“ in der uns vertrauten und von Foucault popularisierten Rede von einer „Selbstsorge“? Außerdem handelt es sich bei jener ebenso populären wie unpräzisen Rede von „dem Selbst“ gewiss nicht um eine antike Weise, das Wort „Selbst“ zu verwenden, sondern um eine neuzeitliche Begriffsverwendung, die erst im zwanzigsten Jahrhundert wirklich populär wurde und zuvor nur in sehr bestimmten philosophischen Milieus verbreitet war – Rudolf Eisler hat beispielsweise in seinem „Wörterbuch der philosophischen Begriffe und Ausdrücke“ von 1900, dem Vorläufer des großen „Historischen Wörterbuchs der Philosophie“ unserer Tage, den Terminus „Selbst“ noch nicht. Und Analoges gilt für den wesentlich umfangreicheren, unlängst abgeschlossenen Nachfolger von Eislers Wörterbuch.2 Gleiches zeigt auch der Blick auf irgendein mehr oder weniger beliebiges antikes Beispiel: Der kaiserzeitliche Autor und ApolloPriester Plutarch expliziert zwar in seiner Schrift über das delphische Orakel die berühmte Aufforderung γνῶϑι σαυτόν, „erkenne dich selbst“, als – modern gesprochen – Aufforderung zur Selbsterkenntnis, dass „wir in Wahrheit am Sein gar keinen Anteil“ haben, „sondern jede sterbliche Natur, die mitten zwischen Entstehen und Vergehen sich findet … nur ein Trugbild und einen dunklen und ungewissen Schein ihrer selbst“ bietet.3 Oder, wie es am Schluss des Textes noch einmal zusammenfassend heißt, als eine „Erinnerung des Sterblichen an die ihn umkleidende Natur und Hinfälligkeit“.4 Aber von einem „Selbst“ ist bei Plutarch an der Stelle gar nicht die Rede, man folgt der Aufforderung, sich selbst zu erkennen (und nicht etwas anderes, wie die meisten Besucher des delphischen Orakels) so, dass man seinen „Verstand anstrengt mit dem Willen, sie (sc. die Natur des Menschen) zu erfassen“. Mit anderen Worten: Anstelle unseres neuzeitlichen Begriffs „Selbst“ steht an jener Stelle bei Plutarch der griechische Begriff φύσις, „Natur“. Interessant ist aber, dass Plutarch für jenen Begriff φύσις, „Natur“, eben jene Schwierigkeiten, ihn präzise zu erfassen, beschreibt, wie wir sie für den Begriff „das Selbst“ konstatiert haben, und dies im Rahmen seiner platonischen Grundoptionen philosophisch zu erklären versucht: Die „sterbliche Natur“ des Menschen, seine φύσις, bleibt nach Plutarch deswegen so schwammig  Gill 2006, XIV.  Vgl. aber Fuchs 2007, 462–5. 3  Plut., De E 18 (392 A):  Ἡμῖν μὲν γὰρ ὄντως τοῦ εἶναι μέτεστιν οὐδέν, ἀλλὰ πᾶσα ϑνητὴ φύσις ἐν μέσῳ γενέσεως καὶ φϑορᾶς γενομένη φάσμα παρέχει καὶ δόκησιν ἀμυδρὰν καὶ ἀβέβαιον αὑτῆς· (BiTeu III, 18,22–19,2 Paton/Pohlenz/Sieveking). 4  Plut., De E 20 (394 C): τὸ δ’ ὑπόμνησίς ἐστι τῷ ϑνητῷ τῆς περὶ αὐτὸ φύσεως καὶ ἀσϑενείας (BiTeu III, 24,20 f Paton/Pohlenz/Sieveking). 1 2

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und unbestimmt, weil es sich nicht um wahres, göttliches und damit eindeutig bestimmbares Sein handelt: „Wenn du aber deinen Verstand anstrengst mit dem Willen, sie (sc. die sterbliche Natur) zu erfassen, – wie ein festes Fassenwollen von Wasser durch das Drücken und Zusammenzwingen in eins es zum Zerrinnen bringt und so das Zusammengenommene verliert  – so, wenn es einer ganz klaren Erfassung der dem Erleiden und der Veränderung unterworfenen Dinge nachjagt, so verirrt sich das Denken bald in ihr Entstehen, bald in ihr Zunichtewerden und vermag nichts Bleibendes und wahrhaft Seiendes zu erfassen“.5 Während Gott der Eine, das τὸ  Ἕν, immer ist und stets bleibt, gilt von uns Menschen mit sterblicher Natur: „Niemand bleibt und niemand ist nur einer, sondern viele werden wie ein jeder“.6 In diesem Zusammenhang kennt Plutarch zwar kein „Selbst“, aber eine „Selbigkeit“ der erwähnten sterblichen Natur des Menschen, wie er im Fortgang selbst sagt: „Denn weder ist es wahrscheinlich, dass man ohne Verwandlung anderes durchmacht, noch ist jemand, der sich wandelt, noch derselbe (ὁ αὐτός). Wenn er aber nicht derselbe ist, ist er nicht, sondern eben dieselbe (sc. Natur) wandelt er, indem er als ein anderer aus anderem hervorgeht“.7 Mit anderen Worten: Man könnte, wenn man Platoniker wäre, mit Plutarch die notorische Unklarheit des Begriffs „das Selbst“, den er mit den anderen von Christopher Gill genannten, mehr oder weniger parallelen Begriffen „Person“, „Persönlichkeit“, „personale Identität“ und „Charakter“ teilt, ontologisch als eine Folge der extremen Wandlungsfähigkeit des Selbst erklären. Die begriffliche Unbestimmtheit wäre dann als Folge einer sachlichen Unbestimmtheit erklärt. Aber auf diese Weise hätte man zugleich auch das platonische Konzept eines ontologisch bleibenden Modells im Wandel seiner Realisierungen eingekauft (wenn ich das so metaphorisch ausdrücken darf), ein „Idealbild“, „ein allen Erscheinungen gemeinsames Modell, um das die Materie sich herumbewegt und entgleitet“, wie es bei Plutarch heißt.8 Und das kann man natürlich nicht wünschen. Ebensowenig wünschenswert ist aber die gleichsam direkt entgegengesetzte Strategie der Flucht aus der Ontologie, die man bei Christopher Gill beobachten kann: Nachdem Gill das Problem des Terminus „Selbst“ durch die mehr oder weniger offene Parallelisierung mit den philosophischen Großtermini „Person“ und „Identität“ verschärft hat, zählt er mögliche Implikationen 5  Plut., De E 18 (392 B): ἂν δὲ τὴν διάνοιαν ἐπερείσῃς λαβέσϑαι βουλόμενος, ὥσπερ ἡ σφοδρὰ περίδραξις ὕδατος τῷ πιέζειν καὶ εἰς ταὐτὸ συνάγειν διαρρέον ἀπόλλυσι τὸ περιλαμβανόμενον, οὕτω τῶν παϑητῶν καὶ μεταβλητῶν ἑκάστου τὴν ἄγαν ἐνάργειαν ὁ λόγος διώκων ἀποσφάλλεται τῇ μὲν εἰς τὸ γιγνόμενον αὐτοῦ τῇ δ’ εἰς τὸ φϑειρόμενον, οὐδενὸς λαβέσϑαι μένοντος οὐδ’ ὄντως ὄντος δυνάμενος (BiTeu III, 19,2–8 Paton/Pohlenz/Sieveking). 6  Plut., De E 18 (392 D): μένει δ’ οὐδεὶς οὐδ’ ἔστιν εἷς, ἀλλὰ γιγνόμεϑα πολλοί (BiTeu III, 20,1 f Paton/Pohlenz/Sieveking). 7  Plut., De E 18 (392 E): οὔτε γὰρ ἄνευ μεταβολῆς ἕτερα πάσχειν εἰκός, οὔτε μεταβάλλων ὁ αὐτός ἐστιν · εἰ δ’ ὁ αὐτὸς οὐκ ἔστιν, οὐδ’ ἔστιν, ἀλλὰ τοῦτ’ αὐτὸ μεταβάλλει γιγνόμενος ἕτερος ἐξ ἑτέρου (BiTeu III, 20,7–10 Paton/Pohlenz/Sieveking). 8  Plut., De E 18 (392 D): περὶ ἕν τι φάντασμα καὶ κοινὸν ἐκμαγεῖον ὕλης περιελαυνομένης καὶ ὀλισϑανούσης (BiTeu III, 20,2 f Paton/Pohlenz/Sieveking).

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dieser Begrifflichkeit auf und entscheidet sich ohne viel Federlesens für ein einziges „set of ideas“ aus einer Fülle, nämlich „what is essential or fundamental to our nature as human beings or persons“,9 überführt also die Rede vom „Selbst“ doch wieder in die schon bei Plutarch grundlegende Rede von der menschlichen Natur. Noch unklarer wird die Absicht des britischen Altphilologen, wenn er diese Terminologie ohne viel Federlesens noch mit dem Konzept von uns „as psychophysical wholes or instantiations of psyche“ verbindet:10 Ist Natur (φύσις) tatsächlich für Plutarch oder irgendeinen anderen antiken Philosophen eine „Instanziierung von Seele“, also, wenn man das Fremdwort einzudeutschen versucht, die Erzeugung eines auf eine konkrete Seele bezogenen leibseelischen Ganzen? Wir müssen auf diese Frage zurückkommen, kehren für den Augenblick aber zunächst einmal noch kurz zu unserer anfänglichen Frage zurück: Bevor wir über „das ‚Selbst‘ in der valentinianischen Gnosis“ sprechen können, müssen wir erst einmal wissen, wovon wir reden, wenn wir „das ‚Selbst‘“ sagen. Was also meinen wir, wenn wir „das ‚Selbst‘“ sagen? Unserer kurzer Durchgang durch den kaiserzeitlichen Autor Plutarch und seinen spätneuzeitlichen Kollegen Gill ergibt, dass man, wenn man nicht in vollkommenes terminologisches Chaos stürzen will, für den reichlich unklaren neuzeitlichen Begriff „das Selbst“ präzise antike Äquivalente angeben muss, damit klar bleibt, was zu untersuchen ist. Mir scheint nun, dass das terminologische Chaos in der Vorbemerkung von Christopher Gill gleichwohl genau auf die beiden Begriffe führt, die wir in den Blick nehmen müssen: Wir fragen nach den Konzepten der valentinianischen Gnosis über die φύσις, die Natur des Menschen, und dabei insbesondere danach, wie die Seele, ψυχή, diese Natur formt und wie aus Seele und Materie ein leibseelisches Ganzes entsteht. Damit setzen wir uns einerseits von solchen Zugriffen ab, die ohne viel Federlesens „the Self “ im Blick auf die Antike einfach mit der Seele identifizieren (wie Patricia Cox Miller, die sich damit ihrer Interpretation von Passagen des neuplatonischen Philosophen Plotin anschließt11), denn damit würden wir im Grunde einer neuzeitlichen philosophischen Tradition folgend bestimmte Instanzen als „eigentliches Selbst“ auszeichnen: So nennt beispielsweise der Königsberger Philosoph Immanuel Kant ‚unseren Willen als Intelligenz‘ das ‚eigentliche Selbst‘; der Mensch „an sich selbst“ ist „Bewusstsein seiner Freiheit“.12 Damit aber wäre eine nicht unproblematische neuzeitliche Dissoziation in die Analyse antiker Texte eingetragen, für die es übrigens antike Vorläufer gibt, keineswegs allein solcher platonischer und neuplatonischer Provenienz. Patricia Cox Miller zitiert selbst nicht nur einschlägige Texte von Plotin,  Gill 2006, XIV. 2006, XIV. 11  Cox Millar 2005, (15–39) 16–17. 12  Kant 1994, 91.  9

10 Gill

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sondern auch Mark Aurel, der die Seele den „master-part“ des Menschen nennt13 und mit „einer vollkommenen Kugel“ vergleicht, „insofern sie sich weder nach etwas hin dehnt noch nach innen einläuft, weder zerstreut wird noch zusammenschmilzt. Sie wird von einem Licht erleuchtet, bei dem sie die allgemeine Wahrheit und die eigene erkennen kann“.14 Man könnte schließlich auch auf die an platonischen Vorbildern orientierte christliche Rede von einem „inneren Menschen“ verweisen, die allerdings schon durch ihre Semantik deutlich macht, dass der eine Mensch aus innerem und äußerem Menschen besteht und nicht auf die Seele als sein Eigentliches reduziert werden darf. So geht es also aus den genannten Gründen nicht. Wir setzen uns andererseits aber auch von solchen Zugriffen ab, die ebenfalls ohne größere Bedenken eine zeitgenössische Definition von „dem Selbst“ hernehmen und für ihre Untersuchung zugrundelegen – im schönen Sammelband Religion and the Self in Antiquity verwenden die Herausgeber David Brakke, Michael L. Satlow und Steven Weitzman zum Beispiel Stephen Greenblatt, der (mit Blick auf die englische Renaissance) „the self “ wie folgt definiert: „a sense of personal order, a characteristic mode of address to the world, a structure of bounded desires“,15 aber natürlich könnte man auch Michel Foucault, Charles Taylor oder meinetwegen auch Judith Butler zugrundelegen. Dann müsste man etwa so definieren: Das Selbst ist „eine Interpretationsinstanz, die auf das Verstehen der eigenen Innenwelt angelegt ist und sich durch Entwürfe im Lichte sozial ausgehandelter Werthorizonte konstituiert, dabei immer auf Transformation, d.h. Neuinterpretation, angelegt bleibt“.16 Ich möchte auch diesen Weg nicht gehen, weil er sich vom antiken Zugriff auf die Materie durch die dezidiert antiontologischen, in diversen früh‑ und spätneuzeitlichen Wenden konstituierten Prämissen unterscheidet, sondern allenfalls mit Blick auf die genannten Namen darauf achten, dass unser an den antiken Begriffen φύσις, σῶμα und ψυχή orientierter Zugriff auf Texte der valentinianischen Gnosis die Dimension der sozialen Konstruktion und der Abhängigkeit von bestimmten Genderkonzepten nicht außer Acht lässt.

2 Das „Selbst“ in der valentinianischen Gnosis, insbesondere bei den Schülern des Ptolemaeus Auch nach dem großen Textfund von Nag Hammadi vor fünfundsechzig Jahren bleibt eine zentrale Quelle für die sogenannte valentinianische Gnosis ein von dem großen französischen Gnosisforscher François Sagnard in seiner klas Nachweis bei Cox Miller 2005, (15–39) 15 Anm. 5. ad se ips. XI 12 (BiTeu 1046, 108,17–19 Dalfen). 15  Brakke 2005, (1–11) 1. 16  Vgl. Taylor 1996 (= Sources of the self, 1989), 45–104 und Reichenbach 2000, 178–9. 13

14 M. Aur.,

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sischen Monographie über den Valentinianismus von 1947 als „grande notice“ bezeichnetes Textstück,17 das der ursprünglich aus Kleinasien stammende Bischof Irenaeus von Lyon in seiner in den achtziger Jahren des zweiten Jahrhunderts abgefassten fünfbändigen Monographie „Überführung und Widerlegung der fälschlich so genannten Erkenntnis“ (meist kurz: Adversus haereses) zitiert. Von sogenannter valentinianischer Gnosis spreche ich, weil mir seit meiner Tübinger Dissertation von 1992 wichtig ist, mit der etablierten Terminologie der antiken christlichen Häresiologen, mit der gern von „den Schülern des Valentin“ (οἱ δὲ Οὐαλεντίνου) oder von den „Valentinianern“ (οἱ Οὐαλεντινιανοί) gesprochen wird, nicht auch gleich deren chronologische und traditionsgeschichtliche Rekonstruktion einer gnostischen Schule zu übernehmen. Um diese antike christliche master-narrative zu dekonstruieren, muss man nicht einmal die verschiedenen Texte miteinander vergleichen, es genügt ein Blick auf den erwähnten Irenaeus: Er macht in seinem Vorwort ganz deutlich, dass er es in seiner gallischen Gemeinde und in der Reichshauptstadt Rom mit Gnostikern zu tun hat, die Schüler eines als Märtyrer gestorbenen stadtrömischen gnostischen Lehrers Ptolemaeus sind, der sich wiederum auf einen stadtrömischen Lehrer Valentinus zurückführte, weswegen die Schüler des Ptolemaeus sich als Schüler des offenkundig prominenteren Valentinus vorstellten, der zudem in der Stadt Rom im Unterschied zu seinen Enkelschülern als rechtgläubig galt – als so rechtgläubig, dass der nordafrikanische Polemiker Tertullian zu Beginn des dritten Jahrhunderts Valentins anderwärts berichtete Übersiedlung nach Zypern mit der netten, aber historisch ganz unwahrscheinlichen Anekdote erklärt, der Häresiarch habe sich Hoffnungen auf den römischen Bischofsstuhl gemacht, sei aber bei der Wahl unterlegen und aus enttäuschter Eitelkeit zum Häretiker geworden. Wie auch immer: Bei unserer Analyse der sogenannten „grande notice“, die mit der äußerst knappen Einleitung λέγουσιν, „sie sagen“ an den Anfang des großen antihäretischen, antignostischen Werks des Bischofs Irenaeus gestellt ist, müssen wir uns klar machen, dass es sich um einen Text jener Schüler des Ptolemaeus handelt. Wenn wir mit Adolf Harnack diesen Ptolemaeus tatsächlich mit einem gleichnamigen und beim Apologeten Justin erwähnten Märtyrer identifizieren, muss der Text der „großen Notiz“ irgendwann zwischen dem mutmaßlichen Hinrichtungsdatum (152 n.Chr.) und der Abfassung der „Überführung und Widerlegung“ (zwischen 180 und 185 n.Chr.) abgefasst worden sein. Mit der Konzeption des menschlichen „Selbst“ – in unserer Spezifikation also mit den eng zusammenhängenden Konzeptionen von menschlicher φύσις, σῶμα und ψυχή – in dieser „großen Notiz“ wollen wir uns nunmehr beschäftigen. Wieder muss man aber eine Vorfrage stellen, bevor die Darstellung beginnen kann: Wer ist der Mensch? Das erste Mal ist von einem „Menschen“ (ἄνϑρωπος) gleich zu Beginn der großen Notiz die Rede, wo die „göttliche Fülle“, τὸ ἀόρατον 17

 Sagnard 1947, 140–198.

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καὶ πνευματικὸν κατ΄ αὐτου Πλήρωμα, „die unsichtbare und geistige Fülle“,18 expliziert wird. Diese Explikation besteht aus der Nennung von geistigen Wesenheiten, die der oberste Gott, eine unsichtbare, vollkommene, präexistente Ewigkeit, die auch als „Voranfang“, „Vorvater“ und „abgründige Tiefe“ bezeichnet wird, emaniert. Diese Wesenheiten heißen wie dieser uranfängliche Vorvater (man könnte vielleicht mit einem modernen Begriff auch sagen: Übervater) „Ewigkeiten“, sind geistige Wesenheiten und nach dem Modell pythagoreischer Zahlenpyramiden in Vierheiten, Achtheiten, Dekaden sowie Dodekaden organisiert, wobei die erste Vierheit als Teil der Achtheit begriffen wird, so dass insgesamt dreißig Ewigkeiten entstehen. Bei Nicomachus von Gerasa oder bei Pseudo-Jamblich könnte man nachlesen, inwiefern mit solchen Zahlenreihen ausgedrückt wird, dass die Konstruktion der göttlichen Fülle, die durch Emanation erfolgt, zugleich strenger Rationalität folgt, in der eine Zahlengruppe die andere gleichsam aus sich heraustreibt. Der Begriff „Ewigkeiten“ (Äonen) ist zwar kein fachphilosophischer Begriff, soll aber offenkundig helfen, den Begriff „Idee“ zu vermeiden, denn die ganze Konstruktion der göttlichen Fülle ist erkennbar nach der mittelplatonischen Theorie der Ideen als Gedanken Gottes modelliert: Der uranfängliche Gott als die erste Ewigkeit denkt – mit Blick auf unser Thema muss man sagen: er denkt sich selbst – und denkt insofern ebenfalls Ewigkeiten, diese Ewigkeiten sind streng rational als pythagoreischer Zahlenstrahl strukturiert und geistige Wesenheiten. Diese Vorbemerkung ist notwendig, um zu begreifen, warum einer dieser Ewigkeiten „Mensch“ genannt wird: Er repräsentiert die Idee des Menschen, die den Abschluss der ersten Achtheit bildet. Diese Idee des Menschen ist, wie nach meinem Geschmack übrigens alle platonischen Ideen, herzlich wenig konkretisiert, allenfalls dadurch, dass ihr eine „Paargenossin“ einer „Paarbeziehung“, einer συζυγία, namens „Kirche“ an die Seite gestellt wird.19 Das muss man doch so verstehen, dass der ideale Mensch nur in der idealen Kirche so rund, so idealplatonisch mannweiblich (ὁ ἄνϑρωπος, aber ἡ ἐκκλησία) existiert, wie er von dem, der ihn denkt und dadurch letztlich ins Sein treten lässt, gedacht wurde. Anders formuliert: Individualität und Sozialität sind in der Idee des Menschen synthetisiert, die bipolare Konstruktion von Geschlechtlichkeit aufgehoben. Auch wenn es mir bislang nicht gelungen ist, die von den Gnostikern verwendeten griechischen Termini zur Bezeichnung dieser Paarbeziehung σύζυφος und συζυγία in pythagoreischen Texten beziehungsweise Referaten über pythagoreische Zahlentheorie nachzuweisen, kann doch gar kein Zweifel daran bestehen, dass die Idee einer in einer Paarbeziehung gleichsam ruhiggestellten Polarität keine valentinianische Erfindung ist, sondern auf die Pythagoreer zurückgeht – schwer zu entscheiden ist nur, ob die sogenannten valentinianischen 18 19

 Iren., haer. I 1,3 (FChr 8/1, 130,23 Brox).  Iren., haer. I 1,1 (FChr 8/1, 128,23–25 Brox).

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Gnostiker zu ungebildet waren, die pythagoreische Fachterminologie zu verwenden oder sich zu viel auf ihre Originalität zugute hielten. Denn wir wissen ja beispielsweise aus der Metaphysik des Aristoteles, aber auch aus Schriften des Philo von Alexandrien, dass die Pythagoreer im Rahmen ihrer Lehrbildung Tafeln von Gegensatzpaaren verwendeten, um die Prinzipientheorie zu modellieren.20 Gleichzeitig muss man sich aber klarmachen, dass unter den dreißig Ewigkeiten der unsichtbaren und geistigen göttlichen Fülle scheinbar zugleich auch Ideen von geistigen Fähigkeiten oder Eigenschaften des Menschen separate Gestalt zugeschrieben bekommen wie Vernunft (νοῦς), Leben (ζωή) und Weisheit (σοφία), die sich gleichfalls unter den dreißig göttlichen Ewigkeiten finden. Dieser Eindruck täuscht aber, denn es sind göttliche Eigenschaften gemeint und werden biblische Begriffe verwendet, wie der Paargenosse des Lebens deutlich macht: ὁ λόγος καὶ ἡ ζωή, Wort und Leben, der Bezug der ganzen Reihe von Ewigkeiten auf die biblischen Texte, insbesondere das Johannesevangelium, ist deutlich und braucht nicht weiter expliziert zu werden. Daraus folgt aber wiederum, dass die ursprüngliche Idee des in Sozialität verfassten Menschen ein Teil der göttlichen Gedanken ist, prononcierter: der Mensch mindestens seiner Idee nach göttlich ist, was in der Antike weniger aufregend klang als in einer evangelischen Universitätskirche im Kernland der Reformation. Bis an diesen Punkt klingt der Text der großen Notiz der Schüler des Ptolemaeus, den der Bischof Irenaeus von Lyon zitiert, um die Lehren der Gnostiker seiner eigenen Gemeinde zu widerlegen, noch ziemlich pythagoreisch, ziemlich platonisch, obwohl es sich gewisslich nicht um einen Fachbeitrag zur philosophischen Diskussion der Zeit handelte, weder von den Fachphilosophen so bewertet worden ist noch von den Autoren so gemeint war. Aber dieser Eindruck wird im Fortgang sogleich nachhaltig zerstört, weil sich die sogenannten valentinianischen Gnostiker bemühten, den Sündenfall des ersten Menschenpaares, von dem die biblische Schöpfungsgeschichte erzählt, in ihren christianisierten Ideen zu verankern – in der Sicht eines christlichen Platonismus (wenn es denn einen solchen überhaupt gibt und wir mit Heinrich Dörrie und seinen Schülern nicht auf diese Weise ein Ding der Unmöglichkeit bezeichnen) immerhin konsequent gedacht. Diese Integration geschieht durch den Mythos von einer Ewigkeit, die (im Rahmen einer unsichtbaren, rein geistigen Welt eigentlich undenkbar) Leidenschaft entwickelt (griechisch überdeutlich: ἒπαϑε πάϑος)21 und aufgrund dieser Leidenschaft (immerhin handelt es sich um die vornehme Leidenschaft der Erkenntnis) „fällt“. Passenderweise heißt diese von falscher Leidenschaft erfasste Ewigkeit „Weisheit“, σοφία. Zunächst ist der Fall dieser Ewigkeit ausschließlich ein drohender Fall, aber ein drohender Fall nicht aus der göttlichen Fülle, sondern gerade umgekehrt in den eigentlich unerkennbaren 20 21

 Arist., Met. 986 a 25–30 und Lloyd 1966, 15–26.  Iren., haer. I 2,2 (FChr 8/1, 132,31 f Brox).

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Vater, der im Ergebnis zur Auflösung der separierten Ewigkeit in die Gesamtsubstanz führen müsste (ἀναλελύσϑαι εἰς τὴν ὅλην οὐσίαν),22 also zur Auslöschung ihrer quasipersonalen Identität. Ein solcher Zufall aller Vielheit in die allursprüngliche Einheit steht aber, wie in allen systematisch vergleichbaren Systembildungen von Plotin bis Hegel, erst am Ende der Entfaltung, nicht an ihrem Beginn. Weil eine göttliche Ewigkeit im Grunde auch nicht fallen kann, fällt nur die falsche Leidenschaft dieser letzten Ewigkeit, der Weisheit, aus der göttlichen Fülle heraus, überraschenderweise in der „großen Notiz“ relativ neutral als „Absicht“ oder „Gedanke“ (ἐνϑύμησις) tituliert.23 Eine abschließende Bemerkung zu diesem Punkt: Wir befinden uns zwar im Bereich der Prinzipientheorie, aber natürlich ist deutlich, dass hier indirekt auch über die Natur des Menschen und sogar präziser über die Natur eines Gnostikers geredet wird: Das Streben nach Erkenntnis kann zur Leidenschaft werden, die Unmögliches will (beispielsweise erkennen, „was die Welt im Innersten zusammenhält“), sich damit zugleich vom Bereich der Rationalität entfernt und in schlimmste Irrationalismen verfällt. Indem die sogenannten valentinianischen Gnostiker einen solchen Verfall der Erkenntnis als Entwicklung innerhalb der unsichtbaren, geistigen göttlichen Welt erzählten, machten sie zugleich deutlich, dass eine solche Ambivalenz der Erkenntnis kein ausschließliches Charakteristikum irdischer Verhältnisse ist, sondern für Erkenntnis konstitutiv. Etwas zugespitzt und eher in der Sprache unserer Tage formuliert: Erkenntnis ist per definitionem ambivalent. Der irdische Mensch entsteht nun, wenn man dem erzählerischen Duktus der „großen Notiz“ folgt, die an dieser Stelle durch Regiebemerkungen und Ergänzungen des Irenaeus gestört ist, aus jener aus der göttlichen Fülle verbannten „Absicht“ göttlicher Weisheit (ἐνϑύμησις), die auch eine geistige Substanz ist, weil sie der natürliche Antrieb einer Ewigkeit, also einer gleichfalls geistigen Substanz ist, aber ohne Form und Gestalt (ἄμορφον δὲ καὶ ἀνείδεον)24 – gleichsam reine geistige Substanz außerhalb des Raumes reiner geistiger Substanz, in „Räumen von Schatten und Leere“, wie es zu Beginn der Passage, in denen Irenaeus seine Abschrift aus der „großen Notiz“ wieder fortsetzt, in Anspielung auf die platonischen Bilder für die irdische Welt beispielsweise im Höhlengleichnis heißt.25 Die bloße ungestalte „Absicht“ der himmlischen Weisheit wird nun in zwei Prozessen geformt, aber defizient geformt, weil ihr nun die Erkenntnis vollständig fehlt. Aus jener geformten Absicht, die sich zur himmlischen Welt wendet, entstehen Materie (ὕλη), Weltseele und die Seele des Demiurgen – es ist, auch wenn ich darüber nicht viele Worte machen will, deutlich, dass wir uns trotz des merkwürdigen Mythos vom Fall einer göttlichen Idee (für den man Parallelen höchstens bei Plutarch finden könnte) immer noch im weiten Be Iren., haer. I 2,2 (FChr 8/1, 134,11 Brox). haer. I 2,2 (FChr 8/1, 134,17 Brox). 24  Iren., haer. I 2,4 (FChr 8/1, 136,18 Brox). 25  Iren., haer. I 4,1 (FChr 8/1, 146,23 f Brox). 22

23 Iren.,

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reich einer platonischen Philosophie befinden, genauer im weiten Bereich einer fachlich nicht besonders hoch stehenden Auslegung des platonischen Timaeus. Der verstorbene Münsteraner Philologe Matthias Baltes hat in einem seiner Aufsätze gezeigt, wie sich die mittelplatonischen Philosophen am Problem einer Seele des Demiurgen abarbeiteten;26 allerdings macht gerade die sorgfältige Analyse der einschlägigen Passagen des Mittelplatonikers Atticus, der in der zweiten Hälfte des zweiten Jahrhunderts lebte, deutlich, dass die sogenannten valentinianischen Gnostiker mit ihren Systemen noch längst nicht das Niveau der fachphilosophischen Debatte trafen: Atticus verstand unter der „Seele des Demiurgen“ den ewigen Ort der Ideen, während er natürlich der Weltseele keine Ewigkeit zuschrieb.27 Aus seiner Warte hätte die Seele des Demiurgen niemals als ein Teil der Schattenwelt außerhalb der unsichtbaren, geistigen Welt göttlicher Fülle gedacht werden können; hier nehmen wir identitätsbildende Unterschiede zwischen Platonismus und Gnostizismus in den Blick, ohne dass ich diesen Punkt vertiefen kann. Zurück zum Referat der Schüler des Ptolemaeus, der „großen Notiz“, die Irenaeus in seinem großen antihäretischen Werk mitteilt. Wir brauchen nun die Schritte, die auf die Erschaffung des Menschen führen, nicht vollständig zu explizieren – die geformte „Absicht“, die auch „untere Weisheit“ (σοφία) oder Achamoth nach dem entstellten hebräischen Ausdruck für die Weisheit, chokmah heißt, erschafft mit Hilfe der oberen geistigen Kräfte den Demiurgen, der letztlich und streng betrachtet eine Art Kreatur der oberen geistigen Kräfte ist, keine separierte göttliche Identität, die aus dem sogenannten valentinianischen System in unserer neuzeitlichen Rubrizierung ein polytheistisches System machen würde  – „Absicht“ beziehungsweise „untere Weisheit“ oder Achamoth bleiben geformte Aspekte jener himmlischen geistigen Ewigkeiten, die ihrerseits Gedanken Gottes sind, und werden, auch wenn sie das selbst gar nicht merken, geformt. Eine separate Existenz dem Raum und der Zeit nach können die sogenannten Valentinianer schon deswegen nicht angenommen haben, weil es auf dieser Stufe der Entfaltung des Systems ja noch gar keinen Raum und keine Zeit gibt. Die auf den ersten Blick vielleicht verwunderliche Betonung des Trickster-Motivs (die untere Weisheit weiß nicht, dass eine himmlische Ewigkeit namens Christus sie formt;28 der Demiurg bemerkt nicht, dass die untere Weisheit in seiner Schöpfung handelt29), die weder bruchlos zu platonischen noch gar zu jüdisch-christlichen Traditionen zu passen scheint, möchte ich ebenfalls als verwässerten Platonismus deuten: Wie das Höhlengleichnis zeigt, ist Täuschung über die wahren Konstitutionsverhältnisse der Wirklichkeit das Kennzeichen der Schattenwelt außerhalb der unsichtbaren, geistigen göttlichen  Baltes 1999, 98. 1999, 102. 28  Iren., haer. I 4,1 (FChr 8/1, 146,20–148,28 Brox). 29  Iren., haer. I 5,3 (FChr 8/1, 156,27–158,9 Brox). 26

27 Baltes

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Welt, so dass die ontologische Höherstufung des Sündenfalls in der sogenannten valentinianischen Gnosis nach meinem gegenwärtigen Eindruck eine schlichte Applikation platonischer Weltsichten ist  – lediglich die starke Abwertung des Demiurgen passt nicht wirklich zum kaiserzeitlichen Mehrheitsplatonismus, ohne dass man sie deswegen, wie Plutarch oder Numenius zeigen, als radikal unplatonisch charakterisieren muss.30 Jener defiziente, der wahren Erkenntnis unkundige Demiurg schafft aber nun den irdischen Menschen, wobei  – der Mensch wird im Rahmen einer trichotomischen Anthropologie konzipiert – der Geist aus der unteren Weisheit (präziser: aus der himmlischen Welt, vermittelt durch die untere) stammt, seine Seele vom Demiurgen und sein Leib aus der Materie. Der Mensch ist ein mixtum compositum, weil der Demiurg „die Ideen der Dinge, die er machte, nicht gekannt“ hat (hier fällt im übrigen zum ersten und einzigen Mal in der „großen Notiz“ das auch bei den Christen der Mehrheitskirche sorgfältig vermiedene griechische Wort „Idee“, für das sonst das mehr biblische Substitut „Ewigkeit“ steht);31 eine mythologische Fassung der im Platonismus über die philosophische Figur der „Teilhabe“ (μέϑεξις) erklärten ontologischen Differenz von Urbild und Abbild, die im einen Fall als ontologische Defizienz entfaltet wird, im anderen Fall als gnoseologisches Problem gefasst ist. Ich hatte sehr abgekürzt von einer trichotomischen Anthropologie in der sogenannten valentinianischen Gnosis gesprochen; abgekürzt, weil an dieser Stelle, um es ein wenig flapsig zu formulieren, die Forschungsdiskussion tobt. In klassischen Darstellungen liest man von drei Menschenklassen, die man in der nämlichen gnostischen Schule gelehrt habe. Und so kann man in der Tat auch eine Passage aus unserer „großen Notiz“ deuten. Dort heißt es wörtlich: „Als er (sc. der Demiurg) die Welt verfertigt hatte, machte er den irdischen Menschen (πεποιηκέναι καὶ τὸν ἄνϑρωπον τὸν χοικόν), … und in ihn hinein hat er den seelischen Menschen geblasen (τὸν ψυχικόν).“32 Interessanterweise differenziert die „große Notiz“ noch einmal zwischen dem irdischen, materiellen Menschen und seinem wahrnehmbaren Fleisch, was darauf hindeutet, dass die sogenannten „Valentinianer“ – wie viele Bibelausleger, beispielsweise Origenes – zwischen der geistigen Materialität des Paradiesmenschen und seiner fleischlichen Materialität nach der Vertreibung aus dem Paradies differenzieren und letztere als Erklärung der Fellkleider der Paradiesgeschichte verwenden (Gen 3,21). Das könnte darauf hindeuten, dass der Bamberger Philologe Jens Holzhausen das Richtige getroffen hat, als er die trichotomische Anthropologie der Valentinianer als einen Versuch gedeutet hat, die platonische Dreiteilung der Seele zu modifizieren.33  Alt 1990 sowie Alt 1993. haer. I 5,3 (FChr 8/1, 156,32 f Brox). 32  Iren., haer. I 5,5 (FChr 8/1, 160,6–10 Brox). 33  Holzhausen 1998, 280–1. 30

31 Iren.,

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Dann bilanziert das Referat, das Irenaeus zitiert, mit einem berühmten biblischen Vers aus der Schöpfungsgeschichte in seiner griechischen Fassung: „Und das ist der, der nach dem Bild und dem Gleichnis geschaffen wurde“34 (vgl. Gen 1,26); dem Bilde nach sei der irdische beziehungsweise materielle Mensch Gott ähnlich, nach dem Gleichnis sei es der seelische Mensch. Diverse Ausleger unserer Passage haben sich gefragt, warum hier „Gott“ ohne nähere Spezifizierung steht und nicht beispielsweise der spezifizierte Ausdruck „Demiurg“.35 Aus dem Duktus unserer Ausführungen ergeben sich zwei Antwortmöglichkeiten: „Gott“ bezeichnet entweder an dieser Stelle die gesamte göttliche Fülle in undifferenzierter Gesamtheit; der irdische Mensch ist dank der beständigen unbemerkten Eingriffe oberer göttlicher Ewigkeiten ein Bild Gottes und der seelische Mensch dessen Gleichnis. Oder es wird, wie bei den meisten Auslegern der Mehrheitskirche und schon bei Philo, der Mensch als κατ’ εἰκόνα dem obersten Gott ähnlich gedacht: Er ist gemäß dem Bild Gottes, dem Demiurgen, Bild des obersten Gottes, des unbekannten und jenseitigen Vaters.36 Man kann sich jedenfalls schlecht vorstellen, dass hier wirklich von zwei streng getrennten Klassen von Menschen die Rede ist: So wie nach der Septuaginta der von Gott geschaffene Mensch beides ist, „Bild und Gleichnis“, so ist die Einheit eines zunächst dichotomisch konzipierten Menschen ebenfalls „Bild und Gleichnis“: Die Ausdrücke „irdischer“ und „seelischer Mensch“ müssen als Zeichen innerer Differenzierung genommen werden wie die deutlich bekannteren und auch schon erwähnten Termini „innerer“ und „äußerer Mensch“. Entsprechend heißt es im Referat auch: „Es gibt also drei Elemente“ in dem einen Menschen, „das materielle (Element), das seelische … und … das geistige (Element)“.37 Das materielle Element geht als ein partieller Moment der Entfaltung des Göttlichen im Laufe dieser Entfaltung zugrunde, das seelische kann sich entscheiden, weil ihm die freie Entscheidung zukommt, es wird in der kirchlichen wie gnostischen Verkündigung unterwiesen, sich richtig zu entscheiden, oder, wie es im Referat so schön heißt, um sich durch Erkenntnis formen zu lassen.38 Zu einer Menschenklassenlehre wird diese trichotomische Anthropologie, die an vielen Punkten der communis opinio entspricht und zudem wiederum als eine Form der Interpretation des platonischen Timaeus rubriziert werden darf, erst durch eine kommentierende Bemerkung des Irenaeus, der die geistigen Menschen (die ein Teil in jedem Menschen sind), mit den sogenannten valentinianischen Gnostikern identifiziert: „Das aber, behaupten sie, sind sie selbst.“39 Die emeritierte Münsteraner Kirchenhistorikerin  Iren., haer. I 5,5 (FChr 8/1, 160,10 f Brox).  So Brox in Irenaeus 1993, 160 Anm. 18: „Gemeint ist der psychische Demiurg“ (wie ­Rousseau/Doutreleau in Irenaeus 1979, 201). 36  Thümmel 1998, (243–254), 252. 37 Iren., haer. I 6,1 (FChr 8/1, 162,6–11 Brox). 38  Iren., haer. I 6,1 (FChr 8/1, 162,26 f Brox). 39  Iren., haer. I 6,1 (FChr 8/1, 162,29 f Brox). 34 35

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Barbara Aland hat vor vielen Jahren gezeigt, dass der Versuch des Irenaeus, die trichotomische Anthropologie der valentinianischen Gnostiker in eine Lehre von drei strikt separierten Menschenklassen umzudeuten, in denen die eine, die irdische, von Natur aus verdammt, die andere, die geistige, von Natur aus gerettet sei (φύσει σωζόμενος), während die mittlere, seelische sich entscheiden dürfe, an den originalen Texten vorbeiführt und reine Polemik darstellt. Die sogenannte valentinianische Gnosis beschreibt die Natur des Menschen, seine φύσις, als trichotomisch konstituiert; die Seele ist dabei nicht das Zentrum in einem hierarchischen Sinne, sondern – ganz platonisch gedacht – die Vermittlungsinstanz zwischen Körper und Geist. Mit ihrer Möglichkeit zu wählen, sich zum Materiellen oder zum Geistigen hinzuneigen, konstituiert sie zugleich personale Identität – ganz wie bei Mark Aurel, nach dem „jede unserer Seelen etwas Selbständiges für sich hat“.40

3 Schluss Haben wir bei unserem Durchgang durch die Ansichten der sogenannten valentinianischen Gnostiker eigentlich „religiöse Dimensionen des Selbst im zweiten Jahrhundert“ in den Blick genommen, wie es das Thema von Tagung und Publikation verspricht? Ja und nein. Nein, denn wir haben mehr oder weniger kundige Applikationen einer philosophischen Anthropologie (nämlich des Platonismus) für das christliche Volk nachgezeichnet, einen Fachphilosophen der Antike und der Gegenwart wenig überzeugenden Versuch, eine Auslegung der Grundbestände der christlichen Glaubenslehre mit Hilfe einer platonischen Ontologie vorzunehmen. Dass dieser Entwurf einer Theorie des Selbst (im Sinne unserer eingangs vorgenommenen Spezifikationen) auch eine ganz bestimmte Konstruktion des Selbst implizierte, beispielsweise Distanz gegenüber der christlichen Mehrheitsgemeinde, war bisher gar nicht in unserem Blick. Natürlich müssten wir nun thematisieren, wo valentinianische Gnostiker ihr Selbst verhüllten (in mehrheitskirchlichen Zusammenhängen), wo sie es enthüllten, auch kultisch enthüllten, wie sie die berühmte Selbstsorge trieben. Aber dazu gibt es gute Literatur. Mir kam es darauf an, nachzuzeichnen, wie die grundlegenden Architekturen des valentinianischen Selbstkonzepts aus einem Amalgam jüdisch-christlicher Theologumena und platonischer Philosophumena gewonnen wurden. Und sie wurden natürlich nicht gewonnen, um einen fachphilosophischen Beitrag zur Debatte um die Auslegung des Timaeus in einem platonischen Schulzusammenhang zu leisten, sondern um eine gelebte Religion zu verstehen und verständlich zu machen – das aber ist, ungeachtet aller Probleme der Definition von Religion, ganz ohne Zweifel eine „religiöse Dimension des Selbst im zweiten Jahrhundert“. 40

 M. Aur., ad se ips. VIII 56 (BiTeu 1046, 82,10 f Dalfen).

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Bibliographie Irenaeus, Adversus Haereses = Gegen die Häresien. Griechisch, lateinisch, deutsch hg. von Norbert Brox, Fontes Christiani 8/1, Freiburg, 1993. –, Contre les hérésies. Retirage. Sources Chrétiennes 263, Paris, 1979. Alt, Karin 1990. Philosophie gegen Gnosis: Plotins Polemik in seiner Schrift II 9. Akademie der Wissenschaften und der Literatur Mainz. Abhandlungen der geistes‑ und sozialwissenschaftlichen Klasse 7/1990, Stuttgart. – 1993. Weltflucht und Weltbejahung. Zur Frage des Dualismus bei Plutarch, Numenios, Plotin. Akademie der Wissenschaften und der Literatur Mainz. Abhandlungen der Geistes‑ und Sozialwissenschaftlichen Klasse 8/1993, Stuttgart. Baltes, Matthias 1999. „Zur Philosophie des Platonikers Attikos“, in Matthias Baltes, Annette Hüffmeier (Hg.). Dianoēmata: Kleine Schriften zu Platon und zum Platonismus. Beiträge zur Altertumskunde 123, Stuttgart, 81–111. Brakke, David 2005. „Introduction“, in David Brakke, Michael L. Satlow, Steven Weitzman (eds). Religions and the Self in Antiquity, Bloomington, Ind., 1–11. Cox Miller, Patricia 2005. „Shifting Selves in Late Antiquity“, in David Brakke, Michael L.  Satlow, Steven Weitzman (eds). Religions and the Self in Antiquity, Bloomington, Ind., 15–39. Fuchs, Hans-Jürgen 2007. „Art. Selbstheit“, Historisches Wörterbuch der Philosophie, Basel, 462–5. Gill, Christopher 2006. The Structured Self in Hellenistic and Roman Thought, Oxford. Holzhausen, Jens 1998. „Die Seelenlehre des Gnostikers Herakleon“, in Jens Holzhausen (Hg.). Psyche – Seele – Anima. Festschrift für Karin Alt zum 7. Mai 1998. Beiträge zur Altertumskunde 109, Stuttgart, 279–300. Kant, Immanuel; Vorländer, Karl 71994. Grundlegung zur Metaphysik der Sitten. Philosophische Bibliothek 41, Hamburg. Lloyd, Geoffrey E. R. 1966. Polarity and analogy: Two types of argumentation in early Greek thought, Cambridge. Reichenbach, Roland 2000. „Die Tiefe der Oberfläche: Michel Foucault zur Selbstsorge und über die Ethik der Transformation“, Vierteljahresschrift für wissenschaftliche Pädagogik 76/2, 178–91. Sagnard, François-M.-M. 1947. La Gnose Valentinienne et le Témoignage de Saint Irénée. Études de Philosophie Médiévale 36, Paris. Taylor, Charles 1996. Quellen des Selbst: Die Entstehung der neuzeitlichen Identität, Frankfurt am Main. Thümmel, Hans G. 1998. „Die Seele im Platonismus und bei den Kirchenvätern“, in Jens Holzhausen (Hg.). Psyche – Seele – Anima. Festschrift für Karin Alt zum 7. Mai 1998. Beiträge zur Altertumskunde 109, Stuttgart, 243–54.

Justin Martyr in Search of the Self 1 Anders Klostergaard Petersen Just as on a voyage, when your ship has anchored, if you should go on shore to get fresh water, you may pick up a small shell-fish or little bulb on the way, but you have to keep your attention fixed on the ship, and turn about frequently for fear lest the captain should call; and if he calls, you must give up all these things, if you would escape being thrown on board all tied up like the sheep. So it is also in life: If there be given to you, instead of a little bulb and a small shell-fish, a little wife and child, there will be no objection to that; only, if the Captain calls, give up all these things and run to the ship, without even turning around to look back. And if you are an old man, never even get very far away from the ship, for fear that when He calls you may be missing. Epictetus, The Enchereidion, c 7.2 However, the old model (sc. that of Graeco-Roman religion), established upon the public and collective character of religion, had given way to what I propose calling the new model of religion, in which authority is no longer exterior and public, but rather interior or internalized, whether in the self or the Sacred book. In the new model, subjective forms of religion such as faith or piety are dominant, and they model the objective forms that it might take. If religion remained as formerly, a social (that is to say, collective) fact, in the new circumstances the community was (in principle) chosen by the individual; belonging to the group was based on the conversion of the individual person, or his repenting; and, finally, the reading of Scripture had become a personal duty. Stroumsa 2009, 92.

1 I am relying on the text critical edition of the Greek text of the Dialogue with Trypho as it is available in Bobichon 2003. If not otherwise stated translations of the English text are taken from the ANF-edition by Cleveland-Coxe 1995. I shall throughout the essay refer to Justin Martyr’s Dialogue with Trypho by the abbreviation Dialogue. Since my main concern is with the question of selfhood in the text and not so much the Dialogue as a distinct work, I shall focus on the first nine chapters of the text. Additionally, I want to express my gratitude to friend and colleague Jan Bremmer for succinct comments on the essay from which I have greatly benefitted. Finally, it is a particular pleasure for me to express my sincere thanks to my old friend John Ranelagh of Chateau Moncla who – once again – was willing to improve my written English. 2  If not otherwise stated translations of classical authors are taken from the LCL-edition.

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1 Initial Ruminations A superficial reading of Justin Martyr’s depiction of his search for meaning in the opening chapters of his Dialogue with Trypho suggests conspicuous resemblances to the quest for meaning and identity characteristic of wide (frequently elite) segments of the contemporary Western world.3 Similar to the modern individual perpetually searching for a meaningful life, Justin is  – in his own depiction  – bouncing between divergent world-views conveyed by different schools, each offering its particular understanding of the world. Dismayed by the Stoics’ failure to provide profound knowledge of God (Dial 2.3), Justin progresses to a representative of the Peripatetic school. This man, however, proves to be a charlatan, or in the terms of second century rhetorical vocabulary, a sophist only interested in cajoling money from poor Justin. In Justin’s polemical recounting, the Peripatetic is a hypocrite who is only shrewd to himself (δριμύν, ὡς ᾤετο, 2.3). In reality he is focused on the opportunity to charge his interlocutor for his ‘entertainment’ so that “the conversation may not prove unprofitable (ἀνωφελής) to him.” Having seen through this man’s philosophical guise, Justin is prepared to move on in his quest for “proper and excellent philosophy” (τὸ ἴδιον καὶ τὸ ἐξαίρετον τῆς φιλοσοφίας, 2.4). He seeks out a celebrated Pythagorean philosopher, who, unfortunately, exhibits similar character traits as the Peripatetic. This man “thinks much of his own wisdom”, but proves unable to transmit it to his disciples within the limits of habitual conversation. He requests assistance from Justin to learn music, astronomy, and geometry in order to approach the things that “may conduce to a happy life of perfect elements” (τῶν εἰς εὐδαιμονίαν συντελοῦντων, 2.4). According to the Pythagorean, to approach a happy life it is crucial to convey information to the student on points which “wean the soul from sensible objects, and render it fitted for object which appertain to the mind, so that it can contemplate that which is honorable in its essence and that which is good in its essence” (ὥστε αὐτο κατιδεῖν τὸ καλὸν καὶ αὐτὸ ὅ ἐστιν ἀγαϑόν, 2.4). 3  For a diagnosis of the modern quest for meaning characteristic of wide segments of the Western world, I am particularly fond of Charles Taylor’s Gifford Lectures from 2002, in which he emphasizes the search for authenticity as a vulgarization of the Romantic myth (see especially 2002, 79–107). Taylor terms it ‘expressive individualism’ or ‘self-awareness’ and designates the present age as one of a post-Durkheimian mode in which “the ‘sacred,’ either religious or ‘laîque,’ has become uncoupled from our political allegiance” (2002, 92). Metaphorically speaking it is the lonely wanderer of the paintings of Casper David Friedrich who has left the painting and incorporated wide social strands of the modern Western world in his / her pursuit to ‘realise him‑ or herself.’ Although Taylor emphasizes that his use of the terms ‘paleo-’, ‘neo-’, and ‘post-Durkheimian’ describe ideal types, I think that he sometimes overstates the prevalence of what he terms the post-Durkheimian mode of religiosity in contemporary culture. I tend to think that the present age is far more characterized by a perpetual vacillation between the neo‑ and the post-Durkheimian modes. For an extensive elaboration of Taylor’s views on this matter, see his seminal and truly eye-opening argument in Taylor 1989, 368–390.

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When the Pythagorean acknowledges Justin’s ignorance he dismisses him. Poor Justin is left in dismay and despair. However, he realizes the amount of time he would have had to invest “in lingering over these branches of learning” and acknowledges that he would not be able “to endure longer procrastination” (2.5). In his state of despair, Justin turns to Platonism for help: “In my helpless condition (ἐν ἀμηχανία) it occurred to me to have a meeting with the Platonists, for their fame was great” (2.6). Finally, Justin proceeds to a Platonic philosopher, who coincidentally and fortunately for Justin happens to “have lately settled in our city.”4 Parallel to the depiction of the other philosophical trajectories of the day, Justin – sarcastically – emphasizes the fame of the Platonic school.5 Additionally, he emphasizes how the Platonist that he has sought up is “a sagacious man, holding a high position among the Platonists” (2.6). It appears that Justin has arrived at the right place. After all, he claims: that “I progressed and made the greatest improvements daily” (προέκοπτον καὶ πλεῖστον ὅσον ἑκάστης ἡμέρας ἐπεδίδουν, 2.6). In this rhetorically rather conventionalized account, the perception of immaterial things overpowers Justin and he falls prey to philosophical megalomania: “the contemplation of ideas furnished my mind with wings, so that in a little while I supposed that I had become wise; and such was my stupidity (ὑπὸ βλακείας), I expected forthwith to look upon God, for this is the end of Plato’s philosophy” (ibid.). Having had the best intentions, Justin comes to a halt in his search for true understanding and identity. He looks for solitude and quietness in order to shun the paths of men (3.1). Having withdrawn to a desolate place near the sea, an old man coincidentally and most fortunately for Justin makes his appearance. The figure – resembling a 4  ‘Our city’ may well refer to Ephesus as Eusebius states (cf. H. E. 4.18.6). However it could also refer to Corinth or other coastal cities of some importance and cultural status. We do not know and will most likely never come to know. Additionally, I think there are good methodological reasons to give up speculations along these lines. Since I consider the Dialogue to be of a mostly literary and ideological nature, for which I shall argue extensively below, ‘our city’ may well be a fictitious spatial specification without reference to any particular city. Be that as it may, the endeavor to interpret the Dialogue in terms of a sequence of events-approach will not help us to attain a better understanding of the work in terms of its form, function, and content. For discussion of ‘our city’, see Hyldahl 1966, 146. Oddly enough van Winden 1971, 51–3, passes over this in silence. See also the almost negligent comment ad loc. in Bobichon 2003, 578. 5  Needless to say, Justin’s attending the divergent philosophical schools is not a complete mapping of the philosophical landscape of second century. Notable schools like, for example, Epicureanism and Skepticism are conspicuous by their absence. From my perspective, the selection of the schools amply demonstrates the ideologically loaded nature of Justin’s account. Thereby I do not mean to detract from its value nor do I suggest that there is something problematical about it. Any text engaged in persuasion is eo ipso engaged in an ideological endeavor, since that is intrinsic to the transmission of world-views or – perhaps, more modestly – particular messages to that of its intended audience. Influenced by John B.  Thompson, I take ideology to designate meaning used in the service of exerting power, see Thompson 1990, 7. According to Thompson, the concept of ideology expresses “the ways in which meaning serves, in particular circumstances, to establish and sustain relations of power which are systematically asymmetrical” (1990, 7).

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blend between a Christ figure and a prophet like character of the Jewish Bible – serves the function of the angelus interpres of the apocalyptic literature.6 He embodies the narrative instance that reveals true wisdom to Justin and, thereby, to the intended audience. The privileged narrative status of the old man enables Justin to drive a rhetorical wedge between human philosophy and philosophy proper, that is, as it is available in Justin’s Christian world-view. Unlike the representatives of the different philosophical schools who to a greater or lesser extent exhibit alleged deficiencies, the old man transmits wisdom of a categorically different type. At the same time, the introduction of the old man enables Justin to pay heed to the generic conventions of his literary predecessors (see more on this below). Similar to Plato’s use of Socrates or to his use of the figure of Diotima in the Symposium, Justin narratively uses the old man to guide Justin (as narrative representative of the intended audience) to the true wisdom conveyed by the text itself. Justin’s purportedly coincidental meeting with the old man is followed by the introduction to a classical ἀναγνωρίσις-type-scene.7 Justin stops, fixes his eyes keenly on the old man who asks him: “Do you know me?” (3.2). Justin responds in the negative which leads the old man to ask about Justin’s reasons for so intently looking at him. Justin answers by pointing to the fact that he has sought out for himself a desolate place, where he did not expect to meet anyone. This is followed by a further characterization of the old man which makes his Christ-like features even more noticeable: “I am concerned about some of my household (οἰκείων τινῶν πεφρόντικα). These are gone away (ἀπόδημοι, literally: ‘away from their country’) from me; and therefore have I come to make personal search for them, if, perhaps, they shall make their appearance somewhere. But why are you here?” (3.2). The scene is a humorous charade, since the reader well knows that Justin is among the ones who are without their true country.8 In fact, the purpose of the 6 The old man is described as “by no means contemptible in appearance (οὐκ εὐκαταφρόνητος), exhibiting meek and venerable manners (πρᾷον καὶ σεμνὸν ᾖϑος ἐμφαίνων)” (3.1). There has been a wide discussion about the identity of this figure which the majority of scholars hold to constitute a conundrum. If, however, one realizes the rhetorical nature of Justin’s Dialogue, I see no reason to consider this character enigmatic. He is in contrast to the likewise stylized depiction of philosophical characters a narrative embodiment of revealed wisdom transmitted from the heavenly world. The figure enables Justin to privilege his own subsequent speech as one of revelation rather than one of ‘human stupidity and self-reliance’. The depiction of the old man clearly points to a figure rhetorically blended on the basis of descriptions of Christ and the prophets. For discussion of the figure, see Hyldahl 1966, 160 f; van Winden 1971, 53–4.117–8; Bobichon 2003, 580–1. 7  For a fine discussion of ἀναγνωρίσις as a type-scene of classical Greek literature, see Larsen 2008, 55–72. 8 Cf. the noticeable use of a similar metaphor in Ad Diognetum 5.5.10 in continuity of 2 Cor 5, where Paul speaks of Christ-believers as having an eternal building with God (5:1). While being at home in the body (ἐνδεμοῦντες ἐν τῷ σώματι), they are away from the Lord (ἐκδημοῦμεν,

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old man is – metaphorically speaking – to lead Justin (and the intended audience) to their true homeland, that is, a Christian perspective on the world. The two engage in an extensive philosophical conversation which ultimately brings Justin to acknowledge that he has found true philosophy: When he (i.e. the old man) had spoken these and many other things, which there is no time for mentioning at present, he went away, bidding me attend to them; and I have not seen him since. But straightaway a flame was kindled in my soul (πῦρ ἐν τῇ ψυχῇ ἀνήφϑη); and a love of the prophets, and of those men, who are friends of Christ (ὅι εἰσι Χριστοῦ φίλοι), possessed (ἔχεί) me; and whilst revolving his words in my mind, I found this philosophy alone to be safe and profitable (ἀσφαλῆ τε καὶ σύμφορον). Thus, and for this reason, I am a philosopher. Moreover, I would wish that all, making a resolution similar to my own, do not keep themselves away from the words of the saviour. For they possess a terrible power in themselves, and are sufficient to inspire those who turn aside from the path of rectitude with awe; while the sweetest rest is afforded those who make a diligent practice of them. If, then, you have any concern for yourself (Εἰ οὖν τι καὶ σοὶ περὶ σεαυτοῦ μέλει), and if you are eagerly looking for salvation (καὶ ἀντιποιῇ σωτηρίας), and if you believe in God, you may – since you are not indifferent to the matter – become acquainted with the Christ of God (πάρεστιν ἐπιγνόντι σοὶ τὸν Χριστὸν τοῦ ϑεοῦ) and, after being initiated (καὶ τελειῳ γενομένῳ), live a happy life (εὐδαιμονεῖν) (8.1–2).

Now Justin returns to the introductory part of the Dialogue, when he recounts how he coincidentally met Trypho, the Jew. It was Trypho who encouraged Justin to “tell us your opinion of these matters (sc. pertaining to various religious / philosophical aspects mentioned by Justin), and what idea you entertain respecting God, and what your philosophy is” (1.6). After having narrated to Trypho how he found true philosophy in Christ-belief, Justin is in chapter 10 engaged in an extensive discussion with Trypho on the differences between ‘Judaism’ and Christ-belief which will last for the remaining 133 chapters of the work (more on this point below). The duration of the speech forces Justin to create the illusion of two conversations occurring on two sequentially connected days in the aftermath of the Second Jewish War (cf. 1.3 and 9.3). Chapters 1.1–74.3 pertain to the dialogue of the first day. They are followed by a lacuna in the text, which makes it likely that chapters 74.4–142.3 render the conversation of the second day (cf. 56.16; 85.4 and 92.5 – but there is no explicit mention made in the Dialogue of the transition from day one to day two). To return to my initial point, there is clearly good reason to think of Justin in terms of individuality. He is a representative of second century Roman and Greek intelligentsia in the pursuit of meaning. Although Justin belongs to the fringes of power in terms of the world-view he is endorsing, by virtue of his high level of education he nevertheless participates in elite circles of Roman society. In the portrayal of the Dialogue, Justin is searching for an identity that will provide him 5:6). They are confident and, yet, well-pleased rather to be away from the body (ἐκδημῆσαι) and to be at home with the Lord (ἐνδημῆσαι, 5:8)

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with a comprehensive understanding of life. He investigates several world-views, but finds that they do not satisfy his particular needs and he is, therefore, forced to continue his search for meaning and identity, until he finally finds a haven in the Christian perspective. The Justin of the Dialogue amply demonstrates what Judith Lieu, John North, and Tessa Rajak called attention to in an influential book published almost two decades ago that the market-place may be a suitable metaphor for encapsulating religious development of the Roman Empire.9 Religions like commodities offered themselves on the market in a vibrant competition. Judith Lieu succinctly summarizes the advantages of the marketplace model over older interpretations of religious affairs of the Roman Empire: “In the Graeco-Roman world emergent Christianity joined with old-established religions like Judaism and traditional Graeco-Roman cults, but also with the cult of the Emperor, mystery cults, etc. How different was Christianity?” This familiar picture is one of a crowded market-place, where cults, like traders, elbowed each other into or out of the prime position to attract attention, adherence and status. Such a picture is a relatively recent one – at least, it was presented as such in a collection of essay The Jews among Pagans and Christians from a seminar series just ten years ago. It sought to replace the view which we find in earlier Histories of the Church, of Christianity marching, vibrant, full of youth and vigour, into a world where traditional religion had lost its persuasive appeal, and the people were waiting, without solace, for a pattern of belief which would meet the deep needs of their intellects and hearts.10

Does this description not suggest a situation closely resembling the present one of North Western Europe in which each individual is called to find for him‑ or herself that particular offer which preeminently matches his or her religious and cultural needs? Comparable to modern individuals in a perpetual search for meaning and self-realization, Justin purportedly picks and chooses among the spiritual commodities of the market that which has the greatest appeal to him. He discards the charlatans and those who are not able to sell their goods in a persuasive manner. Would it not, therefore, be fair to see Justin as a precursor to modern individualism? The Justin of the Dialogue, by which I mean to underscore the difference between the historical Justin and the narrative character as it is available to us in the textual form of the Dialogue is, of course, an interesting case for comparison with modernity. The more so, since in the Dialogue we find a deliberate thematization of the differences between what we as moderns may be inclined to think of as categorically distinct world-views, that is, that of philosophy and that of religion proper. Hence Justin is confronted with the choice between philosophy and religion proper (whatever that be). Additionally, we attain in the remaining and greatest part of the Dialogue a substantial discussion of the relationship between two seemingly different forms of religion, that is, Judaism embodied by Trypho  Lieu, North, and Rajak 1992.  Lieu 2002, 69.

 9 10

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and Christianity represented by Justin. We have, therefore, at our disposal a second century work in which the main protagonist theoretically at least is faced with the dichotomy: Judaism or Christianity. Despite these enticing elements that may tempt us to evoke a parallelism between Justin and the present, we need to be careful in order to protect ourselves from retrojecting contemporary concerns and notions into Justin’s world of the second century Roman empire. Needless to say, there is no possibility of avoiding the aspect of ‘presentism’ when interpreting relics of the past.11 Obviously, we are relying on contemporary frames of understanding even when trying to approach the past on its own terms as it is sometimes enthusiastically expressed by historians. The perceptual filters through which the past is passed to us are of a contemporary nature. However, there is a world of difference between philosophically and methodologically acknowledging that basic premise and reflexively approaching texts of the past without paying close and deliberate heed to the differences in terms of mentality that separate us from what we are aiming to study in light of its historical contexts.12 In that sense, we need to take into consideration an instance that theoretically enables us to emphasize the remoteness and pastness of the past. Before we thus succumb to exuberance over apparent similarities between the present age and that of Justin’s second century Rome, some qualifications are appropriate. Enthusiasm over seeming similarities should not lead us to give up scholarly sobriety.

2 Qualifying Justin’s Aspiration towards ‘Self-Realization’ There are, in fact, a number of reasons why one cannot be too careful in using ‘individual’ and ‘individualism’ in the context of second century imperial Rome. First, we may wonder to what extent it really is a helpful and apt description to apply these terms in a cultural context in which nobody could possibly conceive of the self in terms of an autonomous, independent, and self-relying entity. It is 11  See in that context the fine discussion in Morley 2004 and compare that with Elizabeth Clark’s discussion of the Annales-School, a program with which I definitely concur (Clark 2004, 64–75). 12 The plural of ‘context’ is a deliberate choice on my part to emphasize the fact that any past text or for that sake artifact may have several contexts that can be legitimately adduced to it in order to shed light on it. For instance, it has in my own field which is predominantly late Second Temple Judaism and the emerging Christ-movement been scholarly detrimental that the selection of context has often been turned into a binary choice of either Judaism or Hellenism. Scholars may have different expertise which is quite understandable, but it is unfortunate when their particular competence is retrojected unto the ancient texts to such an extent that their particular competence is made the only legitimate context for interpreting, for example, Paul. The ramifications of the Hellenism-Judaism dichotomy, for instance, have had several unfortunate implications for the historical reconstruction of the textual world of ancient Judaism, see, for example, Alexander 2001, and Petersen 2009 a, 375–82.

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obvious from the discussion in Justin – and the same applies to any other author of the era – that he did not conceive of the self in the sense in which we have increasingly come to think of it in the wake of Enlightenment traditions, that is, a self understood as an independent entity with certain rights pertaining to it (cf. the famous words of the Preamble to the American Declaration of Independence of 1776).13 In the world of Justin, the self is possessed by cosmic, divine powers. They may be benign or malignant, but one cannot think of the self – and that is the important point – as independent from these powers.14 This has been nicely captured by David Brakke, Michael Satlow, and Steven Weitzman in their introduction to a recent collection of essays on Religion and the Self in Antiquity. They argue that: “In an ancient context, the self was a religious concept: for some, it was an entity separable from the body and yearning for contact with the divine, while for others it constituted an expression of the divine in its own right.”15 In short, in the ancient context one cannot conceptualize the self without having recourse to transhuman powers. Second, what applies to the relationship between the self and the cosmic powers has a parallel bearing on the conceptualization of the relationship between the self and the group. Among others Harry Triandis has called attention to the difference between what he terms individualist and collectivist cultures.16 His distinction has been elaborated in the context of New Testament studies by Bruce Malina and Jerome Neyrey. Since their argument is of a more general nature with respect to antiquity, we may also apply it in the context of Justin. They contend that first-century Mediterranean persons were fundamentally embedded in groups, primarily kinship and fictive kinship groups. As such, they were not individualists. Rather they were group-oriented persons living in collectivist cultures. As they went through the genetically based stages of psychological awareness, they were constantly shown that they existed solely because of and for the sake of the group in which they found themselves.17

As a vivid illustration of this point one may think of the opening of the Dialogue in which Justin is not recognized as an individual but as a type character by his wearing the philosopher’s cloak (1.1–2). Additionally, one should also take the aspect of class into consideration. Like followers of Jesus in the first century, many Christ-adherents of the second century challenged their ‘natural’ classification in terms of class by favoring their relationship with and integration 13 The

importance of the conceptualization of the modern self as an autonomous entity possessing certain inalienable rights have been strongly underlined by Lukes 1973, 45–145. 14  For a recent emphasis on the conception of the self during antiquity as an entity being possessed by cosmic powers, see Engberg-Pedersen 2010, 92–138, with special emphasis on Paul. For an extensive discussion of this aspect of the book, see my review-article 2011 a. 15 Brakke, Satlow, Weitzman 2005, 1. 16  Triandis 1990, 77–78. 17  Malina, Neyrey 1996, 168–9. Cf. also Rist 1982, 148, and Martin 1994, 134.

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into a new kinship group, that is, being sons and daughters of the family of God. As Jan Bremmer has rightly pointed out in his valedictory lecture, The Rise of Christianity through the Eyes of Gibbon, Harnack and Rodney Stark, this contention of and resistance towards existing cultural groups must have been among the prime reasons for the unpopularity of Christ-followers in the Roman Empire.18 Third and partly related to the previous point, we may also think of the vast differences that exist between persons of antiquity and modernity in terms of categorically distinct psychological notions.19 Although Augustine’s Confessiones have sometimes been taken as paving the way for the modern concept of a self-scrutinizing subject with a concomitant awareness of conscience, we need to be careful not to retroject a contemporary introspective psychology unto the ancient world and definitely not unto the pre-Augustinian world.20 The modern individual discussing with him‑ or herself which path to pursue is a strange bird of antiquity. The phenomenon of introspective conscience, for instance, is alien to a cultural setting that does not share the modern individualist psychology. In a fine study on Conscience in the New Testament, C. A. Pierce has argued that conscience in Greek and the New Testament “does not look to the future: its reference is to acts that were at least begun, if not irrevocably completed in the past. It tells me that what I have done is sin: whether its absence can be taken to tell me that what I have done is righteousness, may be thought debatable despite the evidence presented in this essay, but there is no question about the tense of the action referred to.”21 In this manner, Justin in search of true philosophy should not instinctively be identified with contemporary humans in pursuit of an authentic interpretation of the world. Fourth, we need to pay close attention to the fact that Justin’s account of his conversion is anything but an unmediated recounting of important, historical elements of his biography. It is a rhetorical stylized representation that serves to construct Justin’s ethos as advocate of Christian philosophy in the subsequent dialogue with Trypho. Although some scholars continue to ascribe a high degree of historical veracity to Justin’s depiction there is ample evidence that his narrative on how he sought wisdom in the different philosophical schools before he finally found it in Christ-belief is in every respect created with the rhetorical purpose 18 Bremmer

2010, 10–11.  Needless to say, by ‘categorical’ I do not mean to suggest differences in terms of genus but rather in terms of degree. For us to ascertain the ‘categorical differences’ there must obviously exist a point of contact that in the first instance enables us to detect the difference between the present and the past. Were these differences of a generically categorical nature they would escape our observation. 20  For Augustine as precursor to the contemporary introspective conscience and concomitant modern psychology, see the now classical essay by Stendahl 1963 (first published in Swedish in 1956). For Augustine as a milestone in the development towards modern notions of the self, see Stroumsa 1990, 47–8. 21  Pierce 1955, 114, cf. 117. 19

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of the Dialogue in mind. In passing we have already noted how the description of the different philosophical schools at several places is characterized by conventional rhetorical defamation. The Peripatetic, on the one hand, is described by means of cultural codes indicating his sophistic nature. The Pythagorean, on the other hand, is characterized as a person who is not capable of presenting his philosophy within the length of normal conversation. In the depiction, the various philosophical schools are to a greater or lesser degree turned into re­ presentatives of human folly. That alone should warn us from using the work in a straightforward manner to say something about individuality and individualism of antiquity. Parallel to the discussion of the historical genuineness of Justin’s conversion narrative, there has also been extensive scholarly discussion about the historical veracity of Justin’s confrontation with Trypho. Some scholars have held the Dialogue to be an almost accurate rendering of a meeting that took place between Justin and a nowadays unknown Jew by the name of Trypho. Others have been more modest in their understanding but have retained the idea that the Dialogue does have a firm foundation in actual discussions between the historical Justin and representatives of a non-Christ-believing Judaism.22 In stark contrast to this line of thinking, Jon Nilson contends with respect to Trypho that: It is hard to see him as anything more than a straw man. He as well as his companions are such poor spokesmen for Judaism that using them to present the Jewish position could hardly be expected to win a neutral, much less sympathetic hearing among the intended Jewish audience. Trypho never throws Justin off stride. Justin dominates the Dialogue to the point that it would not be inappropriate to name it Monologue with Trypho.23

In short, we should recognize that in order to use the Dialogue to say something about the construction of selfhood during second century imperial Rome, it is urgent that we pay close heed to the genre conventions of the work (see below). We cannot take the text at face value as an actual depiction of a past territory. We, therefore, need to acknowledge its character of an ideological, rhetorical map when using it for the purpose of examining constructions of selfhood. Fifth and partly related to the previous point, it is decisive that we recognize that the categories evoked by the Dialogue are not stable by nature. The work does not provide us with a Stilleben-account of second century Rome, although it has sometimes been read in that way. On the contrary, the Dialogue pays witness to a situation in which a number of the categories that we are relying on today are in the process of being established. Hence, we need to be careful not to 22  For a discussion of Trypho as character (historical or fictive), see Horner 2001, 15–32. Cf. also Bobichon 2003, 92–101. Bobichon contends that: “Tryphon est une synthèse: à travers lui, c’est la pluralité des judaïsmes de son temps que Justin cherche à atteindre et à représenter” (97). 23  Nilson 1977, 540. For an even more radical version of this view, see Taylor 1995, 160–9, who argues that the depiction of Trypho in the Dialogue is a matter of coming to terms with the ‘Jew’ within, that is to say, that Trypho rather than having anything to do with ‘real Judaism’ is symbolic of the problems posed by ‘Judaism’ to the Christ-movement.

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reify (by ontological dumping) categories that in the work are very much under construction. On the basis of the Dialogue one may come to think that Judaism and Christianity constitute two different worlds. That is the way the two are being portrayed throughout the Dialogue. However, it may be worthwhile to think of Justin in light of a historical context when these two categories were far from distinct from each other. In fact, one should rather think of Justin as a partaker in that ideological, religious game by which Judaism and Christianity after a considerable time span and numerous intersecting processes of attraction, criss-crossing, denunciation and rejection occurring in different social and cultural strata finally developed into distinct and separate entities.24 The same eo ipso applies to notions of the self found throughout the text. They should not be taken as mirror images of a homogeneous and complete self; but rather be seen as perlocutionary participants in the ongoing construction of a self. Rebecca Lyman has rightly emphasized this aspect of instability and ideological processing with respect to alleged Hellenization in the Dialogue. She endorses the view that “the problem, then, of trying to read Justin as a cultural work in progress, i.e. as a Christian teacher or philosopher, rather than a finished canonical subject, i.e., as an Apologist, is part of our struggle historically and ideologically to read second-century Christianity itself as a work in progress.”25 I fully concur with her aspirations to interpret the Dialogue in particular and second century Christianity in general as “a work in progress.” At this point, one may ask – based on this section’s qualifications and retreat from the initial enthusiasm – whether we have been brought into a state of dismay and disappointment paralleling Justin’s own condition prior to his meeting with the old man.

3 Revitalizing the Examination for Justin Martyr in Search of the Self The previous qualifications should prevent us from reflexively overdoing the resemblances that may exist between Justin of the Dialogue and contemporary Western individuals in search of authentic selves as part of their pursuit of selfrealization. The discussion should also provide us with a note of caution in the terminology applied. ‘Individual’ and ‘individualism’ may not be the most apt terms for capturing the struggle for identity in antiquity. That said, however, it would be presumptuous to deprive people of second century Roman culture of a notion of selfhood. It is definitely true what David Brakke, Michael Satlow, and Steven Weitzman note in Religion and the Self in Antiquity. They maintain that “the ‘self ’ may be a social construct, but surely real individual selves existed 24 See

my discussion in Petersen 2005 and the volume of collected papers by Becker and Reed 2003. 25  Lyman 2003, 41. Cf. her recent essay 2007, 163. 166.

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and acted in antiquity. Methodologically, the question is how the historian can recover an individual self accessible only through its linguistic expressions and embedded in remote cultural settings.”26 Our notes of caution may conversely lead us into an excessive form of carefulness. Hence, we may run the risk of aggrandizing the differences between the past and the present to such an extent that we end up in a new and more sublime form of ‘primitivism’. Thereby we may fall prey to turning the ancients into unreflecting representatives of a strange and remote culture that did not have the same philosophical notions at their disposal as we have. The search for the self is truly a reflection of the modern search for the self, although it cannot be entirely reduced to such a self-reflective quest. However, I do want to underline the strong element of self-mirroring and presentism that is involved in the examination. Searching for the emergence of the self or the appearance of rudimentary forms of individualism is intrinsic to the attempt to seek the roots of modernity. Looking at the modern scholarly search for individuality one cannot help being struck by the variety of candidates that have been proposed.27 Needless to say, there are often strong ideological (and economic) interests involved in this search for the roots of modernity. Luther Martin bluntly states on the interest in finding the roots of individualism that “its origins, consequently, tend to be claimed by historians and anthropologists for their own domain of research.”28 Scholars of a Christian Protestant bend, for instance, have a propensity to identify the emergence of individualism with the Reformation of sixteenth century Germany, thus turning Martin Luther and his quest for a graceful God into the prime example of modern man. Other scholars wanting to free modernity for what they think is a problematical religious burden of the past have pointed to those trajectories of the Enlightenment tradition that were especially opposed to religion as the matrix of modern individualism.29 Still other scholars with a propensity for the medieval period have pointed to the peak of the Middle Ages as the birth of the individual.30 Scholars of late antiquity, in contrast, have frequently pointed to Augustine as the decisive precursor for the modern notion of the individual, while others again have taken the development further back in history and found breakthroughs pertaining to either the Greek philosophical tradition (preeminently Plato) or the Hebrew Bible (for instance the so-called Deuteronomist revolution) to constitute the nodal point for an increased sensitivity of the self. 26 Brakke,

Satlow, Weitzman 2005, 4.  Cf. Dumont 1982, 1. 28  Martin 1994, 118. 29  Notably the French and partly the Scottish Enlightenment tradition which unlike the German, English, and American traditions had a far more antagonistic attitude towards religion, see Himmelfarb 2004. For a similar appraisal of the differences within the Enlightenment traditions with respect to the view on religion, see the opus magnum of Israel 2006. 30  See, for instance, Morris 1972. 27

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Be that as it may, I shall refrain from engaging in this game of identifying the decisive point at which the modern notion of the self took its beginning. I prefer to see the development towards modern conceptions of individuality and the individual as a continuum of a longue durée with numerous important transitions occurring. Simultaneously, I find it hard to think of a point in the history of mankind at which humans were without notions of themselves. As selves distinct from the group they certainly have reflected on their role with respect to other members of the same group, and from a later evolutionary stage with the occurrence and acknowledgement of rival groups, they will have pondered upon their relationship to the group and not least their difference from selves belonging to other groups. From such a perspective, we may speak of notions of the self in terms of continuity and durability. Rather than pinpointing a particular time and space as the prime emergence of the individual, I believe it is more fruitful to think of a variety of options for conceptualizing the self throughout history. It may well be beneficial to acknowledge the stages pertaining to the development by reserving special terms for particular periods. For instance, it may be advantageous for clarification to reserve the notions of ‘individual’ and ‘individualism’ to the era of Western modernity. Be that as it may, I certainly agree with Charles Taylor when he asserts: What we need ideally is a theory of the subject which can allow us to understand these various views; how different views can be dominant at different times, and how ours could become dominant, and perhaps irreversibly so, with the development of modern civilization. In the best outcome, we should be able to understand why our modern conception tends to make other views incomprehensible to us, or at least very opaque.31

At this point it is relevant to raise the question to what extent we may able to detect in Justin a particular view of selfhood. Does he exhibit an understanding of the self that can be attributed special importance? Although these questions superficially may appear created for the occasion, there are in fact good reasons to pose them in the context of Justin and second century Christianity. First, I – like other partakers in the debate over conceptions of selfhood in antiquity and subsequent historical periods  – shall acknowledge my profound debt to the seminal and eye-opening third volume of Michel Foucault’s Histoire de la Sexualité: Le Souci de soi. Had it not been for Foucault’s work published more than 25 years ago (1984), we would hardly have the present volume. It was Foucault who opened this debate about a different construction of selfhood in antiquity in the context of sexuality. In a poignant formulation he argues that: In the slow development of the art of living under the theme of the care of oneself, the first two centuries of the imperial epoch can be seen as the summit of a curve: a kind of golden age in the cultivation of the self – it being understood, of course, that this phenomenon 31

 Taylor 1985, 258. Cf. Kuiper 1990, 46.

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concerned only the social groups, very limited in number, that were bearers of culture and for whose members a technē tou biou could have meaning and reality.32

Despite my approbation of Foucault’s work, a serious flaw pertains to it. In the trajectory he traced towards a new notion of selfhood, Foucault cut Christianity out of the account.33 He did so on the grounds that Christian thinkers tried to forsake and renounce the self.34 I have the impression that underlying the argument is an old and highly problematic dichotomy between philosophy and religion that prevents Foucault from acknowledging the close similarities in the conception of selfhood which Christianity shared with contemporaneous forms of philosophy. As a direct challenge to Foucault, Guy Stroumsa contends that a decisive transition in the understanding of the self took place in the nascent Christ-movement. Stroumsa speaks of a new sensitivity towards the self and underlines that “the emergence of the reflexive self should indeed be seen as the acme of a trend in the new epoch (sc. the period of late antiquity).”35 According to Stroumsa it was “the highly ambiguous status of the reflexivity developed by Christian thinkers that misled Foucault into offering such a radical misinterpretation.”36 Following Stroumsa, the novelty of these thinkers is found in the fact that “turning upon oneself and reforming oneself was perceived as part of an ongoing and indivisible process of conversion (metanoia), that is, making constant efforts to turn away from former habits of thought, feeling and behavior.”37 Similar to Foucault, however, Stroumsa falls prey to the time-honored dualism between philosophy and religion by driving a wedge between the two. Unlike Foucault, Stroumsa sees the innovative elements pertaining to a new notion of selfhood occurring in the early Christ-movement because of its Jewish legacy.38 I believe that Stroumsa overstates the differences in the conception of selfhood found in the early Christ-movement and the contemporary philosophical schools. There are obvious differences, but rather than understanding them in terms of categorical distinctiveness it may be beneficial to think of them within  Foucault 1986, 45. Cf. 95.  Additionally, Gill 2006, 330–44, challenges Foucault’s work on the ground that it represents what Gill designates a “subjective-individualistic conception” of selfhood that stems from a modern Cartesian perceptual filter rather than reflecting an ancient “objective-participant” understanding. Ultimately, Gill emphasizes the continuity in ancient perceptions of personality and selfhood rather than focusing on what to others appear as important transitions. Although I cannot do full justice to Gill’s seminal work in this essay, I hope that I have complied with some of his objections by underscoring in my section two some of the challenges that prevent us from talking about individualism in the context of antiquity in general and the second century in particular. 34  Cf. Foucault 1986, 143–4. 235–9. 35  Stroumsa 1990, 28, cf. 26. 36 Stroumsa 1990, 29. 37  Stroumsa 1990, 29–30. 38  See Stroumsa 1990, 29–30. 35. 32 33

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the framework of a Venn-diagram that simultaneously allows us to maintain difference and to acknowledge overlapping pools of shared traditions.39 In any case, the argument of Foucault and Stroumsa makes it the more relevant to return to Justin. In light of their discussion Justin, once again, becomes an obvious candidate for studying notions of selfhood. If it is true what Stroumsa asserts that a decisive transition with respect to the conceptualization of the self took place in emerging Christianity, it is obvious to turn to Justin as an outstanding erudite exponent of the second century Christ-movement.

4 The Setting of the Dialogue: Genre, Actual and Intended Audience So let us return to Justin and have a closer look at the Dialogue. Why did he write this rather lengthy text and which audience did he have in mind? As I have already argued it is incumbent upon us to understand the rhetorical purpose of the work in order to get a grip on how notions of selfhood are developed throughout the work. Several scholars have noted that the literary Vorbild of the Dialogue are the dialogues of Plato. Although Timothy Horner is right to point to the fact that there is no direct line of continuity between the two, he underestimates the influence which the Platonic dialogues continued to exert as generic pattern on subsequent literary products of, for instance, the Second Sophistic movement. It may well be that there are other and more contemporaneous literary works in terms of genre with the Dialogue, but that does retract from the relevance of the Platonic dialogues.40 As I have already suggested the use of the old man in chapters 3 to 8 is parallel to Plato’s discursive use of Socrates in his dialogues in general and to the use of Diotima in the Symposium specifically. However, whereas it is fairly easy to recognize the reliance of the Dialogue on the Platonic dialogues in terms of generic modulations in Dialogue 1–9, it becomes more problematical in the remaining lengthy 133 chapters of the work.41 In continuity of an early work of von Harnack, Andrew Jacobs has classified the Dialogue as belonging to the “debate” genre which “was mildly popular among early Christians.”42 He points to the Debate between Simon the Jew and Theophilus the Christian and the no longer extant work of the Dialogue of Jason and Papiscus as other examples of the genre dealing specifically with ‘Jewish-Christian’ relations (ibid.). In that sense, 39  See the theoretical argument for such an understanding in my forthcoming article, which also criticizes the time-honored dichotomy of philosophy and religion when applied to the study of ethical traditions of antiquity, Petersen 2012 a, 66–8. 40  See Horner 2001, 66–84, especially 77 and 83. 41 Cf. Allert 2002, 136–7. 42  Jacobs 2003, 99. For a concise characterization of the milieu that paved the way for this genre, see Stroumsa 2009, 47–9.

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the Dialogue constitutes a sub-genre of the more general type of philosophical dialogue of which we have numerous other Christian examples.43 That clarified, we are confronted with another moot and significant point: Which is the intended audience of the Dialogue? In recent scholarship there has often been a tendency to conflate the actual audience with the intended readership. Solutions to the problem generally vacillate between three main positions: 1) the work was directed to a Graeco-Roman audience of a non-Christian nature with conversion in mind; 2) the work was intended for a non-Christian Jewish audience with proselytism in mind; 3) the work was primarily aimed at a Christian audience in order to clarify the ‘Jewish’ question.44 Additionally, variations of the main positions exist to the extent that some have promulgated a ‘gentile-Christian’ audience of the Dialogue, while others have advocated a ‘Jewish-Christian’. Once again, it is crucial that we keep the insight of Rebecca Lyman in mind, namely that these categories that we are so accustomed to use when studying the nascent Christ-movement were far from fixed during the second century. In fact, they were under perpetual and highly diversified forms of construction. In this essay, I want to make two central points. First, with respect to the actual audience it is crucial that we do not delimit it to the intended audience, especially since – as we have come to learn from recent scholarship – historically there were considerably more intersections and criss-crossings between cultural and social groups than previously thought. In that sense I agree with Philippe Bobichon, when he contends that: La thèse d’un ouvrage de pólemique destiné aux juifs a tout d’abord prédominé. Mais la finalité des écrits de controverse ayant été parfois mise en cause, on s’est peu à peu habitué à considérer que le Dialogue, comme d’autres œuvres apparentées, était en réalité destiné à un usage interne (convaincre les chrétiens de l’authenticité de leur foi), ou écrit pour des païens également attirés par le judaïsme et le christianisme. Parmi les travaux récents, seul ceux de Th. Stylianopoulos reprennent la thèse d’un auditoire juif. Aucune de ces réponses n’est totalement infondée; aucune non plus n’est tout à fait convaincante. L’éventail des solutions envisagées avec une certaine vraisemblance atteste la complexité du problem.45

That said, however, we also know with respect to most of the apologetic works produced by Christians of the second to third century that they were mostly transmitted among Christians. To judge from the history of reception of the work, Justin’s Dialogue had a primary (and highly elitist) Christian audience; but what about the intended audience? 43  For the differences in terms of genre theory between subgenre, genre, and generic mode, see my entries 2009 b and 2009 c drawing on the work of Alisdair Fowler. 44  For the history of scholarship and the decisive arguments pertaining to the different scholarly positions on this point, see Allert 2002, 38–61. See also the extensive and careful discussion in Bobichon 2003, 129–66. 45  Bobichon 2003, 130–1.

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Given the fact that at the time of the Dialogue Justin had already deliberately written an apology (the designation is, of course, not Justin’s but one later attributed to the work) addressed to the Roman emperor Antoninus Pius and an earlier version of the same work (now extant under the name of the Second Apology) possibly addressed to the general readership of Roman free-born men as well as the emperor, makes it less likely that he had a non-Christian Roman audience in mind for the Dialogue.46 Had he intended the Dialogue for such an audience he would undoubtedly have introduced several markers in the texts like the ones we know of from the two Apologies. One may, of course, think that the figure of Justin is somehow related to the intended audience, that is, that Justin – initially a gentile and finally a converted Christ-believer – should be seen as a figure designated for the self-reflection of the intended audience. However, there are no indications in terms of content that the Dialogue was composed with the conversion of a Roman gentile audience in mind. The address to Marcus Pompeius at the end of the Dialogue (141.5) and the implicit address earlier in the work (φίλατε “my, dear one”, 8.3) could indeed help us in answering the question of intended audience if we knew about that person addressed by Justin. The name, however, could belong to both a Jew, a Roman, and, of course, a Christian of either Jewish or Roman ethnicity. Since the main part of Justin’s Dialogue (9–142) is a profound discussion of the ‘Jewish’ question it is likely that the key to identify the intended audience lies here. The Dialogue mirrors a situation in which ‘Judaism’ and ‘Christianity’ had not yet developed into two distinct entities.47 On the contrary, they appear deeply entangled, and it is primarily for this reason that Justin sees himself forced to clarify the relationship between a non-Christ-believing Judaism and the ‘Judaism’ of the Christ-believing society. Needless to say, this is not the manner in which Justin preferred to portray the situation. To him ‘Jews’ designated an entity different from ‘Christians,’ and his work was devoted to vividly demonstrate this. At the same time, however, there are other entities discussed throughout the work who do not qualify as ‘Christians’ either. They are the ones who come in the name of Jesus “clothed outwardly in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves” (35.3). Already Jesus predicted that there would be schisms and heresies (ibid., cf. 1 Cor 11:19). Justin and his compatriots know some to be 46  For the literary relationship between the Second Apology and the First Apology, see Parvis 2007. For the possible deletion of the vocative “Romans” (ὦ Ῥωμαῖοι) of the prooimium of the Second Apology, see the text critical edition of Munier 2006 ad loc. Even if “Romans” is deleted from the text, the opening of the work makes it clear that it is addressed to men of the city of Rome and, additionally, to the emperor (see 2Apol 2.2.8). Unlike Parvis, Munier prefers to see the First and Second Apology as one work, see Munier 2006, 21–2. As to the chronological relationship between the Dialogue and the two previous works, the Dialogue indisputably succeeds them, since the Dialogue 120.6 refers to the First Apology (26.2–4). 47  My use of inverted commas when writing Judaism and Christianity points to the fact that these categories were far from fixed during the second century.

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“atheists (γνωρίζοντες ἀϑέους), impious (ἀσεβεῖς), unrighteous (ἀδίκους), and sinful and confessors of Jesus in name only, instead of worshippers of him (καὶ ἀνόμους αὐτοὺς ὑπάρχοντας, καὶ ἀντὶ τοῦ τὸν  Ἰησοῦν σέβειν ὀνόματι μόνον ὁμολογεῖν )” (35.5) who “style themselves Christians, just as certain among the Gentiles inscribe the name of God upon the works of their own hands, and partake in nefarious and impious rites (καὶ ἀνόμοις καὶ ἀϑέοις τελεταῖς κοινωνοῦσι)” (35.6). Among them are Marcionites, Valentinians, Basilidians, Sarturnilians, and others by other names (ibid.). Justin adds that they are exactly like the philosophers by whom he first sought wisdom, since each of these groups are “called after the originator of the individual opinion, just as each one of those who consider themselves philosophers, as I said before, thinks he must bear the name of the philosophy which he follows, from the name of the father of the particular doctrine” (ibid.). Throughout the text Justin hijacks ‘Christianity’, ‘philosophy’, and ‘wisdom’ to espouse his particular version of Christ-belief by discarding a number of proximate groups as either heretical, originator of their own wisdom (i.e. stupidity), impious, unrighteous, etc. The same applies to ‘Jews’ and the ‘Judaism’ constructed by Justin. It is a ‘Judaism’ characterized by two things. First, it is deprived of the symbols that Justin has usurped for his ‘Christianity’. Second, it is accorded stupidity with respect to those elements that Justin cannot, after all, deprive ‘Judaism’. Through the Dialogue Justin in the vein of Paul creates a dualism between spiritual and carnal Israel leaving to ‘Judaism’ the less flattering role of carnal Israel: “For the true spiritual Israel (Ἰσραηλιτικὸν γὰρ τὸ ἀληϑινόν πνευματικόν), and descendants of Judah, Jacob, Isaac, and Abraham (who in circumcision was approved of and blessed by God on account of his faith, and called the father of many nations), are we who have been led to God through this crucified Christ, as shall be demonstrated while we proceed” (11.5, cf. 24 where Justin speaks of the superior circumcision that Christ-adherents have received from Christ). In recent scholarship on the Dialogue Judith Lieu and Daniel Boyarin have promoted the view that the Dialogue not least serves internal purposes of identity construction.48 Boyarin contends that: The Dialogue, by establishing a binary opposition between the Christian and the Jew over the question of the Logos, accomplishes two purposes at once. First, it articulates Christian identity as theological. Christians are those people who believe in the Logos; Jews cannot, then, believe in the Logos. Second, Christians are those people who believe in the Logos; those who do not are not Christians but heretics. The double construction of Jews and heretics – or rather, of Judaism and heresy – effected through Justin’s Dialogue thus serves to produce a secure religious identity, a self-definition of Christians.49 48 49

 Lieu 1996; Boyarin 2004.  Boyarin 2004, 39.

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Concerning such a view, there cannot be much doubt about the intended audience. The text was meant for Christ-believers, since it had the function of clarifying and construing what true ‘Christian’ identity meant and implied: Jews of a non-Christian bent and ‘Christian’ groups that were deviant from Justin’s conception of ‘Christianity’ did not belong to the in-group. In fact, they – like the philosophers of the first chapters of the Dialogue – belonged to a world captivated by its own stupidity, since they conflated their own wisdom with true wisdom. In 1975, Theodore Stylianopoulos made a forceful argument that the Dialogue was composed with a non-Christian Jewish audience in mind in the context of missionary activities between ‘Jews’ and ‘Christians’.50 Needless to say, much has happened in scholarship since 1975, especially with regard to the topic of what anachronistically continues to be designated ‘Jewish-Christian’-relations. The recent scholarly watershed in the assessment of the Christ-movement and its relationship to other forms of Judaism could obviously not be taken into account by Stylianopoulos. Despite his careful discussion, he ultimately fails to answer the question why Justin would produce a work aimed to lead ‘Jews’ to become Christ-adherents, when he dismisses ‘Judaism’ as deficient wisdom and throughout the text does not exert great efforts in bluntly stating his aim with respect to non-Christ-believing Jews, that is, to have them convert. In sum, I believe that the most persuasive and promising interpretation of the intended audience of the Dialogue follows along the lines of thought promulgated by Lieu and Boyarin.

5 Construing a Self in the Dialogue I have now come to the point of the discussion at which I shall reopen the search for notions of selfhood in the Dialogue. Does the text, indeed, pay witness to a transition towards a new reflexive sensitivity in the perception of the self? Although Justin’s quest for wisdom should not instinctively be thought of along the lines of the modern Western individual in search of an authentic life, there is a grain of truth in my initial comparison. The narrative figure of Justin is, in fact, searching, although his quest is embedded in a literary rhetorical construction which among other purposes serves to undermine the cultural challenges stemming from rivaling philosophical schools. In the previously mentioned essay by Luther Martin, he states that Hellenistic cultural fragmentation did not “give rise to any ideology of individualism, but, as in contemporary Florida and California, to a plurality of alternative subcultures” (cf. the use of the market metaphor by Lieu, Rajak, and North).51 Justin – confronted with 50  Stylianopoulos 1975, 35–8. 44. Stylianopoulos, however, also recognizes that Marcionism and various forms of so-called Christian Gnosticism with their abrogation of the law constituted a problem for Justin, see 1975, 20–31. 51  Martin 1994, 125.

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a gamut of diverse subcultures from which he has to choose – may, in fact, be a token of novelty in the conceptualization of selfhood. As a further characteristic to his notion of reflexive self-awareness distinctive of the early Christ-movement, Guy Stroumsa adds that polemics “play a most important role in the development of self-awareness, of reflexive consciousness.”52 Stroumsa is primarily thinking of the emergence of the heresiological debate of which – as we have seen  – we have ample evidence in the Dialogue. However, one may also add to his argument the fact that early Christ-adherents of higher intellectual and social standing saw themselves confronted with the challenges stemming from the philosophical schools. To retain Christ-belief as a categorically distinct and intellectually superior philosophy, they had to undermine the threat coming from Graeco-Roman philosophy. The opening chapters of the Dialogue is an haute école in killing darlings for the sake of retaining firm and safe boundaries embedding one’s own (Christian) identity: the identity of Justin’s Christ-adhering group.53 But what bearing does that have on the self and notions of selfhood? From Justin’s depiction, we see how the two (self and group) are closely intertwined. At the same time, Justin is keen to emphasize the special relationship that exists between God and self. At several places, he underlines how true philosophy should be sought in a crystallization that includes the self and the deity: “Assuredly,” said I, “so we too have believed. But the most have not taken thought of this, whether there be one or more gods, and whether they have a regard for each one of us or no, as if this knowledge contributed nothing to our happiness (πρὸς εὐδαιμονίαν); nay, they (sc. the Stoics) moreover attempt to persuade us that God takes care of the universe with its genera and species, but not of me and you, and each individually (ἐμοῦ δὲ καὶ σοῦ οὐκ ἔτι καὶ τοῦ καϑ᾿ ἔκαστα [ἐπιμελεῖται ϑεός]), since otherwise we would surely not pray to him night and day” (1.4).

In his representation of how he sought to find wisdom in the different philosophical schools, Justin again and again underscores his own personal involvement: “Being at first desirous of personally conversing with one of these men, I surrendered myself to a certain Stoic” (2.3). It is amazing to see how often personal and reflexive pronouns pertaining to first person singular such as ‘I’ and ‘self ’ appear in the text. Two examples will suffice to support the point: Being at first desirous of personally conversing with one of these men, I surrendered myself to a certain Stoic; and having spent a considerable time with him, when I had not acquired any further knowledge of God (for he did not know himself, and said such instruction was unnecessary), I left him and betook myself to another, who was called a peripatetic, and as he fancied, shrewd. And this man, after having entertained me for the first few days, requested me to settle the fee, in order that our intercourse might not be 52 Stroumsa

1990, 40.  For the construction and maintenance of self-identity, see in particular Petersen 2012 b, 19–30. 53

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profitable. Him, too, for this reason I abandoned, believing him to be no philosopher at all. But when my soul was eagerly desirous to hear the peculiar and choice philosophy, I came to a Pythagorean, very celebrated – a man who thought much of his own wisdom (2.3–4). When he had spoken these and many other things, which there is no time for mentioning at present, he went away, bidding me attend to them; and I have not seen him since. But straightaway a flame was kindled in my soul; and a love of the prophets, and of those men who are friends of Christ, possessed me; and whilst revolving his words in my mind, I found this philosophy alone to be safe and profitable. Thus, and for this reason, I am a philosopher. Moreover, I would wish that all, making a resolution similar to my own, do not keep themselves away from the words of the Saviour. For they possess a terrible power in themselves, and are sufficient to inspire those who turn aside from the path of rectitude with awe; while the sweetest rest is afforded those who make a diligent practice of them. If, then, you have any concern for yourself, and if you are eagerly looking for salvation, and if you believe in God, you may – since you are not indifferent to the matter – become acquainted with the Christ of God, and, after being initiated, live a happy life (8.1–2).

Here we truly find an ‘I’ in pursuit of an interpretation that will satisfy him and I dare say his personal needs – regardless of the fact that the depiction is a retrojective representation. When the old man confronts Justin with the question why he spends time in such a desolate place, Justin points to his own needs: “‘I delight,’ said I, ‘in such walks, where my attention is not distracted, for converse with myself (πρὸς ἐμαυτὸν) is uninterrupted; and such places are most fit for philo­ logy’” (3.2). One cannot accuse Justin of being modest and self-effacing in his aspirations. He bluntly states that every man ought to indulge in philosophizing: But without philosophy and right reason, prudence would not be present to any man. Wherefore it is necessary for every man to philosophize, and to esteem this the greatest and most honourable work; but other things only of second-rate or third-rate importance, though, indeed, if they be made to depend on philosophy, they are of moderate value, and worthy of acceptance; but deprived of it, and not accompanying it, they are vulgar and coarse to those who pursue them (3.3).

Truly, we may speak of Justin’s aspirations towards philosophy as emblematic of an acute and highly self-assured form of reflective self-awareness. Justin, however, does not pursue philosophy for the sake of philosophy. Philosophy is what, in Justin’s eyes, leads to a happy life: “Does philosophy, then, make happiness (εὐδαιμονία)?” said he, interrupting. “Assuredly,” I said, “and it alone.” “What, then, is philosophy?” he says; “and what is happiness? Pray tell me, unless something hinders you from saying.” “Philosophy, then,” said I, “is the knowledge of that which really exists, and a clear perception of the truth; and happiness (εὐδαιμονία) is the reward of such knowledge and wisdom” (3.4).

In the conversation between the old man and Justin, acquaintance with the divine becomes a core issue. Since Justin throughout the text retains the classical ancient understanding of eudaimonia as something that is attained through living a righteous life, ethics and participation in the divine becomes interwoven,

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and a point to which Justin has perpetual recourse in order to demonstrate the superiority of Christ-belief. By virtue of its proximity in terms of teaching, Platonism constitutes for Justin the greatest challenge to Christ-faith. He therefore spends most of the ink in the opening chapters rebutting the Platonic doctrine of the soul as unbegotten and partaking in the divine world. The old man grants Justin that souls may perceive that God exists and that righteousness and piety are honorable (4.7); but souls are begotten and, therefore, doomed to decay and annihilation like most other things (5.4). Since not even Plato is able to provide Justin with a fair account of wisdom, Justin is – in this self-fulfilling account – finally prepared for having true wisdom revealed to him (7.1). This he will find in the prophets of old who filled with the Holy Spirit have seen and announced the truth to men (ibid.). On his own merits, Justin – like the philosophers – is not capable of finding truth. However, he may pray that “the gates of light may be opened” to him, since “these things (sc. what has been transmitted by the prophets) cannot be perceived or understood by all, but only by the man to whom God and his Christ have imparted wisdom” (7.3). With true wisdom revealed the old man can recede. Justin, conversely, is ready to take action. In the literary rhetorical staging of the text, he is no longer a pursuer of worldly wisdom, but somebody to whom true philosophy has been bestowed: “But straightaway a flame was kindled in my soul; and a love of the prophets, and of those men who are friends of Christ (ϕίλοι Χριστοῦ), possessed me; and whilst revolving his words in my mind, I found this philosophy alone to be safe and profitable” (8.1). We may, of course, note in passing that Justin’s find of true philosophy paradoxically is expressed in the language of Platonism, so after all there may not be as great a difference between the two as Justin’s acerbic rhetoric suggests. Finally, the audience has been brought to understand what it means for Justin to wear the philosopher’s cloak (cf. 1.1–2). Justin has become a philosopher of the wisdom of Christ, and he is ready to transmit the (literary) revealed wisdom to those who are prepared to take him as a model of imitation: “Moreover, I would wish that all, making a resolution similar to my own, do not keep themselves away from the words of the Saviour” (8.2). Justin proceeds to address his audience in a direct manner: “If, then, you have any concern for yourself (Εἰ οὖν τι καὶ σοὶ περὶ σεαυτοῦ μέλει), and if you are eagerly looking for salvation, and if you believe in God, you may – since you are not indifferent to the matter – become acquainted with the Christ of God, and, after being initiated, live a happy life (πάρεστιν ἐπιγνόντι σοὶ τὸν Χριστὸν τοῦ ϑεοῦ καὶ τελεέῳ γενομένῳ εὐδαιμονεῖν)” (ibid.). If you have any concern or care for yourself (Εἰ οὖν τι καὶ σοὶ περὶ σεαυτοῦ μέλει), says Justin, reminding us of the French title of Foucault’s magisterial third volume of The History of Sexuality: Le Souci de soi. The ring is closed. The self has been brought to haven and is prepared to take other selves to the same place in order that they may attain a happy life.

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6 Conclusion At this point, we shall take leave of Justin, the ‘Christian’. We shall leave it to him to commence his persuasion of Trypho, the ‘Jew’. Our exposition of the text amply demonstrates how notions of selfhood play a pivotal role in the opening chapters of the Dialogue. In fact, the text constructs as part of its literary strategy a self on continuous search for wisdom, that is, true wisdom found in the purported philosophy of Christ-faith. Throughout the Dialogue Justin appropriates not only the wisdom of GraecoRoman philosophy for his Christ-movement, but also that of ‘non-Christian’ forms of Judaism. By means of a philosophically staged dialogue and a ‘Christian’ orchestrated discourse with ‘non-Christian’ versions of Judaism (stereotypically subsumed under the nomen of ‘Judaism’), Justin has no reluctance to discard both as worldly wisdom and self-arrogant pride. At the same time, however, as he deprives both of these traditions of their claim to truth, he endorses them and, ultimately, appropriates them for his Christ-faith. The Dialogue is definitely not written for sensitive souls concerned about the decency of ecumenical exchange in the domain of philosophy and religion. But what about notions of selfhood evoked by the Dialogue? What do they amount to? Is the literary constructed self of Justin an altogether new one compared with notions of selfhood of the previous centuries? The question is difficult to ascertain, but we hardly find such categorical quantum leaps in the development of culture where novelties frequently assume the nature of new interpretations of already existing pools of signs.54 Surely, we find in Justin’s conception of selfhood a self that resembles the selves created in contemporaneous philosophical discourses such as, for instance, Cicero and Seneca. Therefore, on the one hand we should not overestimate differences that may exist between them. On the other hand, Guy Stroumsa may be right in pointing to early Christianity as a movement in which a new conception of the human person and therefore also a novel understanding of selfhood occurred. Although I believe he overstates his case, I do think that the early Christ-movement demonstrates in a more excessive manner compared to its immediate antecedents and contemporaneous philosophical parallels a novel perception of selfhood. I tend to see the cultivation of the self in early Christianity as an excessive form of the same basic dualism that underlies Platonism, but it has been pushed towards the limits of its bearing capacity.55

54  For a discussion of how we should conceptualize development and transition within the context of culture, see Petersen 2012 c, 155–60. 55  In that regard – and on that regard only – I sympathize with Nietzsche’s understanding of early Christianity as a popular form of Platonism (Platonismus fürs “Volk”), see Nietzsche 1985, 156. For a perception of Pauline ethics as profoundly influence by Platonism, see van Kooten 2008.

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In Justin we certainly see a self in front position. Although the self of the Dialogue is a constructed one that serves specific literary ideological purposes, it is nevertheless there in a conspicuous manner. We are facing not a modern individual, but definitely a personality of strong character. The Justin of the Dialogue is a literary self in pursuit of true philosophy conceived of as revealed wisdom selected in deliberate action by that particular self, and open to be chosen by other self-assured selves. In that sense, the text pays ample witness to Stroumsa’s notion of a reflective form of self-awareness: A new sensitivity, to paraphrase Stroumsa, by which one had to turn upon oneself and reform oneself as part of an ongoing and indivisible process of conversion by making constant efforts to turn away from former habits of thought, feeling and behavior.56 In the Dialogue the narrated character of Justin exhibits such a form of reflective self-awareness. However, he can only do that because the author Justin was living in an era and situated in a cultural and social context in which important transitions in the understanding of selfhood and the perception of personality took place.

Bibliography Alexander, Philip S. 2001. “Hellenism and Hellenization as Problematic Histo­rio­gra­ phi­cal Categories”, in Troels Engberg-Pedersen (ed.). Paul Beyond the Judaism / Hellenism Divide, Louisville, 63–80. Allert, Craig D. 2002. Revelation, Truth, Canon and Interpretation. Studies in Justin Martyr’s Dialogue with Trypho, Leiden. Becker, Adam H., Annette Yoshiko Reed (eds.) 2003. The Ways that Never Parted. Jews and Christians in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages, Tübingen. Bobichon, Philippe 2003. Justin Martyr. Dialogue avec Tryphon. Édition critique, traduction, commentaire. Volume 1–2, Fribourg. Boyarin, Daniel 2004. Border Lines. The Partition of Judaeo-Christianity, Philadelphia. Brakke, David, Michael L. Satlow, Steven Weitzman (eds.) 2005. Religion and the Self in Antiquity, Bloomington. Bremmer, Jan N. ²2010. The Rise of Christianity through the Eyes of Gibbon, Harnack and Rodney Stark. Valedictory Lecture, Groningen. Clark, Elizabeth A. 2004. History, Theory, Text. Historians and the Linguistic Turn, Cambridge, Mass. Dumont, Louis 1982. “A Modified View of Our Origins: The Christian Beginnings of Modern Individualism”, Religion 12, 1–27. Engberg-Pedersen, Troels 2010. Cosmology and Self in the Apostle Paul. The Material Spirit, Oxford. Foucault, Michel 1986. The Care of the Self. The History of Sexuality. Volume 3, New York. Gill, Christopher 2006. The Structured Self in Hellenistic and Roman Thought, Oxford.

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 Stroumsa 1990, 29–30.

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Himmelfarb, Gertrude 2004. The Roads to Modernity. The British, French, and American Enlightenments, New York. Horner, Timothy J. 2001. Listening to Trypho. Justin Martyr’s Dialogue Reconsidered, Leuven, Paris, Sterling. Hyldahl, Niels 1966. Philosophie und Christentum. Eine Interpretation der Einleitung zum Dialog Justins, Copenhagen. Israel, Jonathan I. 2006. Enlightenment Contested. Philosophy, Modernity, and the Emancipation of Man 1670–1752, Oxford. Jacobs, Andrew S. 2003. “The Lion and the Lamb: Reconsidering Jewish-Christian Relations in Antiquity”, in Adam H. Becker, Annette Yoshiko Reed (eds.). The Ways that Never Parted. Jews and Christians in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages, Tübingen 95–118. Kooten, George H. van 2008. Paul’s Anthropology in Context. The Image of God, Assimilation to God, and Tripartite Man in Ancient Judaism, Ancient Philosophy and Early Christianity, Tübingen. Kuiper, Yme B. 1990. “The Concept of Person in American Anthropology. The Cultural Perspective of Clifford Geertz”, in: Hans G.  Kippenberg, Yme B.  Kuiper, Andy F. Sanders (eds.). Concepts of Person in Religion and Thought. Berlin, New York, 35–49. Larsen, Kasper Bro 2008. Recognizing the Stranger. Recognition Scenes in the Gospel of John, Leiden. Lieu, Judith M., John North, Tessa Rajak (eds.) 1992. The Jews among Pagans and Christians, London. Lieu, Judith M. 1996. Image & Reality: The Jews in the World of the Christians in the Second Century, Edinburgh. – 2002. Neither Jew Nor Greek? Constructing Early Christianity, London. Lukes, Steven 1973. Individualism, Oxford. Lyman, Rebecca 2003. “The Politics of Passing. Justin Martyr’s Conversion as a Problem of ‘Hellenization’”, in Kenneth Mills, Anthony Grafton (eds.). Conversion in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages, Rochester, 36–60. – 2007. “Justin and Hellenism: Some Postcolonial Perspectives”, in Sara Parvis and Paul Foster (eds.). Justin Martyr and His Worlds, Minneapolis, 160–8. Malina, Bruce M., Jerome H. Neyrey 1996. Portraits of Paul. An Archaeology of Ancient Personality, Louisville. Martin, Dale M. 1995. The Corinthian Body, New Haven, London. Martin, Luther H. 1994. “The Anti-Individualistic Ideology of Hellenistic Culture”, Numen 41, 117–40. Morley, Neville 2004. Theories, Models and Concepts in Ancient Theory, London, New York. Munier, Charles 2006. Justin. Apologie pour les Chrétiens. Introduction, texte critique, traduction et notes, Paris. Nietzsche, Friedrich 1985. Friedrich Nietzsche Werke in vier Bänden. Band IV. Jenseits von Gut und Böse. Vorspiel einer Philosophie der Zukunft, Salzburg. Nilson, Jon 1977. “To Whom is Justin’s Dialogue with Trypho Addressed?”, TS 38, 538–46. Parvis, Paul 2007. “Justin, Philosopher and Martyr: The Posthumous Creation of the Second Apology”, in Kenneth Mills, Anthony Grafton (eds.). Conversion in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages, Rochester, 22–37.

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Petersen, Anders Klostergaard 2005. “At the End of the Road  – Reflections on a Popular Scholarly Metaphor”, in Jostein Ådna (ed.), The Formation of the Early Church, Tübingen, 45–72. – 2009 a. “Reconstructing Past (Jewish) Cultures”, in, Károly Daniel Dobos, Miklós Köszeghy (eds.). With Wisdom as a Robe. Qumran and Other Jewish Studies in Honour of Ida Fröhlich, Sheffield, 367–383. – 2009 b. “Gattung(en). II. Neutestamentlich”, in Oda Wischmeyer (ed.). Lexikon der Bibelhermeneutik. Begriffe – Methoden – Theorien – Konzepte, Berlin, 190. – 2009 c. “Mikrogattungen / Makrogattungen, literarische. II. Neutestamentlich”, in Oda Wischmeyer (ed.). Lexikon der Bibelhermeneutik. Begriffe – Methoden – Theorien – Konzepte, Berlin, 388–389. – 2011 a. “Jeg er pneuma, lysende og stoflig. Review-artikel af Troels Engberg-Pedersen, Cosmology & Self in the Apostle Paul. The Material Spirit. Oxford 2010”, RvT 56, 98–103. – 2011 b. “Finding a Basis for Interpreting New Testament Ethos from a Graeco-Roman Perspective”, in Jan Willem van Henten, Jos Verheyden (eds.). Early Christian Ethics in Jewish and Hellenistic Contexts, Leiden. Forthcoming. – 2012 a. “Othering in Paul. A Case-Study of 2 Corinthians”, in Maijastina Kahlos (ed.). The Faces of the Other. Religious Rivalry and Ethnic Encounters in the Later Roman World, Turnhout. Forthcoming. – 2012 b. “‘Invention’ and ‘Maintenance’ of Religious Traditions: Theoretical and Historical Perspectives”, in Jörg Ulrich et al. (eds.). Invention, Rewriting, Usurpation: Discursive Fights over Religious Traditions in Antiquity, Frankfurt. Forthcoming. Pierce, Claude A. 1955. Conscience in the New Testament. A Study of Syneidesis in the New Testament; in the light of its sources, and with particular reference to St. Paul: with some observations regarding its pastoral relevance today, London. Rist, John M. 1982. Human Value. A Study in Ancient Philosophical Ethics, Leiden. Stendahl, Krister 1963. “The Apostle Paul and the Introspective Conscience of the West”, HTR 56, 199–215. Stroumsa, Guy 1990. “Caro salutis cardo: Shaping the Person in Early Christian Thought”, HR 30/1, 25–50. – 2009. The End of Sacrifice. Religious Transformations in Late Antiquity, Chicago. Stylianopoulos, Theodore 1975. Justin Martyr and the Mosaic Law, Missoula. Taylor, Charles 1989. Sources of the Self. The Making of the Modern Identity, Cambridge, Mass. – 2002. Varieties of Religion Today. William James Revisited. Cambridge, Mass., London. Taylor, Miriam S. 1995. Anti-Judaism and Early Christian Identity. A Critique of the Scholarly Consensus, Leiden. Thompson, John B. 1990. Ideology and Modern Culture. Critical Social Theory in the Era of Mass Media, Stanford. Triandis, Harry C. 1990. “Cross-Cultural Studies of Individualism and Collectivism”, in John J.  Berman (ed.). Nebraska Symposium on Motivation 1989: Cross-Cultural Perspectives, Lincoln. Winden van, Jakobus C. M. 1971. An Early Christian Philosopher. Justin Martyr’s Dialogue with Trypho Chapters One to Nine. Introduction, Text and Commentary, Leiden.

Self-affirmation and Self-negation in the Hermetic revelation treatises Anna Van den Kerchove 1 Introduction The Hermetic writings belonging to the “philosophical”1 Hermetic tradition are a body of dialogues in which a master, generally Hermes Trismegistus, teaches a disciple, most often Tat and Asclepios. This teaching has a soteriological aim. Even if we find it difficult to consider them as “mysteries to be read”2 emanating from religious communities, religious and ritual aspects are certainly present in these texts. Furthermore, the existence of Hermetic circles is possible; their members may have met regularly to discuss some texts and perform some rites, however limited these may have been. Beyond these historical circles about which there is little information,3 there are also virtual circles composed of empirical readers of these texts. So, following a comment of Dominic O’Meara, we may distinguish two aspects as regards the content of the Hermetica:4 a paradigmatic aspect valid for the readers and the users of these texts and a “real” aspect valid in the didactic world presented. It is difficult to estimate the difference between these two aspects, partly because we have no information either concerning the readers of these texts or the manner of their reading and interpretation of them. I shall begin my inquiry into the religious dimension of the Self in the “philosophical” Hermetic tradition, by following Annick Charles-Saget. The French 1  Festugière 1989, vii. Mahé 1982, 22. Fowden 1986, 4. Copenhaver 1992, xxxii. This designation does not imply an impervious boundary with the technical Hermetica. 2  Cf. Reitzenstein 1927, 51–2, 64 and 243–5, who mentions the idea that the Hermetica could be a Lesemysterium and took place of ritual pratices. See the criticism of Fowden 1986, 149–50 and the position of Södergard 2003, 112–20, who wishes to reconcile Reitzenstein’s, Fowden’s et Sorensen’s positions while rejecting the concept of “mysteries to be read” as well as the fact that reading might be a substitute of worship. 3  See Fowden 1986, ch. 7, esp. 155–61, 186–95. 4  Dominic O’Meara made this comment during the discussion following a lecture “Mystique et ritualisme dans les traités hermétiques”, in the framework of the seminar “Mystique païenne” organized by Constantin Macris, Paris, May 28th 2010. This seminar is part of a research program “La Mystique théorétique et théurgique dans l’Antiquité gréco-roamine (paganismes, judaïsmes, christianismes)” organized by Simon C. Mimouni (EPHE, UMR 8584), Madeleine Scopello (CNRS, UMR 8167) and Arnaud Serandour (EPHE, UMR 8584).

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scholar has suggested that we should study the uses, implications and transformations of the reflexive heauton rather than the use of psyché, 5 or noûs, logos, anima, and animus. However we have to keep in mind that the Greek heauton is not nominalized, unlike the French soi and the English Self. In effect even if the Greeks and the Latins had the philosophical notion of the Self, they had no specific term with which to speak of a human being thinking about him or herself – none of the Greek terms psyché, noûs, logos, as well as the Latin words anima, animus evoke the idea of any relation to oneself which is underlying in the use of the French soi and the English Self – and they did not speak of the human agent as a ὁ αὐτός.6 We can extend Charles-Saget’s dictum to the Coptic language where the inquiry should concentrate on the reflexive use of the suffix pronoun. A record of the occurrences of the reflexive pronoun in the Greek Hermetica enables us to pinpoint a limited number of passages where auto-reflexivity is present: CH I 18–21, IV 6, XIII 3–4 and XIII 10–13. Pierre Courcelle has already mentioned these three treatises in his inquiry into the attested use of the Delphic maxim “know yourself ” – but he had not specified where the most interesting passages were – and he added the Latin passage Asclepius 10.7 As for Giovanni Filoramo, he also examined both CH XIII and the Coptic text NH VI, 6, The Ogdoad reveals the Ennead, in his study on the transformation of the inner self.8 In the latter we come across a reflexive use of the Coptic suffix pronoun, and the most interesting passages for the study of the Hermetic Self are NH VI, 58.4–9 and 60.25–61.1.9 Apart from Asclepius it is noteworthy that the treatises marked out in this way are those where the disciple undergoes a personal experience: an apocalyptic vision as well as the investiture as a guide to the human genos in CH I; a baptism in the intellect in CH IV; a regeneration followed by visions in CH XIII; and an ascent towards Ogdoad and visions in NH VI, 6. Asclepius is the only text which does not recall a personal experience; however the disciple is profoundly involved in the teaching as in some of the other Hermetica. Moreover, CH I, CH XIII and NH VI, 6 very likely belong to the same Hermetic tradition. At least some parallels can be drawn. CH XIII and NH VI, 6 deal with related themes, and the disciple undergoes similar experiences in both cases. It seems that the author of CH XIII knows part of CH I: he identifies Hermes Trismegistus with the anonymous narrator of CH I10 and he comments on events described in CH I as being a personal experience lived by Hermes.11 CH I is undoubtedly one of  5 Charles-Saget

1999, 195.  Taylor 1998, 154.  7  Courcelle 1974, 75.  8  Filoramo 1999, 137–49.  9  All these texts can be read in the annex at the end of the article. The English translation is not mine. See bibliography. 10  See CH XIII 15. 11  Van den Kerchove 2012, 326 and 366.  6

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the most ancient treatises of “philosophical” Hermetic literature: the scholars traditionally dated it back to the end of the first century AD or the beginning of the second century,12 mainly to account for links established with Jewish writings and Jewish liturgy. Without questioning these connections underscored by several studies,13 we think it possible to date the text to the middle of the second century in order to account for links with Valentinian writings as well.14 The other treatises are usually dated to the third century, although we are unfortunately unable to be more precise than this. First of all we will study the manner in which authors talk about ἑαυτόν. This will help us to understand what their idea of Self is, in relation to the anthropological theories to which they subscribe. This investigation will ultimately bring us to the question of conversion.

2 The Hermetic Self in CH I, IV, XIII and Asclepius Whichever Hermetic text is considered, the Hermetic Self is spoken about as the object; the cognitive agent relates to its own Self through diverse activities: knowledge, acknowledgement, reflexion, vision or love. 2.1 Self-knowledge, Self-acknowledgement In CH I and CH XIII the knowledge mentioned refers to the essence and the nature of the Hermetic Self: it is “immortal” in CH I 18 and “made whole by these powers” in CH XIII 10. Both clauses mean the same thing, immortality being a characteristic of divine powers. In CH I, the backstory is constituted of tacit questions about identity: “where do I come from?”, “what has happened to me?”, “who am I?” The myth of origins told by the author in CH I 4–19 answers these questions: it recounts the genealogy of the Self since the beginnings of all things (with divine Light) until the time of human beings, and it explains the link between earthly human beings and the divine world. The outcome of this myth is an anthropology which follows the Platonic model:15 it is dualistic rather than holistic; it is indeed expressed in terms of distinctions, even of oppositions sometimes, between the body and the soul, the corporal and the immaterial, the changing and the everlasting, the second term of each pair defining ultimately what the real Hermetic Self is. The Self is therefore only a part of what a human being is for ordinary mortals; the disciple needs to go back to a “before” in order  Fowden 1986, 11 n. 53. Dodd 19542, 99 n. 1, 203 and 209.  Philonenko 1979, 369–372; id. 1975, 204–11; Pearson 1981, 336–48; Jansen 1977, 157–63; Holzhausen 1993, 69. 14  Van den Kerchove 2011 a, 80. 15  On Plato’s theory, see Taylor 1998, 164–8. 12 13

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to perceive it and he perceives it by means of a myth. He has access to the myth and to Self-knowledge by means of an apocalyptic experience which consists in an epiphanic vision of Poimandres. This vision is the framework for oral teaching delivered by the divine being Poimandres to the anonymous narrator; a second vision enables the narrator to witness the beginnings of all things. Because the epiphanic vision is mainly achieved through the narrator’s intellect, the know­ ledge acquired in this manner is more noetical than intellectual; moreover it is rather an acknowledgement (the author uses ἀναγνωρίζω). Its soteriological aim is clearly expressed in CH I 19: ὁ ἀναγνωρίσας ἑαυτὸν ἐλήλυϑεν εἰς τὸ περιούσιον ἀγαϑόν, “He who had recognized himself came to the Supreme Good.” The dual anthropological conception and the identity questions mentioned above would also be implicit in CH XIII especially if its author knows at least part of CH I. The disciple however, does not attain Self-knowledge through an apocalyptic and an epiphanic vision nor through a myth of the origins but by experiencing regeneration, that is to say the coming of divine powers who expel the “tormentors” of the material world present in the disciple. This dualistic anthropology is not shared by the entire Hermetic corpus. The Latin author develops a more holistic anthropology than in CH I and XIII; he speaks of “integral construction” and expresses this in terms of “inside” and “outside”, which is similar to what can be read in Augustine.16 The access to knowledge is not based on an experience but on theological teaching whose soteriological aim is not obvious at first sight. 2.2 The Self-vision While Self never appears as an object of vision in CH I – whereas two visions, one epiphanic and another mythological, concern most of CH I – it is quite different in CH XIII and in NH VI, 6. In these two treatises, the Self becomes the object of vision at the end of a regeneration process. The Greek Hermetic author explains clearly the link between the vision of Self and regeneration through Tat’s development. At the beginning of the lesson about regeneration, when Hermes recounts his own experience, the disciple actually declares: Ἐμαυτὸν γὰρ νῦν οὐχ ὁρῶ, “For now I do not see myself ” (XIII 4). The blindness in question is physiological, psychological, moral and noetical: it is due both to the inefficiency of physical insight which is too shortsighted to be able to perceive the true nature of the Self – whether that of the master or that of the disciple – and to the noetical immaturity of the disciple who is still unable to perceive without using his corporal senses. At the end of the regeneration process Tat is able to declare: πάτερ, τὸ πᾶν ὁρῶ καὶ ἑμαυτὸν ἐν τῷ νοΐ, “O father, I see the All and I see myself in Nous” (XIII 13). From now on the intellect compensates for the inadequacy 16

 On Augustine, see Taylor 1998, 164, 178–84.

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of the corporal eyes; it enables a panoptic vision which succeeds in revealing the true nature of Self in particular. The author may elaborate on the Socratic motive “seeing is knowing”:17 he used it negatively initially and positively later on. The link between the experience of regeneration and the achievement of a noetical view reveals that the underlying anthropology is dual: indeed the disciple rediscovers the true nature of its Self because of the freeing of the body. 2.3 The love of the Self The author of CH IV distinguishes himself from the authors of the preceding treatises: he evokes the Self-relationship in terms neither of knowledge nor of vision but of love. He does so at the end of a passage on the acquisition of intellect by a baptism in a crater and at the core of a thought process which tends to present the body as an obstacle to the achievement of science. Could this Self-love evoke philautia? If it were the case, the author instead reverses the traditional conception. Effectively in most of the ancient texts, philautia is perceived in a negative way,18 whereas here it is expressed in positive terms. The positive representation of Self-love derives both from the subject of love: σεαυτόν and from its corollary: the hatred of the body. The Hermetic author might think about the myth of Narcissus – which would be at the background of CH I 14 as well. However, the author reexamines narcissistic love, as he does philautia. Indeed, contrary to narcissistic Self-love which is negative and which is made possible by excessive closeness between the object of desire and the subject,19 but also contrary to philautia, Hermetic Self-love excludes the body from the definition of Self and considers it as “other”, extraneous and as an obstacle. The fulfillment of Hermetic Self-love is made possible only by the body’s abolition in the sense that this love exists only when there is also hatred of the body. Moreover narcissistic love leads to death, Hermetic love leads to life. So the author shares a dualist anthropology with the authors of CH I and XIII even if human beings are perceived perhaps more positively in CH IV 2 as being “adornments” of the world.

3 The personal and ritual dimension of the Self The auto-reflexivity discussed in CH I is impersonal and normative: it appears on the lips of the divine master Poimandres in the third person. Nevertheless 17  Plato, Theaetetus 163 b–165 e; in section 164 b, Socrates says: τὸ δέ γε “οὐχ ὁρᾷ” “οὐκ ἐπίσταταί” ἐστιν, εἴπερ καὶ τὸ “ὁρᾷ” “ἐπίσταται” – “but ‘does not see’ is the same as ‘does not know,’ if it is true that seeing is knowing” [translation: Harold N. Fowler]. 18  See for example Plato, Cratylus 428 d; Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics 1168b–1169a; Philo of Alexandria, Legum Allegoriae I 49 and III 28. 19  Vial 2010, 122. About the Myth of Narcissus and the self, see Cancik 1998, 345 and Bettini, Pellizer 2003, 125.

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rhetorical indications show that the general and prescriptive data provided by Poimandres must also be understood on a personal level by the narrator who is actually involved in the dialogue.20 Three items testify to this: 1) the dialogue about the two groups of human beings (those achieving immortality and those deprived of it) ends with personalized advice given by Poimandres to his disciple; 2) at the close of the dialogue the disciple is appointed master; 3) the disciple himself relates the transformations which took place in him (CH I 30). This impersonal character is therefore only apparent and the disciple is invited to join the normative data. As for the authors of CH IV, CH XIII and NH VI, 6, they insist on the personal aspect of auto-reflexion. The author of CH IV puts it on the lips of the master, with a formulation in the second person in terms of recommendations; that of NH VI, 6 puts it on the lips of the disciple in the first person as a testimony; it is the same for CH XIII, except once when we find a similar process as the one used by the author of CH I. In CH XIII 10, the auto-reflexivity placed on the lips of the master, Hermes, has an impersonal and prescriptive character; however a personal interpretation is possible as well and the norm has also to apply to the disciple. Both the method employed to reflect on oneself and the conception of Self have religious and ritual dimensions. The ritual aspect of the epiphanic experience in CH I has been underlined elsewhere; the method of revelation has similarities with oracular rites21 and the body of the treaty could be interpreted as a ritual of investiture.22 In CH IV, CH XIII and NH VI, 6, the ritual aspect is more explicitly clarified with dialogues that leave little room for improvisation and that cause the transition of the disciple from one state to another. If the ritual aspect seems less explicit in Ascl. 10, auto-reflexivity is evoked within a lesson which ends by a prayer and whose divine and mystical character the author regularly recalls.23 All the four treatises aim at changing the relation of the disciple to the god, and also the relation of the lector to the god by inviting him through various rhetorical processes to identify himself to the disciple of the treatises and to undergo the same experiences.

4 Self and conversion The Self-relationship, whether loving, gnoseological or visionary, is not an end in itself. It has a soteriological aim which is more or less explicit depending on 20  This statement is to be compared with Martha Nussbaum’s discussion of Seneca’s and Lucretius’s works: Nussbaum 1994, 486–7. 21 Van den Kerchove 2011, 145–62. 22  Ibid., 160. 23  Ascl. 19, 22, 32.

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the treatises: the author of Ascl.10 says nothing about it and does not give any indication whatsoever about the direct consequences of achieving knowledge. On the contrary the author of CH I is more explicit with his statement: “He who had recognized himself came to the Supreme Good” (I 19). The Self-relationship is an indispensable prerequisite to salvation because of the irreducible human dichotomy between body and spirit, between material and spiritual. This dichotomy is expressed in the ethical terms of two life styles which have different theological and religious implications and opposite ends (death on the one side, life on the other side). Two Hermetic authors connect the discovery of the new self-relationship in this way to ideas of conversion and / or of choice. The author of CH IV speaks in terms of making a choice between two ways with the idea that human being cannot serve two masters at the same time. He uses αἵρεσις. Admittedly this term can mean “choice” but also “disposition” or “spiritual attitude”,24 which characterizes fairly well each of the two parts which appears to everyone according to the author. The author of CH I is even more revealing since he emphasizes the change involved in the discovery of the new Self-relationship in two stages. Firstly he does so through a myth intended for the narrator as well as for the reader. In CH I 19, he expresses this through the opposition between on the one hand “He who had recognized himself came to the Supreme Good”, and “while he who had prized the body, born from the illusion of desire, remained wandering in the dark, suffering through the senses the things of death”. It is only further along, at the end of the myth and the revelation dialogue that the author specifies the way of passing from one state to another, in terms of intellectual learning. He places in the mouth of Poimandres the following statement: “if, therefore, you realise yourself as being from life and light and that you have been made out of them, you will return to life”. There are three indications that the author of CH I places himself in a Platonic way of thinking.25 First he seems to refer to the theory of Platonic ideas when he speaks of the Good towards which one has to turn; second he draws attention to the myth of origins; and third he underlines the necessary conversion. The choice the narrator has to make seems to depend entirely on the self-knowledge acquired partly through a vision. Subsequently the author evokes the change in the context of a harangue which the narrator – now a master – addresses the crowds (CH I 27–28): ταῦτα εἰπὼν ὁ ποιμάνδρης ἐμοὶ ἐμίγη ταῖς δυνάμεσιν. Ἐγὼ δὲ εὐχαριστήσας καὶ εὐλογήσας τὸν πατέρα τῶν ὅλων ἀνείϑην ὑπ᾿ αὐτοῦ δυναμωϑεὶς καὶ διδαχϑεὶς τοῦ παντὸς τὴν φύσιν καὶ τὴν μεγίστην ϑέαν, καὶ ἦργμαι κηρύσσειν τοῖς ἀνϑρώποις τὸ τῆς εὐσεβείας καὶ γνώ­ σεως, κάλλος, ὦ λαοί, ἄνδρες γηγενεῖς, οἱ μέϑῃ καὶ ὕπνῳ ἑαυτοὺς ἐκδεδωκότες καὶ τῇ ἀγνωσίᾳ τοῦ ϑεοῦ, νήψατε, παύσασϑε δὲ κραιπαλῶντες, ϑελγόμενοι ὕπνῳ ἀλόγῳ. 24 25

 Le Boulluec 1985, 41–8.  Taylor 1998, 185.

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οἱ δὲ ἀκούσαντες παρεγένοντο ὁμοϑυμαδόν. ἐγὼ δέ φημι, τί ἑαυτούς, ὦ ἄνδρες γηγενεῖς, εἰς ϑάνατον ἐκδεδώκατε, ἔχοντες ἐξουσίαν τῆς ἀϑανασίας μεταλαβεῖν; μετανοήσατε οἱ συνοδεύσαντες τῇ πλάνῃ καὶ συγκοινωνήσαντες τῇ ἀγνοίᾳ· ἀπαλλάγητε τοῦ σκοτεινοῦ φωτός, μεταλάβετε τῆς ἀϑανασίας, καταλείψαντες τὴν φϑοράν. καὶ οἱ μὲν αὐτῶν καταφλυαρήσαντες ἀπέστησαν, τῇ τοῦ ϑανάτου ὁδῷ ἑαυτοὺς ἐκδεδωκότες, οἱ δὲ παρεκάλουν διδαχϑῆναι, ἑαυτοὺς πρὸ ποδῶν μοι ῥίψαντες. Having said that to me, Poimandres mingled with the powers. When I had thanked and praised the Father of the All, I was freed by him, having been strengthened and instructed in the nature of all and in the most high vision, and I began to proclaim to men the beauty of piety and knowledge: “O people, men born of the earth, who have given yourselves over to drink and sleep, and to ignorance of God, be sober, cease being intoxicated, cease being beguiled by dull sleep.” Those who heard came to my side with one accord. I said: “Why, O men born of earth, have you given yourselves over to death while having the power to partake of immortality? Repent. You have kept company with those who have wandered and have shared in ignorance, be released from the dark light, take part in immortality. Put an end to destruction.” Some of them kept on chattering and stood aloof, giving themselves over to the path of death; others begged to be instructed, having thrown themselves at my feet.

In the narrator’s harangue, the author uses violent rhetoric; his aim is to stir up the narrator’s audience as well as the readers of the Hermetic writing and to force them to become aware of the disastrous state in which they find themselves. The harangue takes place in two phases with two successive powerful kerygmatic statements structured in the same manner: a description of the actual situation, an exhortation, and an explanation of this exhortation. The central word of the first statement is the imperative νήψατε and it is associated with drowsiness and with drunkenness – two ways of expressing oblivion  – and also with the ignorance of God. Following Edouard des Places26 and before him Eduard Norden27 it is possible to connect this Hermetic statement to fragment 15 of the Chaldaean Oracles quoted by Proclus in his Commentary on the Republic I 28.1–2, where it is stated in the same moralizing style: οὐδ᾿ ὅτι πᾶς ἀγαϑὸς ϑεὸς εἰδότες. ἆ, ταλαεργοί, νήψατε, “And you do not know that every god is good. O, drudges, sober up.”28 In this fragment as well as in the Hermetic extract the appeal to temperance urges human beings to modify their theological concepts and to adopt a course of behaviour that is in accordance with the new theological premises. In these two fragments νήφω reflects thus two complementary senses: the first one is theological and concerns the knowledge of God, the second one is ethical and is related to the state of temperance opposed to the intoxication of the  des Places 1983, 322.  Eduard Norden connects CH I 27 to a chaldaean fragment edited by W. Kroll without giving the number but it is nearly certain that he is thinking of the Chaldaean oracle 15: Norden 1956, 5 n. 1. 28  Translation given by Majercik 1989, 55. Edouard des Places 1983, 322 gives a equivalent translation: dégrisez-vous! 26 27

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auditors. In the Hermetic statement the responsibility of each human being for his present situation is ignored: the author uses the passive voice and talks about being intoxicated and beguiled. The first part of the harangue is therefore an exhortation to a radical and urgent theological and ethical change, to pass from a life of sleepiness, drunkenness and ignorance to a life of wakefulness, temperance and knowledge of God and its foremost aim is to catch everybody’s attention. In his own words, the narrator achieves his goal: a whole crowd gathers around him. The latter then makes a second statement: it is at the same time more explicit than the first one and it modifies it. Corresponding to νήψατε of the first statement, the central term of the second statement is in the imperative μετανοήσατε, a verb which is more characteristic of Biblical texts, whereas philosophical texts generally use ἐπιστροφεῖν.29 According to Eduard Norden, the Hermetic use of this term reveals a Jewish influence, which is likely enough given the other connections established with the Jewish writings and the Jewish liturgy,30 but Guy Stroumsa reports Jaeger’s contrary opinion.31 The Hermetic usage clarifies the idea of a change in behaviour which is already present in the first statement; the opposition between the two attitudes is underlined even more forcibly by pointing out the ultimate consequence of each, death on the one hand, immortality on the other hand, and by the introduction of the idea of πλάνη. In order to understand the use of πλάνη in CH I 28, we must take into account what has already been said about the error in the discourse of Poimandres at the end of the anthropologic process (CH I 19): the divine master mentions the error when he evokes the division of the animated beings into two genders, masculine and feminine, through God’s will and the beginning of the time of terrestrial human beings. The error in question in CH I 19 is that of love. In order to fully understand it we need to go back even further into Poimandres’s mythological discourse and to refer to CH I 13–14. This section deals with the Primal Man conceived by the Intellect God: after having received permission from God to produce a work such as the Intellect-Demiurge (CH I 13), the Primal Man shows to Nature the God’s form he has in himself; he falls in love with the reflected form in water32 and Nature falls in love also with it; they then unite to each other (CH I 14). The love mentioned in I 19 probably refers to the love of Man for the form mirrored in water and to that of Nature for the same form. In CH I 14 the author evokes a descent, but any idea of fall, error or transgression is lacking. What takes place between Man and Nature is shown in the narration as if it happened in accordance with the divine scheme, and one is entitled to wonder up to what point the permission given by God to Man extends narratively and conceptually. The  See Charles-Saget 1998. 1956, 11 n. 1. 31  Stroumsa 1998, 76. 32  There can be there a reminiscence of Narcissus’ myth here. 29

30 Norden

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notion of error occurs later in CH I 19, at the time of the separation of animated beings into two genders. Therefore, the error which is mentioned in CH I 19 originates neither in a transgression nor in an original error, but in a divine decision which applies the term error to an event the implications of which change because of the division of beings into two genders. Human beings are not only divided into two physiological types, but into two ethical types as well, depending on whether they follow the error of love – that is to say they love the body above all and they forget therefore the origin of their true Self. In CH I 28 the Hermetic author therefore links μετάνοια to πλάνη or rather to its renunciation. Yet, unlike the use of μετάνοια in Christian texts, there does not seem to be any idea of repentance in the Hermetic writing. The μετάνοια consists of a conversion, or rather it prefigures a return to a pre-existing situation by enabling a reorientation on what the Self truly is. It is situated on the level of ἕξις; because it also depends on what has already been said in the first statement, it is situated on the level of the relation to God as well. As for the change of state of mind, there is an ethical dimension as well as a theological one. It is also more closely linked to human will. In fact if human responsibility does not exist in the appearance of error, and if the first statement does not mention this human responsibility, the narrator does not avoid it in the second statement. He uses verbs in the active voice: henceforth, it has to be shown that after hearing the second statement, what happens no longer results from the weakness of human beings who would have been intoxicated and beguiled, but as a consequence of their making a wrong choice. The harangue with its two kerygmatic statements modifies the manner in which the change resulting from the discovery of the new Self-relationship has been mentioned at the end of the revelation dialogue. There, it was more a matter of intellectual learning. In the harangue the manner in which the change occurs is clarified with the imperatives νήψατε and μετανοήσατε. The change is no longer based on intellectual comprehension, but on hearing a statement which must convince in just a few words, and this aim explains the recourse to a violent rhetoric. This statement plays a role equivalent to the one of divine Logos. In the cosmogonic myth divine Logos carries out the separation between various elements and therefore allows the organisation of the world. Likewise the narrator’s statement in CH I 27–28, above all in the second part of the harangue, carries out the selection so that only the worthiest human beings, those who listen and accept the word, may obtain salvation. Teaching occurs subsequent to the conversion, under the leadership of the master. With the help of other ritual practices it enables the disciple to strengthen his knowledge of his Self, to perceive it better, to change inwardly, to render Self independent from the body which becomes a mere envelope without any effect on Self (provided he remains watchful). These transformations look like a prefiguration of what will happen at the time of death when the body dissolves and when the Self takes an opposite way to the one followed by Man (CH I 13–14) in order to merge in the divine. So

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after affirming the Self in the sensible world, this Self is denied as an “individuality” in the divine world.

5 Conclusion The preceding pages provide no more than a preliminary sketch of an investigation of the Self in Hermetic treatises. The authors of the treatises studied here are situated in direct descent from philosophers who claim a Self of divine origin whose otherness to the body is emphasized in a framework of dualist anthropology (even if the body is not always perceived in a complete negative manner as in Ascl. 10). The aim or rather the duty of Hermetists is to lead worthy human beings towards salvation, to make them aware of a Self, of its extraneous nature to the body and of its close connection to the divine. This awareness is expressed in different ways according to the treatises and the situations: in terms of intellectual and noetical learning for the narrator whose situation is specific because he is taught once for all through an epiphanic vision and a revelation; in terms of choice or conversion for the others. For these, there is an ethical as well as a theological dimension to their choice or conversion: that choice involves not only a different life style but also a different relation to the divine. For them teaching strengthens awareness; it develops a new Self-relationship which is expressed in three different ways (the loving way, the visionary way as well as the way of philautia) in the treatises dealing with auto-reflexion. These three ways are alternatives of the Delphic maxim “know yourself”, and according to the choice and conversion they reveal an ethical and a theological dimension. It remains to study this question further not only in the treatises considered here, but also in the other Hermetic treatises.

Appendix33 CH I 18–21: ἄκουε λοιπόν, ὃν ποϑεῖς λόγον ἀκοῦσαι. τῆς περιόδου πεπληρωμένης ἐλύϑη ὁ πάντων σύνδεσμος ἐκ βουλῆς ϑεοῦ· Πάντα γὰρ ζῷα ἀρρενοϑήλεα ὄντα διελύετο ἅμα τῷ ἀνϑρώπῳ καὶ ἐγένετο τὰ μὲν ἀρρενικὰ ἐν μέρει, τὰ δὲ ϑηλυκὰ ὁμοίως. Ὁ δὲ ϑεὸς εὐϑὺς εἶπεν ἁγίῳ λόγῳ, αὐξάνεσϑε ἐν αὐξήσει καὶ πληϑύνεσϑε ἐν πλήϑει πάντα τὰ κτίσματα καὶ δημιουργήματα, καὶ ἀναγνωρισάτω ἔννους ἑαυτὸν ὄντα ἀϑάνατον, καὶ τὸν αἴτιον τοῦ ϑανάτου ἔρωτα καὶ πάντα τὰ ὄντα. Τοῦτο εἰπὸντος, ἡ πρόνοια διὰ τῆς εἱμαρμένης καὶ ἁρμονίας τὰς μίξεις ἐποιήσατο, καὶ τὰς γενέσεις κατέστησε, καὶ ἐπληϑύνϑη κατὰ γένος τὰ πάντα καὶ ὁ ἀνα33  For the Greek and Latin text, see the edition of Nock and Festugière 1991–1992. For the English translation of the CH, see Salaman, Van Oyen and Wharton 2001. For the English translation of Asclepius, see Copenhaver 1992. For the English translation of The Ogdoad reveals the Ennead, see Brashler, Dirkse, Parrott 1979, 341–74.

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γνωρίσας ἑαυτὸν ἐλήλυϑεν εἰς το περιούσιον ἀγαϑόν, ὁ δὲ ἀγαπήσας τὸ ἐκ πλάνης ἔρωτος σῶμα, οὗτος μένει ἐν τῷ σκότει πλανώμενος, αἰσϑητῶς πάσχων τὰ τῶν ϑανάτου. Τί τοσοῦτον ἁμαρτάνουσιν, ἔφην ἐγώ, οἱ ἀγνοοῦντες, ἵνα στερηϑῶσι τῆς ἀϑανασίας; ἔοικας, ὦ οὗτος, τούτων μὴ πεφροντικέναι ὧν ἤκουσας. Οὐκ ἔφην σοι νοεῖν; νοῶ καὶ μιμνήσκομαι, εὐχαριστῶ δὲ ἅμα. Εἰ ἐνόησας, εἰπέ μοι, διὰ τί ἄξιοί εἰσι, τοῦ ϑάνατου οἱ ἐν τῷ ϑανάτῳ ὄντες; ὅτι προκατάρχεται τοῦ οἰκείου σώματος τὸ στυγνὸν σκότος, ἐξ οὗ ἡ ὑγρὰ φύσις, ἐξ ἦς τὸ σῶμα συνέστηκεν ἐν τῷ αἰσϑητῷ κόσμῳ, ἐξ οὗ ϑάνατος ἀρδεύεται. Ἐνόησας ὀρϑῶς, ὦ οὗτος. Κατὰ τί δὲ ὁ νοήσας ἑαυτὸν εἰς αὐτὸν χωρεῖ, ὅπερ ἔχει ὁ τοῦ ϑεοῦ λόγος; φημὶ ἐγώ, ὅτι ἐκ φωτὸς καὶ ζωῆς συνέστηκεν ὁ πατὴρ τῶν ὅλων, ἐξ οὗ γένονεν ὁ ἄνϑρωπος. Εὖ φῂς λαλῶ· Φῶς καὶ ζωή ἐστιν ὁ ϑεὸς καὶ πατήρ, ἐξ οὖ ἐγένετο ὁ ἄνϑρωπος ἐὰν οὖν μάϑῃς αὐτὸν ἐκ ζωῆς καὶ φωτὸς ὄντα καὶ ὅτι ἐκ τούτων τυγχάνεις εἰς ζωὴν πάλιν χωρήσεις. “Listen further to the word you were longing to hear. On completion of the cycle, the bond of all was loosed according to the will of God, for all living beings, which were of both genders, were parted asunder at the same time as Man and became in turn male and female. God forthwith spoke the Holy Word: ‘All that has been fashioned and brought into being, may you increase and continue to increase, may you multiply and continue to multiply and may the man endowed with Nous recognise that he is immortal, that desire is the cause of death, and may he come to know all things that are.’ God having thus spoken, Providence brought about acts of union through destiny and the harmony of the cosmos and established the generations and all things were multiplied according to their species. He who had recognised himself came to the Supreme Good, while he who had prized the body, born from the illusion of desire, remained wandering in the dark, suffering through the senses the things of death.” “In what terrible way do the ignorant do wrong,” said I, “that they have been deprived of immortality?” He said, “You seem not to have taken heed of the things you have heard, did I not tell you to keep these things in mind?” “Thank you,” I replied, “I will do so and remember.” He continued, “If you have remembered, tell me, why are those who are in death, worthy of death?” I replied, “Because the grim darkness is the first origin of one’s own body, from which darkness arose the watery nature, from which darkness the body is formed in the sensory world of which death drinks.” “You have observed correctly,” he said. “But why does he who has remembered himself go to the Father, as the Word of God says?” I replied, “Because the Father of all is constituted out of light and life, whence Man has been begotten.” Poimandres then said, “The truth is: light and life is God and Father, whence Man is begotten. If, therefore, you realise yourself as being form life and light and that you have been made out of them, you will return to life.” CH IV 6 αὕτη, ὦ Τάτ, ἡ τοῦ νοῦ ἐστὶν ἐπιστήμη, τῶν ϑείων ἐντορία, καὶ ἡ τοῦ ϑεοῦ κατανόησις, ϑείου ὄντος τοῦ κρατῆρος. Κἀγὼ βαπτισϑῆναι βούλομαι, ὦ πάτερ.

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Ἐὰν μὴ πρῶτον τὸ σῶμά σου μισήσῃς, ὦ τέκνον, σεαυτὸν φιλῆσαι οὐ δύνασαι· Φιλήσας δὲ σεαυτὸν, νοῦν ἕξεις, καὶ τὸν νοῦν ἔχων καὶ τῆς ἐπιστήμης μεταλήψῃ. Πῶς ταῦτα λέγεις, ὦ πάτερ; Ἀδύνατον γάρ ἐστιν, ὦ τέκνον, περὶ ἀμφότερα γίνεσϑαι, περὶ τὰ ϑνητὰ καὶ τὰ ϑεῖα. δύο γὰρ ὄντων τῶν ὄντων, σώματος καὶ ἀσωμάτου, ἐν οἶς τὸ ϑνητὸν καὶ τὸ ϑεῖον, ἡ αἵρεσις ϑατέρου καταλείπεται τῷ ἑλέσϑαι βουλομένῳ. οὐ γὰρ ἔστιν ἀμφότερα, ἐν οἶς τε ἡ ἐξαίρεσις καταλείπεται, τὸ δὲ ἕτερον ἐλαττωϑὲν τὴν τοῦ ἑτέρου ἐφανέρωσεν ἐνέργειαν. H: This, Tat, is the knowledge of Nous, and the vision of what comes from God. It is the perception of God, since the bowl is of God. T: I also wish to be immersed in Nous, O father. H: If you don’t first hate your body, son, you cannot love your Self. If you love your Self you will have Nous, and having Nous you will partake of knowledge. T: Why do you say that, father? H: For, son, it is impossible to be governed by both, by the mortal and by the divine. There are two kinds of beings, the embodied and unembodied, in whom there is the mortal and the divine spirit. Man is left to choose one or the other, if he so wishes. For one cannot choose both at once; when one is diminished, it reveals the power of the other. CH XIII 3–4 Νῦν ὁρᾷς με, ὦ τέκνον, ὀφϑαλμοῖς ὅ τι δέ κατανοεῖς ἀτενίζων σώματι καὶ ὁράσει. Οὐκ ὀφϑαλμοῖς τούτοις ϑεωροῦμαι νῦν, ὦ τέκνον. εἰς μανίαν με οὐκ ὀλίγην καὶ οἴστρησιν φρενῶν ἐνέσεισας, ὦ πάτερ· Ἐμαυτὸν γὰρ νῦν οὐχ ὁρῶ. Εἴϑε, ὦ τέκνον, καὶ σὺ σεαυτὸν διεξελήλυϑας, ὡς οἱ ἐν ὕπνῳ ὀνειροπολούμενοι χωρὶς ὕπνου. H: Now you see me with your eyes, as something which you understand through body and sight, but I am not now beheld with these eyes, O son. T: O father, you have cut me to the quick, and destroyed my faculties; for now I do not see myself. H: I wish that you had now stepped out of yourself, my son, like those, who dream in sleep and yet are awake. CH XIII 10–13 ἔγνωκας, ὦ τέκνον, τῆς παλιγγενεσίας τὸν τρόπον· Τῆς δεκάδος παραγινομένης, ὦ τέκ­ νον, συνετέϑη νοερὰ γένεσις καὶ τὴν δωδεκάδα ἐξελαύνει καὶ ἐϑεώϑημεν τῇ γενέσει· ὅστις οὖν ἔτυχε κατὰ τὸ ἔλεος τῆς κατὰ ϑεὸν γενέσεως, τὴν σωματικὴν αἴσϑησιν καταλιπών, ἑαυτὸν γνωρίζει ἐκ τούτων συνιστάμενον καὶ εὐφραίνεται. ἀκλινὴς γενόμενος ὑπὸ τοῦ ϑεοῦ, ὦ πάτερ, φαντάζομαι, οὐχ ὁράσει ὀφϑαλμῶν ἀλλὰ τῇ διὰ δυνάμεων νοητικῇ ἐνεργείᾳ. ἐν οὐρανῷ εἰμι, ἐν γῇ, ἐν ὕδατι, ἐν ἀέρι· Ἐν ζῴοις εἰμί, ἐν φυτοῖς· ἐν γαστρί, πρὸ γαστρός, μετὰ γαστέρα, πανταχοῦ. Ἀλλ ᾽ἔτι τοῦτό μοι εἰπέ, πῶς αἱ τιμωρίαι τοῦ σκότους, οὖσαι ἀριϑμῷ δώδεκα, ὑπὸ δέκα δυνάμεων ἀπωϑοῦνται. Ἡ ἑνὰς οὖν κατὰ λόγον τὴν δεκάδα ἔχει, ἡ δὲ δεκὰς τὴν ἑνάδα. πάτερ, τὸ πᾶν ὁρῶ καὶ ἑμαυτὸν ἐν τῷ νοί. H: You know now, O son, the manner of rebirth. And with the arrival of these ten, spiritual birth is complete and it drives out the twelve, and by this birth we have become divine.

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Whoever, then, by God’s mercy attains a divine birth is freed from the bodily senses and is made whole by these powers. He knows himself and rejoices. T: O father, I have been made steadfast through God; I now see not with the eyes, but by the operation of spiritual energy in the powers. I am in heaven, in earth, in water, in air; I am in living creatures and in plants; I am in the womb, before the womb, after the womb. I am present everywhere. But tell me again how those twelve tormentors of darkness are banished by the ten powers; how does this happen, O Trismegistus? H: […] In reason, the One contains the ten, the ten the One. T: O father, I see the All and I see myself in the Nous. Asclepius 10 Aeternitatis dominus deus primus est, secundus est mundus, homo est tertius. Effector mundi deus et eorum, quae insunt, omnium, simul cuncta gubernando cum homine ipso, gubernatore conpositi. Quod totum suscipiens homo, id est curam propriam diligentiae suae, efficit ut sit ipse et mundus uterque ornamento sibi, ut ex hac hominis divina conpositione mundus, Graece rectius κόσμος, dictus esse videatur. is novit se, novit et mundum, scilicet ut meminerit, quid partibus conveniat suis, quae sibi utenda, quibus sibi inserviendum sit, recognoscat, laudes gratesque maximas agens deo, eius imaginem venerans, non ignarus se etiam secundam esse imaginem dei, cuius sunt imagines duae mundus et homo. unde efficitur ut, quoniam est ipsius una conpago, parte, qua ex anima et sensu, spiritu atque ratione divinus est, velut ex elementis superioribus, inscendere posse videatur in caelum, parte vero mundana, quae constat ex igne , aqua et aëre, mortalis resistat in terra, ne curae omnia suae mandata vidua desertaque dimittat. sic enim humanitas ex parte divina, ex alia parte effecta mortalis est in corpore consistens. The master of eternity is the first god, the world is second, mankind is third. God is maker of the world and all it contains, governing all things along with mankind, who governs what is composite. Taking responsibility for the whole of this  – the proper concern of his attentiveness – mankind brings it about that he and the world are ornaments to one another so that, on account of mankind’s divine composition, it seems right to call him a well-ordered world, though kosmos in Greek would be better. Mankind knows himself and knows the world: thus, it follows that he is mindful of what his role is and of what is useful to him; also, that he recognizes what interests he should serve, giving greatest thanks and praise to god and honoring his image but not ignoring that he, too, is the second image of god, who has two images, world and mankind. Whence, though mankind is an integral construction, it happens that in the part that makes him divine, he seems able to rise up to heaven, as if from higher elements – soul and consciousness, spirit and reason. But in his material part – consisting of fire water and air – he remains fixed on the ground, a mortal, lest he disregard all the terms of his charge as void and empty. Thus, humankind is divine in one part, in another part mortal, residing in a body. The Ogdoad reveals the Ennead, NH VI, 58.4–9: I [am Mind and] I see another Mind, the one that [moves] the soul! I see the one that moves me from pure forgetfulness. Thou dost give me power! I see myself! I want to speak! Fear restrains me. The Ogdoad reveals the Ennead, NH VI, 60.25–61.1 No hidden word will be able to speak about thee, Lord.

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Therefore my mind wants to sing a hymn to you daily. I am the instrument of thy spirit; Mind is thy plectrum. And thy counsel plucks on me. I see myself! I have received power from thee.

Bibliography Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, translated by H. Rackham, Cambridge, Mass. 1934 (repr. 1990). Copenhaver, Brian P. (ed.), Hermetica. The Greek Corpus Hermeticum and the Latin Asclepius in a New English Translation with Notes and Introduction, Cambridge 1992 Festugière, André-J., Arthur D. Nock (eds.), Corpus Hermeticum I–IV, Paris 51991– 1992. Festugière, André J. (ed.), La Révélation d’Hermès Trismégiste. Vol. 1: L’Astrologie et les sciences occultes, Paris ²1989. Majercik, Ruth D. (ed.), The Chaldean Oracles. Text, Translation and Commentary, Leiden 1989. Philo of Alexandria, Legum Allegoriae, translated by Claude Mondésert, Paris 1962. Plato, Cratylus, translated by Harold N. Fowler, Cambridge, Mass. 1939 (repr. 1992). –, Theaetetus, translated by Harold N. Fowler, Cambridge, Mass. 1921 (repr. 1987). Salaman, Clement, Dorine van Oyen, William D.  Wharton (eds.), The Way of Hermes. The Corpus Hermeticum, London 2001. Bettini Maurizio, Ezio Pellizer 2003. Il mito di Narciso: immagini e racconti della Grecia e occhi, Turin. Brashler, James, Peter A. Dirkse, Douglas M. Parrott 1979. “The Discourse of the Eighth and Ninth”, in Douglas M. Parrott (ed.), Nag Hammadi Codices V, 2–5 and VI with papyprus Berolinensis 8502, 1 and 4, Leiden, 341–74. Camplani, Alberto 2000. Scritti ermetici in copto, Brescia. Cancik, Hubert 1998. “Persona and Self in Stoic Philosophy”, in Albert I. Baumgarten, Jan Assmann, Guy G. Stroumsa (eds.), Self, Soul & Body in Religious Experience, Leiden, 335–46. Charles-Saget, Annick (ed.) 1998. Retour, repentir et constitution de soi, Paris. – 1999. “Les transformations de la conscience de soi entre Plotin et Augustin”, in Jan Assmann, Guy G. Stroumsa (eds.), Transformation of the Inner Self in Ancient Religions, Leiden, 195–207. Courcelle, Pierre 1974. Connais-toi toi-même: de Socrate à saint Bernard, Paris. des Places, Edouard 1983. “Notes sur quelques Oracles Chaldaïques”, Mélanges Edouard Delebecque, 319–29. Dodd, Charles H. 21954. The Bible and the Greeks, London. Filoramo, Giovanni 1999. “The Transformation of the inner Self in Gnostic and Hermetic Texts”, in Jan Assmann, Guy G. Stroumsa (ed.), Transformation of the Inner Self in Ancient Religions, Leiden, 137–49. Fowden, Garth 1986. The Egyptian Hermes, A Historical Approach to the Late Pagan Mind, Cambridge.

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Holzhausen, Jens 1993. Der “Mythos vom Menschen” im hellenistischen Ägypten. Eine Studie zum “Poimandres” (CH I) zu Valentin und dem gnostischen Mythos, Mainz. Jansen, Hans L. 1977. “Die Frage nach Tendenz und Verfasserschaft im Poimandres”, in Geo Windengren (ed.), Proceedings of the International Colloquium on Gnosticism, Stockholm, 1973, Stockholm, Leiden, 157–63. Le Boulluec, Alain 1985. La Notion d’hérésie dans la littérature grecque IIe–IIIe siècles, tome 1: De Justin à Irénée, Paris. Mahé, Jean-Pierre 1978. Hermès en Haute-Égypte, Québec. Norden, Eduard ²1956. Agnostos Theos: Untersuchungen zur Formengeschichte religiöser Rede, Stuttgart. Nussbaum, Martha C. 1994. The Therapy of Desire. Theory and Practice in Hellenistic Ethics, Princeton, N. J. Pearson, Birgen A. 1981. “Jewish Elements in Corpus Hermeticum I (Poimandres)”, in Roelof Van Den Broek, Maarten J. Vermaseren (eds.), Studies in Gnosticism and Hellenistic Religions: presented to Gilles Quispel on the Occasion of his 65th Birthday, Leiden, 336–48. Philonenko, Marc 1975. “Le Poimandrès et la liturgie juive”, in Françoise Dunand, Pierre Levêque (eds.), Les Syncrétismes dans les religions de l’Antiquité, Colloque de Besançon (22–23 octobre 1973), Leiden, 204–11. – 1979. “Une utilisation du Shema dans le Poimandrès”, RHPhR 59, 369–372. Proto, Antonio 2000. Ermete Trismegisto: Gli inni. Le preghiere di un santo pagano, Milan. Reitzenstein, Richard 31927. Die hellenistischen Mysterienreligionen. Ihre Grundgedanken und Wirkungen, Leipzig. Södergard, J.  Peter 2003. The Hermetic Piety of the Mind. A Semiotic and Cognitive Study of the Discourse of Hermes Trismegistos, Stockholm. Stroumsa, Guy G. 1998. “Du repentir à la pénitence: l’exemple de Tertullien”, in Annick Charles-Saget (ed.), Retour, repentir et constitution de soi, Paris, 74–94. Taylor, Charles 1998. Les Sources du moi: la formation de l’identité moderne, Paris. Tröger, Karl W. 2003. “Ein hermetisches Dankgebet (NHC VI,7)”, in HansM. Schenke, Hans-G. Bethge, Ursula U. Kaiser (eds.), Nag hammadi Deutsch, Berlin, New York, 519–25. Van den Kerchove, Anna 2011. “Le mode de révélation dans les Oracles chaldaïques et dans les traités hermétiques”, in Helmut Seng, Michel Tardieu (eds.). Die Chaldaeischen Orakel: Kontext – Interpretation – Rezeption, Heidelberg, 145–62. – 2011 a, “Les hermétistes et les conceptions traditionnelles des sacrifices”, in Nicole Belayche, Jean-D. Dubois (eds.), L’Oiseau et le poisson. Cohabitations religieuses dans les mondes grec et romain, Paris, 61–80. – 2012. La Voie d’Hermès. Pratiques rituelles et traités hermétiques, Leiden. Vial, Hélène 2010. La Métamorphose dans les “Métamorphoses” d’Ovide, Paris.

Individuality, Selfhood and Power in the Second Century: The Mystagogue as a Mediator of Religious Options Richard Gordon In the course of our conferences at the Erfurt Max-Weber-Centre devoted to various aspects of the relationship between religion and individuality in antiquity, the emphasis has been almost exclusively upon the demand side.1 The present volume, in particular, is concerned with the practices of emergent selfhood, defined as a religious, but also a philosophic, project. It seems to me that in this endeavour we ought not to lose sight of the fact that selfhood also has a social correlate, and, particularly under ancient conditions, is irreducibly linked to relative social standing, the availability of financial resources – and power. In order to relate these aspects to the issues of religious individuality and selfhood, I propose to resurrect, as it were, or rather re-invent, a figure that flits rather distractedly through Max Weber’s Religionssoziologie, namely der Mystagoge, the Mystagogue, the religious entrepreneur who provides the materials and experiences that motivate the choices made by the members / initiates / dependants / auditors and mediate the salvation-goods (‘Heilsgüter’) on offer.2 In this context, I shall try to emphasise the implications of this role, which I lay out rather generously, for the notion of religious selfhood.

1 From Mystagoge to mystagogue Max Weber himself inclined to view the Mystagogue as an institutionalised form of the marginal wonder-worker, whom he calls ‘der Magier’ (a figure exemplified for him by Jesus):

1  Just one or two contributors have taken founders of local, particularised cults into consideration (Hupfloher 2012; Graf 2013). 2  ‘Heilsgüter’ – an essentially Weberian concept – comprise all manner of religious or spiritual benefits, ranging from healing by charms (also charismatic healing), through worldly success or self-acceptance, to post-mortem salvation, promised or underwritten by traditional religious practice, institutionalised religious groups or movements, and by individual religious entrepreneurs.

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Das Prestige einzelner Magier und jener Geister oder Götter, in deren Namen sie ihre Wunder taten, schuf ihnen Zulauf ohne Rücksicht auf die lokale oder Stammeszugehörigkeit, und dies führte unter günstigen Umständen zu einer von den ethnischen Verbänden unabhängigen “Gemeinde”-Bildung. Manche – nicht: alle – “Mysterien” lenkten in diese Bahn ein … Der Magier wandelte sich so zum Mystagogen … Die Verkündigung und Verheißung wendete sich naturgemäß an die Massen derjenigen, welche der Erlösung bedurften.3

The Magician is himself, however, a failed version of the Weberian prophet, who in his model is the primary source of large-scale religious change: offering, as he does, a decisively different teaching from the norm, the prophet attracts by virtue of his purely personal charisma a heterogeneous group of disciples, who then develop and routinise the teaching into the ethos of one or more groups in the wider society.4 Given that his major concern was with successful, large-scale religious change, Weber does not in fact deal very much either with the Magician or with the ‘failed prophet’, among whom he counts the Mystagogue.5 The Mystagogue might be a second-generation exemplary prophet, and he might reveal new ways of salvation by performing sacraments, i.e. magical actions that contain the gift of salvation. But he differs from the magician in forming a distinct grouping around himself, thereby opening up the possibility of establishing a position which could be inherited by successors.6 And he differs from the prophet proper in the comparative lack of ethical doctrine in his teaching.7 Examples of this type of religious leader Weber found in the Buddhist bonzes, who tend to try and create permanent groups from their personal following;8 in the hierarchs of Daoism and the Hindu sects;9 in the oriental mystery religions of the Hellenistic and Roman world – though he does not seem to have developed this idea beyond a passing remark10 – and in the gnostic sects of the Roman Em-

 3  Weber 1920, 243. On the development of this text, see e.g. Schluchter 1985, 530–49. Weber himself came to intuit the value of religious need by personally experiencing a mass ecstasy at Lourdes after a woman had been pronounced cured: Radkau 2005, 193–4.  4  Weber 2005, 27–40; 41. The Weberian ideal-type prophet has of course repeatedly been challenged, e.g. Crüsemann 1985.  5 Weber 2005, 32–3, 36–7. Here he has recourse to a fine abstract term, unavailable in English, ‘das Mystagogentum’, which I shall use occasionally.  6 “Für den Mystagogen ist [die] Existenz [einer Gemeinde] ein normales Merkmal im Gegensatz zum bloßen Zauberer, der entweder einen freien Beruf ausübt, oder, zünftig organisiert, einen bestimmten nachbarschaftlichen oder politischen Verband, nicht eine besondere religiöse Gemeinde, versorgt”: ibid., 36. These groups remain however instances of ‘freie Ge­ legen­heitsvergesellschaftung’: the Mystagogue may be supplied with offerings and gifts, even in abundance, but he does not succeed in creating a permanent congregation.  7  “Der Mystagoge spendet magisches Heil, und es fehlt ihm oder bildet doch nur ein untergeordnetes Anhängsel: die ethische Lehre” (ibid., 33).  8 Ibid., 36.  9  Ibid., 37; 43. 10  Ibid., 56.

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pire, with their hierarchy of sanctifications which the unilluminated are excluded from attaining.11 It is thus fairly clear that Weber regarded the Mystagogue as the founder of a more or less permanent group, with a specific teaching that was not revolutionary in the manner of the prophet. He is a ‘prophet manqué’ in the sense that he establishes a new religious grouping (or groups) that remain(s) small and comparatively localised, or which expand without significantly altering the wider social ethos of the society. In my view Weber was wrong to have his ideal-type Mystagogue so clearly derive from the Magician, but his fixation on the motif of Erlösung made this inevitable – the whole point of mystery-cults for him was the promise of salvation, release from illness, hardship and want, but also otherworldly Heilsgüter.12 No doubt we should allow for a rather baggy category.13 My own ideal-type of the mystagogue (now with a lower-case m) is as a petty entrepreneur or administrator of the holy, interested in exploiting a niche between the vast range of minor religious mastery on the one hand, fascinating but troublesome,14 and the high-profile religious offices largely monopolised by the politico-social élites of cities and metropoleis.15 The mystagogue in this sense can legitimately be studied under the rubric of the institutionalisation of relatively enduring, relatively bounded associations whose primary aim was the intensified worship of specific deities; but my major focus here will be on the linkage between pragmatics and performances in the acquisition of religious authority, which in turn, I would claim, founds a particular narrative identity or individuality on the part of the mystagogue, which however always remains just one among a (potential) plurality.16 This privileged narrative we may think of as the mystagogue’s contingent, context-bound version of selfhood. In other words, whereas the religious ‘self ’ is usually taken, as in some other contributions to this volume, as an inherently private project, I wish to connect it with the notion of ‘self-realisation’ through the essentially social action of founding a small religious group or association. Such a narrative identity may become dominant within a life-experience, but it remains just one possible narrative among many.  Ibid., 68 f. 72. alle Mysterienkulte wirkten so. Ihr typischer Sinn ist die Spendung von ‘Sakramentsgnade’: Erlösung von Schuld durch die Heiligkeit der Manipulation als solcher, also durch einen Vorgang, welcher die Tendenz jeder Magie teilt, aus dem Alltagsleben herauszufallen und dieses nicht zu beeinflussen” (ibid., 90). 13  Or a “messy taxonomy” Kloppenborg 1996, 22; Bendlin 2011, 218. 14 See e.g. Plácido Suárez 1993; Potter 1994; Flower 2008. 15  It may be objected that, since I am not concerned specifically with mystery-initiation, I ought not to employ the term ‘mystagogue’. It will however be clear that I am simply adapting a term already used as an ideal-type by Weber. 16  Pragmatics and performances are highlighted by Mische 2007, 46 but in a non-religious context. ‘Pragmatics’ denotes responses to pressures in a given field and attempts to act upon those responses; ‘performances’ refers to the multiplicity of relations in social encounters and the challenges thereby confronted. 11

12 “Fast

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I am not competent to pursue this ideal-type figure in the grand Weberian manner across a wide range of mainstream religious traditions. My concern is solely with the Graeco-Roman world, and specifically with the second century CE. To explore the mystagogue in this sense I propose to draw on three scenarios whose diversity will allow me to suggest some modes of acquiring the intermediate type of religious authority in the imperial period that I denote by the term mystagogue, and to hint at the relation between the drive to control others and the process of (religious) individualisation and the concomitant understanding of self. To found this measured independence of the ever-attractive Weberian model, I propose to draw upon some of the ideas – creatively transposed, if not wilfully misunderstood – of the sociologist Harrison White.17

2 Identity, selfhood and control As a network theorist of large organisations, White’s aims are very different from mine; moreover his ambition to construct a total theory of social relations operates far above the level at which historians are accustomed to work. Furthermore, his explicit aim is to construct a sociology that does not depend upon the self and consciousness.18 Nevertheless some of his positions, when adapted, could be instructive for thinking about the possibilities and limits of individualisation and selfhood in relation to ancient Mystagogentum. The three points that follow are adaptations of some of White’s positions. Instead of ‘individuals’ White prefers to speak of ‘bundles of identities’. He does so in order to highlight the complexity of social contexts, motivations, interests, ‘performances’ in which individuals have to engage. “The ‘person’ is a placeholder term embracing identities, often conflicting, from different settings”.19 ‘Identities’, which may be ephemeral, are triggered by responses to events and the drive to manage uncertainty.20 This drive, as Niklas Luhmann urged, is at the basis of one’s continual attempts to control possible events or at least influence the actions of others. As a corollary, White inclines to believe that in any given context of social action, only certain aspects of a total character will be in play. From the sociological point of view, therefore, the ‘self ’ is simply a model aimed at privileging a particular narrative.21 17 White

2008. I thank Esther Eidinow (Nottingham) for suggesting I endeavour to read this book. 18  White 2008, 334. An ‘identity’ may for him be a huge organisation. 19  Ibid., 5. His main targets are the sociological mythogies of rational choice theory and Parsonian structuralism. 20 White distinguishes between five senses of ‘identity’ (10–1; 15–6) and it is not always easy to decide at any given point the sense he is using. Sometimes it really means ‘person’. 21  “Stories come to frame choices”, ibid., 36.

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The value for me of using such an approach in relation to Mystagogentum is that it foregrounds the issues of power and authority, which are implicit in any attempt to organise and channel the religious experiences of others, even if only in a single context, namely the cult in question. The mystagogue acts as petty impresario of a minor religious institution, impressing upon his adherents / clients the value of the ritual practices he prescribes in attaining the promised Heilsgüter; through local recognition of his merits in this regard he reinforces and extends his own sense of selfhood insofar as it is committed to the project. A pre-supposition here, however, is the possession of sufficient resources to set up an institutionalised cult: whereas White begins his observation with what goes on in children’s playgrounds in the USA,22 we need to build in the commandmentality implicit in the possession of adequate resources in a highly stratified society. The mystagogue relies upon an unequal distribution of resources and information. Also valuable, though perhaps obvious, is White’s implicit understanding of the notion of identity (which we can here roughly translate as individuality) as limited to the control urges produced by the pragmatics of specific realms of social action, which may well have no implications for other areas of constantlyshifting experience. By implication, then, a story about religious individualisation and selfhood will always be a partial and incomplete one, and will as likely as not end up as a stereotype or stylisation – “unique identities as persons are difficult to build”.23 As a (partial) illustration of these points, I take a well-known epigraphic text of the High Empire relating to the cult of the Anatolian lunar deity Men, which I read as a story about the realisation of a highly personal project, a long-term ambition, conveyed through the limited (and limiting) genre of the lex sacra of an association. The second aspect of White’s argument that seems promising is his insistence on the role of narratives in establishing ‘control régimes’. A story in this sense is “at root an authority, a transfer of identity”.24 Stories permit the assembly of facets of the persona into a single context that provides an intuitive coherence. More or less specific identities thus “become embedded into some story-ties with respect to other identities in a network of population during the course of continuing struggles for control”.25 On this view, stories are always in (implicit) contention with other possible stories, just as control régimes mobilise around the contrasts between different ‘realms’ of praxis. Such stories, which need to be repeatedly evoked and deployed in social negotiation, always mobilise sets of values, which fuel the conflicts between the different actors.  Ibid., 4–6; 10–1; 54–6. 49. 24  Ibid., 31. 25  Ibid., 38. 22

23 Ibid.,

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In our case, regular stories about mystagogues are hardly ever available in our primary epigraphic sources, whose generic rules usually preclude such expansive information. There are some exceptions, of course, such as the letter of Zoilos of Aspendus to Apollonios regarding the repeated dreams sent him by Sarapis to build a Sarapeion, his subsequent illness, and resulting vow; Sarapis’ miraculous letter to Euronymos, which Xenainetos of Opus found under his pillow; and the story of the foundation of Sarapeion A on Delos by another Apollonios.26 It therefore seemed worth picking up White’s point about contending stories, and exploring Lucian’s text devoted to the character-murder of Alexandros /Alexander, the mystagogue of Abonouteichos in Phrygia, not just for its implicit account of Alexander’s own use of narrative to stage his charismatic religious persona, and the role of narratives in spreading his reputation, but also as an example of contention, based upon conflicting values, conducted through competing narratives. White’s third point relates to the strategic quality of much social action, the way in which actors need to construct images of themselves, ‘contextual selves’ as it were, interpret the context in which they are actors, and find strategies for generating actions that can or should lead to intended outcomes.27 Linked to this is the expectation that others will read values out of accomplished actions. I try to illustrate the general point by briefly describing the way in which individual mystagogues acted as bricoleurs in exploiting the basic givens of the cult to construct their own interpretations of how it should be experienced and the meanings it might offer. The externalisation or ‘performance’ of their understanding, assuming it to have been successful or convincing, implicitly feeds back into the process of constructing their own sense of self in this role. This process too is intimately linked to the drive to control others while offering them a context for worship.

3 Constructing an ideal-type: Xanthos at Sounion At some point in the late IIp /early IIIp, Xanthos, probably slave-bailiff of a certain C. Orbius,28 decided to build a shrine for Men Tyrannos, a deity no doubt known to him from his native territory in Lycia, at Cape Sounion in Attica. Beside the temple he set up the regulations governing the cult:29 26 Zoilos: PSI 4.435 = Totti

1985 no.71= Bricault 2005 [RICIS] 314/0601 (258/7 BC), with Dunand 1973, 3:7; Opus: IG X.2.1 no.255 = RICIS 113/0536 = Totti 1985 no. 14; Delos: IG XI 4 no.1299 = RICIS 202/0101 = Totti 1985 no. 11. 27  White 2008, 230–1. 28  C. Orbius may have been a descendant of the Delian family of Roman-Italian negotiatores of the same gens known from the late Republic / early Empire (e.g. ILS 9365 f.). Their family praenomen, however, was Lucius; cf. F. Münzer, s.v. Orbius 2, RE 18.1 (1939) 879. 29  IG II2 1366 = Syll3 1042 = Lane 1971, 8–10 no. 13. The tr. is by Horsley 1983, 20 f. no. 6.

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Xanthos the Lykian, slave (?) of Gaius Orbius, set up the temple of Men Tyrannos – the god having chosen him – for good fortune. And no-one impure is to draw near; but let him be purified from garlic and swine and woman. When members have bathed from head to foot, on the same day they are to enter. | And a woman, having washed from head to foot seven days after menstruation, is to enter on the same day. And (likewise) for ten days after (contact with) a corpse, and forty days after a miscarriage; nor is anyone to offer sacrifice without the founder of the temple (being present). If anyone violates (these provisions) his sacrifice will be unacceptable to the god. He is to provide what is appropriate for the god, a right | leg, hide, head, feet, chest, oil for the altar, a lamp, kindling, and a libation; and may the god be very merciful to those who serve in simpleness of soul. But if he (i.e., the founder) dies, is sick or travelling abroad no person is to have authority except him to whom he transmits it. Anyone who interferes | with the god’s possessions or is meddlesome, let him incur sin against Men Tyrannos which he certainly cannot expiate. And let him who sacrifices on the seventh (day of the month) perform all that is appropriate for the god; let him receive a leg and shoulder of the sacrifice which he brings, and as for the rest let him cut it up at the temple. And if anyone offers a sacrifice to the god, let it be from new moon till the fifteenth. | If anyone fills a table for the god, let him receive half (its content). Those who wish may form a club for Men Tyrannos, for good fortune. Likewise, the club members shall provide what is appropriate for the god, a right leg, hide, a kotyle of oil, twelve kotylai of wine, a measure’s worth of well-kneaded cake, three sacrificial cakes, and hard-shelled fruits, | as well as a wreath and a woollen ribbon, whenever the club members banquet. And may the god be very merciful to those who approach in simplicity.

Xanthos is an excellent example of the mystagogue in my sense, not least because there is no hint of any initiatory ambition: his cult of Men made no claim to offer a special private revelation of the type currently fashionable in the second century.30 This itself recommends his case as the basis for an ideal-type of the role. First of all, his status is interesting: although almost certainly a slave (there is no sign of ἀπ(ελεύϑερος) vel sim. after Ὀρβίου),31 he had evidently accumulated sufficient peculium – implying a function, such as οἰκόνομος of an estate owned by C. Orbius, through which he could accumulate savings – to enable him to build the ἱερόν. Here we recall the point repeatedly made by Moses Finley that slavery was a legal but not necessarily a social or economic status.32 Secondly we note the repeated assertions of his authority to act as a mystagogue of this cult. The very second word of the text, Λύκιος, is a simple statement of fact (“I was born in Lycia”), an explanation of the name Ξάνϑος, which was presumably bestowed by his master (Xanthos being the name of the capital of the old Lycian League),33 and an implicit claim to authoritative because personal / ancestral knowledge of the cult of Men or Meis, which was centred on western Phrygia, Mysia, Lydia and northern Lycia, with scattered evidence from elsewhere (including Attica). The  Cf. Burkert 1987.  In his comments to the text printed in Syll3 1042, L. Ziehen remarks ‘servus non filius’. 32 E.g. Finley 1964, 233. 33  LGPN Attica (= Osborne, Byrne 1994) lists 18 persons s.v. Xanthos, mostly Classical, but including three of imperial date. Our Xanthos is not included. 30 31

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stele likewise carries a large crescent (waxing) moon, a sign often found behind the god’s head, thereby underscoring the link between deity and his heavenly double – another implicit claim to authoritative knowledge, this time of iconography. Line 2 however makes these claims more explicitly: the god himself picked me out (αἱρετίσαντος τοῦ ϑεοῦ), though the communicative means are not specified as they generally are in the context of Sarapis-foundations: the god had his good reasons.34 The next phrase ἐπ᾽ ἀγαϑῇ τύχῃ claims another type of authority, by alluding to the usual opening formula of public decrees. The later regulations (ll.16–20) limiting sacrifices to the period of the waxing moon (new moon to 15th) and specifying rules for the 7th (completion of first quarter) likewise serve to underscore the claim to special knowledge of the cult of Men Tyrannos. The regulations regarding ritual purity make implicit statement of a different kind about legitimacy: I know the usual rules regarding ritual purity (I know that men come first, women second, and women’s impurity is greater than men’s)35 and regarding the perquisites of the god / priest / temple at sacrifice, and this knowledge fits me to manage my temple.36 More interesting in the present context are the specific, and unusual, assertions of the power bestowed by ownership: I, as founder of the temple, must always be present when someone sacrifices (l.10–1); and the provision made for when Xanthos is ill or away on a journey – only his explicitly appointed nominee may supervise sacrifices (ll.12–14).37 In the case of public institutions such rules were unnecessary; the perquisites from sacrifices, especially the hide and the noble innards, which could be sold, were presumably an important financial resource for maintaining the temple and the personal presence of Xanthos or his nominee was the only way of ensuring this income.38 34 Only one κατ’ ὄναρ text is known from the cult of Men, from Pisidian Antioch, though κατ’ ἐπιταγῆν, which is more common, may imply as much; cf. Horsley 1983, 23. 35 On purity‑ and ethical rules in religious associations, see esp. Barton, Horsley 1981; Stowers 1998; Seesengood 2002 (all on Syll.3 985 = Sokolowski 1955 no. 20 [group around Dionysios, Philadelphia]); Batten 1997. In relation to Xanthos’ prescriptions, washing all over (rather than, say, abstinence for a stated period) is not a very common requirement, and implies special stringency. There is some disagreement about the meaning of φϑορᾶς (l.7): Ziehen thought it meant ‘abortion’; Horsley translates ‘miscarriage’. The two are perhaps not incompatible. The parallel inscription, IG II2 1365, requires homicides to keep away from the temple. It should also be noted that Xanthos evidently had the text of our inscription revised by a literate native-speaker: the parallel inscription has numerous grammatical irregularities. 36  We should remember however the highly significant role of such purity regulations in providing explanatory modes for the failure of expected Heilsgüter to arrive: if a rule of this kind has been infringed, even unwittingly, the sacrifice is void, the god is not reached. The Beichtinschriften of Lydia / Mysia are full of this type of infringement (see n.39 below). 37  The divine concern for financial details might be understood as a synecdoche for the individual care bestowed by the divinity upon the believer. 38  Small private cults of this kind operated below the radar of Roman jurisdiction, cf. Haensch 2006. Bendlin 2011, 223–25, however, rightly warns against interpreting Marcianus’ phrase sed religionis causa [collegia] coire non prohibentur as implying any hint of a right to religious freedom; Marcianus’ proviso itself makes clear enough that all such groups were per-

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No less interesting is the twofold use of blessing formulae (καὶ εὐείλατος γένοιτο ὁ ϑεὸς τοῖς ϑεραπεύουσιν ἁπλῇ τῇ τυχῇ, and may the god be kindly disposed towards those who serve him with humble heart, ll.11–2, l.26) to reinforce regulations requiring specific outlays from worshippers and (forced) gifts to the temple, and conversely the threat that unsanctioned sacrifices will not gain access to the god (ll. 7–8). The veiled curse, analogous to those against tomb-violators, against those who interfere or steal the temple property, a curse that can never be lifted for example by a compensatory sacrifice (ll.14–6), recalls the close interest taken by Lydian and Mysian temples in the god’s property.39 Ownership of the temple is thus taken by Xanthos as bestowing the right both to transmit blessings and sanctions in the name of the god. We may note finally what seem to be moves to create a permanent institution that will outlive the founder, this being one of the major break-points of private cults. One such move is the nomination of a deputy to supervise sacrifices and receive the perquisites of Xanthos’ behalf. The other is the foundation of an association, an ἔρανος, for which however the temple has apparently no diningrooms, and which therefore must be a private project of individual worshippers, like the klinaί of Serapis.40 The institutionalisation of a common meal shared by selected worshippers would be a major step towards ensuring the long-term future of Xanthos’ shrine even after his death.41 Relative wealth, therefore, however obtained, is a necessary prerequisite in the mystagogue’s attempt to assert control over his worshipper’s access to the god he ‘serves’ – he may be an enabler but he is also a manager, claiming rights and authority that are modelled on those claimed by priests appointed by the polis itself. I would argue that it is this combination of relative wealth, assertion of authority and self-legitimation that combine to ‘individualise’ Xanthos, in this (long-term) context, whatever other roles and functions he may have fulfilled, and whatever other pragmatics, say conflicts with his master or fellow-slaves, he mitted to worship only under sufferance: dum tamen per hoc non fiat contra senatus consultum quo illicita collegia arcentur (Inst. 3 = Dig. 47.22.1.pr.–1.1), cf. Sirks 2006, 26–7. Bendlin 2011, 224 also points out that the rescript of Septimius Severus explicitly confirming the application of the coire clause to Italy and the provinces was probably merely a re-statement of an already existing practice, in response to a specific query. 39 The god is named in full at this point to solemnize the curse. Gods’ property: cf. e.g. Petzl 1994, 14 no.7 (letting animals graze on temple land); 16 no. 9 (buying temple timber); 18 no.10 (felling temple timber) etc. 40 Kleibl 2006, 83; some Isiac shrines however did have areas where associations may have dined, cf. eadem, ibid. 86–9. 41  E.g. the large oikos of the Bukoloi in Pergamum: Schwarzer 2006. On the social-psychological role of common meals or banquets in associations, see now Gutsfeld 2011; Ascough 2011; also Harland 2003, 25–112 (on Asia Minor) and the collection of relevant material, still in progress, by Ascough and Harland 2011–13; in temple contexts, Egelhaaf-Gaiser 2000; Mylonopoulos 2006. Despite its title, the volume edited by Nielsen and Nielsen 2001, contains no essay relevant to the role of shared meals in Graeco-Roman pagan associations.

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may have been involved in. This process can equally legitimately be understood as the long-term development of a religious sense of self, constantly tested and extended in the course of exercising the role of mystagogue. The cult-regulations must frequently have involved conflicts over contributions and authorisations – but of course texts of this kind are purely ideal-prescriptive.42 There could have been – there must have been – counter-narratives as well as complicit or positive narratives regarding the shrine of Men in late IIp / early IIIp Sounion; but to explore this type of consideration further, we need to turn to the case of Alexander of Abonouteichos.

4 Lucian’s Alexandros / Alexander Thanks to a famous essay by the second-century satirist Lucian, we can explore the rôle of narratives and counter-narratives in the construction of the religious individuality of a mystagogue to a degree that no other ancient pagan text permits. Lucian’s pamphlet takes the form of an account of Alexander’s successful introduction under Antoninus Pius (AD 138–61) of a new oracular god, the snake Glykon, into his home-town, Abonouteichos (= Ionopolis), on the coast of Paphlagonia in north-central Anatolia, and his subsequent irresistible rise to fame and power, including his marriage into the family of the Mummii Sisenna.43 Alexander is represented as a fraudulent and self-interested prophet (‘der Lügenprophet’; ‘the false prophet’); the piece claims to have been written at the express wish of a fellow Epicurean, Kelsos, who had himself written against magical practices. Throughout, the I-narrator ‘Lucian’ presents himself as a committed Epicurean, quite atheistic, always revelling in the contrast between the philosophical ideal of the man who lives without hope and without fear and the image of the superstitious Paphlagonians, dazed with greed and hope, who marvel, pray, and kiss the earth at the alleged epiphany of the new god. Thus Epicurus’ most important book, which Alexander allegedly burned in public and cursed (§ 47), is described as follows: The scoundrel had no idea what blessings that book creates for its readers and what peace, tranquillity and freedom it engenders in them, liberating them as it does from terrors 42  Cf. Ebel 2011. On the importance of money-contributions in maintaining (Jewish and Early Christian) associations, see e.g. Barclay 2006, 116–23. 43 The standard edition and commentary, despite weaknesses on the literary side, is now Victor 1997. The divergence between the reception of the text by historians of religion on the one hand (e.g. Weinreich 1921; MacMullen 1981, 122; Sfameni Gasparro 1996 and 1999) and literary analysis of Second Sophistic writing on the other is rightly emphasised by Elm von der Osten 2006. It is worth noting that Lucian makes no allusion to Alexander or his false oracles in any other satirical account of religious matters. In my view, however, the two complementary essays by Giulia Sfameni Gasparro, though she pays relatively little attention to the issues of genre, are still valuable as a presentation of a possible ideal-type of Mystagogentum.

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and apparitions and portents, from vain hopes and extravagant cravings, developing in them intelligence and truth, and truly purifying their understanding, not with torches and purifying chemicals and that sort of foolery, but with straight thinking, truthfulness and frankness.44

The entire essay is carefully organized. A detailed narrative of plausible incidents (πρὸς τὸ ὁμοιότατον, § 3) – Lucian’s actual visit to Abonuteichos has been dated to 161 CE45  – is repeatedly counter-balanced by a hard-headed Epicurean or materialist account of how Alexander prepared his tricks beforehand, in the manner of the Cynic exposure of the fraudulence of oracles.46 As Dorothee Elm von der Osten has argued, if ‘Alexander’ is a composite figure – almost an ideal-type of the mystagogue  – who never existed as such, the materialist superiority of his opponent ‘Lucian’ is equally discredited.47 If the piece has ‘a’ point, it may be as a contribution to the second-century discussion of the nature of religious authority, especially oracles (direct and literary) in the context of mounting competition between the elites of the cities of Asia Minor for prestige and neocorates.48 I would nevertheless like to present it as an example of conflicting stories contributing to the construction of an identity or complex rôle within which religious selfhood may develop. Since the essay is itself fictional, this construct cannot pretend to be history, and can at best exemplify a type of historical process. There is first the issue of innovation and creativity in the private cults of the (mainly) eastern Roman Empire. Mystagogentum in my sense is associated with cults, such as those of Asklepios, Dionysos, Mên, the Isiac cycle and the Mater Magna of Pessinus, which often enjoyed civic status and were awarded temples and public sacrifices.49 The reason is that the cult of such gods was not simply public; their private worship was conducted with different ceremonies and intentions from that of public cult. We find in Asia Minor and elsewhere, including Italy and the North-Western provinces, small groups gathered round a single doubtless charismatic personality, people capable of creating their own religious cult, inventing a personal account of the relation between Here and There, their own personal theodicy in fact. A personal religion of this kind, or its rites, would 44  On the references to the contrast in Diogenes’ great inscription at Oenoanda in Lycia between the ψευδοδοχία in which most people live and Epicureanism as a balm, see Bendlin 2006, 161–5. 45  Flintermann 1997. 46 On Oenomaus of Gadara, cf. Hammerstaedt 1988, Brancacci 2000. 47  Cf. too the remarks of Bendlin 2006, 198–201 on Lucian’s reference to a supposed bio­ graphy by Arrian of a brigand named Tilloboros. 48  As Bendlin 2006 argues (more explicitly in the afterword to the Eng. tr.). On the religious culture of the Second Sophistic more generally, see Goldhill 2006. 49 Burkert 1987; on the public-private face of the dendrophoroi, see Rubio Rivera 1993 a; on the relation between private cults of this type and civic religion in the north-western provinces, Spickermann 2007.

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in the Imperial period normally be called a τελετή or μυστήρια.50 Such groups generally named themselves for the cult of a particular god, for example Hermes, Helios, Mên or one of any number of (to us) obscure purely local gods, such as Manoudaios in Pisidia. Their leaders were sometimes women; occasionally we have evidence for a certain level of organisation, especially when the group was largely made up of the members of a slave-household.51 As in the case of Xanthos, the regulations for public cults provided the basis for those of private ones. Alexander was thus playing a variation on a common theme: what distinguishes him from most others is his relative success, even if ‘Lucian’ enormously exaggerates it. As I have already pointed out in relation to Xanthos, most mystagogues failed to convince anyone outside their own families that what they had to offer was important. Most in fact were failures insofar as they failed to attract enough followers outside their family-circle to create a permanent, or at least enduring, religious grouping. Failed mystagogues, such as Peregrinus Proteus, who, according to Lucian, tried to muscle in on a Christian group in Judea but was expelled, might become itinerant maîtres de savoir, such as Alexander’s supposed early associate, the failed poet Kokkonas of Byzantium.52 The most positive representation of such a figure is that of Apollonius of Tyana, the tradition concerning whom is, once again, neatly bifurcated between celebration of his magical powers (Moiragenes) and of his neo-Pythagorean asceticism (Philostratus). Alexander’s claim was that he possessed a new deity, the New Asklepios, in the form of a large snake. It was on this basis, a personal relation to a god, that he founded his autophone oracle – the god himself spoke. The positive narrative was that the mystagogue arranged himself on a couch in a small room, dressed in a manner befitting a god and took the new Asklepios “into his bosom (ἐς τὸν κόλπον)… coiling him about his neck, and letting the tail, which was long, stream over his lap and drag part of its length on the floor …” (§ 15). Alexander was enacting a recognisable divine epiphany, a period of some duration at which the god is personally present to the believers. But it seems clear that the positive narrative also drew upon a ritual current among the Sabaziastai in Phrygia, Maionia and Thrace, for whom the expression ὁ διὰ κόλπου ϑεός was a symbolon, a secret

50  Cf. Schuddeboom 2009, 39–102, 199–226 on τελεταί; also Sfameni Gasparro 1984 and 2006. 51  I am thinking here mainly of the Dionysiac association of Torre Nova, made up of the cohortes of the household of Agrippinilla, with its 400 names and 22 (or 26) different functions (IGUR 160, cf. SEG 50: 1059bis), though it is really too well-known to cite (but see the good discussion of Jaccottet 2003, 1: 30–53; cf. McLean 1993); compare also SEG 49: 814, whose text is now replaced by 56: 754 (Thessalonike, at least 26 members). 52  Lucian, Peregrinus § 11 with Pilhofer 2005; on the types, Szlagor 2005. Kokkonas: Lucian, Alex. 6–7.

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sign of admittance to the mysteries and of sexual union.53 Intimacy with a god demands a decisive shift in self-orientation. The counter story, as told by ‘Lucian’, was that after being debauched by a magician from Tyana, Alex­ander fell in with a Kokkonas, went to Macedonia in the company of a Macedonian woman named Maketis, and there bought a large tame snake (§ 6). On his return to Abonouteichos he performed a pseudo-miracle to reveal the new Asklepios in the form of a baby snake, which later grew miraculously into the snake god (§ 14).54 In this version, Alexander concealed the snake’s head by holding it under his arm, while operating a false head made of linen with a hinged lower jaw which moved to give the impression that the snake was actually speaking (§ 15–6). We have already seen that transfers of goods/money by sacrificants to the temple, i.e. the owner of the temple or shrine, were a prominent feature of Xanthos’ regulations for his modest institution. The issue of costs and payment for (some) private religious experiences is an important theme in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses Bk. 11, where ‘Lucius’ represents the well-meaning but naive and credulous adherent of the cult of Isis. The same was of course true for oracular services. Lucian says that Alexander charged 1 dr. 2 obols for each response; but he had to divide his profits, of the order of 70,000 dr. per annum (the current labourer’s wage was 4 obols, ⅔ of a drachma per day), with the crowd of expounders, helpers, servants, ‘stringers’ (collectors of information), who were paid according to their status. ‘Lucian’, drawing upon the standard criticism of non-civic religious institutions, claims to be shocked (§ 23). The positive narrative, on the other hand, no doubt pointed out that such a fee was nothing unusual, indeed belonged to the ‘habitus’ of ancient oracles – such a charge was merely a sign of self-respect. At Delphi there was a tax on consultations of the oracle, called the pelanos, which had originally been an offering of perishable food but under the Empire was commuted into a sum of money. At the oracle of Apollo at Argos, there was a special box for such payments; on Amorgos, the fees were lent at interest which paid the cost of the public sacrifices. In both places, the entire sum belonged to the oracle – in fact, to the city which ran the oracle. We know of similar arrangements in the Piraeus, at Athens, on Kos, at Halikarnassos, Rhodes and Thasos. And although ‘Lucian’ implies that Alexander was expensive by comparing his price loosely with that charged by Amphilochos at Mallos in Cilicia, we know that the price at Amorgos was 1 dr., at Delphi 1 stater, i.e. 4 dr. It cost money to be healed at a shrine of Asklepios; and payments for initiation into mysteries seems often to have been high (Apuleius’ ‘Lucius’ asserts he was forced to spend 53  Diod. Sic. 4.4.1; Clement Alex., Protrep. 216; Euseb., Praep. evang. 2.2.19; cf. Arnob. Adv. nat. 5.21; Firmicus Maternus, de errore 10.2: Sebazium colentes Iovem anguem … per sinum ducunt, with Turcan’s n. ad loc. (p.252). 54 It may be that Maketis was an adept in the cult of Sabazius, just as the snake may have been one already tamed for the purposes of that cult. Kokkonas seems to have started up a similar cult in Chalcedon: ‘Lucian’ reports that he died of a snake-bite (§ 9).

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all his money on gifts, clothes, payments to the priest, sacrifices and so on,55 thus insinuating a standard accusation against religious charlatans). Certainly it was generally felt that the gods required a minimum standard; inscriptions often mention the magnificence with which a temple has been equipped or fitted up. A special set of values operated in relation to expenditure for religious purposes. There are two striking examples from the history of the early Church: according to Eusebius, there were 1500 widows and poor persons receiving support from the church in Rome in 251–3 CE; and in 248/9–258 Cyprian claims that 100,000 HS was collected by his congregation to ransom Christians captured in S. Numidia by the barbarians – although of course this was at a period of rapid inflation.56 If the oracular snake was calqued upon the Phrygian and Macedonian cult of Sabazius, a later step moved Alexander into the centre of the Greek religious tradition. For the mysteries he performed (assuming this representation is not entirely a product of the composite ‘mystagogue’) were evidently closely modelled on those of the Imperial period at Eleusis, at least on those public parts which everyone could watch. In taking this step, Alexander was simply following customary practice in the Greek world, which everywhere could show mysteries based, nominally at any rate, on those at Eleusis. Thus at Keleia in Corinthia there was a penteteric mystery of Demeter which traced its origin directly to the expulsion from Eleusis of Dysaules by Ion.57 The positive narrative thus urged that in designing τελεταί he was modelling himself on traditional practice. At Eleusis itself there was a proclamation that foreigners should keep away (satirised by the Epicurean philosopher Demonax, who, on hearing the proclamation, asked why they should exclude foreigners when Eumolpus, the founder of the ritual, was a foreigner and a Thracian to boot) and that the impure should keep away. Alexander’s mysteries were allegedly prefaced by the proclamation: “If any atheist or Christian or Epicurean has come to spy on the rites, let him be off, and let those who believe in the god perform the mysteries alone, τύχῃ τῇ ἀγαϑῇ” (§ 38). But the model was not followed slavishly: it was a source of authority not a template. Alexander’s proclamation was followed by a stylised ἐξέλασις, in which a sense of community was created by forging a verbal boundary between ‘them’ and ‘us’: Alexander would shout exô Christianous! and the crowd would reply exô Epikoureious! The negative view saw this temporary community as based on ignorance and cynical manipulation, just as modern atheists and cultural critics view American revivalist preachers as charlatans (the Lucianic Alexander is of course the ancient precursor of Sinclair Lewis’ fictional Elmer Gantry).58  Apuleius, Met. 11.22; 24; 28; 30. Eusebius, HE 6.43.11; Cyprian, Ep. 59.3. 57  Paus. 2.14.1–2. 58  Gerlach 2005. 55

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The extent of Alexander’s eclecticism is no doubt largely a fiction created by Lucian to create a type. But it is plausible that some mystagogues at least tried to present themselves as ϑεῖοι ἄνδρες. Once such model was Pythagoras, not of course the real Pythagoras, whoever he was, but an image of Pythagoras as mediated to the second century AD, that is, more or less the Pythagoras of Diogenes Laertius’ Life.59 Indeed, Alexander claimed to be a reincarnation of Pythagoras: like the sage of Samos, he sported a golden thigh (§ 40); some other evidence suggests that the connection inspired a good deal of his religious style, for example the ordinance against pederasty (§ 41); perhaps also the marriage with Selene (§ 39), a Pythagorean image of blessedness. The critical view however went much further: ‘Lucian’ makes him write to his father-in-law P. Mummius Sisenna Rutilianus to say that he was more or less Pythagoras; some ‘Paphlagonians’ are represented as actually enquiring of the oracle whether he had Pythagoras’ soul or merely some other soul akin to his: the answer was impressively ambiguous (ibid.); the oracle to Sacerdos of Tyana predicts that he would become after this present life “a camel, then a horse, then a wise man and prophetes just as great as Alexander” (§ 43); all these must be knowing jokes. Money and the dependence of others amounts to power. The mystagogue, whatever his origins, can accumulate genuine, if restricted, power that makes him analogous, though hardly strictly comparable, to more conventional members of the power elite. Religious success may offer a means of eliding the usual obstacles to entry into the real elite: the local Paphlagonians allegedly knew that Alexander’s origins were humble, but once they accepted his claim to be the prophet of Glykon, and they hailed him in the mysteries together with the god, origins were no longer so important. By virtue of charismatic power, the successful mystagogue could present himself as no less significant than a member of the real political elite, a big man.60 This might cut both ways. The philosophical stereotype of the modest wise man could easily be deployed by the critical narrative to undercut such pretensions. Thus we find Alexander receiving the sophist Lucian in considerable state, surrounded by his guards and attendants; and like a lord, he gives him gifts – a mark of superiority, since they were not reciprocal. People cease to use his given name and substitute his title or function, ‘Prophêtês’. He offers his hand not to shake but to be kissed (‘Lucian’ promptly bit it). Lucian’s mystagogue can only ape high status, and he has to be revealed as a moral imposter too. True to the type of the tyrant, he has the pick (allegedly) of the noble young boys sent from all over Asia Minor to serve the cult for three years as choir-boys (“they were required to examine, select and send the youngest, noblest and most handsome”); and he has his pick of women: “Indeed, it was a great thing that everyone coveted if he simply cast his eyes upon a man’s 59 60

 Delatte 1922.  On the success of the oracle, cf. Robert 1981.

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wife; if however he deemed her worthy of a kiss, each husband thought that good fortune would flood his house. Many women boasted that they had had children by Alexander and their husbands bore witness that they spoke the truth” (§ 41–2). We can find several parallels, including Simon Magus and Helen, as well as other Gnostic leaders, for the accusation that sect members have been sexually exploited.61 The positive view claimed that such behaviour on the part of the successful mystagogue simply confirms the desirability of the real-world goods and pleasures that the true elite possess in such abundance. There is no means of distinguishing cleanly between what I have termed the positive and the negative accounts of Alexander, since both are constructions – though, I would claim, not inventions  – by the author Lucian of Samosata. White’s point does not however require that we should be able to do so. Behind Lucian’s πρὸς τὸ ὁμοιότατον lie a mass of narratives promulgated by the oracle regarding its history and authority, narratives that were partly biographical, partly institutional and partly reports by those who came to consult the oracle. Some of these positive narratives either originated in or fed into Alexander’s (or ‘Alexander’s’) own shifting conception of his project; but the shifting conceptions were also impressed by negative narratives, of the kind provided, also partly on the basis of hearsay, by ‘Lucian’ the self-styled Epicurean. All such narratives are based on differing moral judgements about core religious values. Both positive and negative narratives need to be allowed their place in the construction of Alexander’s (or ‘Alexander’s’) understanding of the selfhood he had achieved through Mystagogentum.

5 Imposing a personal stamp ‘Lucian’s’ Alexander displays a creative, synthetic ability far in excess of anything we can see at work in the established personal cults such as Isis or the Mater Magna, which is one good reason for thinking that the figure is a composite one, even if based on a (minor) historical mystagogue. Successful mystagogic efforts attached to deities such as Asklepios, Dionysos, Men, Hosios kai Dikaios, Sabazios, the Mater Magna and the Isis-cycle tended to be assimilated into local civic or village cult, rarely leaving any trace of their earlier history.62 Moreover the convention of talking about ‘the oriental religions’ or ‘oriental cults’ – to say 61  Justin, 1Apol. 26; Iren., adv. Hear. 1.23–4, both embroidering on Acts 8.9–24 (dating from the 90s CE). This and the similar ‘report’ about Bar-Jesus (13.6–12) are to be read as primitive Christian responses to Mystagogentum; cf. Haar 2003. 62  Well-known exceptions are the letter of Zoilos of Aspendos to Apollonios and the narrative recorded by Demetrios concerning the foundation of Sarapieion A on Delos (see n. 25 above). The innumerable coin-issues relating to the Isiac-cycle (Bricault 2008) are a good index of the process of civic assimilation.

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nothing of ‘Early Christianity’ – has historically encouraged the suppression of the degree of local diversity so as to convey the idea of a coherent movement assimilable to (conventional representations of) modern religious movements. One of the major values of these cults to religious entrepreneurs lay in their provision of interesting ideas combined with an almost complete freedom of interpretation and evocation. Moreover, given the communicative conditions of antiquity, and the fundamental role played by Mystagogentum in religious innovation, small-scale innovation, re-interpretation and reflection were both inevitable and normal.63 The watch-word is thus ‘re-appropriation’, the secondary production hidden behind the process of use.64 My final section briefly outlines some ways of imposing oneself in the effort to stage or realise meanings for relatively small followings. Within the wider context of shared understanding of ‘how things are done in groups of our kind’, whether financially or procedurally, specific rules of comportment, selection of images, invention of rituals combined to create prescriptive patterns for the members of the association – a concrete expression of the power exercised by the mystagogue to construct religious experience as he (or she) deems appropriate. That power needs, however, to be related to the mystagogue’s self-image as a religious actor in the service of a divinity, and so to his or her sense of selfhood. The groups created by mystagogues took a wide variety of forms, from the barely institutionalised to the threshold of acceptance as civic cults by the Boule and the Demos. The Apostle Paul’s trajectory through Asia Minor and Greece left behind tiny groups of ‘believers’ which soon, under the pressure of differing interpretations or memories of what he had said – in Thessalonika, Corinth or wherever – formed separate fractions, each dominated by a (would-be) ‘mystagogue’. By the last quarter of the first, and well into the early second century, competition between such fractions led to the composition of numerous texts claiming to represent his ‘true’ message, one or two of which have survived into the Canon.65 At the other end of the scale, a group such as the ‘Technitai and Mystai’ of Dionysus at Smyrna, in the heyday of associations in Asia Minor, thought it their place to congratulate Antoninus Pius on the birth of a son (who promptly died) and to set up a statue in honour of M. Aurelios Ioulianos, a local Asiarch, νεωκόρον τῶν Σεβαστῶν καὶ βάχκον τοῦ ϑεοῦ.66 The most visible type of group, the συνόδος or collegium, with their numerous synonyms, was itself highly diverse in organisation and level of institutionalisation.67 Such small, voluntary groups could survive only by repeatedly renewing their investment in their own activity, not arbitrarily but in such a manner that each separate activity  “[Dionysus] even in associations does indeed resist classification or analysis”: Slater 2003.  de Certeau 1990, xxxviii. 65 Trebilco 2004, 351–422. 66  Resp. IK Smyrna 600 (Antoninus Pius); 639 (Ioulianos), with Hirschmann 2006, 46–50. 67  Kloppenborg 1996, 17–20; Ascough 2006, 156–7. 63

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is meaningfully connected to others, and by linking that construct to the acquisition of moderate symbolic and moral capital.68 Given the nature of the source-material, it is rarely if ever possible to document personal bricolage in the area of ritual performance.69 We may however suspect that ‘initiation’ everywhere was a privileged field for such personal innovation, and that this was the major underlying reason for the vogue for such rites in the second century.70 It was also important to mystagogues that they register their functions epigraphically – the exercise of enduring organisational roles outwith the family but below the level of civic cult was after all one of the major attractions of Mystagogentum.71 Very occasionally, we learn of items of ritual equipment so highly-prized that they are to remain untouched by others even after the owner’s death – items, therefore, invested with deep personal meaning.72 But that is perfectly compatible with performance of regular routines. Records of dedications and furnishings, however, do provide some indirect information about mystagogic enterprise: organising interior space by commissioning artefacts is one of the most obvious means of imposing a personal conception upon religious performance.73 A well-known case are the donations of C. Cartilius Euplus to the Attideum in the Metroac campus at Ostia.74 The most famous of them, reclining Attis resting his arm on the head of the river-god Gallos, turns the minor deity into a sovereign lord through the adroit iconographic allusions to other deities.75 Euplus imposed himself by dint of his wealth; another means of legitimating  Latour 2005, 62–4.  Appropriation of divine profiles into alternative schemes and philosophies is, by contrast, well-documented, e.g., Sfameni Gasparro 1981; Turcan 1996 (Attis among the Gnostics and Neo-platonists); Turcan 1975 (Mithras among the Neo-platonists). But mystagogues were assiduous workers in this area too, if at a lower level of sophistication. 70 Cf. the brief list of 6 μύσται and δεκατισταί of Sarapis and Isis at Prusa, the personal initiates of Leonidas son of Hermesilaos, which includes two of his own brothers: IK Prusa ad Olympum no. 48 = RICIS 308/0401. Bricault, following Dunand 1973, 3: 106, suggests that δεκατισταί were privileged members of the group who met on the 10th of each month, though other interpretations have been canvassed. The dedication itself is to Hermes, further evidence of personal interpretation. 71  A good example is the sharing of top functions by a husband and wife team at Thessalonike: the man was archimagareus, archineokoros and πατὴρ σπηλλέου; the wife γαλακτηφόρος and κισταφόρος over a period of thirty years: Vermaseren 1977–89 [CCCA] 6, 64 no.197. Probably Dionysiac, though both Mithras and Cybele have been suggested (IIIp). 72 E.g. IG VII 2681 = RICIS 105/0303 (Thebes, ?IIp). Neikao, an Isiac hieraphoros, explicitly forbids her processional hiera to go to her heirs; the fine proposed in the event of anyone forcing the stone container open is 700 denarii. Bricault ad loc. thinks that the stone chest was deposited in her tomb. 73  The basic argument of Rubio Rivera 1993 b here seems to me on the right lines, but its execution is unfortunately less convincing. 74  They survive because they seem to have been deliberately placed in a cache for safety. 75  Vermaseren, CCCA 3 p.123 no. 394 = Rieger 2004, 282 no. MMA3. The statues is dedicated numini Attidis … ex monitu deae (CIL XIV 28). A major iconographic move was the addition of solar rays in metal, which have now been removed by the museum; on the allusions, see Rieger 2004, 139–41. 68 69

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such a claim was to transfer the furnishings as a public gift. This was the device of two freedpersons, man and wife, of Numerius Vibullius, who donated their re-furnishing of an Iseum at Thespiae – statues of Isis and Harpokrates, a base, the entrance-gates, an altar and a balustrade – to the city, and specifically to the village of Hyla, and obtained the approval of the Boule for doing so.76 It is a truism that part of the appeal of the ‘oriental cults’ lay in their exoticism, a feature that mystagogues of all statuses knew how to exploit and indeed exaggerate – the Isiac cycle, the galli of Mater Magna, and the processional triangles in honour of Jupiter Dolichenus, provide excellent illustrations.77 In the second century, however, the worship of Mithras, a recent and imaginatively powerful addition to the available options, was one of the most rewarding targets for Mystagogentum. Whereas Helios / Sol, his companion is regularly represented as heroically nude, Mithras is always, except at his rock-birth, dressed in elaborate Parthian-Persian clothes, anaxyrides, kandys and all. In the West, to be sure, the Persian magi never occur in the extant documentation, but they are mentioned as a reference-point for teaching in the mithraeum at Dura-Europus.78 It is therefore tempting to think that the same sort of argument as we find in Apuleius’ Apology could have been deployed in the cult of Mithras: Auditisne magian … artem esse dis immortalibus acceptam, colendi eos ac venerandi pergnaram, piam scilicet et divini scientem, iam inde a Zoroastre et Oromaze auctoribus suis nobilem, caelitum antistitam.79

As Apuleius implies here, such an argument would also have legitimated recourse to astrological astronomy, another rich source of information – and so power – for the competent mystagogue.80 In Mithraic groups, there was no fixed means of communicating interpretation, whether explicit or implicit, just as the interpretations themselves differed from group to group. The major aim of the side-scenes of complex Mithraic reliefs was not so much to rehearse a narrative but to legitimate the creation in rituals patterned on those ‘events’ of significant subjective experience linking mythic past with the lived present. “The iconography serv[ed] as a recursive 1973, 242 f. = RICIS 105/0402 (Ip–IIp). The Vibullii were an important Corinthian family, to which also Herodes Atticus was related. 77 Isis: Versluys 2007 and 2013, also Dekoulakou 2011 and Siskou 2011 on the sculptures of the Isiac sanctuary at Marathon; galli at Mainz: Alvar 2008, 288; processional triangles from e.g. Traismauer / Lower Austria (Hörig and Schwertheim 1987 [CCID], 207–8 nos. 327–8; Pingitzer 2003) and Dunakömlöd / Hungary (CCID 133–4 no.202). 78  Bidez and Cumont 1938, frg. O9 (e); Cumont 1975, 204–5. 79  Apol. 26.1–2: “Have you not heard that ‘magia’ … is a technique acknowledged by the immortal gods as a permissible means of worship and veneration, indeed a right and proper knowledge of the divine, which was considered by Zoroaster and Oromazes, who invented it long ago, as an exalted service derived from heaven …” 80  On the increasing role of reading in pagan religious contexts of this period, combined with a rejection of ‘sacral reading’, see Woolf 2012; in Early Christianity, Stroumsa 2012. 76 Daux

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point, a constant stimulus to re-interpretation and new meanings, including the exploration of the implications of the belief that this was a Persian cult”.81 It is above all in this interpretative freedom for the mystagogues founded upon the “black hole” Persia, that we should look for the success of the cult of Mithras – the engagement of the Patres is reflected in the energy with which they sought new recruits. The other side of the coin is the implicit relation between the drive to invent and interpret and the creation of an enduring and dynamic narrative sense of the religious self.

6 Mystagogentum and the Second Century In linking der Magier and der Mystagoge, Weber noted that the latter had an indefinable but no doubt extensive history. The distribution of the OrphicBacchic gold leaves, round the margins of the Greek polis-world, to say nothing of the pressure from followers of Bendis, Mêtêr theôn or Mên, but also Asklepios, implies the existence of a few such figures in the fifth and fourth century BCE. The gradual shift in the Hellenistic period away from associations based on joint membership in civic groupings such as ‘tribes’ towards voluntarism,82 combined with the increased communicative possibilities opened up by Alexander’s conquest of the Achaemenid empire,83 tendentially favoured the role of mystagogue over the wonder-worker who claimed to be able to diagnose daimonic attack. It was here that the cults of Sarapis and Isis, initially favoured by Ptolemaic policy, played a decisive role, mediating a complex, non-Hellenic cult in Greek cultural forms that could be appropriated for their own purposes by religious entrepreneurs.84 The rapid spread of Egyptianising cults into the eastern Mediterranean must have stimulated mystagogic activity in other areas, notably in the case of Dionysos. A pre-requisite here was the availability within urban families of the means to pay regular subscriptions and the (sometimes considerable) costs of admission. Nevertheless at all times individual resentment and public anxieties made mystagogic activity potentially hazardous. Studies of the economic history of the period 200 BCE–160/80 CE suggest a fairly constant increase in indicators of economic activity, whether measured by coin-hoards, wrecks, extent of urbanism, agrarian population-densities or estimated tax-receipts. In my view, this is the indispensable back-ground to what seems to be a real increase in the intensity of urban religious associationism in the first two centuries of the Principate. Equally indispensable however was the  Alvar 2008, 99.  Arnaoutoglou 2003. 83 Cf. Baslez 2001; 2009. 84  The political dimension however meant that in this case especially the cults were also admitted into civic pantheons. 81 82

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continuing availability of interesting religious material for mystagogues to work on, both in the form of new deities and in the spread, especially in the second century CE, of fresh communicative modes we can collectively denote as τελεταί or μυστήρια, whose content could be freely invented by individual mystagogues and which in turn aroused new expectations on the part of their clientèle. It is this dynamic between small-group supply and demand, rightly identified by Weber as dependent upon the access of middling urban groups to new religious ideas, that both required and fostered that specific auto-narrative focused upon independent religious capacity that we may call the mystagogic self.

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Weber-Gesamtausgabe, Bd. I/22–2 (Hans G. Kippenberg, ed. with Petra Schilm). Tübingen. Weinreich, Otto. 1921. “Alexander der Lügenprophet und seine Stellung in der Religiosität des zweiten Jahrhunderts”, Neue Jahrbücher f.d. klass. Altertum 47, 129–51. White, Harrison C. 2008. Identity and Control: How social formations emerge. Princeton. Second ed. of Identity and Control: A structural theory of social action. Princeton, 1992. Woolf, Greg 2012. “Reading and religion in Rome”, in Rüpke, Spickermann (ed.), 193–208. Wulf, Christoph 2008. “Praxis”, in Jens Kreinath, Jan Snoek, Michael Stausberg (eds.), Theorizing Rituals: Issues, Topics, Approaches, Concepts. Numen Book Series 114–1. Leyden, 395–411.

Second Sophistic Perspectives

Philosophical Standards and Individual Life Style: Lucian’s Peregrinus / Proteus – Charlatan and Hero Wolfgang Spickermann The writings of Lucian of Samosata have always been and still are a matter of debate. The author is recognized as one of the leading exponents of Greek education, “paideia”. His literary treatises, of which about eighty are extant, are directed first and foremost at the socio-political upper class of the Roman Empire. The academic debate has therefore revolved around the intentions of the author: Do they refer to cultural and social circumstances of the second century AD and does Lucian present himself as a mediator of a contemporary Greek cultural identity, or does his recourse to classical precedent and ideological retrospective speak to an avid traditionalism? These questions are especially important with a view to the interpretation of one of his best-known treatises, “The Death of Peregrinus”, an event the author claims to have been witness to. In what follows I shall begin by giving a short introduction to the life and writings of Lucian of Samosata before analyzing the intended addressees of his speeches and treatises; thirdly, I shall attempt to outline the image of Heracles within Lucian’s writings, and finally compare this image to the description of Peregrinus’ death in order to show that the precedent Peregrinus was meant to live up to was the standard set by the demi-god and hero which finally revealed Peregrinus as charlatan and fraud in the eyes of the reader. In that respect I want to make clear that Lucian presents in an ironic sense two different aspects of the end of life of Peregrinus. The most important is his ridiculous imitation of Heracles, the patron of many of the philosophers and pepaideumenoi, a synonym for heroism, ascetics and steadfastness who ended his life by voluntarily jumping on a funeral pile. The other aspect is his eager attempt to be worshipped as a godlike hero by himself after his own voluntary death.1

1  Graf, DNP 4, 1998, 73–107 s.v. Herakles. In this respect the imitatio Herculi of the emperor Commodus is not only to be seen in the sense of his imitation of a very strong hero and demigod but also as a response to the high esteem of Heracles by representatives of the so-called Second Sophistic.

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1 The Life and Writings of Lucian of Samosata Lucian was born between 115 and 125 AD, and describes himself as Assyrian in his Dea Syria,2 while elsewhere he uses the words “Syrian” or even “barbarian”.3 This Hellenized Syrian can be both ethnographer to his own territory or tread where Herodotus once trod when he describes the ‘barbarian’ rites of the Syrian goddess in Hierapolis from the perspective of a Hellenistic tourist. In the end we do not know for sure what to make of the literary I within Lucian, of how far fact and fiction, or even biography and fiction come together in his texts.4 What we do know is that Lucian was born in Samosata on the Euphrates, on the furthest boundary of Roman Syria. He went to Ionia to study rhetoric5 and then went on to visit Italy and Gaul where he practiced his craft.6 In 163/64 AD he probably lived in Antioch where he curried the favor of the emperor Lucius Verus who based his Parthian campaign of 161 to 166 in the city. He may have been in Samosata in 161 or 162 AD.7 The self-immolation of the Pythagorean Cynic Peregrinus in Olympia – the event with which this paper is concerned, – dates to the year 165 AD. From this time up to the seventies of the second century, Lucian must have been in Athens where he composed a number of texts. He later seems to have been part of the provincial administration of Egypt (Apol. 12), the prolalia Heracles (Hercules) show him to have returned to his rhetorical practice in advanced age. Since he mentions the divinization of Marcus Aurelius in his Alexander, his death must be placed after 180 AD.8 A systematization of Lucian’s writings lets us distinguish between his rhetorical writings, dialogues, Menippean satires (dialogues revolving around the Cynic Menippos of Gadara of the third century BC), narrative tales and pamphlets on contemporary phenomena. Among these are the already mentioned report on the self-immolation of Peregrinus (“The Death of Peregrinus”), a description of the cult founded by Alexander of Abonoteichos (“Alexander the Oracle Monger”), a treatise on the unworthy existence of Greek philosophers in Roman households (“The Dependent Scholar”), “Remarks addressed to an Illiterate Book-Fancier”, and “The Way to Write History”, a discussion on contemporary historiography dealing with the on-going war against the Parthians.9 In his description of the death of Peregrinus, Lucian pours his scorn on the Christians which earned him the lasting wrath of Christian writers.10 Since Lucian’s style is satirical, entertaining and almost vul Syr. D. 1.8.

 2

 3 Lightfoot

2003, 205.  Ibid.  5  Bis Acc. 27.  6  Bis Acc. 27; also Apol. 15.  7  Lightfoot 2003, 208.  8 Nesselrath 1999, 493.  9  Nesselrath 1999, 497–500. 10  Peregr. 11–16.  4

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gar, conservative philologists have tended to deny his writings any kind of credibility.11 Such an over-critical assessment has given way to a much more balanced view of Lucian although the purpose of the author’s writings is still ultimately a matter of debate. While Josef Delz, James H. Oliver, and Barry Baldwin see in Lucian a critical observer of the political, cultural and social matters of his day, Jacques Bompaire, Jennifer Hall and Matthew D. Macleod are less convinced of the topicality of his writings, and rather emphasize the classicism of his texts. Graham Anderson mediates between these two positions.12 Gilbert Highet drastically highlights the problems arising around Lucian’s writings: “When I try to read these satire in which, with the same subtlety as a freshman preaching atheism, he deflates Bronze Age myths of Zeus and the Olympians and lards his thin dictionary-Attic prose with cultured quotation from correct classics, I feel as though I were trying to savour a satire on the medieval Christian cult of relics in Chaucerian verse by a Hindu of the present day.”13

2 Lucian’s Audience The straight-out rejection of Lucian as a shallow writer has made way to a more balanced appraisal of his writings which we should take a short look at. For it is indeed a problem to the reader if Lucian continues to mislead his audience, never allowing for certainty of any facts, and continuously making the reader wonder whether or not the first person narrator is actually identical with the author. Even the remarkable scene in which the narrator bites the hand of the pseudo-prophet Alexander while visiting Abonoteichos can not necessarily be taken literally.14 But what then remains? And, even more, what can be gained from his texts in terms of religious history? Let us first turn to the literary genre Lucian employs in his writings. The Second Sophistic had an appreciation of erudition which was not restricted to certain topics. On the contrary, it was supportive of extensive learning, the so-called πολιμάϑεια, turning from time to time to mundane literature, thus producing all manner of texts which present their topics in a deliberately indiscriminate order. With regard to his wide range of subjects, one is tempted to also count Lucian among this tradition. However, his primacy of rhetoric is clearly discernible, allowing him to connect with different forms of writings. His Greek style is quite excellent, and he even creates a new form for philosophical dialogue in employing Menippean satire or skillfully connecting different kinds of genre which have not before been used for philosophical writings. His most important  See esp. Helm 1906; also id. 1927, 1771–5 on Lucian’s supposed lack of character. 1993. 13  Highet in Anderson 1993, 1442–3. 14  See Elm von der Osten 2006; see also Szlagor 2005, 35–85. 11

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concern, however, seems to be the critical assessment of the Roman society of the Empire: A society which continuously displays itself as if part of a public theatre performance, developing forms of hierarchically ordered discourse which is also directed at a public audience. Lucian’s satires are, according to Tim Whitmarsh, therefore to be seen in terms of theatrical spaces, directed at imaginary audiences. Within a theater the audience’s hierarchies are already on clear display since different social groups had different seating areas assigned to them. Performances were given accordingly, either in keeping with contemporary tastes and fashions or lacking in this area. Lucian seems to have chosen his topics and handled his subject accordingly, employing communication modes of performative spaces. Examples that prove this point are his treatment of the dialogues Concilium Deorum, the Ikaromenipp and the Zeus Tragodos, since the theatrical character is more than obvious in these cases, and hierarchical structures are on clear display in the discussion of seating order within and admittance to the Olymp. References to contemporary political, social and cultural events are easy to find in these texts.15 Lucian’s topics had to concur with the educational standard of his cultured surroundings, at once honing their own literary skills, while at the same time also holding the attention of a wider audience. As in the theater the author was not restricted to a recitation of facts. Much more important was the presentation of stories, dialogues, and recital of speeches on a high level of skill. Not everything had to be truthfully recorded as long as what was recorded remained creditable. When Lucian in his figure of Nigrinus depicts the conflict between an autonomous lover of truth and the economical and social power of Rome which makes Greek philosophers dependent upon Roman aristocrats, he may criticize, but he does not fundamentally challenge the system. Because of its power, Rome was the new Athens, centre of patronage for philosophers. It is therefore a Roman audience which is addressed in these texts, and which also determines the choice of topics.16 Lucian was a master of the art of combining the instructive with the entertaining. Was there a common notion among his contemporaries about what was deemed acceptable? Was there a sense about what was considered part of their educational stock within the concept of paideia and what was to be considered exotic and alien? And what can have been considered alien if not Ogmios, clearly belonging to a barbarian tradition, though then again his identification with Heracles seems not to have been considered strange at all?

15 16

 See Spickermann 2010.  See Whitmarsh 2001, 265–79.

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3 Heracles in Lucian The figure of Heracles plays an important part within the writings of Lucian, appearing again and again in different dialogues and contexts. The exclamation “by Heracles!” is found as frequently as is “by Jove!” In characterizing this figure, which in the classical and Hellenistic ages served as forefather to many famous families, and whose superhuman strength became the physical ideal for Roman emperors from Trajan to Commodus,17 Lucian draws on classical models. These can be found in Sophocles’ “Trachinian Women” as much as in plays by Aeschylos and Euripides, being also mentioned in Herodotus’ histories. It is unclear whether Seneca’s tragedy “Hercules Oetanus” was known to Lucian, despite its known influence on the philosophical debate of its time. What we do know, however, is that in both cases the heroic content of Heracles is questioned, his very painful death being presented as the consequence of egotistical actions.18 Within Lucian, Heracles is depicted as a helper in need and contemporary to Theseus, the asceticism of both men being their most remarkable traits and greatest deeds.19 For Atlas he upholds the heavenly firmament, embodying actual strength, not just the illusion of strength.20 Lucian even compares himself to the hero in dreaming like Heracles an on-going dream for three subsequent nights.21 The dual nature of Heracles is repeatedly referred to, his coincidental being within Hades and on Mt. Olympos with the other gods not only questioned, but reduced to absurdity.22 Among the council of the gods, Heracles is only a metic since part of him is human, and Momos, the god of censure, is forbidden by Zeus to rebuke Heracles and Asclepius for not being real gods, since, after all, they were his own sons.23 The two demi-gods, both being killed by the flames, also fight among themselves about the question of precedence, until Zeus grants the higher honor (and the better seat at the table) to Asclepius since he died first.24 Heracles on the other hand is described by Lucian / Momos as a former slave of the mortal Eurystheus: and while the latter died, the former was raised to the heavens.25 He remains a tragic hero, killing his children in a fit of madness, whose life is one constant fight, who always falls for the wrong women, being seduced by Omphale to wear women’s garb and spin, and finally finding his end on a pyre on Mount Oita due to the jealousy of Deianeira.26 A further aspect is to be found  Cf. Huttner 1997, esp. 319–23.  Cf. Szlagor 2005, 105–6. 19 Gall. 2.1 and 17.21; Bis acc. 20.37. 20  Charon 4.15; Indoct. 5.14 and 23.18. 21  Somn. 17.1–5. 22  D.Mort. 11 [16]. 23  JTr. 32: Deor. Conc. 6. 24 DDeor. 15 (13). 25  Deor. Conc. 7. 14–48. Cf. Oliver 1980, 306. 26  Apol. 5.8; DDeor. 15; Hist. Cons. 10.17–21; Hermot. 7.18. 17 18

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in the prolalia published under the title “Heracles”, which Lucian composed on his return to practicing oratory.27 Here, Lucian mentions a Heracles Ogmios, an image of whom he had seen in Gaul, depicting the god as a dark-skinned, bald old man with lion’s skin, club and bow. The most remarkable feature of this image is that this aged Heracles drew behind him on thin chains of gold and amber a mass of people. The chains were fastened at the tip of Heracles’ tongue and the ears of the people following him. One of the locals informed him that the Celts saw oratory power not, as did the Greeks, personified by Hermes, but – due to the immense strength and power of the word – in Heracles. Depicting him as an old man followed the belief that rhetorical power comes to full fruition only with advanced age. Lucian’s mention of Ogmios was often referred to – Albrecht Dürer’s picture of Hermes (!) Ogmios is a case in point. Among classical scholars a debate has risen around this deity, particularly since there are no instances of his name being mentioned in any inscription, though it appears on two curse tablets, defixiones, from Bregenz.28 Opinions differ since some scholars identify the deity with Hercules Psychopompos while others assume a possible connection to the Irish Ogma who was credited with the invention of writing. What most scholars disregard, however, is that Lucian never meant to give an accurate description of a cult of Heracles as practiced in Gaul, one which he supposedly knew first hand, but rather that he uses the exotic Ogmios in combination with Heracles to underline the appreciation of eloquence that is felt throughout the empire, thus kindling the interest of his audience.29 While he may well have heard the name during his term as teacher of rhetoric in Gaul, the image of the deity seems devised to fit a particular situation. The text is rather a perfect example of how Lucian worked, his images and illustration seeming perfectly feasible: there are allegorical temple images, there is Ogmios, but the composition is entirely fictional and truly ‘Lucian’. There is no more evidence for Heracles Ogmios than there is for the image of an aged deity Heracles being the personification of eloquence in any kind of Gallic cult. That Heracles was worshipped well outside Greece and identified with other deities is shown by Lucian in interpreting the city’s deity Melqart of Tyros as Heracles in his early treatise on the “Dea Syria”.30 Let us return to the dual nature of Heracles. The conflict of Heracles being at the same time in Hades and on Olympus is already to be found in book 11 of the “Odyssey”, when Odysseus encounters the phantom of Heracles in hell: “And after him I marked the mighty Heracles – his phantom; for he himself among the immortal gods takes his joy in the feast, and has to wife Hebe, of the fair ankles,  On the following, see Spickermann 2008.  Wagner 1956/57, 215–264. no. 8 and 9. On the ongoing discussions see among others Green 1992, 165–6 and Euskirchen 2001, 119–24. 29  Cf. Coenen 1977, 132. 30  DSyr. 3.5–6. 27 28

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daughter of great Zeus and of Here, of the golden sandals.”31 In his “Dialogues of the Dead”, Lucian quotes the first half of verse 603 word for word in a situation in which Diogenes, the first Cynic, meets Heracles (or rather: his phantom) in Hades, and starts to ask uncomfortable questions of the god, doubting his divinity.32 Diogenes asks of Heracles about the distribution of heavenly being on Olympus and mortal being in Hades. Heracles tells him that in Hades he is only a phantom, though part of the same Heracles, just as any human being was part body, part soul. But Diogenes is not satisfied and adds a third part to Heracles: one up in heaven, the incorporeal shadow in Hades, and finally the corporeal body, reduced to ashes on Mt. Oita.33 In his commentary on the “Dialogues of the Dead” Otto Seel sees in this tripartition a foreshadowing of later Christian Nemesian Christology.34 In this context it is, however, less the question of sensory versus intellectual parts of creation, embodied in man, which Nemesios of Emesa discusses in his natura hominis 42; what we have is rather a learned and entertaining discussion of contradictions in Homer, the very point Diogenes makes at the end of the conversation. The ascetic life style of Heracles and his heroic deeds throughout the world qualify him as the patron of cynic philosophers everywhere. In the treatise “The Runaways”, his ironical appearance is that of a savior (Heracles Alexikakos) with staff and knapsack, the typical attire of the Cynic.35 In the “Sale of Creeds”, Diogenes mentions Heracles as his idol, since like him he was a cosmopolite, and like him he was in constant struggle with his lust. In contrast to his idol, however, Diogenes took up this struggle quite voluntarily in an attempt to keep his life pure of all evil.36 In the “Ikaromenipp”, a literary presentation of the ascension of the Cynic Menippos, Heracles hands him the plate of meats. Menippos’ place, as a mortal, is among the metics on Olympus, next to the dubious Pan, Korybas, Attis, and Sabazios.37 The relationship between Heracles and cynic philosophy is an explicit topic in the treatise “Symposium”. In honor of his daughter’s wedding, Aristeinatos invited adherents of different schools of philosophical thought to a sumptuous dinner where they promptly fight over questions of precedence and seats of honor. While they fight, the uninvited cynic Alkidamas appears, refusing a seat by the table but taking his dinner standing and walking around the  Od. 11. 604, tr. Samuel Butler. 11 (16). 1: Καὶ ὀρϑῶς ἔϑυες αὐτὸς μὲν γὰρ ὁ  Ἡρακλῆς ἐν τῷ οὐρανῷ τοῖς ϑεοῖς σύνεστι “καὶ ἔχει καλλίσφυρον “Ηβην,” ἐγὼ δ εἴδωλόν εἰμι αὐτοῦ”; see also Szlagor 2005, 105 n. 38. 33 DMort. 11 (16). 5: ‘Ωδέ πως εἰ γὰρ ὁ μέν τις ἐν οὐρανῷ, ὁ δ παρ’ ἡμῖν σὺ τὸ εἴδωλον, τὸ δ σῶμα ἐν Oἴτῃ κόνις ἤδη γενόμενον, τρία ταῦτα ἤδη γεγένηταιῥ καὶ σκόπει ὅντινα τὸν τρίτον πατέρα ἐπινοήσεις τῷ σώματι. 34  Seel 1967, 249. 35  Fug. 32.10. 36 Vit.Auct. 8.4–8; see also Szlagor 2005, 105 n. 38. 37  Icar. 27.5; cf. Deor.Conc. 1.3. According to Coenen 1977, 98 Lucian refers in this instant to an old literary joke. 31

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hall. If ever he gets tired, he says, he just spreads his cloak on the floor and lies down, just as Heracles is depicted reposing.38 Later on, he proceeds to do just that, lying half-naked on the floor, resting on his left arm, cup in his right hand, in the typical pose in which artists were used to depict Heracles in Phales’ den.39 When finally he raises his glass to the bride, calling upon her Heracles’ blessings, the other guests laugh at his toast, but Alkidamas remains unperturbed: If the bride does not accept our god’s blessing – he speaks of Heracles – she will never have a son of the qualities which Heracles embodied: unsurpassable courage, free thinking, and of immense physical prowess. To underline his point, he uncovers himself completely, whereupon the other guests jeer him again.40 But it was not only the Cynics who worshipped Heracles as their patron, he was also deemed a Pythagorean hero.41 The Cynics’ imitation of Heracles, who is expressly referred to as idol and as patron, finds a furious expression also in Lucian’s text on the death of Peregrinus, to which I shall now turn.

4 The Death of Peregrinus In his text, in the form of a letter to Kronios, Lucian speaks of the self-immolation of the cynic philosopher Peregrinus (Proteus) in honor of the Olympic Games of probably 165 AD, an event which Lucian claims to have witnessed first-hand. The text can be divided into five parts: a short introduction, the praise of Peregrinus in Elis by one Theagenes, the abuse of Peregrinus by a nameless by-stander, the appearance and speech of Peregrinus in Olympia, and in the final part the narrator describes the actual immolation at the conclusion of the Olympic Games, adding some tales and anecdotes about Peregrinus.42 From the very beginning, Lucian depicts Peregrinus as goes, a charlatan, describing his suicide as the result of an ill-directed, uncontainable thirst for glory. With satirical malice, he speaks of the tumultuous career of Peregrinus, adulterer, pederast, patricide, then leader of a Christian community in Palestine all before becoming a Cynic, styling himself a martyr if not god-like hero whose apotheosis was to be witnessed by a mass of people.43 In an attempt to turn aside the charge of patricide, Peregrinus (Proteus) approaches the Ekklēsía of Parion as a major benefactor and signs over his inheritance to the city.44 Lucian’s ridicule of the simple Christians who made such a fraud their leader earned him the wordy  Symp. 13.8.  Symp. 14.12. 40  Symp. 16.6. 41  Porphyr. Vita Pythag. 14 and 35; cf. Graf, DNP 4, 1998, 73–107 s.v. Herakles. 42 Baumbach/ Pilhofer 2005, 6–11. 43  Comprehensively Baumbach/ Hansen 2005, 111–28. 44  Pereg. 15; cf. Delz 1950, 124–5 n. 38. 38 39

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abuse by later Christian writers.45 His appraisal of Christianity is rather mild, however, he calls Christ a sophist who died on the cross and regards his followers as harmless madmen.46 A thorough discussion of the Christian sect was not the goal of the text which is instead aimed at the utter disqualification of Peregrinus. He seems to have had little impact on general opinion about Peregrinus, since Lucian’s thoroughly negative image of the Cynic was not mirrored by later and contemporary authors. Ammianus Marcellinus calls him a famous philosopher, Aulus Gellius an earnest and steadfast man, who later in life was called Proteus, Menander Rhetor calls him a cynic, Athenagoras speaks of oracular statues of Peregrinus and Alexander in Parion, and the Christian author Tertullian mentions him as a pagan example for Christian martyrs.47 Then again, Lucian’s negative judgment already left traces in the eulogy of second century Cynic Demonax of Cypros, who is mentioned with great praise, just as is the Platonic philosopher Nigrinus. Lucian makes Demonax and Peregrinus meet, with Peregrinus scolding the other for taking things too lightly and making humor of life. When Peregrinus tells Demonax: “You have no teeth,” the other responds: “And you, Peregrinus, have no bowels.”48 Lucian does not see Peregrinus practicing what he preaches.49 This is in line with a fundamental criticism with which Lucian meets most philosophical schools of his day, noting that philosophical standards and actual life styles of philosophers rarely coincide. In view of this negative tendency, it is of course difficult to reconstruct the actual circumstances of Peregrinus’ death, as well as his actual position regarding cynic and Pythagorean philosophy and Christianity. His imprisonment as a Christian and his visiting Christians in jail reminds Szlagor strongly of scenes surrounding Socrates’ death,50 although one should bear in mind that visiting imprisoned members of a Christian community was part of the charitable duties of Christians in those days.51 Comparison to Socrates is quite intentional by Lucian, although Peregrinus’ attempt at imitatio is of course without success as becomes obvious during the course of a sea journey which Peregrinus undertakes in the company of a beautiful youth, his ‘Alkibiades’, whom he convinced to become a Cynic. He utterly fails to adhere to his preaching when he grows afraid of a storm hitting the ship, afraid of his own unremarkable death.52 Lucian’s de45 Pereg.

11–6; cf. e.g. Suda Λ 683 Λουκιανός.  Cf. Betz 1961, 12–3 and Szlagor 2005, 95–8. 47  Amm. 29.1.38–9; Gell. 12.11; 8.3; Menand. Rhet. (Sprengel III 349): Athenag. suppl. 26.3; Tert. mart. 4. Mentioned also in Tat. or. 25 and Euseb. Hieron. Chron. 236. Cf. Baumbach/ Hansen 2005, 112–3. 48  Dem. 21, tr. Fowler. 49  Hansen 2005, 134. 50  Pereg. 12; cf. Szlagor 2005, 95–8. On the image of Socrates within Christianity in the second century AD, see also Pilhofer 2005, 63 n. 44. 51  Cf. Ambr., de off. 2.136–44. 52  Pereg. 43; cf. Betz 1961, 172 and Szlagor 2005, 97–8. 46

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scription becomes most interesting when he turns to the actual circumstances of the death of Peregrinus. The immolation itself seems to have taken place with only a small circle of fellow Cynics present, after the conclusion of the Olympic Games, i.e. after the mass of people had already left Elis, left the sanctuary of Zeus. Some days prior, in a speech in the temple of Zeus, Peregrinus lists the many dangers he encountered throughout his life, lists all the hardship he had to endure because he dedicated his life to philosophy. Now, he said, it was time to bring his life to a majestic conclusion in doing as Heracles did, since he had lived as Heracles had lived, and reuniting his self with the ether from which it came. This he must do to help others overcome their fear of death, and even to scorn death, therefore they must become his Philoctetes, another reference to the death of Heracles since Philoctetes is mentioned as the one who lit the hero’s pyre and was given his bow in return.53 This last point is easy to integrate into the cynic philosophy of Peregrinus, who does not aim at a direct ascension to the heavens and dwelling among the gods.54 He rather stresses the connection to Heracles, not only in life, but also in death, as becomes quite clear in the speech of Theagenes of Patras, a fervent admirer of Peregrinus.55 He calls Heracles Patroos, that is patron and forefather of the Cynics in his asceticism and his battle against physical lust.56 And he uses him as a model for his teacher Peregrinus in pointing to his manner of death while Dionysus and Asclepius were killed by lightning, and Empedocles jumped into the volcanic crater of Etna.57 By this kind of not quite accurate narrative, Lucian attempts to further ridicule the speaker, since Asclepius did not die of his own free will, and Dionysus was not killed by lightning.58 Concerning Empedocles, the author even comes to a negative judgment of the figure, since Menippus scolds him when in Hades that he did not jump into the volcano for melancholy reasons, but because he was vain, vainglorious, and in a word, stupid.59 And this is exactly what Theagenes’ opponent picks up on. If Peregrinus meant to die like Heracles, why then did he choose busy Elis to roast himself as if for a feast, and did not seek some nice, quiet mountain where he can calmly go into the fire together with his own personal Philoctetes, i.e. Theagenes.60 And, if Theagenes really means to follow his teacher and master and Heracles, then best for him to jump in the fire right after Peregrinus! For it were 53  Pereg. 33. Another tradition has his son Hyllos being the one who lights the pyre; cf. Szlagor 2005, 106. 54  Pilhofer 2005, 85 n. 112. 55  If this name is meant to recall the winner of the Olympic Games whose statue was ascribed numerous miracles, see below, note 77, or if Theagenes is identical with the Cynic mentioned by Galen, is not clear; cf. Pilhofer 2005, 52 n. 18. The echo will have been intentional by the author, at any rate. 56  Pereg. 4.3; cf. Pilhofer 2005, 51 n. 14. 57  Pereg. 4.10. 58 Pereg. 5.4; cf. Pilhofer 2005, 51 n. 17 and Szlagor 2005, 107–12. 59  DMort. 6.4 [20.4]; cf. Szlagor 2005, 109. 60  Pereg. 21.10.

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hardly staff, knapsack and cloak that are the real marks of the Cynic, but his inner disposition and his deeds. Moreover, as is told in the tragedy, it was the centaurs’ blood which made Heracles jump into the flames – but that was hardly the case for Peregrinus.61 The unknown speaker – most likely a literary expression of Lucian himself – then refers to the Indian Brahmin who, though they too tried to enhance their personal glory, also burned themselves on the pyre, but did so in a much more painful way than Peregrinus did.62 He mentions the immolation of Kalanus of which Onesikritus, historiographer and coxswain of Alexander the Great was a witness, though that be hardly plausible. Kalanus, an Indian sophist in the train of Alexander, had burned himself in Persis in 325 BC, an event which Onesikritus later recorded without having been there himself.63 In 20 BC, Augustus received an Indian delegation, either in Antioch or in Samos, as Nicolaus of Damascus, Plutarch and Cassius Dio tell of; one of the ambassadors, a wise man called Zarmanochegas or Zamaros, later immolated himself in Athens in order to become immortal according to the creed of his fathers.64 Lucian knowingly draws on the much earlier, classical example though he must have known about the later instance in Athens as well. Indian Brahmins and gymnosophists were otherwise known for the exegesis of images and texts and a life spent in contemplation.65 That Brahmins and gymnosophists  – in marked contrast to Peregrinus, who simply jumped into a pit of fire – stood motionless beside, and then on their pyres, is also mentioned in Lucian’s text “The Runaways”.66 At the outset of this dialogue, Zeus confesses to his son Apollo how he had to flee the self-immolation of Peregrinus Proteus in Olympia to Arabia, and that the entire episode still chokes him. However, he is prevented from going into detail, since Philosophy interrupts them, and he has no further chance to complain about the horrid state of events on earth.67 She herself was not present at events in Olympia, since, after all, the place was swarming with charlatans – by which she means the false Cynics.68 And finally, even Hermes has to set out with Heracles to punish the worst of these, runaway slaves, although Heracles grumbles that he would much rather clean the Augean Stables all over again.69 There is another instance also in which he pokes bitter fun at the false cynics.70  Pereg. 24.9–25.2. Cf. the commentary in Pilhofer 2005, 73–4 n. 87. 25.6–20. 63  Arr. An. 7.3; Plut. Alex. 69.6–7. 64  Nikolaos of Damascus in Strabo 15.1.37 = FgrHist90 F 100; a slightly different version is told by Dio 54.9.10. See als Pilhofer 2005, 74–7 n. 90 and Plut. Alex. 69.6. Cf. Hall 1981, 180–2 and Szaglor 2005, 110 n. 49. 65  Macrob. 4.3–4; Luc. Tox. 34.4. On the gymnosophists: Plut. Alex. 64–5. 66  Fug. 7.1–3. 67  Fug. 1–2. Cf. Hansen 2005, 127. 68 Fug. 7.8–9. 69  Fug. 23.2–5; cf. Szlagor 2005, 36. 70  Fug. 31.8. 61

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In contrast to this negative assessment among the gods of Peregrinus’ staging of his death stands the opinion among his followers. It is said, for one, that a vulture flew out of the flames, stating in a human voice that he was now ascending to heaven, while an old, honorable looking man, dressed all in white and crowned with an olive wreath, was seen to walk around the area.71 Such a description is very reminiscent of the practice of the emperors’ apotheosis in Rome. A mock description of the practice is obviously intended, including the flight of a bird (a vulture, not an eagle!) and a witness stating that he saw the soul rise up to heaven.72 There is even a slight criticism by Lucian of the practice of deification of emperors and rulers. This is to be found in the “Dialogues of the Dead”, in which Diogenes jeers at Alexander’s admittance to the twelve-god pantheon among the Greeks who even built temples in his honor, while Alexander himself had hoped to become another Anubis or Osiris by having his body transferred to Egypt by Ptolemaios.73 Therefore, Lucian is hardly surprised in finding statues of the new heros Proteus/Peregrinus put up in Elis and in other parts of Greece, since the deceased himself took care to have messengers be ready to speed the news of his death to the cities so that they may vote on which honors to bestow on him.74 That this in fact did happen is proven by the relatively early mention of statues in Parion, the city of Peregrinus’ birth, which is attested in Athenagoras. Lucian’s report can therefore be read as a Vaticinium ex eventu,75 since Theagenes’ fictional opponent had already prophesied that Peregrinus will rise like a phoenix from the ashes and be divinized.76 Mention is also made of miracle-working statues in another context. Pausanias mentions that the statues of Polydama and the Olympic champion Theagenes were responsible for a number of miracles and even healed the ill.77 There even seems to have risen up something like a relic cult. In his “Illiterate Book-Fancier”, Lucian claims that “a few days ago” the staff of Proteus (Peregrinus) who was burned in Olympia was actually sold for one thousand drachma.78 71 Pereg.

39–40.  Cf. Pilhofer 2005, 87–8 n. 126. Nesselrath 2001, 162 sees in the vulture an element of neo-Pythagorean philosophy; cf. Hall 1981, 178–82 and Jones 1986, 129. Another influence comes from Seneca’s Apokolokyntosis (“The Pumpkinification of Claudius”). 73  D.Mort. 13.2–3. 74 Pereg. 41. 75  Cf. Szlagor 2005, 121. 76  Pereg. 27–30. 77 Pausan. 6.11.5,4–9; see also Jones 1986, 37 n. 18. 49. An ironical assessment of the miraculous statues: Philops. 18–20; see also Szlagor 2005, 109–10. 78  Ind. 14: Lucian ridicules the “relic cult” of his time. A few days ago, someone bought the staff of Proteus (Peregrinus) for a thousand drachmae, in Tegea, the skin of the Calydonian boar was on display, in Thebes were the bones of the giant Geryon and in Memphis the locks of Isis: χϑς δ καὶ πρῴην ἄλλος τις τὴν Πρωτέως τοῦ Κυνικοῦ βακτηρίαν, ἣν καταϑέμενος ἥλατο εἰς τὸ πῦρ, ταλάντου κἀκεῖνος ἐπρίατο, καὶ ἔχει μ ν τὸ κειμήλιον τοῦτο καὶ δείκνυσιν ὡς Τεγεᾶται τοῦ Καλυδωνίου ὑὸς τὸ δέρμα καὶ Θηβαῖοι τὰ ὀστᾶ τοῦ Γηρυόνου καὶ Μεμφῖται τῆς ”Ισιδος 72

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Lucian is altogether critical of any kind of relic cult. He names Polydama in Olympia, Theagenes of Thasos, Hector in Troika and Protesilaus on Chersonnes.79 He also reminds the reader that Hephaistion was deified after his death, receiving his own cult,80 and that the Scythian Toxaris was worshipped in Athens as one of the heroes.81 Although unmentioned, a certain reference to contemporary practice cannot be denied. The death of Antinous in Egypt and his deification by Hadrian is also referred to, as Lucian picks up on this event in several places in his narration of the Zeus–Ganymed tale.82 It was very advisable to not be explicit in this context, though he made mention also of Athenodorus of Tarsus, the teacher of Augustus, who after his death became patron deity to his home city.83 Lucian is much more critical of Trophonius and Amphilochus, one, because of their oracular functions, two, because they were worshipped as gods although they were mere mortal beings, descending to Hades after their deaths, where Menippos greeted them with his critical questions.84 Both are termed by Lucian γόητες, i.e. charlatans.85

5 Conclusion The ascetic life of Heracles, unsurpassable in courage, free in thought, and of greatest physical strength whose most remarkable feat was the suppression of his own desires, was a model not only for the life style of cynic philosophers. Like them he was citizen of no town, but of the world, though his wanderings were – unlike those of Diogenes – not quite voluntarily, but forced. And his end too is imitable. Disregarding his own death he jumps into the fire which Philoctetes has lit for him. Mostly unmentioned is the fact that he did so because he could τοὺς πλοκάμους αὐτὸς δ ὁ τοῦ ϑαυμαστοῦ κτήματος δεσπότης καὶ αὐτὸν σ τῇ ἀπαιδευσίᾳ καὶ βδελυρίᾳ ὑπερηκόντισεν. ὁρᾷς ὅπως κακοδαιμόνως διάκειται, βακτηρίας εἰς τὴν κεφαλὴν ὡς ἀληϑῶς δεόμενος. 79  Deor.Conc. 12–3. Protesilaos in Hades: D.Mort. 27 [19] and 28 [23]. 80  Calumn. 17–9; cf. Szlagor 2005, 122. 81 Skyth. 1.18–23. 82  Deor.Conc. 8; DDeor. 8 [5] and 10 [4]. On the polemics concerning Antinous and Ganymede, see Clem. Alex. Protrep. 4.49.1 and Tat. or. 10. Unlike assumed by Jones 1986, 37–8, Lucian does not gloss over the deification of Antinous and the apotheosis of the emperors, but it also cautious enough never to talk about it directly. 83 Macrob. 23.17. 84  Deor.Conc. 12; DMort. 10 [3]. Amphilochos had an oracle site in Mallos (Cilicia). In Athens, an altar was dedicated to him, a heroon in Sparta. He is mentioned frequently: Od. 15.248; Hdt. 3.91; 7.91; Thuk. 2.68; Apollod. 3.82; 3.86; 3.129; 9.2; 9.19; Strab. 157. 271. 668. 675–6; Pausan. 1.34.3; 2.18.4–5; 2.20.5; 3.15.8; 5.17.7; 10.10.4. The oracle in the cave of Trophonius in Lebaidaia (Boeotia) is described by Paus. 9.39. Apollonius of Tyana, teacher of pseudo-prophet Alexander, is mentioned by Lucian as having visited the site. Cf. Bonnechere 2003. 85  Cf. Nesselrath 2001, 159 n. 19. On the preceding see Spickermann 2009, 256–9.

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no longer stand the pain of the cloak which his wife Deianeira had given to him and which was drenched in centaurs’ blood. Still, the gods reward him and admit him into heaven, and being actually a mortal demi-god, only his phantom need go down to Hades. Being a strong and hardy companion, Heracles was a much worshipped god throughout the Hellenic and Roman world even in the days of Lucian. Both imitation of Heracles and the practice of suicide were traditional elements of cynic philosophy.86 By his example, Peregrinus sought to immortalize himself among his contemporaries; his scorn for death was understood to be the focal point of his deed, while the hope to be admitted to Olympus or being worshipped as a nocturnal daimon would have been quite un-cynic.87 His pane­ gyrist Theagenes makes a most absurd comparison to Zeus whose statue was fashioned by Phidias, while Peregrinus was made by nature, these two being the most supreme creations in this world.88 He thus underlines the individuality of Peregrinus in that he differs strongly in his being and in his actions from all the people who shared his life. Scholarship has repeatedly suggested that Peregrinus’ death was modeled on the death of Christian martyrs, especially the Martyrium Polycarpi, but it is hardly plausible that this text, after Peregrinus turned his back on Christianity, was known to him, let alone influenced him.89 Unlike Szlagor, however, I also do not assume Socrates, but Heracles to be the model for Peregrinus’ suicide, the yard stick against which Lucian measured all his actions.90 Lucian’s aim was to paint Peregrinus as a fraud, a quasi-philosopher who does not only jump into the fire because of his contempt for death, but because he feared that he might lose influence with advanced age and would rather become a daimon and live in the memory and worship of men forever. In Lucian’s mind, Peregrinus just cannot stand the thought that he might one day be forgotten. So, after careful consideration and planning, he decided to imitate Heracles who also died by fire and was deified after his death. That Heracles was driven to his death is dropped surreptitiously, discrediting Peregrinus’ attempts to die in the same way.91 NeoPythagorean modes of thought may once again have played their part, since for them, too, Heracles was of great importance: his followers believed in his reincarnation as a nocturnal daimon of oracular powers who punished the guilty and protected the weak. His new dwelling was believed to be paradise on the moon. Cynics and Neo-Pythagoreans were also both interested in the practices of Indian Brahmin.92 Later on, Peregrinus was given the name Proteus by his  Diog. Laert. 6.76, 95, 100; Demon. 65; cf. Hall 1981, 178.  Hall 1981, 178. 88  Pereg. 6.1–2; cf. Szlagor 2005, 209. 89  Hall 1981, 178 and 508 n. 28. 90 Szlagor 2005, 104–12. 91  Cf. Szlagor 2005, 106. 92  Hall 1981, 179 and 501 n. 301. 86 87

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worshippers, in reference to the Homeric hero who also had to change his stance time and again, just as Peregrinus was a Christian before he became a Cynic. Lucian has three names for him: Peregrinus, Proteus and, used ironically, Phoenix.93 For him, Peregrinus is the opposite of the cynic philosopher Demonax, a charlatan, just as was Alexander of Abonoteichos, who must be unmasked and measured by their own standards. Peregrinus, Lucian holds, was never actually concerned with cynic ideals such as asceticism and the disregard of death; he rather attempted to become a new Heracles in conclusion of his life of murder, slander and lies, and his general parasite existence, modeling himself as the tragic hero who dies in emulation of his patron deity in order to gain everlasting glory. And that was just the same way in which the legendary Zalmoxis became a god among the Thracians, if one is to believe Herodotus. The supposed slave of Pythagoras came to Thrace after his manumission, there to preach his teacher’s musings on immortality and putting on a dinner of the blessed to which he invited the nobles of the city, another circumstance Lucian refers to in his “True History”.94 Lucian criticizes the awful autonomy with which Scythians and Getes created their own deities, Zalmoxis among them.95 The Thracians, says Lucian, sacrificed to him who came among them as a mortal and a refugee of Samos.96 And the worst part was that in Peregrinus’ case, all his supposed intentions succeeded. He had numerous followers who swore to his spirit rising to the heavens and who worshipped him as Proteus. He thus becomes the founding figure of his own cult. Lucian uses this example to demonstrate the stupidity of humankind who is always ready to fall for a fraud like Peregrinus and laugh at those who take the reasonable stand against such ridiculous practices. His descriptions of the charlatans Alexander and Peregrinus are to be seen in contrast to the very positive depictions of Demonax and also, in part, of Nigrinus. However, Lucian’s description of the death of Peregrinus is never to be taken at face value. Like all of his writings, it is a satirical composition of a moralist who despite clear references to his own age and day created fictional circumstances in which he can display Peregrinus as the charlatan and Demonax as the good man he believed them to be, satirically contorting the image of the ϑεῖου ἄνδρες in doing so. For he believed that philosophical moral claims and individual life style should always be in accord in the life of a pepaideumenos.

 Hall 1981, 179; cf. Pilhofer 2005, 48–9 n. 2. 4.94–96; cf. Möllendorf 2000, 348–9. 95  Deor.Conc. 9; Skyth. 1.18; 2.4. In VH 2.17.5 he is again a Thracian, cf. Coenen 1977, 123. 96  JTr. 42. 93

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Bibliography Anderson, Graham 1993. The Second Sophistic: A Cultural Phenomenon in the Roman Empire, London, New York. Baldwin, Barry 1973. Studies in Lucian, Toronto. Baumbach, Manuel 2005. “V.  Phönix aus lukianischer Asche: Peregrinos Proteus im Spiegel seiner Rezeption”, in Peter Pilhofer et al. (eds.), Lukian. Der Tod des Peregrinos. Ein Scharlatan auf dem Scheiterhaufen. SAPERE 9, Darmstadt, 198–227. Baumbach, Manuel, Dirk U. Hansen 2005. “Die Karriere des Peregrinos Proteus”, in Peter Pilhofer et al. (eds.), Lukian. Der Tod des Peregrinos. Ein Scharlatan auf dem Scheiterhaufen. SAPERE 9, Darmstadt, 111–28. Baumbach, Manuel, Peter Pilhofer 2005. “Einleitung”, in: Peter Pilhofer et al. (eds.), Lukian. Der Tod des Peregrinos. Ein Scharlatan auf dem Scheiterhaufen. SAPERE 9, Darmstadt, 3–13. Bendlin, Andreas 2006. “Vom Nutzen und Nachteil der Mantik: Orakel im Medium von Handlung und Literatur in der Zeit der Zweiten Sophistik”, in: Dorothee Elm von der Osten; Jörg Rüpke; Katharina Waldner (eds.), Texte als Medium und Reflexion von Religion im römischen Reich. Potsdamer Altertumswissenschaftliche Beiträge 14, Stuttgart, 159–208. Betz, Hans Dieter 1961. Lukian von Samosata und das Neue Testament. Religionsgeschichtliche und paränetische Parallelen. Ein Beitrag zum Corpus Hellenisticum Novi Testamenti. Texte und Untersuchungen zur Geschichte der altchristlichen Literatur 76, V. Reihe, Band 21, Berlin. Bompaire, Jaques 1958. Lucien écrivain: Imitation et creation, Paris. Bonnechere, Pierre 2003. Trophonios de Lébadée Cultes et mythes d’une cité béotienne au miroir de la mentalité antique. Religions in the Graeco-Roman World 150, Leiden, Boston. Branham, Robert B. 1989. Unruly Eloquence. Lucian and the Comedy of Traditions. Revealing Antiquity 2, Cambridge, Mass. Caster, Marcel ²1984. Lucien et la pensée religieuse de son temps, Paris. Coenen, Jürgen 1977. Lukian. Zeus tragodos. Überlieferungsgeschichte, Text und Kommentar. Beiträge zur klassischen Philologie 88, Meisenheim am Glan. Delz, Josef 1950. Lukians Kenntnis der athenischen Antiquitäten, Freiburg/U. Ebner, Martin et al. (eds.) 2001. Lukian Φιλοψευδεῖς ἢ Ἇπιστῶν. Die Lügenfreunde oder: der Ungläubige. SAPERE 3, Darmstadt. Elm von der Osten, Dorothee 2006. “Die Inszenierung des Betruges und seiner Entlarvung: Divination und ihre Kritiker in Lukians Schrift ‘Alexandros oder der Lügenprophet’”, in ead.; Jörg Rüpke; Katharina Waldner (eds.), Texte als Medium und Reflexion von Religion im römischen Reich. Potsdamer Altertumswissenschaftliche Beiträge 14, Stuttgart, 141–57. Gerlach, Jens 2005. “Die Figur des Scharlatans bei Lukian”, in Peter Pilhofer et al. (eds.), Lukian. Der Tod des Peregrinos. Ein Scharlatan auf dem Scheiterhaufen. SAPERE 9, Darmstadt. 151–97. Hall, Jennifer 1981. Lucians Satire, New York. Hansen, Dirk U. 2005. “Lukians Peregrinos: Zwei Inszenierungen eines Selbstmordes”, in Peter Pilhofer et al. (eds.), Lukian. Der Tod des Peregrinos. Ein Scharlatan auf dem Scheiterhaufen. SAPERE 9, Darmstadt. 129–50. Helm, Rudolf 1906. Lucian und Menipp, Leipzig/Berlin.

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– 1927. “Lukianos”, RE 13,2, 1725–77. Highet, Gilbert 1962. The Anatomy of Satire, Princeton. Huttner, Ulrich 1997. Die politische Rolle der Heraklesgestalt im griechischen Herrschertum. Historia Einzelschriften 112, Stuttgart. Jones, Christopher P. 1986. Culture and Society in Lucian, Cambridge, Mass. Lightfoot, Jane L. (ed.) 2003. Lucian. On The Syrian Goddess, Oxford. Macleod, Matthew D. (ed.) 1991. Lucian. A Selection, Warminster. – 1994. Lucianic Studies since 1930. Aufstieg und Niedergang der Römischen Welt II, 34, 2, Berlin, New York, 1362–1421. Möllendorf, Peter von 2000. Auf der Suche nach der verlogenen Wahrheit. Lukians Wahre Geschichten. Classica Monacensia 21, Tübingen. Nesselrath, Heinz-G. 1999. “Lukianos”, in Hubert Cancik, Helmuth Schneider (eds.), Der Neue Pauly. Enzyklopädie der Antike 7, Stuttgart, Weimar, 493–501. – 2001. “Lukian und die Magie”, in Martin Ebner et al. (eds.), Lukian Φιλοψευδεῖς ἢ Ἇπιστῶν. Die Lügenfreunde oder: der Ungläubige. SAPERE 3, Darmstadt, 153–66. Oliver, James H. 1980. “The actuality of Lucian’s Assembly of the Gods”, American Journal of Philology 101, 304–13. Pilhofer, Peter 2005. “Anmerkungen”, in id. et al. (eds.), Lukian. Der Tod des Peregrinos. Ein Scharlatan auf dem Scheiterhaufen. SAPERE 9, Darmstadt, 48–93. Robinson, Christopher 1979. Lucian and his influence in Europe, London. Seel, Otto (ed.) 1967. Gespräche der Götter und Meergötter, der Toten und Hetären. Reclam 1133, Stuttgart. Spickermann, Wolfgang 2008. “Ekphrasis und Religion: Lukian und der Hercules Ogmios”, in: Günther Schörner, Darja Šterbenc-Erker (eds.), Medien religiöser Kommunikation im Imperium Romanum. Potsdamer Altertumswissenschaftliche Beiträge 24, Stuttgart, 53–63. – 2009. “Lukian von Samosata und die fremden Götter”, Archiv für Religionsgeschichte 11, 229–61. – 2010. “Lukian von Samosata und die Volksversammlungen”, in Vera Dement’eva, Tassilo Schmitt (eds.), Volk und Demokratie im Altertum. Bremer Beiträge zur Altertumswissenschaft 1, Göttingen. Szlagor, Barbara 2005. Verflochtene Bilder. Lukians Porträts zeitgenössischer ϑεῖοι ἄνδρες und seine literarische Selbstprojektion in Alexander, De Morte Peregrini, Demonax und Nigrinus. Bochumer Altertumswissenschaftliches Colloquium 63, Trier. Witmarsh, Tim 2001. Greek Literature and the Roman Empire. The Politics of Imitation, Oxford.

Habitus Corporis: Age Topoi in Lucian’s Alexander or the False Prophet and The Apology of Apuleius Dorothee Elm von der Osten 1 Introduction In this piece, I shall discuss two second-century texts composed in the intellectual context of the Second Sophistic, both of which describe religious individuals. These works stand at the confluence of two literary forms that portray individual personalities: biography and apology. As a genre, apology has the potential to strongly shift the ‘I’ to the centre of the text, making it a rhetorical vehicle well suited for literary self-fashioning. When viewed in comparison to biography, it can be seen as an early form of autobiography. Recent scholarship has linked a trend towards these biographic forms in the Second Sophistic with the emergence of a new sense of the self. 1 The religious individuals on display in the biography and apology discussed here are Alexander of Abonuteichos – or the False Prophet, as Lucian calls him, – and Apuleius of Madaura. Alexander is presented as the founder and prophet of a successful oracular cult in Asia Minor, whereas Apuleius presents himself as on trial in Sabratha in North Africa, defending himself against charges of religious misconduct, termed magic. The prophet Alexander’s self-fashioning is observed and judged by the philosophically educated first-person narrator ‘Lucian’, who holds Epicurean leanings. The apologetic, rhetorical ‘I’ that Apuleius fashions for himself is that of a ‘Socrates Africanus’, a persona that entails a Platonic view of the self. Central to my inquiry into the self-display of these two religious figures is their concern with their bodies – specifically with the appearance of a particular part of it, their hair. How do they care for their hair and – more precisely – how do they deal with its transformation brought about by the process of aging? The way one fashions one’s hair is – like dress – an important means of self-performance. Hair-style could ideally mirror the interior regulation of a philosophically edu Cf. Foucault 1986, Perkins 1995, Edwards 1997, Withmarsh 2005, 74.

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cated male, but could also be perceived as potentially misleading, hiding the true state of the self.2 Likewise I shall ask in which discursive contexts a ‘literary’ religious self is shaped. In what ways is individuality produced in the debate? How are individual differences made and evaluated in a literary text shaped by rhetorical topoi that reveal discursively constructed common assumptions about certain roles? According to rhetorical theory the topos habitus corporis bears on several attributa personis, such as gender, age, occupation and juridical and social status. Which character traits does an individual want to display, which (religious) roles does he assume with a certain hairstyle? One of the central statements which the orator Cato makes at the beginning of Cicero’s Cato maior de senectute, is that it is inappropriate for a philosophically educated man not to accept, and indeed to resist, the natural changes which age brings. He uses an image from mythology as an illustration of his sentiment: a man who resists old age is like a giant who fights with the gods – he engages in a hopeless struggle.3 As Cicero’s de senectute and other ancient texts proclaim, it was and remains one of the greatest challenges of life, for the wise man to grow old with dignity. Old age spent honourably  – the honesta senectus  – also requires one to deal appropriately with those physical changes which go hand in hand with aging. Juvenal includes in his tenth satire the following devastating features of aging: wrinkles, a trembling voice, similarly trembling legs, missing teeth, a dripping nose, and not least of all baldness: sed quam continuis et quantis longa senectus/plena malis! deformem et taetrum ante omnia vultum / dissimilemque sui; deformem pro cute pellem/pendentesque genas et tales aspice rugas, / quales, umbriferos ubi pandit Tabraca saltus,/in vetula scalpit iam mater simia bucca. / plurima sunt iuvenum discrimina: pulchrior ille/hoc atque ore alio; multum hic robustior illo. / una secum facies: cum voce trementia membra/et iam leve caput madidique infantia nasi. / frangendus misero gingiva panis inermi. But just think of the many, never ending disadvantages an extended old age is full of! Take a look at its face, first of all – ugly and hideous and unrecognizable – and the ugly hide in place of skin and the drooping jowls and the wrinkles. The mother ape scratches wrinkles like those on her aged cheek in the extensive shady groves of Thabraca. There are so many differences between young men: he is better looking than him and he than another, he is much more sturdy than him. But old men all look the same: voice and body trembling alike, head now quite smooth, a baby’s dripping nose.4

 Cf. the contribution of Maier in this volume. Cato 5: quid est enim aliud Gigantum modo bellare cum dis nisi naturae repugnare? – “For what is warring against the gods, as the giants did, other than fighting against Nature?” 4  Juv. 10. 190–200. 2

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From the perspective of ancient medicine, bodily aging was considered to be a process of cooling down and dehydration, while at the same time it was understood as the accumulation of fluids.5 In Cicero’s work, the speaker Cato also holds that it is absolutely necessary and appropriate to struggle against the symptoms of this process, through exercise and by following a specific diet: Resistendum, Laeli et Scipio, senectuti est, eiusque vitia diligentia compensanda sunt; pugnandum tamquam contra morbum sic contra senectutem: habenda ratio valetudinis, utendum exercitationibus modicis, tantum cibi et potionis adhibendum, ut reficiantur vires, non opprimantur. But it is our duty, my young friends, to resist old age; (36) to compensate for its defects by a watchful care; to fight against it as we would fight against disease; to adopt a regiment of health; to practice moderate exercise; and to take just enough of food and drink to restore our strength and not to over-burden it.

This holds equally true for the narrator in Plutarch’s treatise An seni res republica gerenda sit.6 The appropriate way of dealing with particularly conspicuous signs of aging in men, namely hair loss and the resulting baldness, is neither treated explicitly in Cicero’s work nor in Plutarch’s. It is however implied and – in the case of Cicero – also illustrated in republican portraits, that a high forehead could connote positively the dignity of old age.7 In particular, the remaining wreath of silver hair is topically known as a diadem that crowns old age and thus symbolizes its claim to power.8 This essay is about the condition of the hair and baldness in the context of other writings – and in an abstract sense about the pragmatics of topoi of age in disputes over the legitimacy of religious and philosophical experts. The work of Lucian of Samosata entitled Alexander or the False Prophet will serve as a starting point. Apuleius of Madaurus’s courtroom speech Pro se de magia will be used as an additional example. But before I deal with these texts, I shall first outline the term topos and the manner in which it will be used below.9 Put extremely simply and schematically, topoi belong, in the formal sense of classical rhetoric, to the first stage of speech production, that is, finding and 5 Cf.

among others Wöhrle 2004; Horstmanshoff 2005, 32–3 and Steger 2009.  Cic. Cato, 35–6: In the essay An seni res publica gerenda the speaker Plutarch also recommends exercise appropriate to one’s age. Even if the body may no longer throw the discus or bear the weight of armor, one should not take to physical inactivity. He suggests rather slight physical training such as rocking or walking or light ball games over conversations, which would enliven breathing and warm up the body. Plut. An seni resp. ger. 793 B. 7  Cf. Brandt 2005, 137–150, here 149: “Betonung eines würdevollen bürgerlichen habitus.” 8  For example, Plut. An seni resp. ger. 789 D. On the silver fringe as a diadem in Old Testament literature, see Liess 2009. 9  In this article, I address the concept of topos in a narrow frame and straightforward manner, and thus it is not shown in all its complexity. For a fuller discussion cf. the Introduction in Elm, Fitzon, Liess, Linden 2009, 1–18. For an introduction to rhetoric, see Ueding and Steinbrink 1986; Cf. in particular 217–35 on evidence. 6

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inventing the substance of the speech, the inventio. These topoi / loci can be described as search formulas that make it possible to select from a great wealth of possible arguments and evince relevant content. In principle, the speaker can base his case upon two sets of arguments or evidence, on the one hand the “natural” evidence (probationes inartificiales), and on the other the “artificial” (probationes artificiales). According to Cicero’s De oratore and to Quintilian this first classification is based “on given facts” such as documents or contracts.10 The discovery of these arguments or proofs needs less recourse to rhetorical artistry, since they are found in association with the facts. The probationes artificales, however, must be found with the help of ars or developed from the facts. With them, it is more about the psychological effect of hedging an already completed argument with detail.11 Systematic search formulas, the loci, primarily help in forming the probationes artificiales. According to Quintilian the total amount of search formulas is divided into two groups: into the loci a re, which arise from the given matter, and the loci a persona, the qualities and conditions (attributa personis) relating to the persona, which can serve as locations where arguments are found.12 Building on Quintilian one can make the following subdivisions from the last group: in addition to origin, education and training, social status, profession and nature, all of which can be used as reasons for specific behaviors, sex (sexus), age (aetas), and habitus corporis are also of particularly great importance.13 Thus the different behaviors of men and women can also be gendered, certain conduct may relate to age, and thus also specific corporeal conditions may be grounds for a person’s conduct. The topica were not simply a device for finding the loci of the argument: in a different shade of meaning they also indicate an inventory of socially accepted arguments. The point of the topica – as Knape stresses – is “not rigorous scientific evidence, but rather the finding of consensus.”14 Referring to Bornscheuer’s concept of the habituality of topoi, he states more correctly: “Textual production must consult the prevailing codes in the search of semantically significant

de orat. 2.27.116; 2.24.100; corresponding to Quintilian: Quint. inst. 5.1.1. Citation: Ueding, Steinbrink 1986, 218. 11 Bornscheuer 1976, 78–9. 12  Quint. inst. 5.8.4. Cf. on Cicero’s treatment of the topic in De inventione (inv. 1.34–43) Calboli Montefusco 2000. 13 Cf. Ueding, Steinbrink 1986, 220–5. Lineage (genus, natio oder patria): Quint. inst. 5.10.24; education and training (educatio et disciplina): inst. 5.10.25; professional activity (studia): inst. 5.10.27; nature (animi natura): inst. 5.10.27; gender (sexus): inst. 5.10.25; age (aetas): inst. 5.10.25; condition of the body (habitus corporis), inst. 5.10.26. The attributa personis are – as far as they relate to qualities – nearly infinite and thus their number varies depending on training. Cf. Calboli Montefusco 2000, 39. 14  Knape 2000, 752 with evidence from Arist. top. 1.1: “[Es geht] nicht um strenge wissenschaftliche Beweise, sondern um Konsensfindung.” 10 Cic.

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text blocks.”15 When using the term “code”, Knape alludes to the sociolinguistic representations of group-specific, embodied ways of understanding, which transport corresponding group‑ or code-specific contents.16 He explains in the following passage with regard to Bornscheuer: Such leading aspects are by nature discursively bound in rules. Partly they have a pancultural range and partly they are limited to certain important areas of knowledge. The topical ‘note formula’ conveys itself to certain individuals as members of categorical groups via common language, education, and social awareness.17

How do these preliminary reflections allow us to define the question more precisely? For finding arguments  – as seen above – the attributa personis are important. In the following two examples I will pay particular attention to how the nature of the body, the habitus corporis, and age, aetas, can be used as loci argumentorum and how they can be combined with one another. This will be done using the example of the physical signs of aging and, in particular the behavior that results from baldness and other changes that occur to hair in the course of aging. How is the ‘correct’ or ‘incorrect’ way of dealing with these bodily changes used argumentatively? What function did it provide for the self-representation and satirical deconstruction of religious experts? Which group-specific codes come into play? How were discrepancies between different discourses used in argumentation? First, in the example of the Lucianic Alexander, the argumentative use of the age topoi is examined in connection with the operation of satire. Then, the rhetorical text of Apuleius takes centre stage. In what follows, the notion of a topos is used predominantly in a material sense, to identify the content of an argument.

2 Lucian’s Alexander or the False Prophet 2.1 Introduction: Unmasking False Prophecy and Misguided Piety In the last section of the text Alexander or the False Prophet the first-person narrator Lucian describes to the Epicurean Celsus, his revered friend and also the

15  Bornscheuer 1976; Knape 2000, 752: “soziolinguistische Vorstellungen von gruppenspezifisch verankerten Verständigungsweisen, die entsprechend auch gruppen‑ bzw. kodespezifische inhaltliche Komponenten transportieren.” 16  Knape 2000, 752 n. 26. 17  Knape 2000, 753 with a citation from Bornscheuer 1976, 103: “Solche ‘leitenden Gesichtspunkte’ sind natürlich in der Regel diskursgebunden. Teils haben sie gesamtkulturelle Reichweite, teils nur für bestimmte wichtige Wissensbereiche. Die topische ‘Merkformel’ vermittelt sich dem Einzelnen in seiner Eigenschaft als Mitglied jeweils bestimmter, durch gemeinsame Sprache, Bildung und soziales Bewusstsein typisierbarer Gruppen.” All translations are my own unless noted otherwise.

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addressee of the account, the inglorious end of Alexander of Abonuteichos with the following words (Alex. 59–60): [59] προειπὼν δὲ διὰ χρησμοῦ περὶ αὑτοῦ ὅτι ζῆσαι εἵμαρται αὐτῷ ἔτη πεντήκοντα καὶ ἑκατόν, εἶτα κεραυνῷ βληϑέντα ἀποϑανεῖν, οἰκτίστῳ τέλει οὐδὲ ἑβδομήκοντα ἔτη γεγονὼς ἀπέϑανεν, ὡς Ποδαλειρίου υἱὸς διασαπεὶς τὸν πόδα μέχρι τοῦ βουβῶνος καὶ σκωλήκων ζέσας· ὅτεπερ καὶ ἐφωράϑη φαλακρὸς ὤν, παρέχων τοῖς ἰατροῖς ἐπιβρέχειν αὐτοῦ τὴν κεφαλὴν διὰ τὴν ὀδύνην, ὃ οὐκ ἂν ποιῆσαι ἐδύναντο μὴ οὐχὶ τῆς φενάκης ἀφῃρημένης. [60] τοιοῦτο τέλος τῆς Ἀλεξάνδρου τραγῳδίας καὶ αὕτη τοῦ παντὸς δράματος ἡ καταστροφὴ ἐγένετο, ὡς εἰκάζειν προνοίας τινὸς τὸ τοιοῦτου, εἰ καὶ κατὰ τύχην συνέβη. [59] In spite of his predication in an oracle that he was fated to live a hundred and fifty years and then die by a stroke of lightning, he met a most wretched end before reaching the age of seventy, in a manner that befitted a son of Podaleirius; for his leg became mortified right up to the groin and was infested with maggots. It was then that his baldness was detected when because of the pain he let the doctors foment his head, which they could not have done unless his wig had been removed. [60] Such was the conclusion of Alexander’s spectacular career, and such the dénouement of the whole play; being as it was, it resembled an act of Providence, although it came about by chance.

At the end of his life the wig was taken off the head of the alleged prophet Alexander. The ‘mask,’ the persona, which this man had established, had to be removed, forced by the hand of sickness and ultimately nature.18 With this literal unmasking, the narrator’s concern becomes symbolized in an act: his report serves the purpose of the distinction between claim and reality, the distancing of projected self-image and actual personality, of persona and man (ingenium; natura animi). This unmasking thus serves to reveal the theatricality of a production, in which the prophet Alexander is not only the lead actor but also the director.19 Put briefly, the work is committed to the demand of all satire, whose effect is based on producing distance performatively. “Satire is not a response to a prior difference” – so formulates Bogel – “but an effort to make a difference, to create distance, between figures whom the satirist – who is one of those figures – perceives to be insufficiently distanced.”20 What is at stake in this work? The text Alexander or the False Prophet, probably written after 180 C. E., describes the life of the cult founder and first prophet of the new Asclepius Glykon. This is an oracular, healing god who was revered with a cult from the middle of the second century C. E., in the port city of Abonuteichos located in the province of Pontus. Numismatic, archaeological and 18  For the locus classicus on the philosophical reflection of the persona-concept in rhetoric, cf. Cic. off. 1.107–25. On thinking in social roles, which is found in the texts of rhetorically trained authors, cf. Fuhrer 2007, 55 n. 2. 19 Cf. Elm von der Osten 2006. 20  Bogel 1988, 45. See also Whitmarsh 2001, 248 on the function of satire in Lucian: “The socio-politics of satire, […] are performative not descriptive.”

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epigraphic effects seem to confirm that the Lucianic narrative has some basis in actual events.21 The satirical work, which bears the features of a diatribe, depicts the young Alexander as a wandering magician, a student of a doctor who had himself studied under the Neopythagorean Apollonius of Tyana. Supposedly, Alexander had prostituted himself in his youth and subsequently took as a lover an older woman in Macedonia where he also acquired a tamed snake that would eventually function as the prophetic serpent-god Glykon. The cult founded out of his greed enjoyed great popularity, so the narrative goes, first regionally, then internationally – so much so that it eventually had followers in Rome itself and even in the imperial household.22 The narrator ‘Lucian’, whose arguments are based in Epicureanism, had visited Alexander and risked his life in challenging the fraud; he reveals to all with the authority of an eyewitness that the god was merely an invention of the prophet and the cult a fabrication. The entire text therefore, serves to unmask false prophecy and misguided piety. 2.2 The end of Alexander’s Life: Ideal and Reality The narrator ‘Lucian’ reports, as stated in the passage cited above, that Alexander predicted his life would end in the following manner: that he would be killed at the age of 150 by a lightning strike. The death that Alexander prophesies offers again, in a nutshell, the ideal he wished to embody in the persona he had created for himself; that of a philosopher or prophet who bears heroic, even divine traits. The old age of 150 years that Alexander foresees for himself refers to the longevity topos of great philosophers and thinkers. Cicero’s Cato maior de senectute names a long series of philosophers and orators who lived past eighty.23 The pseudo-Lucianic work Μακρόβιοι consists exclusively of a catalogue of long-lived statesmen and philosophers. Even among the thinkers listed, however, the most senior of them, Xenophilos, an adherent of Pythagoreanism died at 105 years of age.24 Alexander’s prophesied century and half exceeds by far the long life of more famous philosophers, going even beyond the maximum conceivable age

21  Cf. for material evidence: Elm von der Osten 2005. The evidence has been interpreted against the background of Lucian’s text; however, it seems to undermine the postulated historicity of the oracle through literary stratagems. Cf. Elm von der Osten 2006 and Pozzi 2003, 241–58 for the narrative strategy which puts into question the competency and credibility of the narrator. 22  On the religious-historical classification of the cult, cf. among others Elm von der Osten 2006, 142–3. 23  Cic. Cato 13: Platon died at 81, Isocrates at 98, and Gorgias of Leontinoi even lived to 107. 24  Ps.-Lucian. macr. 18.

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for men in antiquity of 120 years.25 The topos of longevity is exaggerated by this prediction into absurdity – especially with the fact that Alexander died at less than half of his predicted age; he did not even reach his seventh decade.26 His death is, moreover, undignified. Alexander does not pass from this life in a state of spiritual or bodily health like the exempla mentioned above, nor does he do so at the time decided on by himself, as Lucian describes in the example of the philosopher Demonax.27 Nor does Alexander die, like Asclepius, struck by a lightning bolt – a manner of death that stands for apotheosis.28 Instead, worms devour his leg.29 The predictions concerning the death of the first prophet of the oracular and healing god Glykon turn out to be false. 2.3 Alexander’s Baldness and its Masking with a Wig The Condition of the Body – habitus corporis An equally unworthy aging preceded Alexander’s undignified death. On his deathbed, it was seen before a large audience that he was in fact bald and that he had tried to cover this up with a wig. This fact was made public only now, at the end of his life. According to the narrator ‘Lucian,’ who also appears as an actor in the drama, he himself had known this for some time. The narrator mentions the hair of his opponent on several occasions and recounts that he had questioned the oracle whether Alexander’s hair was real. For those who did not see through the deception, the hair seemed long and full, but not to the keen ‘Lucian.’30 How then might we characterize the difference between role and man, between persona and ingenium, based on the paradigmatic treatment of the unmasking? On what dichotomies are distinctions made? What role do topoi of age play in this story?

25  On the maximum human age of 120, see Tac. dial. 17.3; Cens. 17.4; Lact. inst. 2.12.23; 13.3; Serv. Aen. 4.653. Cf. Gnilka 1983, 1001. 26 On seventy as a rhetorical figure, cf. Dreizehnter 1978, 70–81. 27  All the named exempla of leading philosophers in Cicero’s Cato maior de senectute delight in their intellectual and creative powers up to their old age, even death; Cf. among others Cic. Cato 23: Pythagoras, Democritus, Plato, Xenocrates, Zeno, Cleanthes and the Stoic Diogenes. On the worthy end of Demonax see Luc. Dem. 65. As Demonax realizes that he can no longer help himself, he announces his death and ends his struggle with the world. From that point on, he abstains in his diet and happily leaves this world. Cf. also the death of Apollonius of Tyana: Philostr. VA 8.30. 28  Cf. also Victor 1997, ad loc. 29  The New Testament reports that Herod was also consumed by worms (Acts 12:23). Worms also played a role in the death of Judas, cf. here also Victor 1997 ad loc. 30  The mention of Alexander’s hair: Lucian. Alex. 3, 11, 13, 53; Questioning of the oracle: Alex. 53; full hair: Alex. 3; long hair: Alex. 11, 13.

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Age – aetas The act of exposure allows for a discrepancy between the actual and the performed age of Alexander to become clear. Baldness can be understood as a physical symptom of aging, one that should be associated with the welcome lessening of voluptas and not be concealed.31 In contrast, Alexander’s persona with artificially long hair was meant to embody youth and with it also virility. This refers back to the topos of age that is not free from the vices of youth – and thus the puer senex-ideal is turned on its head.32 Gender – sexus The fact that the loss of virility and attractiveness is not accepted, but rather concealed with the help of cosmetics is a topos very much at home in satire. “Martial pours above all relentless scorn on old men […] who will not bear their old age and the corresponding side effects.”33 Thus the old Marinus is mocked with the following words:34 Raros colligis hinc et hinc capillos et latum nitidae, Marine, calvae campum temporibus tegis comatis; … calvo turpius est nihil comato. Marinus, you collect your scattered locks from this side and from that, and cover the broad expanse of your shining baldness with hair from your temples … Nothing is uglier than a baldhead with a lot of hair.

While the attempt to cover baldness with the help of the remaining hair is a feature of the satirical depiction of old men, the wearing of a wig is the prerogative of old women who despite their old age give themselves over to libido: Dentibus atque comis – nec te pudet – uteris emptis – “You use bought teeth and hair and 31  The decline in voluptas is more than welcome in praises of age; Cicero mentions the complains that with old age there is a diminishing of sensual pleasure – which he understood as a splendid gift of nature (Cic. Cato 12). One can also find this idea in Christian authors (Cf. Gnilka 1983, 1060): Clem. Alex. strom. 1.29.8: Old age is the end of foolish lust; paed. 2.87.3: The sensation of enjoyment thus ages with the body. 32  On the topos of old age that is not free of the vices of youth, cf. among others the figure of the senex amator in ancient comedies. Youthful vices reaching into old age can also be found in Christian literature (Gnilka 1983, 1070; Gnilka 1972, 126): Hieron. ep. 125.19: Old age is not free from the vices of youth; Joh. Chrys. in Hebr. hom. 7.3: A cruel old man should not be called a γέρων. On the puer senex and senex puer ideals cf. among others Gnilka 1983, 1028–30: 1074 and Liess 2009. 33  Brandt 2002, 189: “Unnachgiebigen Spott gießt vor allem Martial über alte Männer […] aus, die sich nicht mit ihrem hohen Lebensalter und den entsprechenden Begleiterscheinungen abfinden wollen.” 34  Mart., 10.83–85,93.

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are not ashamed of it” quips Martial.35 Here, using the topos of the love-crazy old woman, Alexander is characterized not only as given to vice, but also indirectly as effeminized.36 Profession – studium Long flowing hair, which Alexander appropriates for himself with the aid of a wig can be interpreted on yet another level. The removal of the wig designates the end of the production. The role, which the actor Alexander assumed when he started to wear a wig, did not begin in his old age: already in middle age, he needed to extend and supplement his hair through artificial means. Alexander played – according to the narrator ‘Lucian’ – the role of a Neopythagorean sage and miracle worker in the footsteps of Apollonius of Tyana. The followers of Pythagoras were famous for wearing long hair as a nod to their master. Beautiful, full, and curly hair is therefore referred to in Lucian’s writings as a Pythagorean hairstyle with considerable irony.37 Apollonius of Tyana also let his hair grow out.38 As a speaker in Philostratus’ Vita Apollonius defends this practice with reference to Empedocles who let his hair grow long and went through the streets of Athens singing hymns about his deification.39 In Synesius’s Eulogy of Baldness Apollonius is named specifically as an archetype of the longhaired philosopher and is known as the sole exception in a gallery of eminent philosophers who had all allegedly been bald:40 ῎Εξεστι δὲ τοὺς ἐν μουσείῳ ϑεάσασϑαι πίνακας, τοὺς Διογένας λέγω καὶ τοὺς Σωκράτας καὶ τοὺς οὕστινας βούλει τῶν ἐξ αἰῶνος σοφῶν· φαλακρῶν γὰρ ἂν εἶναι δόξειε ϑέατρον. Άπολλώνιος μὴ ἐνοχλείτω τῷ λόγῳ, μηδ’ εἴ τις ἕτερος γόης καὶ περιττὸς τὰ δαιμόνια. You may look at the pictures in the Museum, I mean those of Diogenes and Socrates, and whomsoever you please of those who in their age were wise, and your survey would be an inspection of bald heads. Let not Apollonius confuse the argument, or anyone who was a wizard and an adept in demoniac practices.

Moreover, waving long hair is often a characteristic of ecstasy –Alexander waves his locks in ecstasy when he announces the arrival of the god – and this makes long hair feature for a seer or vates, as Artemidorus reveals in his text about

35  Mart. 12.23; Cf. also Mart. 12.7. The custom of old women to use someone else’s hair skillfully for a fuller appearance is equally frowned upon in Christian literature (Hieron. ep. 38.3). 36  For the representation of the old, love-crazed woman in the poetry of Horace, cf. Fuhrer 2009. 37  Lucian. Philops. 29.32. 38  Philostr. VA 1.8; he is said to have decided at fourteen years to grow his hair and to live henceforth in the temple. 39  Philostr. VA, 8.17–19. 40  Syn. Cyr. Eul. 6.

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dream interpretation.41 For this reason long hair suits the role of a charismatic prophet, which Alexander plays better, than his naturally sparse hair which finally gives way to his bald head.42 Social Status – conditio The baldness of Alexander, who takes up for himself the role of the Neopythagorean sage and prophet of a cult that brings prestige to his polis, may also have another symbolic feature. The utilization of a wig characterizes Alexander as an actor, as such he is infamis, of low social status and in this respect on par with prostitutes.43 Character – natura animi Baldness is considered frequently as a sign of bondage and of slavery, and by extension of subordination to greed and lust.44 In this way the narrative arc also links the youth of Alexander, in which he allegedly prostituted himself, and his eventual role as philosopher-cum-prophet. 2.4 Conclusion: Discrepancy The object of satire, to evoke Bogel again, is to performatively create distance between figures, which seem to the satirist to be insufficiently distanced from one another. In the case of Alexander or the False Prophet, the distance is created between the figures of the epicurean narrator ‘Lucian’ and his opponent Alexander. More importantly, the narrator, through his account, creates a gap between the persona that Alexander purports to be, and the man that he is actually. How exactly distance is performatively created was demonstrated through the depiction of Alexander’s death in the text’s conclusion. The description of the physiognomic significance of his external features, and the associated recourse to the age topoi create discrepancies between the role and person of Alexander. The conflicts between the role and the person as well as between different roles played by the same man, can be summarised in terms of the following comparisons:

41  Lucian. Alex. 13; Artem. onir. 1.18. Cf. also: Kötting 1986, 194: “Mit ungepflegtem langen Haar liefen neben den Anhängern einiger Mysterien (Kybele) auch die Wahrsager (vates) ländlicher Kulte herum, sehr zum Verdruß christlicher Prediger (adulterinis criniculis charakterisiert sie Max. Taur. serm. 107.2.” 42  On the long hair of charismatics, cf. Zanker 1995, 256–66. 43  Cf. the figure of the mimus calvus for Roman mimes. 44  On the negative estimation of baldness as a sign of greed, lust and bondage: Plut. Mor. 352 c–d; Mart. 6.57; 12.28.19; Suet. Caes. 45.2; Petron. 109.8–10; with regard to shaved Isis worshippers: Mart. 12.28.19; Juv. 2.8–15; 6.532–4. Cf. also Riess 2001, 332 on the baldness of the narrator and Isis priest in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses (The Golden Ass).

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1. Alexander’s death is characterized as unworthy. The role that Alexander has taken up as philosopher and prophet requires a proper end to his life that can be predicted; yet the ‘man’ Alexander dies under humiliating circumstances and, above all, not as he had predicted in his role as prophet. There is thus a discrepancy between predicted and actual, between heroic and helpless death. 2. The role that Alexander has taken up as cult founder and prophet with a genealogy ultimately traced back to Apollo necessitates his youth in the cultic fiction. Alexander cannot ensure this without a mask, since he is already at an advanced age and would display the physical signs if he did not cover them up artificially. This results accordingly in a discrepancy between the mask of youth and his actual age. 3. The normative demand on behavior for the aged Alexander would be to accept gratefully the physical signs of aging and with them the implied abatement of voluptas and not resist them with cosmetics. There is thus a difference between the role expectation, which Alexander as an old man should fulfill and the role that he has taken up – one can call this thus an inter-role conflict. 4. The way in which the person Alexander seeks to cover the signs of old age and with it the gulf between the ‘man’ and the ‘role,’ namely the use of cosmetic means and the wearing of a wig, makes him appear as both emasculated and feminized. Consequently, a discrepancy between sex and gender can be established. 5. The ignominiously spent old age of Alexander concludes an equally undignified life, in accordance with the topos that one’s old age corresponds with one’s previous life. Even in middle age the external features of the ‘man’ did not match the appearance, which his assumed role as Pythagorean philosopher and miracle worker required. Already at this point his hair was not long or thick enough. With the removal of the wig the mismatch between the appearance required by the role and his actual appearance became public, which existed independently of the discrepancy between old age and youth. 6. Alexander is an actor; this points to a discrepancy between the high prestige he enjoyed in his role and his own low social status. In Lucian’s text Alexander or the False Prophet the narrator takes on the role of accuser. He does so in order to expose the prophet and healer, by means of satire, as an actor and thus deprive him of his authority. The narrator appeals to many attributa personis as loci argumentorum. Alexander’s character (natura animi), his age (aetas), his biological and social gender (sexus), his social status (conditio) and his profession (studia) are all deployed as loci argumentorum. Central for his argument though is the age-related condition of the body, the habitus corporis, and the behavior that results from it. The satire uses the potential offered by the difference in coding of the habitus corporis – in this case, the condition of the hair – within philosopical, religious, and literary discourses.

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3 The Apology of Apuleius 3.1 Introduction: A Misalliance? In the court speech Pro se de magia, most likely written around 160 C. E. and so broadly contemporary to Lucian’s text, the native North African Apuleius defends himself against a charge put forth by his accusers that he has through magic tempted into marriage Pudentilla, a rich and chaste woman much older than himself, in order to obtain her immense wealth. The accuser, a member of his wife’s family, stresses the great difference in age between Pudentilla and Apuleius: such a bond could only be sought out of Apuleius’s greed, since for him neither love nor erotic lust nor the desire for children could come from a woman past menopause with all the external signs of age. In his defense therefore, Apuleius must not only refute the accusation that he is a magician, but also that he is significantly too young for his wife.45 The Age of Pudentilla As fitting, an exordium introduces the part of his speech which treats the marriage to Pudentilla. Here, the speaker in a divisio gathers together the accusations that he will begin to refute in the following: Quin igitur res sunt, quas me oportet disputare. nam si probe memini, quod ad Pudentillam attinet, haec obiecere: una res est, quod numquam eam voluisse nubere post priorem maritum, sed meis carminibus coactam dixere; […] deinde sexagesimo anno aetatis ad lubidinem nubsisse. There are five points which I must discuss now. For if I remember properly, they raised the following objections concerning Pudentilla. First they said she was never willing to marry after her first husband’s death, but was compelled to do so through my magic spells […] Furthermore, she married at the age of 60 ‘for the sake of lust’…46

According to the charge, Pudentilla was already sixty years by the time of the marriage – this specific age is in many respects meaningful. On the one hand, it has legal implications: According to the Lex Iulia de maritandis ordinibus and the Lex Poppaea nuptialis a wedding is forbidden for women over fifty and for men over sixty.47 The determination of the age limit at fifty is probably due to the fact that menopause had already taken place in the lifecycle of many women at this 45  On the alleged wealth and social background of Pudentilla cf. Gutsfeld 1992. Fantham 1995 describes the age difference between the partners (on the basis of the fluctuating data of the Apology) and outlines the social position of each spouse. She is also considering what might have motivated Pudentilla for marriage. On the image of Pudentilla in the Apology cf. Hunink 1998. 46  Apol. 67. 47  Cf. Norden 1912, 106; Amarelli 1988, 124–5; Krause 1994, 120–1.

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age.48 A sixty-year-old woman would have already passed this event by a decade. On the other hand, the chronological age for entry into senectus varies in our ancient sources in a span between forty-six and sixty years of age.49 Someone who had already exceeded sixty would be held in the popular imagination as being demonstrably old – this was true in particular for men, who at that point were released from the various obligations of public life. In claiming that Apuleius had taken a sixty-year-old bride, his accusers suggest not only that she was well beyond the legal age limit for marriage, but also that she was certainly barren and thus, in common opinion, an old woman. In his refutatio of the accusation, the speaker of the apology argues on the basis of these age breaks of forty, fifty, and sixty.50 Apuleius has in certificates definitive evidence that allows him to indicate the exact age of his wife.51 But the speaker avoids this. Instead, he plays with numbers from the descending age range of sixty to forty. The numerical data in his legal brief begin with the number sixty. This is gradually reduced: fifty-five, fifty, forty are cited until finally the last explicitly named number thirty remains.52 In the framework of this number game, which is similar to a rejuvenation process, Apuleius describes the age of Pudentilla with the words “hardly over forty.”53 In this way she is not only placed below the legally relevant age limit of fifty, but she is also associated with the lower limit of the age of transition from iuventus to senectus, namely forty-six. Moreover, Pudentilla becomes thus for Apuleius a wife of only forty who slowly approaches the lower range for the beginning of menopause.54 Another accusation that the defense tries to refute is that Pudentilla had not only married in old age, but also for the wrong reasons, namely “out of lust” – ad lubidinem.55 In combination with the age of sixty indicated by the accuser, it is naturally implied that the marriage ceremony was not liberorum quaerendorum causa, that is, it was not contracted for the sake of future children. This unspoken accusation is already rejected in the apology in a passage preceding the above number game.56 Its subject is the wedding in the country – the fact that the wedding took place in relative seclusion in a rural villa of Pudentilla’s and not in the larger public sphere of the city Oea, which the prosecution obviously found 48  Pliny the elder on the basis of Aristotle believes that women become infertile between the ages of forty and fifty (nat. hist. 7.14.61; Arist. hist. an. 585b3–5). Soranus agrees, but he adds that some women could have children up to their sixtieth birthday (gyn. 1.4.20). Cf. Amundsen, Diers 1970, 79–86. Harlow, Laurence 2002, 127. 49 Cf. Harlow, Laurence 2002, 118. For sources cf. Suder 1978, 5–8. 50  Apol. 89. 51  Cf. on this point Hunink 1997, Commentary. 52  Apol. 89. 53  Apol. 89: invenies nunc Pudentillae haud multo amplius quadragesimum annum aetatis ire. 54 See n. 49: the lowest indicated age is forty. 55  Apol. 67. 56  Apol. 88.

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suspicious. In this connection the speaker offers that a wedding consummated on a country estate in full ambience promises future bliss: lex quidem Iulia de maritandis ordinibus nusquam sui ad hunc modum interdicit: ‘uxorem in villa ne ducito’; immo si verum velis, uxor ad prolem multo auspicatius in villa quam in oppido ducitur, in solo uberi quam in loco sterili, in agri cespite quam in fori silice. The ‘Lex Julia concerning marriages of the orders’ nowhere has any restriction like ‘thou shalt not marry a wife in a country house.’ On the contrary, if you want to know the truth, a wife can be married with much better auspices for offspring in a country house than in town. Fertile soil is better than a sterile spot, and the turf of the earth is better than the stone of the Forum.57

Pudentilla – mater futura – the future mother finds herself here amidst vernal nature: Mater futura in ipso materno sinu nubat, in segete adulta, super fecundam glebam, vel enim sub ulmo marita cubet, in ipso gremio terrae matris, inter suboles herbarum et propagines vitium et arborum germina. The future mother is to get married in the very bosom of our mother, among the ripe corn, on fruitful land; yes, she must lie down under the wedded elm, in the very lap of mother earth, amidst the shoots of plants, the progeny of vines, the sprouts of trees.58

Age and the cycle of the seasons are always linked closely with one another in ancient imagery.59 While Pudentilla is brought into connection with spring, she becomes both fertile and rejuvenated – even though her actual age more likely corresponds to late autumn. The recourse to the topos of seasonal comparison refutes the premise that the marriage was not contracted for the sake of children satisfy. According to the defense’s line of argument, Pudentilla no longer belongs to the group of women who are subject to the vetula-scoptic and as such a much beloved target of Roman satire: old single women (past menopause) who still long for sexual pleasure and seek to their needs.60 If these women were not only legally but also financially independent, they could arouse a terrifying sense of being out of control.61

 Apol. 88.3–4. 88.5. 59  Thus one finds in the Ciceronian Cato maior a detailed description of viticulture in the various seasons, particularly in the spring for the task of illustrating the senex as a teacher and a role model for youth (Cic. Cato, 51–7). 60  Cf. Fuhrer 2009. 61 As such, in Latin literature they are depicted in the vicinity of magicians and are often called witches. For the assessment of old women, cf. among others Harlow, Laurence 2002, 127–30; on the depiction of old women in Roman satire cf. among others Richlin 1983. 57

58 Apol.

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The Youth of Apuleius How does the age of Pudentilla relate to Apuleius’s self-representation? The marriage of a prosperous older woman to a significantly younger man – Apuleius was a classmate of her son – could suggest in the Roman world not only the charge that she sought the pleasure of an erotic connection without the hope of children. The husband also set himself up for the accusation that he was seeking only inheritance. Thus it is an important goal of the defense to narrow the gap between Apuleius’s and Pudentilla’s ages: Pudentilla is no old woman and Apuleius is not a virile and attractive young man who could effectively seduce women. 3.2 Apuleius’s Hair The Condition of the Body – habitus corporis The defense strategy of Apuleius builds on displacing the accuser’s image of a magician with that of a philosopher in the footsteps of Plato. His appearance echoes his involvement with texts, the speaker claims. Thus the speaker states in the first refutatio following the exordium of the speech: Continuatio etiam litterati laboris omnem gratiam corpore deterget, habitudinem tenuat, sucum exsorbet, colorem obliterat, debilitat. But incessant literary activity wipes out my bodily charm, makes me perceptibly meagre, consumes my vital life-sap, effaces my healthy colour, disables my strength.62

Apuleius thus goes through a premature drying process. And this did not leave his hair untouched; it is knotted, dry and ugly:63 Capillus ipse, quem isti aperto mendacio ad lenocinium decoris promissum dixere, vides quam sit amoenus ac delicatus, horrore implexus atque impeditus, stuppeo tomento adsimilis et inaequaliter hirtus et globosus et congestus, prorsum inenodabilis diutina incuria non modo comendi, sed saltem expediendi et discriminandi. And as for my hair, which these brazen liars claim to be worthy of a seducer: just look at it, and see how elegant and seductive it is! Twisted and tangled, stiff like straw, stringy, clotted in little lumps, it has been untended for so long that it could never be disentangled, let alone combed or parted.

Apuleius’s refutation implies that he opposes the characterization of his hair as beautiful, long and elegant. It is not too difficult to imagine an accusation of similar nature as in the third fragment of the Florida– a collection of excerpted epideictic speeches by Apuleius. Here the satyr Marsyas brings a similar charge against the muse god Apollo whom he challenges to a flute competition: the god is coma intonsus i.e. he wears his hair long. In addition, he is elaborately coiffed, 62 63

 Apol. 4,1.  Apol. 4,1 (trsl. Zanker 1995, 234).

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and his cheeks are pleasing (genis gratus), i.e. shaved, his body is soft and his limbs are shiny (corpore glabellus, corpus totum gratissimum, membra nitida) from having been plucked.64 Even though not all elements of this description are mentioned in the apology or at least not explicitly rejected, it is natural to assume that long, clean hair was only one component of an entire cluster of characteristics that were interrelated within habitual thought patterns. Even if there is no explicit claim that the accused not only coifs his hair but also shaves his face and body, it is nevertheless implied by naming one such characteristic that denotes a particular habitus. What is actually disputed in this debate, in the juxtaposition of an Apollonian appearance – as evoked by the words of the prosecution – and the self-representation of Apuleius, which reminds one all the more of the image of Marsyas in the Florida? Gender – sexus The story from the Florida fragment is concerned with Marsyas and Apollo, that is, one man with thick short hair, a beard, and body hair and another who is coifed, shaved, and depilated all over. Rough and smooth, hirsutus and glabellus, are the concepts that structure the description. On the basis of this dichotomy ‘smooth vs. hairy’, one could, for example, differentiate between cinaedi or ἀνδρόγυνοι and “normal” men – according to contemporary physiognomic and also astrological texts.65 What was regarded as deviant in the behavior of the cinaedi, the men characterized as effeminate, was not the biological sex of their partners, but rather much more the fact that they 64 The following commentaries on The Florida can be consulted: Hunink 2001; La Rocca 2005, Fl. 3: 144–52; Lee 2005, on Fl. 3: 72–77. A short sketch of the fragments can be found in Harrison 2000, Fl. 3: 98. An English translation with an introduction can be found in Apuleius 2001, 123–76. 65  Maud Gleason viewed rhetoric as a part of the process of male socialization. From this perspective, she understands rhetorical practice and gender identity as the components of a coherent whole of self-presentation: “the complex business of self-presentation, in which conscious choices interact with instinctive responses to traditional paradigms to produce a carefully modulated identity,” Gleason 1995, xxvi. Her work shows in detail how physiognomists, astrologers, and popular moral philosophers of the second century C. E. thought in terms of gender conformity and likewise deviance: “They shared a notion of gender identity built upon polarized distinctions (smooth/hirsute, pantherine/leonine) that purported to characterize the gulf between men and women but actually divided the male sex into legitimate and illegitimate members, some of whom were unmistakable androgynes, while others were subtly deceitful impostors.” On the terms cf. Gleason 1995, 64: “The word ἀνδρόγυνος (which I have been translating as ‘effeminate’) in its most literal sense describes an appearance of gender-indeterminacy, ‘he who is between man and woman’ (Anm. 43: qui inter virum est et feminam [Anon. Lat. 98, 2.213F]). The word cinaedus, on the other hand, describes sexual deviance, in its most specific sense referring to males who prefer to play a ‘feminine’ (receptive) role in intercourse with other men. But the two terms become virtually indistinguishable when used to describe men of effeminate appearance and behavior.”

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wanted to please them: “A man who actively penetrates and dominates others, whether male or female, is still a man. A man who aims to please – anyone, male or female – in his erotic encounters is ipso facto effeminate.”66 Apuleius thus devotes himself in the first refutatio of the speech to the charge of a cosmetic practice, which within the gender semiotic denotes the sexual preferences of the practitioner. Via this cipher Apuleius is characterized as a cinaedus. His pleasant appearance and his eloquence, if they are linked with the idea that Apuleius is a cinaedus, become a means to attract potential partners. They can be used to initiate immoral acts – and this is thus also why the accuser stresses his hairstyle: capillus, quem isti aperto mendacio ad lenocinium decoris promissum dixere – “my hair, which these shameless liars have called worthy of a seducer” (Apol. 4.11). If one follows the categorization of contemporaneous physiognomic and astrological texts on this point, his accuser from this perspective could treat Apuleius, who presents himself in a public trial as a reliable husband, stepfather and philosopher, as a so-called crypto-cinaedus. The object of the prosecution would then be to expose Apuleius as such. Age – aetas Hair care, with which the waxing of the body often coincided, can also be seen as a sign of cosmopolitan elegance, which merely plays with the ambiguity of the gender performance which it conveys. Behind this striving for elegance ultimately lies an effort to broadcast the ideal of boyish beauty into manhood.67 With the aid of cosmetics the outwardly visible signs of physical aging can be temporarily reversed. Preening, shaving, and depilation temporarily turn back time to before the onset of beard and hair growth. Dio Chrysostom describes in his short ‘Cultural History of Hair Removal,’ how those who first tried to shave their beards discovered that their faces were boyish and pretty regardless of their actual age.68 The idea of a man’s bodily development was predicated on the notion that the continual process of maturation and degradation accompanied the rise and fall of body heat and hair growth. Thus Clement of Alexandria emphasizes that a mature man is hairier and warmer than an immature one.69 The transitional phase from adolescence (adulescentia) to young adulthood (iuventus) is marked physically by the growth of body and facial hair. Youths only shaved themselves if their beard was fully-grown. Therefore the delicate fluff of the cheeks was connected with adulescentia (Amm. Marc. 14.11.28). The  Gleason 1995, 65 n. 49.  Gleason 1995, 74: “After all, these mannerisms – from depilation to ingratiating inflections of the voice – were refinements aimed at translating the ideal of the beardless ephebic beauty into adult life and as such might appeal to women and boys, with whom one could not by definition play the pathic role.” 68  Dio Chrysostomus Oratio 33.63. 69  Paid. 3.19.2. 66 67

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inberbus iuvenis was associated, for example, in the Horation Ars poetica with the joys of young horses and hunting dogs, with the exercises of the campus, with the absence of one’s tutor as well as with the inability to control one’s wealth: he was passionate, still soft and easily led into vice (Hor. Ars 156–78).70 The alleged use of cosmetics, from which Apuleius was defending himself, could rejuvenate his appearance and make him more attractive, taking him back into a phase of life that is habitually associated with certain instability, with a lack of control over financial resources and with passion. The speaker compares this image with his extreme neglect of the body and of the hair, which has already led to a premature drying process and with it an aging of the body – glabellus is confronted with hirsutus. The speaker has thus already arrived at the postulated age of his bride – the type of the young lover, such as the adulescens amator known from comedy, does not correspond at all to the habitus corporis he presents. Profession – studium In the works of the authors Musonius Rufus and Epictetus, who were close to the Stoa, the theme of head and body hair as signs of mature masculinity is also present. Hair is particularly meaningful in this context. It is seen not merely as a conventional sign within the symbolic language of masculinity, but rather as one that is fixed by nature itself. In this sense Musonius praises the beard as a covering provided by nature and as the symbol of a man that could be equated with that of the comb on a cock and with the lion’s mane (Fr. 21). Epictetus advises a luxuriously coiffed and shaved youth at a rhetorical school that he should leave the care of his hair to its creator (Discourses 3.1.26). Nature made women smooth and men hairy. A man who depilates himself does not correspond to the nature of his sex (3.1.27–29).71 Clement of Alexandria in turn presents a Christianized version of these Stoic views in his text Paidagogos (3.19.2): For, what is hairy is by nature drier and warmer than what is bare; therefore the male is hairier and more warm-blooded than the female; the uncastrated, than the castrated; the mature, than the immature.

It is therefore no wonder that the question of the hair’s condition also played a central role in distinguishing the lifestyles of philosophers and sophists.72 But also within the philosophic tradition there were various currents and traditional the chapter ‘Hairy youths’ in Harlow, Laurence 2002, 72–5, in particular 72.  It would be better if he were to castrate himself and thus make it easier to assign him to a category; cf. Gleason 1995, 67–70. 72  Gleason 1995, 73 gives the example of a confrontation between Timocrates, a doctor who had become a Stoic philosopher, and the Sophist Scopelian. Their discussion focused on Scopelian’s habit of bodily depilation, “an issue that symbolised intensely felt differences of opinion over the role of refinement in masculine style.” In this dispute between “hirsute philosophy and depilated rhetoric” all the young men of Smyrna had taken a position. 70 Cf. 71

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classifications that allowed for Platonists, Aristotelians, and above all Pythagoreans to pay more attention to hairstyle and appearance in general than other schools such as the Cynics.73 The speaker Apuleius alludes to this with a listing of allegedly beautiful philosophers such as Zeno of Elea, the pupil of Parmenides, and Pythagoras, which precedes the description of his own appearance.74 Nevertheless, it seems that the speaker feels more comfortable not to become mired down in too much detail, but rather stick with the extreme representation of his unkempt hair that crowns a head of meditation and asceticism. Such a style clearly denotes the persona of a rigorous philosopher, who by definition cannot be a cinaedus.75 This self-representation may also be due to the fact that he does not want to correspond to the figure of a charismatic miracle worker such as Apollonius of Tyana, whom “the effort of thought” no longer burdens, and who, radiating majesty and goodness, is of a higher being.76 A self-representation in the form of the beautiful charismatic might have implied too close a proximity to a magician. Social Status – conditio The story in the Florida of the competition between the uneducated, rustic Marsyas and the muse-god Apollo suggests an identification of Apuleius with Apollo. The charge, which the rusticus Marsyas throws at the god Apollo, is comparable with those Apuleius tries to refute in the apology. If one reads the Florida-episode as a form of commentary on the apology, then it reveals both the absurdity of Marsyas’ posture and that of Apuleius’ own refutatio. The emphasis  Hahn 1989, 37–8. 4. 75  Zanker 1995, 235 points out in his study of the pictorial representation of intellectuals in the ancient art after Hadrian that “there was a certain pressure on the professional intellectual who was also a public figure to define his own image, that is, to declare himself as either rhetorician / sophist or a philosopher”. The demand for a fundamental distinction between the two βίοι would have been inappropriate for the everyday practice of self-representation. Rather it seems to have been marked by compromise. Therefore, extreme forms of self-representation in the visual arts are rare. Most commonly one finds eclectic combinations of different elements. 76 Cf. for the appearance of a charismatic philosopher whom one could place in the type ϑεῖος ἀνήρ, Zanker 1995, 260–63, specifically 260–1: With the example of a small relief in Ostia from the late second century and aided by Pliny’s description of Euphrates (Plin. epist. 1.10.5–7), he is thus characterized: “But it was not just the general appearance of these new philosophers that was different, but also their faces. Euphrates’ expression was ‘deep and serious’ but not ‘dark’ (Pliny has in mind here the faces of the Cynics). The Face of the Charismatic radiates a transcendent goodness; he is not tortured by mental strain, for he knows the path and the conditions that will lead to a well-ordered spiritual existence. The external provides the guarantee of his internal, spiritual superiority. That superiority, however, is not derived above all from an extraordinary intellectual capacity, as was the case with the great thinkers of the third century B. C., but from the nature of his very being. We encounter in him for the first time the ϑεῖος ἀνήρ, or holy man, a figure who will take on much greater significance in the years to come. Pliny himself refers to the sanctitas of his friend Euphrates.” 73

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on his unkempt, shaggy hair, the display of a ‘hairier than thou’ attitude, is itself a characteristic of rusticity. As Athenaeus observed, men who dress badly and cheaply in order to show their philosophical rigor, often gladly call others cinaedi, if they perfume themselves or wear something extravagant.77 However, this habitus can also convey – as shown – merely a striving for urban elegance. Zanker notes: “Evidently the majority of men who prized the philosophical image also wanted to appear at the same time cosmopolitan and thus combined features of philosophical seriousness with those of a bourgeois urbanity.”78 In the apology, Apuleius cites first the posture of philosophical rigor under pressure to profess a clear commitment – any ambiguity in appearance could be misread by the rustic accuser. In the following passages however, he combines in a playful manner the signs of philosophical earnestness with bourgeois urbanity: specifically, the praise of dental hygiene is extended in the course of the argument into a discourse on ethical purity. He takes up a praise of mirrors, which not only serve in the control of appearance, but also as means of self-introspection.79 This urbanity is presented even in his language. The first-person narrator cites in this context Catullus as an example from Neoteric poetry, who wished to be lepidus, witty, polished, and urbanely elegant.80 Too rustic an appearance, one that could be assigned to the type hirsutus, carries the danger of seeming uneducated, rural, and thus of a low social class – in Roman North Africa this could ultimately indicate a lack of Romanization. A certain mitigation of the posture of rigor could thus convey before the Roman magistrate, who as judge is the actual internal audience of the speech, a high social standing and thus a greater proximity to the mobile Roman administrative elite. 3.3 Conclusion: Discrepancy In the defense speech of Apuleius – as in Lucian’s Alexander or the False Prophet – the attributa personis are used as loci argumentorum. Likewise, great importance is similarly placed on bodily condition and age. Less by argument and much more performatively, distance is set up between various personae. A distinction is made between the roles, which the accusers have assigned to Apuleius, and the persona, which the speaker ascribes to himself in his self-representation. The 77  Gleason 1995, 74 raises the following questions with regard to the reference to Athenaeus, Deipnosophistai 13,565 c: “Might not a perfectly respectable gentleman, as Athenaeus implies, dab on a bit of perfume? Were all dandies pathics? If depilation, dainty grooming, and singsong speech were universally ridiculed as explicit signposts of sexual passivity, we must wonder why any man would court censure by adopting such practices unless he wished explicitly to advertise himself a pathic.” 78 Zanker 1995, 237–8. 79  Apol. 13–6. 80  Cf. Tilg 2008, 105–32.

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accusers are distanced from the judge Maximus and from the speaker, while the judge and the speaker are placed in close proximity. The clear differences are easily highlighted in the following summary: 1. The accusers claim, Apuleius is a glabellus; however, he describes himself as hirsutus. There is thus a difference between the habitus corporis ascribed by the prosecution and the performed self of the narrator. 2. The physiognomy of the accused supposedly corresponds to that of a cinaedus. Apuleius employs cosmetic means in order to please potential partners. The speaker, though, counters that by neglecting his appearance he allows his manly nature to take its course freely. There is thus a difference between the social gender insinuated by the accusers and that projected by the speaker. 3. Apuleius makes himself younger, according to the accuser, than he really is by using makeup. The extreme neglect of his body, he counters, has led to accelerated physiological aging. There is thus also a difference between the artificial youth evoked by his accusers and the ‘true’ bodily age set by the speaker. 4. His pleasing appearance supposedly characterizes him as an eloquent Sophist who titillates with his words. His well-maintained looks and the potency of his words have pushed him into the close proximity of charismatic ϑεῖοι ἄνδρες, to whom one could ascribe magical powers. The pressures of thought – according to his self-representation – torment the speaker. The disregard for his appearance testifies to his philosophical rigor, that he is not sublime like a god. There is thus a difference between the activities insinuated by his accusers and the studia postulated by the speaker himself. 5. The emphasis on extreme neglect of the body, the mark of Cynic philosophers in particular, can be read as an over-determined display of philosophical rigor, a habitus, which does not correspond to the social position of a member of the mobile and educated upper class of the Roman Empire. This discrepancy between the conditio of the first-person narrator, as evoked under the pressure of a clear confession at the beginning, and the hoped for social equality with the provincial governor and judge Maximus is peeled back in the course of the speech by a staging of signs denoting urbane elegance. 6. The discrepancy postulated by the accusers between the age of Pudentilla and that of Apuleius doesn’t exist. Both are really the same age. The second text examined also used the potential offered by the diverse codification of topoi according to specific areas of knowledge. The dichotomy of hirsutus vs. glabellus is connoted differently according to the locus argumentorum, whether it is the gender semiotic, age-specific behaviors, questions of philosophical, sophistic or charismatic legitimacy, or a question of social standing. The typical, habitual thought patterns of the ‘uneducated and rustic’ accusers and those of the speaker, of the internally addressed Maximus and the implied readers are compared and set against one another. This second group can move more nimbly between knowledge areas and topical ideas because of its education and urbanity;

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in this way its members are able to question these habitual thought patterns and in turn ascribe new meaning to the topoi. Both texts make purposeful use of the polyvalence of topoi. In this manner space emerges for new arrangements: the texts negotiate the authority and legitimacy of a new type of religious-philosophical expert. They reveal similar strategies for argumentation. In the apology, however, the rhetorical function of the topoi of bodily condition and age is shown in one respect as opposed to the function in Lucian’s work. Apuleius wants to appear older than he is portrayed by his accusers, while Alexander wishes to rejuvenate himself. In both cases though – via the use of the formal topos of antithesis – true age is opposed to false youth. According to the satirical make-up of the Lucianic text, the first-person narrator – more performatively than by argument – tries to create distance between the self-image staged by Alexander and his ‘real’ self. The narrator claims that Alexander uses his outward appearance as a deceptive means to hide the true state of his interior; he is portrayed as actively pursuing false appearances. Alexander who is depicted as prone to (self‑) deception and (self‑) delusion thus supposedly deceives and misguides also the adherents of his cult. However, in the course of the narration the unreliable Epicurean narrator himself indirectly displays a fractured selfhood, insofar as he unwittingly reveals conflicts between his proclaimed philosophical principles and his actions. Furthermore, the Epicurean seems to be judging the prophet against a cultural back-drop, which does not accommodate the specific religious habitus corporis of a prophetic persona, Alexander’s visionary/religious individuality is being ignored. The narrator does not leave room for the emergence of a new religious self. The rhetorical I of ‘Apuleius’ fashions itself according to the necessities he faces in court: as the true Platonic philosopher despising luxury in his outer appearance, thereby indicating a regulated, ascetic self. He nevertheless also represents himself as an urbane philosopher who has a certain wealth and social standing. The juridical setting in which he performs does not, however, accommodate the self-fashioning of a ϑείος ἀνήρ given to theurgy, a comparatively new religious individuality. In the specific discursive context of the speech this is not yet an accepted persona.

Source Collections Apuleius, Pro se de magia liber (Apologia). Ed. by Rudolf Helm. Bibliotheca Scriptorum Graecorum et Romanorum Teubneriana. Stuttgart: Teubner, 1963. Apuleius of Madauros, Pro se de Magia (Apologia). Ed. with a Commentary by Vincent Hunink, Vol. 2: Commentary. Amsterdam: Hakkert, 1997. Apuleius, Rhetorical Works. Translated by Stephen Harrison, John Hilton, Vincent Hunink. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001.

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Apuleius of Madauros, Florida. Ed. with a Commentary by Vincent Hunink. Amsterdam: Hakkert, 2001. Apuleius, Florida. A Commentary. Ed. by Benjamin T. Lee. Text and Commentary 25. Berlin, New York: de Gruyter, 2005. M. Tullius Cicero, On Old Age, On Friendship, On Divination. Translated by W. A. Falconer. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge: Clarendon, 1979. M. Tullius Cicero, De re publica. De legibus. Cato maior de senectute. Laelius de amicitia. Ed. by J. G. F. Powell. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006. Clement of Alexandria, Christ the Educator. Fathers of the Church 23. Translated by Simon Wood. New York: Catholic University of America Press, 1954. Juvenal, Saturae. Ed. by James A. Willis. Stuttgart, Leipzig: Teubner, 1997. Juvenal, Juvenal and Persius. Ed. By Susanna Morton Braund. Loeb Classical Library 91. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2004. Lukian von Samosata, Alexandros oder der Lügenprophet. Eingeleitet, herausgegeben, übersetzt und erklärt von Ulrich Victor. Religions in the Graeco-Roman World 132. Leiden, New York, Köln: Brill, 1997. Lucian of Samosata, Lucian, Vol. IV. Translated by A. M. Harmon. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1999. Synesius of Cyrene, Eulogy of Baldness. The Letters of Synesius of Cyrene. Translated by Augustine Fitzgerald. London: Oxford University Press, 1926.

Bibliography Amarelli, Francesco 1988. “Il processo di Sabrata”, Studia et documenta historiae et iuris 54, 110–46. Amundsen, Darrel W., Carol J. Diers 1970. “The age of menopause in Classical Greece and Rome”, Human Biology 42, 79–86. Bogel, Fredric V. 1988. “The difference satire makes: Reading Swift’s poems,” in Brian A.  Connery, Kirk Combe, Theorizing Satire. Essays in literary criticism. New York, 43–53. Bornscheuer, Lothar 1976. Topik. Zur Struktur der gesellschaftlichen Einbildungskraft. Frankfurt. Brandt, Hartwin 2002. Wird auch silbern mein Haar: Eine Geschichte des Alters in der Antike. Munich. Calboli Montefusco, Lucia 2000. “Die adtributa personis und die adtributa negotiis als loci der Argumentation”, in Thomas Schirren, Gert Ueding (eds.), Topik und Rhetorik. Ein interdisziplinäres Symposium. Rhetorik-Forschungen 13. Tübingen, 37–50. Dreizehnter, Alois 1978. Die rhetorische Zahl. Quellenkritische Untersuchungen anhand der Zahlen 70 und 700. Zetemata 73. Munich. Edwards, Catherine 1997. “Self-scrutiny and Self-transformation in Seneca’s Letters”, G&R 44, 23–38. Elm von der Osten, Dorothee 2005. “6.a. Divination, Röm., D.  Divination et pluralité religieuse, 1. Gründung eines Orakels: die Schlange Glykon”, Thesaurus Cultus et Rituum Antiquorum (ThesCRA) 3. 97–8. – 2006. “Die Inszenierung des Betruges und seiner Entlarvung. Divination und ihre Kritiker in Lukians Schrift Alexander oder der Lügenprophet,” in ead., Jörg Rüpke,

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Katharina Waldner (eds.), Texte als Medium und Reflexion von Religion im römischen Reich. Potsdamer altertumswissenschaftliche Beiträge 14. Stuttgart, 141–57. – 2009. “‘Wird auch kahl sein mein Haupt’. Alterstopoi in Lukians Alexander oder der Lügenprophet und in der Apologie des Apuleius”, in ead. et al. (eds.) 2009. Alterstopoi. Das Wissen von den Lebensaltern in Literatur, Kunst und Theologie. Berlin, New York, 71–99. – et al. (eds.) 2009. Alterstopoi. Das Wissen von den Lebensaltern in Literatur, Kunst und Theologie. Berlin, New York. Fantham, Elaine 1995. “Aemilia Pudentilla or the Wealthy Widow’s Choice”, in Richard Hawley, Barbara Levick (eds.), Women in Antiquity. New Assessments. London, 220–32. Foucault, Michel 1986. The History of Sexuality. Vol. 3: The Care of the Self. Translated by R. Hurley. Harmondsworth. Fuhrer, Therese 2007. “Rollenerwartung und Rollenkonflikt in Catulls erotischer Dichtung”, in Elke Hartmann et al. (ed.), Geschlechterdefinitionen und Geschlechtergrenzen in der Antike. Stuttgart, 55–64. – 2009. “Alter und Sexualität. Die Stimme der alternden Frau in der horazischen Lyrik”, in Dorothee Elm von der Osten et al. (eds.) 2009, 49–69. Gleason, Maud W. 1995. Making Men: Sophists and Self-Representation in Ancient Rome. Princeton. Gnilka, Christian 1972. Aetas spiritalis: Die Überwindung der natürlichen Altersstufen als Ideal frühchristlichen Lebens. Bonn. – 1983. “Greisenalter,” Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum 12, 995–1094. Gutsfeld, Andreas 1992. “Zur Wirtschaftsmentalität nichtsenatorischer provinzialer Oberschichten. Aemilia Pudentilla und ihre Verwandten”, Klio 74, 250–68. Hahn, Johannes 1989. Der Philosoph und die Gesellschaft. Selbstverständnis, öffentliches Auftreten und populäre Erwartungen in der hohen Kaiserzeit. Stuttgart. Harlow, Mary; Ray Laurence, 2002. Growing Up and Growing Old in Ancient Rome. A life course approach. London. Harrison, Stephen J. 2000. Apuleius: A Latin Sophist. Oxford. Horstmanshoff, Manfred 2005. “Alter”, in Karl-Heinz Leven (ed.), Antike Medizin. Ein Lexikon. Munich, 32–33. Hunink, Vincent 1998. “The Enigmatic Lady Pudentilla”, AJP 119, 275–91. Knape, Joachim 2000. “Die zwei texttheoretischen Betrachtungsweisen der Topik und ihre methodologischen Implikaturen”, in Thomas Schirren, Gert Ueding, Topik und Rhetorik. Ein interdisziplinäres Symposium. Rhetorik-Forschungen 13. Tübingen, 747–66. Kötting, Bernhard 1986. “Haar”, Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum 13, 176–203. Krause, Jens-Uwe 1994. Witwen und Waisen im römischen Reich: Verwitwung und Wiederverheiratung. Stuttgart. La Rocca, Adolfo 2005. Il filosofo e la città. Commento storico ai Florida di Apuleio. Saggi di storia antica 24. Rome. Liess, Kathrin 2009. “‘Der Glanz der Alten ist ihr graues Haar’. Zur Alterstopik in der alttestamentlichen und apokryphen Weisheitsliteratur”, in Dorothee Elm von der Osten et al. (eds.) 2009, 19–48. Norden, Fritz 1912. Apulejus von Madaura und das Römische Privatrecht. Leipzig. Perkins, Judith 1995. The suffering self – Pain and narrative representation in the early Christian era. London.

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Pozzi, Stefano 2003. “Sull’ attendibilità del narratore nell’ Alexander di Luciano”, Prometheus 29, 129–50. Richlin, Amy 1983. “Invective against women in Roman satire”, Arethusa 17, 67–80. Riess, Werner 2001. Apuleius und die Räuber: Ein Beitrag zur historischen Kriminalitätsforschung. Stuttgart. Steger, Florian 2009. “Altern im Leben. Alterstopoi in der antiken Medizin?”, in Dorothee Elm von der Osten et al. (eds.), 102–12. Suder, Wieslaw 1978.“On age classification in Roman Imperial literature,” The Classical Bulletin 55, 5–8. Tilg, Stefan 2008. “Eloquentia ludens: Apuleius’ Apology and the Cheerful Side of Standing Trial”, in Werner Riess (ed.), Paideia at Play. Learning and Wit in Apuleius. Ancient Narrative Supplementum 11. Groningen, 105–32. Ueding, Gert, Bernd Steinbrink 1986. Grundriss der Rhetorik. Geschichte, Technik, Methode. Stuttgart. Whitmarsh, Tim 2001. Greek literature and the Roman Empire – the politics of imitation. Oxford. – 2005. The Second Sophistic. Greece and Rome. New Surveys in the Classics 35. Oxford. Wöhrle, Georg 2004. “Der alte Mensch im Spiegel der Medizin”, in Elisabeth Hermann-Otto (ed.), Die Kultur des Alterns von der Antike bis zur Gegenwart. St. Ingbert, 19–31. Zanker, Paul 1995. The Mask of Socrates: The Image of the Intellectual in Antiquity. Translated by Alan Shapiro. Berkeley.

Practices of the Self

Self-Care and Health-Care: Selfhood and Religion in the Roman Imperial Elite1 Zsuzsanna Várhelyi The main question I engage with in this chapter concerns a group of practices related to health and illness which allow insight into the shaping of selves in the Roman Empire. Matters related to the body and its care had, as Michel Foucault first pointed out, key rhetorical importance in how “selves were made” in the second-century empire.2 My own question focuses on investigating what, if any, role religion played in shaping selves in comparison to the interest in individuality and selfhood. In the larger religious context of the late first and second century CE and in the particular case of early Christianity, Judith Perkins has already connected the theological idea of a “body liable to pain and suffering” to the success of a particularly Christian notion of selfhood in this period.3 What is at stake when I suggest that contemporary practices of Roman religion influenced and shaped philosophical representations of selfhood, is whether the ideals of philosophical life in the imperial era were a clearly demarcated area, strictly and largely guided by a commitment to reason.4 In turn, if imperial philosophies and religions could be interconnected, it would imply that philosophical notions of selfhood and health may have contributed to and were shaped by religious innovation. In the most important philosophical study to date that engaged imperial notions of selfhood and matters of illness, Catharine Edwards studied the role of pain in the Moral Epistles of Seneca the Younger. She observed the key role of the suffering body in aiding the philosopher’s self-knowledge, a project similar to the effort required to develop his philosophical self.5 My own interest is in analyzing these philosophical ideals especially in comparison to the religious practices applied to concerns of health and illness in Roman society, 1 I

want to thank Jörg Rüpke and Greg Woolf for inviting me to the conference in Erfurt and to all participants for helpful suggestions and stimulating discussion while there. 2  Foucault 1978. 3  Perkins 1995, 3. 4  This idea was recently elaborated by Nussbaum 2009, 4–5 in its most eloquent form. Reydams-Schils 2005, 93–8 offers a historical account of the political involvement of Stoics from Cicero’s views to those of Marcus Aurelius. 5  Edwards 1999, 253.

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with a focus on Latin sources close to the imperial court in the first two centuries of the Roman empire.

1 Self-care and health-care Within the study of Roman imperial culture, selfhood emerged as a central theme in the wake of the widely known but also somewhat conjectural work of Michel Foucault. In the third volume of his History of Sexuality, The Care of the Self, as well as in some of his late lectures at the Collège de France and at Berkeley, Foucault suggested that a new notion of selfhood emerged exactly in the late first and second century, based on the intensification of one’s relations to oneself.6 The idea that a new experience of selfhood developed among firstcentury Romans, which they achieved through the control of bodily concerns in a Stoic manner, has been popular, yet exhaustively challenged, especially from a philosophical perspective.7 My interest is in moving beyond the philosophical critique of Foucault’s claims, and follow what philosophers also recognize: namely that there is something new in the representation of selfhood and selfcare in some early imperial texts.8 It is with this representational perspective that I employ the phrase “self-care” in the following. One context in which we can observe such self-referential representations in the ancient evidence is in discussions about how one should behave in case of illness. Rhetorically speaking, these texts apply a strategy of prescribing correct behavior in the case of suffering disease, a strategy not unlike what the same or related texts do in the case of controlling various emotional and physical states. Often discussing their recommendation in case of illness along with the ideals set forth for cultivated selves, these texts identify a pattern of desirable attitudes and actions for the sick. Seneca’s Moral Epistles, written in the mid-60s CE, are a prime source for studies on the care of the self. Especially telling is a passage on the mingling of philosophical self-care with illness in one of these letters, in which Seneca describes the experience of himself being sick in the following terms: Hesternum diem divisi cum mala valetudine: antemeridianum illa sibi vindicavit, postmeridiano mihi cessit. Itaque lectione primum temptavi animum; deinde, cum hanc recepisset, plus illi imperare ausus sum, immo permittere: aliquid scripsi et quidem intentius quam soleo, dum cum materia difficili contendo et vinci nolo, donec intervenerunt amici qui mihi vim afferrent et tamquam aegrum intemperantem coercerent. In locum stili sermo successit. Yesterday I shared the day with ill health; it claimed for itself the period before noon; in the afternoon it yielded to me. And so at first I tested my soul with reading; then, when 6 Foucault,

op.cit., Foucault 2005, Ch. 5.  Gill 2006, 328–44; Sorabji 2006, 49–53. 8  Gill 2006, 391–407. 7

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it had accepted reading, I dared to order it to do even more, or rather to surrender it. I wrote a little, indeed with more focus than I usually do, while I am struggling with difficult material and do not want be overcome by it – until friends interrupted me to use force and restrain me as if I was a sick person unable to control himself. Instead of writing, conversation followed … (Ep. 65.1–2).9

Seneca’s self-presentation opens with a highly relevant distinction between selfcare and the needs of his illness: his regular pattern of self-care is interrupted by the need to attend to his own health.10 The day is dramatized through its progress from illness to the return of the proper philosophical care for the self in the form of study.11 Despite the disruption in self-care, there is a connection between the proper actions required for getting better and the appropriate work of self-care in terms of the way in which each of them is achieved. To get better, Seneca enacts something quite similar to self-care: in depicting the struggle as he reclaims his soul from illness, he presents and performs philosophically acceptable actions in sickness – a group of representations that I shall call, from here on, “health-care.” At first sight, health-care appears to be a subcategory or a lesser correlate of self-care. For Stoics, it went without saying that every philosophically minded person should monitor, quite constantly, his own general behavior. Such behavior, however, also had a tendency towards performance, whether authentic or not.12 However ironic he may be, Seneca appears to see the potential desirability of performing health-care: “O what ample scope would there be for fame, if we could have spectators of our illness!” (Ep. 78.21).13 And in fact, there is something theatrical in Seneca’s behavior in Epistle 65. As the progress of time is dramatized, the role of the protagonist is assigned to the patient for the purpose of teaching readers how to behave when one is ill. The scene also has some other characters playing not insignificant roles: the proper actions of the friends visiting the sick and gathering around the sickbed are part of the show itself. The visitors are envisioned only partially as the audience, passive admirers focused on the performance of Seneca’s health-care. Rather, they have duties that include some physical and verbal care to hasten their sick friend’s recovery. In fact, as they are described to be ready to “use force” on Seneca (vim adferre) and to “restrain” him (coercere),14 the words emphasize the aspect of health-care  9 All

translations are mine, unless otherwise specified.  Despite the strong connection of this letter to the body-mind dualism of Plato’s Phaedo, Inwood 2007, esp. 165, convincingly argues that the philosophical situations discussed were the reality of situations (in this case illness), in which they were written. 11  On the day as an image of one’s life see Ker 2009, 171. 12  Bartsch 2006, 217 and 225–7, suggests that by the empire and in particular in Seneca any such performance would be likely presumed to be inauthentic, an argument that I try to qualify here. 13 O quam magna erat gloriae materia, si spectaremur aegri! Cf. Edwards 1999, 261. On the associated literary issues see Wilson 2004, 95–8. 14  For the oppositional nature of vim adferre cf. Cicero, Phil. 2.7. 10

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that depicts the friends assisting or even taking a primary role in controlling the suffering self of Seneca. The letter, fittingly for Seneca’s self-representation in the Moral Epistles as a sage performing self-control, turns on the fact that he is not one of those patients who would not be able to control himself – an argument that only works if one presumes that at least some other patients expressed their anguish and agony when in physical pain. There is more to health-care than performance – despite the frequency of theatrical metaphors, which match the high number of similar references in depictions of self-care. Seneca himself had a strange fascination with describing the physicality of bodies, their fleshiness and suffering, in dramatic and gory detail. Of course, this would not be completely unusual in late first-century Rome where the lure of torment was popularized in the bloody scenes of the contemporary arena.15 Catharine Edwards in her study on descriptions of pain in the Moral Epistles argued that there may have been more to these grisly passages than just a show: in Seneca’s letters the worse the symptoms, the more heroic the sage can be seen in the battle of conquering his afflictions.16 I would argue this point further and suggest that the theatrical may not necessarily imply fake in the representational world of Seneca’s Epistles. Rather, the proper actions described for anyone in pain have a potentially positive behavioral role, namely as a way to rationalize and prescribe health-care in order to ease at least some of the associated psychological distress. Back in the sick-room, visitors assisted their sick friend in maintaining control over his suffering, but also fulfilled a variety of more pragmatic tasks by the bedside. One of the most concrete descriptions of what the friends actually did by the bedside comes from Seneca’s On Benefactions: Quid adsedisse aegro et, cum valetudo eius ac salus momentis constaret, excepisse idonea cibo tempora et cadentes venas vino refecisse et medicum adduxisse morienti? Haec quis aestimabit? What of having sat at his side when he was sick, and, when his health and recovery were a matter of moments, of having seized the right time to administer food, of having revived his failing pulse with wine, and brought in a physician when he was dying? Who will estimate the value of these? (3.9.2)

The friends even provide medical care: feeding and monitoring the sick, and calling for the physician when appropriate. But there are elements of control even in these roles, and this controlling role is constitutive of how health-care works: given the at least partial incapacitation of the sick patient, his philosophically minded friends provide a highly valued service in judging the situation and in maintaining their own and the patient’s discipline fitting for learned men of high standing. 15 16

 For physical suffering as entertainment see Barton 1994, 41.  Edwards 1999, 262–4.

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All these elements together then, the patient aiming at self-control and the friends assisting him, form health-care, prescribed idealized roles not only for the patient, but also for his visiting friends. There are further key elements in this ideal. One concerns time: as we have already seen above, unlike physicians who are brought in when necessary, friends are depicted spending significant time by the bedside of their sick amicus. This seems to be a point of emphasis in another of Seneca’s Epistles that describes the exemplary behavior of the equestrian Cornelius Senecio on the day of his sudden and unexpected death. Senecio emerges here as Seneca’s alter ego, visiting a sick friend and offering his support.17 Even though for some people, any day, and certainly a day which might be their last one alive, could be focused on pleasures that were philosophically less than ideal, Senecio’s own schedule included after the morning salutation, “spending the whole day up to late at night sitting at the bedside of a friend who was gravely ill and had no hope of recovery” (Ep. 101.3).18 The high value associated with the role of the friends visiting the sickroom not only pervades these texts, but even shapes how other participants are seen: Ille magis pependit, quam medico necesse est; pro me, non pro fama artis extimuit; non fuit contentus remedia monstrare: et admovit; inter sollicitos adsedit, ad suspecta tempora occurrit; nullum ministerium illi oneri, nullum fastidio fuit; gemitus meos non securus audivit; in turba multorum invocantium ego illi potissima curatio fui; tantum aliis vacavit, quantum mea valetudo permiserat: huic ego non tamquam medico sed tamquam amico obligatus sum. Suppose a physician gave me more attention than was professionally necessary; that it was not this professional reputation, but for me, that he feared; that he was not content to indicate remedies, but also applied them; that he sat at my bedside among my anxious friends; that he hurried to me at the crises of my illness; that no service was too burdensome, none too distasteful for him to perform; that he was not indifferent when he heard my moans; that, though a host of others called for him, I was always his chief concern; that he took time for others only as my illness had permitted him – such a man has placed me under obligation, not as a physician, but as a friend (Ben. 6.16.4–5).

On this tally, the professional services provided by physicians are judged far less significant than the help of bedside friends. What makes the distinction is partially the time spent by the bedside, a feature we have already observed. But another feature, my second point of emphasis, is new: Seneca’s description suggests that the friends are the only ones who attend to the person, rather than the illness or the physician’s own reputation. Such a role may require the friends to relax philosophical norms some, for example, they give up being indifferent (securus) in hearing the patient’s moans or being anxious (sollicitus) when sit17 For

the similarities between Seneca and Senecio see Ker 2009, 165.  Ep. 101.3: per totum diem amico graviter adfecto et sine spe iacenti usque in noctem adsedisset. 18

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ting by the bedside. Leaving these philosophically incongruent elements aside for now, we can note that friends also attend to the dire physical aspects of care. This similarity does not cover up the differences: the role of the amicus is much more committed and much higher valued than that of the physician. There is rich evidence suggesting that some elements in this model of healthcare survived among the philosophically minded elites in the second century. Marcus Aurelius wrote to Fronto “with an anxious soul entangled by so great a concern” (animo anxio tantaque sollicitudine praepedito)19 upon hearing about his illness. He also went on questioning whether he can be called a friend if he does not visit the sick Fronto immediately.20 Around the same time, Aulus Gellius described visiting a sick patient, a Stoic philosopher, in the following terms: uidemus hominem doloribus … adflictari gemitusque ex eo conpressos erumpere spiritusque et anhelitus e pectore eius euadere non dolorem magis indicantes quam pugnam aduersum dolorem. We saw the man afflicted by pains … the stifled groans that burst from him, and the heavy sighs that escaped his panting breast, revealed less his suffering than his struggle to overcome it” (NA 12.5).21

The scene of the friends visiting as well as the detailed emphasis on the patient who restrained himself from acting out his suffering, and who tried to fight the pain rather than give in to it, suggests the continuity of the health-care paradigm in describing the sick-room. The primary importance of the philosophically minded friends at the bedside of the sick had other wide-reaching effects in the second century. One outcome of this developing notion of health-care, and a measure of its success, was that the roles of physicians and friends became less distinct. On the one hand, patients and their friends wanted to discuss their disease with the physicians on equal turns. In the above mentioned incident in Aulus Gellius there is a discussion about the disease between Taurus, the Platonic philosopher, and the physicians, and there is also another discussion on the Stoic therapy of pain and its shortcomings.22 Similarly, a high-ranking patient of Galen, Eudemus, wanted to discuss his illness with the physician himself.23 On the other hand, physicians in this period took over certain aspects of the philosophical care offered earlier by the friends: Galen, for certain, considered himself as much a philosopher as 19 Fronto

1.2; 1 Hout; 1.80 Haines.  Et tu me amicum vocas qui non abruptis omnibus cursu concitato pervolo? 1.2; 1 Hout; 1.80 Haines. For another interpretation of illnesses in the correspondence of Fronto and Marcus, see Freisenbruch 2007, 235–57, for their relationship in general see Richlin 2006. 21  Cf. the commentary ad loc. by Lakmann 1995, 120–49. 22 Lakmann 1994, 125 and 127–30. 23  Galen, On Prognosis (CMG 5.8.1.78). On the rhetorical elements and notions of friends in Galen see now Mattern 2008, 82–90 and passim. 20

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a physician.24 The tendency in this shift is clear: to do good for a patient, one needs not (only) medical expertise which attends to the symptoms of illness, but (also) the right attitude of health-care, which allows friends to care for the sick.

2 The limits of philosophy in health-care Given that it was primarily among educated and philosophically oriented writers, like Seneca or Marcus Aurelius, that this elaborate image of health-care developed, it is fitting to ask what role, if any, religion played in shaping it – especially in relation to philosophy.25 After all, discussions concerning health and illness were a common territory for both medicine and philosophy since the Hellenistic period.26 As part of this shared territory, Stoics of the early empire frequently applied medical terms to describe their philosophical goals, among them, quite importantly, seeking the “health” of a sick soul. Among Stoics it was Chrysippus who first systematized the view that explicitly compared healing the soul with the healing of the body.27 Posidonius and other later Stoics maintained such a therapeutic notion of philosophy that aimed at helping its students achieve the well-being of their soul. Unlike some physicians, Stoics distinguished sharply between healing the body and healing the soul, of which the soul belonged completely under the “medical” control of philosophy. Shaped by the ethical considerations characteristic of their school, they explained the primacy of the soul based on the notion that the soul had the capacity to govern the rest of the body.28 The health of the body itself had a more intricate position: it was theoretically an adiaphoron, an indifferent, yet it was preferred in certain circumstances and its states had varied interpretations even among Stoics.29 Nevertheless, the exact role of physical illness remained a concern for Stoic philosophers, and in dialogue with emerging medical notions about body and soul, they frequently applied the shared vocabulary of healing to philosophical concerns about how to reach one’s ideal “health.” One of the most extended discussions on this comparison between the health of the soul and of the body in early imperial philosophy can be found in Seneca’s

24  Edelstein 1967, 335, cf. Galen’s That the Best Physician is Also a Philosopher (Quod optimus medicus sit quoque philosophus). 25 Cancik 1998, 235–44 discusses the different notions of selfhood in ancient religion. 26  Nussbaum 1994, 14; Edwards 1999, 257. 27  Gill 2010, 250; see also Rapp 2006, 193–5 for an insightful discussion of the philosophical implications this had among the Stoics. 28  Van Staden 2000, 96–105. 29 Sext. Emp. Math. 11.61–2 on health as an indifferent, ibid. 11.66. a particular situation in which health is not preferred: living under a tyrant who distinguishes the healthy and the sick. Cf. Sorabji 2006, 192 and passim.

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Epistle 72. At the end of an extended medical metaphor comparing the achievement of wisdom to recovering from disease, Seneca concludes: Corpori enim ad tempus bona valetudo est, quam medicus, etiam si reddidit, non praestat, saepe ad eundem qui advocaverat excitatur. semel in totum sanatur. For good health is only temporary for the body, which even the physician cannot guarantee, even if he has restored it, and he is frequently called to the same man who has summoned him before. The soul is healed completely at once (Ep. 72.6).

As a Stoic, Seneca here takes for granted the priority of the soul over physical illness. In the larger presentation, wavering between a man of perfect wisdom and a student who forever keeps making progress in his study of philosophy, there is an unusually strong perfectionism implied here. This was of course a paradox that had developed already in early Stoicism: the idea of the perfect wise man, a godlike figure, towered over the rest of us, the imperfect humans, often without any finer gradation.30 In Seneca’s depiction, this idealized, perfect philosopher parallels the completely healthy man, while the eternal student is compared to the patient who is slowly and endlessly getting better from a long-lingering disease. Paradoxically, in contrast to the limited and secondary suggestions about curing the sick body, Seneca’s detailed prescriptions for a healthy mind, imply not only that it is more worthy but also that it is potentially more successful to cure the soul – at least from the perspective of the philosophers’ philosopher. With the timeless notion of perfect wisdom on the horizon, Seneca employs powerful temporal symbolism in describing how a restless mind or physical illness leads to an endless struggle. This temporal element also makes an indirect connection to the descriptions of the sick-bed above: the extended stay of philosophically oriented visitors at their sick friend’s bedside parallels oddly the endless nature of bodily illnesses. There are other elements in Seneca’s presentation, however, that do not fit so smoothly with his larger philosophical agenda. In general, his theoretical ideals tend to contrast with mistaken “common” views, such as the general concerns of other people. The depiction of health and health-care, however, often shares characteristics with the practices that Roman society usually applied to them. One epistle emphatically encourages prayer for the health of both body and soul, even if maintaining the priority of the latter: Votorum tuorum veterum licet deis gratiam facias, alia de integro suscipe: roga bonam mentem, bonam valetudinem animi, deinde tunc corporis. Quidni tu ista vota saepe facias? Audacter deum roga: nihil illum de alieno rogaturus es. Of your old vows you may give thanks to the gods, make other prayers anew: ask for a good mind, for the good health of your soul, and finally the good health of your body. And

30

 Cf. Vogt 2008, 111–6 on the development of the idea of a god-like wise man.

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why not offer those vows frequently? Ask god daringly: you will ask him for nothing that belongs to someone else (Ep. 10.4.4).

What makes the second part of Seneca’s argument, the encouragement of prayers for bodily health, more striking is that mainstream Stoicism tried to challenge numerous aspects of traditional prayer. The main direction of the criticism aimed at prayers made for what the Stoics saw as requests that were highly irrelevant or in appreciation of divine powers foreign to the Stoic system. Accordingly, Seneca satirized the person who prayed for longer life (Ep. 77.12) and another who tried to bribe the temple-attendant to allow him closer to the ears of the divine image (Ep. 41.5).31 In an elegantly ironic phrase, Seneca claimed that he prays (opto) that Lucilius despise all those things for which his parents had been praying regarding their son’s future (Ep. 32.4). In his criticism of common prayers, Seneca was not especially unique in the second half of the first century. Some of Martial’s poetry and Juvenal’s Tenth Satire suggest that by the late first century ridiculing prayers was quite usual.32 Juvenal offers a full list of such mistaken prayers: for power, for eloquence, for military glory, for long life and for good looks.33 Elite aversion toward prayers for such matters probably reached beyond those of philosophical interest, yet it is notable that praying for good health did not make either Seneca’s or Juvenal’s list. Beyond allowing for prayer for health, there is one further element in Seneca’s representation of the sick-room that is contrary to his philosophical principles. We have already seen above in the De Beneficiis the characterization of the visiting friends as solliciti, that is agitated or feeling much anxiety. And this description of the caring friends is not unique to Seneca: an epistle of Pliny the Younger describes the friends as solliciti again: Praeterea continens ipse, nos solliciti, medici diligentes. Besides the patient is restraining himself, we anxiously care for him, and the doctors are attentive (Ep. 8.1.3).

I have discussed elsewhere how carefully Pliny distributed the roles in this depiction. The doctors are less significant, and their characterization as diligens places them closer to helpful but not truly significant personnel. The patient is described in philosophical terms: continens is the Latin equivalent of ἐγκρατής, the Greek philosophical notion of temperance since Plato. And the friends, again, are described as anxious, solliciti, in their care for the patient.

31  With the former we can also connect prayers for old age, criticized by Seneca in De brev. vit. 11. Cf. Parkin 2003, 80, who also cites Persius 2.41–3. For the latter, trying to reach the proximity of the gods, see Wagenvoort 1980, 233. 32  Cf. Martial 10.47.6. On Juvenal see below. 33  Braund 1997, 185–6 for the complex issues concerning prayer in Juvenal’s Satires 8 and 10.

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From the same philosophical perspective that we have seen guiding these sick-room scenes, the description of the friends as solliciti is quite improper, suggesting a disturbance quite contrary to Stoic teachings. Stoics, similarly to other philosophical schools in the empire, advocated abstaining from agitations of most kinds. In other philosophical works, sollicitus can serve as the term used by Seneca to set opposite to the philosophical ideals for which he advocates. Parallel to the mistake of allowing oneself to become perturbatus, sollicitus is paired off with its opposite securus, that is composed and tranquil, which is the ideal Stoic behavior.34 In the sick-room, friends were thus called upon to play a role which contradicted their other theoretical ideals. But, on paper, not only was it a mistake to be sollicitus, it was also a mistake for philosophically aspiring men to be with those solliciti: Hoc est salutare, non conversari dissimilibus et diversa cupientibus. Habeo quidem fiduciam non posse te detorqueri mansurumque in proposito, etiam si sollicitantium turba circumeat. This is beneficial: not to keep company with those who are different from you and desire things contrary to yours. I have indeed confidence that you cannot be turned away and will retain your purpose, even if an anxious crowd should surround you (Ep. 32.2).

The philosophical discrepancy between what Seneca, Pliny the Younger and Marcus Aurelius advocated and performed by the sick-bed and the theoretical opposition to anyone sollicitus is strange. Together with the interest in prayers for health, we now have a set of features in the depiction of the sick-room in philosophically oriented writers that contrast with their conceptual ideals. In the following I turn to a discussion of this discrepancy.

3 Roman religion and philosophical discrepancies in the health-care of philosophers Part of the reason why this word, sollicitus, may have appeared so regularly in these philosophically oriented scenes of illness is that this was the very word that characterized the concerned attitude towards the sick in Roman society in general. This is the term Seneca himself uses, even if critically, to depict the father anxious about the illness of his children (hic sollicitus aegris [liberis], Ep. 74.2). In the second century, Apuleius describes the properly friendly behavior of Pontianus, his stepson-to-be, towards him as: “he greeted me with the utmost courtesy, inquired anxiously about my health (circa salutem sollicite) and touched dexterously on the subject of love.”35 34 35

 Cf. Ep. 5.8; 23.2; 47.5; 124.19.  Apol. 72.11. facit omnia circa horem meum obseruanter, circa salutem sollicite, circa

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We can take this point further by identifying another important context for being sollicitus: it was also used in general to describe the mind of a person in prayer. This is the association of the word in Ovid, who admonishes his wife to seek out Livia and say not much else but “your words should be nothing other than anxious prayers” (sollicitae preces, Pon. 3.1.148).36 In Seneca’s tragedy Phoenissae, Jocasta describes herself as an anxious mother (sollicita mater) who is trying to offer prayers to each of her sons present.37 The third book of poems falsely attributed to Tibullus describes Neaera as “for whom you disturb the heavenly gods with prayers” (pro qua sollicitas caelestia numina votis, 3.4.53). And in the pseudo-Quintilian Declamationes maiores we encounter a whole variety of religious expressions in the context of trying to help a dying relative: “anxious vows of pietas and alarmed prayers” (anxia vota pietatis, sollicitae preces, 8.5.12). Given the limited descriptions of ritual activity in our ancient evidence overall, it is very hard to establish just how frequently and what kind of religious behavior such solliciti friends by the bedside might have exhibited. I have argued elsewhere that friends likely prayed by the bedside of their sick counterpart.38 One of the earliest references to suggest this is in Propertius, who describes a scene of friends standing around the sick-bed crying (flentes) and making vows for the health (vota pro salute) of the patient, the poet’s lover.39 From among the more philosophically oriented writers of the empire, the evidence for the practice of vows at the bedside does not start to emerge until Pliny the Younger. Describing a visit to a sick friend in one of his letters, he includes the phrase “nevertheless the divine appeared for the vow” (adfuit tamen deus voto, ep. 1.12.8). Of course, we cannot be certain if this was an elegant phrase for general good wishes with regard to the patient’s recovery or an actual formal vow. Yet Pliny found the phrase appropriate enough to include it in the published form of his epistle, which confirms that this kind of language fitted well with the atmosphere of the philosophically oriented elite. To extend our circle of evidence even further, we can interrogate letters exchanged between Marcus Aurelius and Fronto in terms of religious references. The symptom descriptions in these letters long struck readers as unusually detailed. In the context of this paper it is significant that the portrayal of suffering does not include idealizing references to the kind of struggle that a philosopher à la Seneca would undertake so as to master them. Rather, they had at least in amorem callide. Cf. also Met. 5.18 (sororibus pro tua cara salute sollicitis), Met. 10.26 (si religiosa uxor circa salutem mariti sollicita necessariam adfero pietatem). 36  Nil nisi sollicitae sint tua verba preces. 37  Phoen. 459–60: Sollicita cui nunc mater alterna prece / uerba admouebo? 38  Várhelyi 2010, ch. 2. 39  Haec mihi vota tuam propter suscepta salutem, / cum capite hoc Stygiae iam poterentur aquae, et lectum flentes circum staremus amici? “Were they for this the vows I undertook for your health,/when the waters of Styx had all but gone over your head,/and we friends stood, weeping, round your bed?” (Eleg. 2.9 a.23) Cf. also [Tibullus] 3.10.12 referencing vows for the ill mistress.

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part something to do with the erudite discussion related to medicine – to which we can now also add possible vows undertaken by the party even in absentia from the sick-bed. Phrases such as “with the gods assisting your vow” (iuvantibus votum tuum deis) or “Let me know whether your health has improved in accordance with my prayer” (tibi valetudo an pro meo voto se adcommodet fac sciam) suggest that the proper response to a symptom description could likely include the undertaking of a vow for the recovery of the sick friend.40 The whole idea of health-care as I have described comes together in a letter of Marcus to Fronto, in which he describes himself as “most anxious to undertake vows for your health” (sollicitissimum me vota facere pro salute tua). Thus it seems that when it came to the sick-room, philosophically shaped ideals of behavior had to make room for religious considerations as well. That the two could coexist despite some obvious conflicts is a particular characteristic of Roman imperial culture. Yet there is more to this than the simple acceptance on the part of the philosophically minded elite that concern for someone’s wellbeing is commonly expressed through religious prayers. In another passage, Seneca puts forward an argument for the use of prayers based on their long-term and common use when seeking the benefactions of the gods: Hoc qui dicit, non exaudit precantium voces et undique sublatis in caelum manibus vota facientium privata ac publica; quod profecto non fieret, nec in hunc furorem omnes profecto mortales consensissent adloquendi surda numina et inefficaces deos, nisi nossemus illorum beneficia nunc oblata ultro, nunc orantibus data. But he who says this does not listen to the voices of those who pray and of those who all around him, lifting their hands to heaven, offer vows public and private. Assuredly this would not be the case, assuredly all mortals would not have agreed upon this madness of addressing divinities that were deaf and gods that were ineffectual, unless we were conscious of their benefits that sometimes are presented unsought, sometimes in response to plays (Ben. 4.4.2).

The larger context here concerns benefactions and the practice of prayers for them: in comparing gods’ gifts to human benefactions, Seneca accepts the widespread use of prayers as requests for benefactions. In fact the philosophical reason for not using such prayers is turned on its head: it would be madness, furor, not to use them given the long-term practice commonly accepted by all mortals. In explaining why philosophically unjustifiable religious practices were so readily accepted by these otherwise rather guarded members of the elite, Seneca refers to how frequently and for how long those common practices have existed. When it came to health and well-being, the most significant of such common usages was certainly the regular vows undertaken for the salus of the emperor. Since 40

 Fronto, Ep. 5.31; 74 Hout; 1.200 Haines; and Fronto, Ep. 4.11; 65 Hout; 1.202 Haines.

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the early part of Augustus’ rule, Roman religion included a “salutary ideology” in the form of annual vows undertaken for the well-being of the ruling emperor.41 It is well established that such vows became common not only in the senate and some priesthoods of Rome, but also in the majority of communities and associations around the whole empire. Much of this was shaped by a heavy emphasis on the emperor’s well-being – a well-documented and constant element in imperial celebrations, notably present in Pliny’s exchanges with Trajan, or the Jewish and Christian responses to this central idea.42 Philosophers qua philosophers tended to have an almost agnostic view of the imperial cult (including a Marcus Aurelius who noted for himself that he did not want to become too much like an emperor). In the final part of this paper I turn to the question of why they may have accepted the practice of vows even when a similarly philosophically minded friend got sick.

4 Health-care and the language of Roman religion It is an emerging consensus in models of Roman imperial religion that key religious actions by individuals were increasingly modeled on the imperial cult. Richard Gordon’s model of the emperor as a “prime sacrificer,” and Jörg Rüpke’s emphasis on the performance of ritual as an individualized act have already offered important insights towards such an understanding of imperial religion as an individual modeling of imperial ritual acts.43 In my own work on the religion of senators in the empire I have also found that – far from a resistance to the model offered by the emperor – members of the senatorial elite engaged in the production and reception of imperial religion understood in such terms.44 Yet, what is identified as the care of the self is often seen as oppositional to imperial power – in part due to its history as a form of resistance under various first-century emperors. It is not obvious how we can reconcile the fact that in the case of health-care, a practice highly assimilated to one’s care of the self, members of the philosophically minded elite would rely on customs associated with the worship of emperors. Prayers and vows for the salus of the ruling emperor were a powerful symbol of health and well-being across the whole empire.45 Inscriptions commemorating such vows offered pro salute of the ruling emperor were widely imitated: we have more than two thousand and seven hundred inscriptions with the Latin phrase 41  Morale 2004, 23–30 called this emphasis on salus a “salutary ideology,” to emphasize its similarity and connection to the “beneficial ideology” described by Nutton 1978. 42  Morale 2004, 30–8. 43 Gordon 1990; Rüpke 2004. 44  Várhelyi 2010. 45  See Versnel 1992, 8 on the great popularity of prayers for health following this model.

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pro salute and a few hundred more in Greek, only less than half were offered to members of the imperial family. More than half of these vows were made pro salute of others – a particularly large number, likely connected to the contemporaneous peak of the epigraphic habit in the empire. The surviving inscriptions attest to a wide range of social strata involved – including those of lower rank who may have set up an inscription pro salute of themselves – as well as both relatively public situations and private healing circumstances. The inscriptions maintain social order: vows are undertaken pro salute of someone who is either socially higher or the equivalent of the person who makes the dedication. These and other characteristics of the inscriptions confirm not simply epigraphic imitation by those of lower rank, but also the ongoing connection of these offerings to the religious practices associated with vows made for the ruling emperors.46 Both this imperial connection and the vow’s wide social reach fit rather poorly with the general high-mindedness and exclusivity of the philosophically oriented elite. In fact there are some key differences: the notion of health-care is markedly characterized by physical presence (unlike the very idea of inscriptions) and by a social setup in which the participants are either equals or the visiting friend has slight superiority in caring for the sick (the opposite of the setup in vows made for the emperor). It is strange then to see philosophers introducing the prayers and vows of the imperial ritual into health-care, which at best offers a conflict of ideas in terms of the representation that the imperial rituals and the philosophical sick-bed share. One particular reason that I argue can explain this connection between two differing notional worlds lies in religious language. In particular, there is a strong likelihood that the experience of ritual utterances at large religious celebrations, including those associated with the imperial cult, might have shaped the religious language of contemporaries in other contexts, such as philosophical discussions, as well. Beyond the palpable and manifold ritual connections between imperial vows and the ritual acts by individuals modeled on them for the well-being of their own relatives or themselves, religious language associated with the imperial cult may have had an even wider and more insidious influence. When the annual vota for the emperor’s well-being were undertaken around the Roman empire, or for that matter likely in other large public rituals, the words of the prayer could possibly, or even quite likely, be read aloud at the religious gathering.47 The image of Roman priests repeating the read-out words of an attendant in order to guarantee perfect delivery is well known: examples include 46  Varhelyi 2010: Rather remarkably, the epigraphic material confirms the importance of the imperial model in one other way: pro salute inscriptions disappear in our record at the same time as the imperial inscriptions as well as the rituals of the imperial cult decline in the second quarter of the third century. 47  Discussions concerning the prevalence of silent or read out prayers can be traced with the help of van der Horst 1994 and Klinghardt 1999.

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not only Eastern religions, but also mainstream outlets such as the pontifices or the Salii in Rome, not to mention the unique case of the Arvals.48 As Pliny the Elder reports, not even a sacrifice is done correctly unless a prayer accompanies it (Nat. Hist. 28.11), performed sollemni voce or voce clara, the technical terms for the proper utterance of such addresses to the gods. Some of Pliny’s interest in categorizing prayers according to their purpose must have been primarily antiquarian.49 But there is more evidence to suggest that the wording of prayers was of ongoing concern in the empire. A prime example is the defense in the Apology of Apuleius, offered in response to a charge of magic. Apuleius depicted the commonplace definition (more vulgari) of a magus as someone who “through the community of speech with the immortal gods” (communione loquendi cum deis immortalibus) could use the power of spells (cantamina) for whatever he wanted to achieve.50 Of course, it is the same community of speech that makes prayers work as well, and telling prayers (preces) from spells (cantamina) is not an easy matter, which is why silent prayer could still be seen as potentially dangerous.51 Given the proximity of these two, Apuleius ends up arguing that to tell philosophers apart from healers and sorcerers one must look at the outcome they have in mind, that is, for the latters’ monetary gain. The difficulty of this distinction suggests that the logic and possibly even the wording of magical spells and prayers was hard to distinguish and certainly remained a contested matter. In terms of public religion in the Roman empire we have further evidence for the attention to getting the proper wording right. One way to ensure this was through dictation, which included not only the prayers in the arcane language of traditional priesthoods but also prayers dictated (praeire) by a religious authority figure to a larger group who would repeat the words in turn. In a notable example from the very center of Roman imperial power, Pliny the Younger praised Trajan for “being worthy to dictate the most sacred prayer to us” (tu nobis sanctissimum illud carmen praeire dignatus es, Pan. 92.3). Given the original performative context of Pliny’s speech on the floor of the senate, the unspecified nobis probably referred only to the senators present, rather than to all Romans in general. But the populus as a whole could also be called upon to repeat prayers uttered by the emperor as a religiously sanctioned figure. Suetonius describes how the emperor Claudius prayed out loud for a gathering of Romans who were to repeat it word-by-word:  Klinghardt 1999, 6–7.  Klinghardt 1999, 7, with footnote 16. As early as the second or early first century BCE, the bronze Tabulae Iguvinae also prescribed the exact wording of prayers to be performed by the Atiedian Brothers, the local Umbrian priesthood. 50 Graf 2002, 94–7 offers an excellent discussion of this passage in connection with the later theurgical tradition as well. 51  Cf. Apul. Apol. 54.5 for the charge of magic in the case of silent prayers. 48 49

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Utque dira aue in Capitolio visa obsecratio haberetur, eamque ipse iure maximi pontificis pro rostris populo praeiret summotaque operariorum seruorumque turba. And after an ominous bird was sighted on the Capitol, a supplication was ordered, the words of which, after an exhortation from the rostra, Claudius himself recited, on account of his being the pontifex maximus, for the people to repeat – all workmen and slaves being first ordered to withdraw (Suet. Claud. 22).

This passage clearly identifies two important elements in dictating prayers: first, that the emperor is pronouncing a prayer publicly for the populus to repeat, and, secondly, that there was much attention paid to who can be present at such a prayer.52 While we do not know how this particular exclusion of operarii and servi came about, it is clear that the populus here again does not mean just about anybody around, but rather a carefully designated citizen population. This is a large, if select group, praying together, using the same words, which further unites the group and makes for a stronger invocation of the gods.53 That such dictated prayers were also a feature of the imperial cult is quite likely. A tantalizing passage of Tacitus suggests the possibility that many – not only the senate and the equestrians, but even the common people (non senatus modo et eques, […] sed vulgus quoque) – saw themselves as potential participants in the public prayers and vows for the well-being of the ruling emperor: Nunc pro Othone an pro Vitellio in templa ituros? utrasque impias preces, utraque detestanda vota inter duos, quorum bello solum id scires, deteriorem fore qui vicisset. Are we to go the temples now for Otho or for Vitellius? Prayers for either would be impious, vows for either of the two should be cursed. From their war you only learn that the one who wins will be the worse of the two (Hist. 1.50).

Tacitus’s focus on the participation of many people, ranging from senators to the populus, fits his rhetorical agenda in describing the depth of the crisis in 69 CE.54 What this wide range of people share is a disillusion about the quick turnover of insalubrious emperors as well as the assumption that whoever ends up becoming the emperor, they would pray and undertake vows for him. The scene takes place in Rome and this is a living emperor, implying that the prayers and vows in question could quite likely be the vota pro salute of the emperor. Despite the tendentiousness of Tacitus’ depiction it is not impossible to fit this into my larger discussion about wider social participation in undertaking prayers and vows for 52  For the specialized meaning of praeire, as “to precede one in reciting a (religious) formula,” see also the classic instance of devotio in Liv. 8.9.4; but there are further instances in Livy (9.46.6; 10.28.14, etc.) 53  Klinghardt reads a fragment of Petronius as further evidence for the practice of common prayers using the same words (fama est coniunctas fortius ire preces, Petr. Fr. 92, 96 Baehrens, PLM iv = Bücheler XLII). It is difficult to draw solid conclusions from this fragment without further context, yet fama suggests that Petronius’ contemporaries tended to agree with the additional power of prayers pronounced by a group. 54  On the tendentiousness of religious depictions in Tacitus see Feeney 2007, 140–2.

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the emperor: on this reading, at this crisis situation the words of such prayers have become impossible to utter by anyone: neither Roman senators nor the people know how to dictate or repeat dictated prayers related to the emperor’s well-being any more. The letters exchanged between the emperor Trajan and Pliny in his position as governor in Bithynia suggest a similar setup, in which not only the person leading the prayer or vow, but others are also considered participants. Thus Trajan expressed gratitude that Pliny undertook those vows “with the provincials” (cum provincialibus, Ep. 10.36) and Pliny mentioned in another, later letter that the provincials and the soldiers competed (certante commilitonum et provincialium, Ep. 10.100) in taking the vow.55 It was Trajan who used the most revealing language about how such vows may have been made: the vows were undertaken by the soldiers and the provincials with Pliny leading them (te praeeunte, Ep. 10.101).56 Ultimately the available evidence cannot make it fully secure who exactly and on what occasions heard or uttered, upon dictation, the words of such prayers and vows for the well-being of the emperor. But it is quite likely that these vows followed certain empire-wide rules – in the Roman public priesthood of the Arvals just as in the ritual celebrations of distant provinces. In particular, the language of these vows was probably the same across the empire, including the fact that these particular vows could be at times undertaken in Latin even in the Eastern, Greek-speaking provinces.57 These standardized prayers and vows may be seen as the measure of a general interest in prayer formulas in the empire. Whether that may stand or not, it seems clear that situations with concerns about the salus of a family member or of a social superior were especially prone to following the prayers and vows known from the celebrations of the ruling emperor. A fascinating passage of Juvenal seems to confirm the idea that the desire to get prayers right by repeating the appropriate wording dictated by a prompter was seen as highly appropriate at times of extreme concern for one’s close relatives. In terms of generic conventions, Juvenal’s Sixth Satire is an apparently vicious attack on women, or, more likely, an overstated example of a progymnasma, a kind of exercise set for students of Latin rhetoric, in this case responding to the question of whether a man should marry.58 In the long list of the types of wives a man should avoid, Juvenal lists the paradigm of women interested in music. As an example, he mentions 55  Ando 2000, 359–61 for a good contextualization of these vows with the oaths undertaken by provincials as well. 56  The full, highly elaborate sentence is: Solvisse vota dis immortalibus te praeeunte pro mea incolumitate commilitones cum provincialibus laetissimo consensu et in futurum nuncupasse libenter, mi Secunde carissime, cognovi litteris tuis. 57  Cf. Reynolds 1962 regarding two first-century vows in Latin from Cyrene and Ptolemais. Ando 2000, 360 n. 102 referencing the posthumous (!) prayers for the well-being of Trajan as Severan ideology, connecting the two emperors. 58  Braund 1992.

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a woman of noble origin who on this particular depiction is approaching Janus and Vesta with spelt-cake and wine. Her religious concern is whether her flame, Pollio the cythara-player, will win the first prize at the Capitoline contest. The persona of Juvenal expresses outrage that: stetit ante aram nec turpe putauit pro cithara uelare caput dictataque uerba pertulit, ut mos est, et aperta palluit agna She stood in front of the altar and did not think it scandalous to cover her head for the cythara-player and carry through the words dictated, as it was customary, and turned pale when the lamb was opened (6.390–2).

One obvious reason for outrage is that the woman prays for a musician, a lowranking man, in whom she likely has an amorous interest. But within the satirist’s setup the main reason for indignation is already identified in the lines preceding the depiction of the woman’s religious actions discussed above.59 He asks: quid faceret plus aegrotante uiro, medicis quid tristibus erga filiolum? What more could she do If her husband was sick, or the doctors gloomy about Her little son? (6.388–90)

What is implied in this question is that praying and sacrificing for someone was potentially the mark of close personal relationships. The prime example Juvenal brings up for the proper place of such prayers and sacrifices is the occasion of a health concern for a close relative, such as one’s family members. This passage then suggests, even if indirectly, that the ritual of prayer and sacrifice was seen as appropriate when it came to illnesses. And it is in his depiction of a ritual that was likely an erroneous version of the proper salus vow and prayer, that Juvenal mentions the recital of a prayer dictated by a religious expert. What we have at the end then is a robust social practice that required, among others, prayers and vows for the recovery and well-being of close family members among people of varying backgrounds in Roman society  – which also corresponds to, but does not map, the widespread epigraphic sway of relevant formulaic inscriptions. One striking feature of salus-health is its flexibility, both in terms of divine figures approached and meanings implied: recovery from illness, general well-being and, for some, possibly even well-being in the other world.60 Of course, it is ironic that such prayers and vows equated the emperor with those sick or dying as the person for whose well-being the ritual was performed. This 59 60

 Klinghardt 1999, 5 considers this as an example of prayer formularies.  Le Glay 1982, 427–44.

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suggests that the emphasis in this comparison of unequals was likely on the other element: the shared hope for something better in this or in the other world. In contrast to this flexibility of application, the language used in these rituals appears to have had much less variety. It is not unusual for a prayer or ritual to travel across different times and sites of ancient culture: the best example in this context is probably the hymn to Hygieia attributed to Ariphron of Sikyon (a Classical Greek lyric poet) that is mentioned in numerous literary works of the second and third century, as well as on two inscriptions – one from Epidauros and one from Kassel, Germany – in the meantime crossing from sympotic to ritual contexts.61 The proper words in certain prayers and vows were quite likely similar and familiar to many people from the language of ritual celebrations for ruling emperors and for the imperial cult. And it was practically inevitable that the way and the language to be used when praying for someone’s recovery from illness were shaped by the widespread references to salus in the worship of emperors. However, unlike the Christians who used the same or similar terms to establish their own, alternative notions of self and well-being, non-Christian subjects lived in a linguistic and to some extent even conceptual koine of imperial ideals. It is impossible to argue away this connection between this robust practice of undertaking vota for someone’s salus, and the prayers or vows used within what I called the health-care of philosophically minded friends in the Roman empire. We know too little about how people of other social backgrounds cared for their own sick, but it seems unique for the elite to see it as an obligation to pray for recovery from illness while sitting by each other’s bedside for extended periods of time and to attend to each other’s psychological and physical care in minute detail. And, finally, it most certainly goes against the grain of Stoic philosophical teachings that men who carefully work on perfecting themselves to become passionless sages would turn into anxious visitors in fulfilling the demands of the health-care that Seneca, Pliny or Marcus described and prescribed. There is something else that is behind this religious language then, an interest in creating alternative communities of belonging for philosophically minded individuals, in which, among others, the care for a friend, whether in sickness or health, could be emphatically performed. What mattered was thus likely not the words of a prayer, but rather what one hoped to gain from them: just as Apuleius argued in his own defense against the charge of performing magic, the difference between magicians or doctors and philosophers lies in the goals they each pursue, profits (quaestus) or help (suppetiae), respectively.62 The outcome the philosophers had in mind, as Seneca already presented on his own example, was to be able to return to an ideal state of philosophical activities.

61 62

 Käppel 1992, 368–9; Klinghardt 1999,9.  Apul. Apol. 40.3: [philosphus] illis non ad quaestum, sed ad suppetias usuru est.

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However, unlike the perfectionist ideals in self-care, the focus sought by philosophically minded friends through health-care was not simply directed at reminding the sick to take proper care of his self or at emphasizing the struggle it took to deal with pain. Rather, health-care also reached beyond the often impersonal requirements of imperial philosophy for self-control: in sickness true friends could be identified when they moved beyond simply monitoring their own or their friends’ proper behavior, and focused instead on what their interpersonal connection required them to do. This is not to deny the apparent social benefit a philosophically minded man could gain from visiting his sick friends; rather, to point out that those moments of the visit, the extensive attention and the prayers, followed a path different from what was required in philosophical terms. And at this intersection of philosophical ideals and deeply human concerns, that Roman society tended to address through religious ritual, philosophers came to health-care, a hybrid of complex motivations and goals in the care for the sick.

5 Conclusion The widespread attention to health in the world of philosophically minded friends and in the representations shaped by the example of imperial vows suggests links between these two spheres; among them, connections of prayer and of ritual language. This is fitting: the individuals we know best from the ancient world were the same individuals who alone could afford the luxury to care for themselves in a philosophical way, yet inevitably also the ones most aware of the world of large-scale religious representations associated with imperial rule. And even as philosophical texts urged a renunciation of many unrefined aspects in social life, such as primary focus on one’s body or prayers for useless benefits, when it came to health-care, the boundary between the common and the philosophical became diffuse. What the world of philosophically minded friends by each other’s bedside offered was an intimate alternative community, interpersonal connections that members of the elite could rely on to be available at times of need. This included the enactment of certain desired behaviors in front of and to each other, but this representation was not just a show. In fact, borrowing features of public religion, yet applying them in a sophisticated form and context had a unique effect. It connected the intimate gathering of friends with the performance of individualized actions, both philosophical and religious, some of which were modeled on the exemplariness and dignity of the emperor. It was among individuals within such small groups that certain second-century selves emerged transforming and transformed by the ancient religion of their times.

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Bibliography Ando, Clifford 2000. Imperial ideology and provincial loyalty in the Roman empire, Berkeley. Barton, Carlin A. 1994. “Savage miracles: the redemption of lost honour in Roman society and the sacrament of the gladiator and martyr”, Representations 45, 41–71. Bartsch, Shadi 2006. The mirror of the self: sexuality, self-knowledge, and the gaze in the early Roman Empire, Chicago. Braund, Susan H. 2007. Beyond anger: a study of Juvenal’s third book of satires, Cambridge. Cancik, Hubert 1998. “Persona and self in Stoic philosophy”, in Albert I. Baumgarten, Jan Assmann, Guy G. Stroumsa (eds.), Self, soul, and body in religious experience, Leiden, 335–46. Edelstein, Ludwig 1967. Ancient Medicine: Selected Papers. Ed. by Owsei Temkin, C. Lillian Temkin, Baltimore. Edwards, Catharine 1999. “Chronic Pain and the Creation of Narrative”, in James I. Porter (ed.), Constructions of the Classical Body, Ann Arbor, 252–68. Feeney, Denis 2007. “The History of Roman Religion in Roman Historiography and Epic”, in Jörg Rüpke (ed.), A Companion to Roman Religion, Oxford, 129–42. Foucault, Michel 1978. The History of sexuality. Vol.3. The Care of the Self. Translated by Robert Hurley, New York. – 2005. The hermeneutics of the subject: lectures at the Collège de France, 1981–82. Edited by Frédéric Gros, translated by Graham Burchell, New York. Freisenbruch, Annelise 2007. “Back to Fronto: doctor and patient in his correspondence with an emperor”, in Ruth Morello, Andrew D.  Morrison (eds.), Ancient letters: classical and late antique epistolography, Oxford, 235–257. Gill, Christopher 2006. The structured self in Hellenistic and Roman Thought, Oxford. Gordon, Richard 1990. “The Veil of Power: emperors, sacrificers and benefactors”, in Mary Beard, John North (eds.), Pagan priests, London, 201–55. Graf, Fritz 2002. “Theories of magic in antiquity”, in Paul Mirecki, Marvin Meyer (eds.), Magic and ritual in the ancient world, Leiden, 92–104. Inwood, Brad 2007. “Seneca, Plato and Platonism. The case of Letter 65”, in Mauro Bonazzi, Christoph Helmig (eds.), Platonic Stoicism, Stoic Platonism: the dialogue between Platonism and Stoicism in antiquity, Leuven, 149–168. Käppel, Lutz 1992. Paian: Studien zur Geschichte einer Gattung, Berlin, New York. Ker, James 2009. The deaths of Seneca, Oxford, New York. Klinghardt, Matthias 1999. “Prayer Formularies for Public Recitation: Their Use and Function in Ancient Religion”, Numen 46, 1–52. Lakmann, Marie-Luise 1995. Der Platoniker Tauros in der Darstellung des Aulus Gellius, Leiden. Mattern, Susan P. 2008. Galen and the rhetoric of healing, Baltimore. Nock, Arthur D. 1972. “Soter and Euergetes”, in Sherman L. Johnson (ed.), The Joy of Study … to honor F. C. Grant. 1951, 127–48. Reprinted in: A. D. Nock, Essays on Religion and the Ancient World. Selected and edited, with an Introduction, Bibliography of Nock’s writings, and Indexes, by Zeph Stewart, Cambridge, 720–35. Nussbaum, Martha C. ²2009. Therapy of desire: theory and practice in Hellenistic ethics, Princeton.

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Nutton, Vivian 1978. “The Beneficial Ideology”, in Peter Garnsey, Charles R. Whittaker (eds.), Imperialism in the Ancient World, Cambridge, 209–21. Parkin, Tim G. 2003. Old Age in the Roman world: a cultural and social history, Baltimore. Perkins, Judith 1995. The suffering self:  pain and narrative representation in the early Christian era, London, New York. Rapp, Claudia 2006. “Interaction of body and soul. What the Hellenistic philosophers saw and Aristotle avoided”, in Richard A. H. King (ed.) Common to body and soul: philosophical approaches to explaining living behaviour in Greco-Roman antiquity, Berlin, 187–208. Reydams-Schils, Gretchen J. 2005. The Roman Stoics: self, responsibility, and affection, Chicago. Reynolds, Joyce M. 1962. “Vota pro salute principis”, PBSR 30, 33–6. Richlin, Amy 2006. Marcus Aurelius in love, Chicago. Rüpke, Jörg 2004. “Acta aut agenda: relations of script and performance”, in Allesandro Barchiesi, id., Susan A. Stephens (eds.), Rituals in ink: a conference on religion and literary production in ancient Rome, Stuttgart, 23–44. Sorabji, Richard 2006. Self: ancient and modern insights about individuality, life, and death, Oxford. van der Horst, Pieter W. 1994. “Silent prayer in antiquity”, Numen 41, 1–25. Várhelyi, Zsuzsanna 2010. The religion of senators in the Roman empire: power and the beyond, Cambridge. Versnel, Henrik S. 1981. “Religious mentality in ancient prayer”, in id. (ed.), Faith, hope and worship. Aspects of religious mentality in the ancient world, Leiden, 1–64. Vogt, Katja M. 2008. Law, reason and the cosmic city: political philosophy in the early Stoa, Oxford. Wagenvoort, Henrik 1980. “Characteristic traits of ancient Roman religion”, in id. Pietas: selected studies in Roman religion, Leiden, 223–56. Wilson, Emily R. 2004. Mocked with death: tragic overliving from Sophocles to Milton, Baltimore.

Votive Offerings and the Self in Roman Athens1 Elena Muñiz Grijalvo Did new senses of the self emerge in the High Roman Empire? The general research project which has given rise to this fascinating question draws our attention to several ritual practices which may provide valuable information about the extremely slippery concept of “the Self”. One of these practices is votive offerings, which have not traditionally “attracted interest beyond the material realm”.2 I find this complaint a fair one. In my opinion, votive offerings have been unfairly pushed aside when dealing with religiosity and the self. Admittedly the evidence is quite disappointing: votive offerings – as we may find them – have rarely left more than short, dry and standardised expressions of gratitude to the gods for something which has often been prayed for beforehand, and the nature of which we will never know. However, as van Straten puts it, they are the nearest we can get to the piety of the “average” Greek.3 Moreover – and this is my point here –, beyond their essential invariability over the years,4 an analysis of changes in votive offerings may provide interesting insight into the search for the “phases of increasing and decreasing individualization”5 throughout the history of Greek cities. This paper focuses on a very specific kind of change in votive practice: a sharp decrease in the number of offerings dedicated to Athena in late Hellenistic and Roman Athens. In what follows I will endeavour to show how this apparently insignificant change may be related to a deeper movement within the Athenian religious system, and to the place of individual ritual actions within the system as a whole. 1 I wish to thank Greg Woolf and Jörg Rüpke for their invitation to take part in the workshop which gave rise to this volume, and for their warm hospitality in Erfurt. I am also immensely grateful to Henk Versnel, who read this paper and expressed a long list of objections from which I (hope to) have learned much. 2  With only some remarkable exceptions, as the ones mentioned in the definition of the research group “Religious individualization in historical perspective” (http://www.uni-erfurt.de/ fileadmin/user-docs/Kollegforschergruppe/Proposal_kfg_engl.pdf), 10: the works of H. S. Versnel and F. van Straten. For other recent literature on the subject, see n. 8. 3 Van Straten 1981, 69. 4  Van Straten 1981, 65–6. 5  “Religious individualization in historical perspective” (see n. 2), 2.

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To illustrate my point, I will begin with a very short discussion of the degree of “individuality” we might expect to find in votive offerings. As I hope to show, individual ritual action cannot be correctly understood without reference to the framework of meaning provided by the general religious system to which it refers. Secondly, as a consequence of this general statement, I will analyse changes in the votive offerings dedicated to the goddess Athena, attempting to link those changes to other more general ones within that framework of reference. My conclusions will be that a new position of votive offerings and, therefore, of individual initiative within the religious system might help to explain changes in the number of votive offerings dedicated to Athena in Roman Athens.

1 Votive offerings It is hardly debatable that private6 votive offerings are one of the fields of ritual which allow for more individual scope for ritual action.7 In an interesting work about the relationship between votive offerings and the cult of Hera, Baumbach has recently summarised most of the modern views on votive offerings.8 Among other things, he recalls the importance of “the interests of the community and the needs and functions of the local deity” in order to understand individual ritual action properly. However, he rightly emphasises the beliefs and motives of the worshipper, which “play an important part in the selection”.9 I can only agree with this. Even the most standard private votive formulae are, to a certain extent, the result of individual selection  – of selecting when and what to offer to which god. In a way, they reflect individual initiative more faithfully than any other ritual. They are presented to the gods by individuals, as individuals and with individual aims. The need for social sanction is reduced to the minimum: the type of offering and the way in which it is presented may be socially regulated, but the ideal moment for presenting it, or the required initiative, are wholly individual matters.10 Having said that, there are some obvious reservations that need to be introduced. Ancient historians have already been sternly warned against the dangers

 6  As I explain below, I will be discussing private votives, that is, offerings made by individuals who were acting on their own behalf. About the highly elusive definition of “private” offerings, see below; see also Lazzarini 1976, 58; Versnel 2011, 123 n. 358. About difficulties and dangers in opposing “private” vs. “public”, see Dasen-Piérart 2005. About the necessary caution in using the term “votive”, see Osborne 2004; Pirenne-Delforge 2009, 321.  7  “Religious individualization in historical perspective” (n. 2), 2–3.  8  Rouse 1902; Van Straten 1981, 1992; Linders-Nordquist 1987; Alroth 1989. More recently, see also Parker 2005; Bodel-Kajava 2009.  9  Baumbach 2004, 4. 10  Versnel 2011, 132–3.

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of focusing on the individual side of religion and disregarding all the rest.11 These dangers are more acutely evident when looking at Greek and Roman religions, whose collective aspects were so important. For instance, even though writing about emotions and individual performances of rituals, Chaniotis has recently emphasised that for the average Greek, ritual and celebration meant togetherness.12 This deep relationship between the individual and the group is relatively easy to trace in personal prayer. Even the most apparently spontaneous prayer owes its value to the fact that it has been sanctioned by the group.13 On the one hand, any prayer expresses communal beliefs: how the group understands the gods, how the group considers it appropriate to address the gods, etc. On the other hand, formulae and epithets are usually the product of regulation and tradition.14 The group sanction was crucial even though Greek and Roman religions lacked a canonical body of belief, scriptural texts, or a clergy claiming special knowledge or authority.15 In a way, the fact that it was the product of tradition guaranteed the effectiveness of prayer. Of course, all these obvious remarks are merely the consequence of a more general fact: that any ritual action is part of a wider religious system which transcends the individual.16 Furthermore, the place assigned to the individual and to individual ritual actions within the religious system usually depends on the rest of the elements which constitute that system. Every religion is made up of individual and collective aspects which cannot be understood in isolation from each other. Therefore, to account for any change in the individual sphere of ritual action, namely in private votive offerings, one should at least refer to the general framework of meaning in which they were embedded. The same could be said about any of the fields which are frequently alluded to as part of “personal religion”. Things such as the experience of epiphanies, dreams, prayers related to personal matters, etc.,17 are indeed personal experi11  Detienne 1986; North 1989: what has happened is that historians have projected into this area, about which we really know so little, the elements that they postulate as essential to any religion – personal prayer and contact with the divine, deep feelings and beliefs about man’s relation to universal forces, etc. See also Price 1999, 89. 12 Chaniotis 2006. Something similar has been often contended for Roman religion, see for instance North 1989, 604–7: almost all the evidence we have suggests that in Rome religious life focused on public cult, on the relationship between the city and the city’s gods. 13  Mauss 1909, 114–6; Limet-Ries 1980, 15. 14  Klinghardt 1999 shows that there were prompters and sacred texts both in Rome and in Greece, which contained formulas and regulation. See also Chapot-Laurot 2001, 19. 15  Sourvinou-Inwood 2000 a, 19; Chapot-Laurot 2001, 12: “Dans le cas de prières plus personelles et spontanées le cadre, tant à Rome qu’en Grèce, est évidemment moins rigide, et les sources révèlent une grande diversité dans ce domaine. Subsistent pourtant des formulations appropiées …” 16 A good definition of “religious system” in Pirenne-Delforge 2009, 319. 17  All of which have been the subject of a recent reader on personal religion by Instone, 2009.

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ences, but do not constitute a religious system on their own. Individual ritual actions form part of a wider system made up of several levels, including the individual one, which in turn cannot exist without the others. Nearest to the individual were the family level, the civic one, or that provided by a religious association. There were also other more general levels which no doubt affected individual piety too, such as the new religious environment provided by the Hellenistic kingdoms or the Roman Empire. For instance, the fact that the gods “appeared to be more imposing and majestic”, but at the same time “lent an ear to lowly mortals”18 has been explained by Pleket as a consequence of “the penetration of Eastern religiosity, combined with the rise of autocratic rulers”, which contributed to the “institutionalisation of incidental, earlier outbursts of personal religiosity”.19 Changes in personal piety in the post-classical era have often been related, among other things, to this kind of pan-Mediterranean political process as suggested, for instance, by Pleket. But those other more immediate levels – such as the demos or the polis – have frequently been rejected as insignificant factors to account for changes in personal devotion. In my opinion, it would be wrong to exclude any of the levels which could affect the position of personal religiosity within the religious system. We should not jump directly from a general, panMediterranean level to the individual consequences of the changes produced within that very general frame. At least, not without considering other more immediate developments. All too often debates about the self in Roman times have deliberately pushed the local level to one side. This might have to do with a serious disagreement about the relevance of the term “polis-religion” in those debates.20 In my view, “polis-religion” may be a term as good as any other to define what was happening in many Greek poleis up to Hellenistic times. I understand “polis-religion” as the religious system which integrated individual and communal acts into a wider network of rituals and meaning that affected every social level, i.e. individual, family, genos, phratry, demos, tribe, polis and, last but not least, the whole of Hellas. As Jameson put it, an almost perfect continuum was perceived between the great public festival at the Acropolis and the small sacrifice in a simple enclosure in a corner of the countryside.21 That continuum is what we might (or might not) call “polis-religion”. In any case, the local level could play a very important role among individual beliefs and ritual actions. 18 Versnel

1981, 35.  Pleket 1981, 171. 20  The most accurate and relevant definitions of “polis-religion” are in my opinion by Sourvinou-Inwood 2000 a, 15–7, 19; ead. 2000 b, 47, 51; and Jameson 1999. Very pertinent comments about civic religion can also be found in North 1992, 179; id. 1989, 604–7. More definitions of “polis-religion” in Cole 1995; Kindt 2009; Bremmer 2010. Critics to the “polis-religion” model and its shortcomings in Burkert 1995; Woolf 1997; Versnel 2011, 122–3; Eidinow 2011. 21  Jameson 1999. 19

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So, when a certain Demetrios decided to climb the Acropolis and leave a small bronze figurine of Athena there to ask the goddess to ensure his prosperity22, he was acting within the boundaries of a wider religious framework which must be taken into account to appreciate the extent of this ostensibly individual initiative. For the same reason, if we try to understand the reasons why there was a decrease or a rise in the number of offerings to a certain god, we need to look into the religious context. The following section will be devoted to the analysis of a remarkable change in votives in Roman Athens.

2 Changes in votive practices The reasons why I have selected votive offerings in Roman Athens to illustrate my point are quite obvious. Except for Rome, there is probably no other ancient city with such a vast quantity of epigraphic and archaeological remains as Athens. The existing evidence has been edited and revised several times so far: we can be fairly sure that we have quite an accurate picture of the things that have remained. But even this exceptional starting point may be extremely misleading. To mention just one out of a thousand difficulties, we will never be able to imagine the actual ritual life of Athens in toto: the vast majority of cults have not left any trace of their development. In most cases only the name of a priest has survived23 or, in some more discouraging cases, just the name of the priesthood.24 So even in Athens we run the risk of falling into Snodgrass’ “positivist fallacy”: that the observable phenomena are by definition the significant phenomena.25 If we focus on votive offerings, the difficulties faced grow to a highly discouraging point. Speaking just about “observable phenomena”, that is, about the objects that have survived and have been published,26 only a small percentage may be related with certainty to the god to which it was offered. Most of the offerings have been found without an inscription which explains what it actually was: to which god it belonged, who dedicated it, and – the most sought-after piece of information for us – why it was dedicated. This lack of information might be owing to several factors: either the offering had never had an inscription, or it has been lost,27 or even the inscription and the offering might have become separated over the years, so that archaeologists may have found the two of them, but separately.

 IG II2 4321.  Vellek 1969. 24  Maass 1972. 25  Snodgrass 1983, 142. 26 That is, probably “a tiny fraction of what must have existed before most of them were cleared, destroyed, thrown away or just got lost” (Versnel 2011, 125). 27  Baumbach 2003, 2. 22 23

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When an offering has no explanatory inscription, it is almost impossible to say to which god it was dedicated. Many of them have been relocated over the years, so they have not been found at the sacred site where they were originally dedicated. Many others have turned up in sacred areas shared by several gods. Even worse, many objects may not be defined as votive offerings for sure: the famous Acropolis inventories listed dedications along with cult equipment, so we must bear in mind the possibility that an apparent offering was instead part of the infrastructure of the shrine, and had never been the object of an offering.28 Or, we may find a small bronze Athena that may seem to us a typical votive offering, but it could have been instead a tripod support, a mirror caryatid, or a vessel attachment.29 Another kind of difficulty which is also directly linked with the subject of this paper relates to who made the offering. Of the small percentage of objects which do bear an inscription and may be identified as votive offerings, a considerable number bear only the name of the deity to which they were offered. So it remains difficult to know whether they were private or public offerings, that is, whether they were dedicated by one or more individuals on private grounds, or instead by a magistrate or an institution. A good example is again provided by the Acropolis inventories. In her detailed study of the different lists which have survived from between the years 434/3 and 294/3, Harris has shown that it was common not to detail the names of the dedicants, much less the function or the purpose of the dedication. For instance, the expensive gold and silver vessels which were kept at the Proneos were in her opinion “not likely to have been individually owned and privately dedicated”: they were listed as epeteia, that is, yearly offerings of the treasurers of Athena, “presumably on behalf of all Athena’s worshippers”.30 But neither these vessels, nor many other objects, such as the ones kept in the west cella of the Parthenon, which was not open to the public, may be labelled as public or private with any certainty. The Acropolis inventories give an idea of the general situation. Not even when the aim was to register votive offerings and treasures can the names of the dedicants be always read in the inventories. So, from the existing evidence, only in some cases do we get to know who made the offering. Unfortunately, those are the only cases when we may try to guess whether the offering was the product of individual initiative. So, quite apart from the general considerations raised in section one, there are also practical reasons which make it very hard to look for the individual in votive offerings. No quantitative analysis can be minimally rigorous. Therefore, the con28  About public inventories in Athens, see Ferguson 1932, Linders 1972, 1975, Harris 1995, Lewis 1988, Aleshire 1989. 29  Keesling 2003, 83. 30  Harris 1995, 79, 108.

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clusions of the analysis that follows will be based on differences in the numbers from period to period, i.e. on general trends, and not on absolute numbers.31 To catch a glimpse of the general trends which may be deduced from the number of votive offerings made to Athena throughout Athenian history, I will be basing my assertions only on inscribed dedicatory bases, which in some cases allow us to speak about “private” offerings. In 1996, Geagan undertook a similar endeavour.32 His conclusions were drawn from the analysis of “almost 700 dedicatory inscriptions spanning nine centuries”.33 His sources were mainly the Inscriptiones Graecae, and Raubitschek’s Dedications from the Athenian Akropolis. From his study, three basic time periods emerge: the first period encompassed the sixth, fifth and fourth centuries BC, which have provided the greatest number of votive offerings; the second period stretched from the fourth to the early first century BC, when Athena’s votive dominance waned; and the third period spanned from the reign of Augustus throughout the reigns of the Julio-Claudian dynasty, when the Acropolis was dominated by the religious action of Romans. I will make extensive use of the same sources, together with the more recent Votive im römischen Griechenland by Günther Schörner.34 I will focus on inscribed bases found in Athens between the fourth century BC and the latest offering made to Athena in Roman times, dating from the end of second century AD. However, apart from significant differences in the interpretation of the relevant evidence (as will become apparent in the next section), the main difference between Geagan’s work and this paper is that he does not make any distinction between public and private offerings. This lack of differentiation led him to work on 71 votive monuments and 225 statue bases from the fourth century and the post-Classical era, whereas my own analysis will be reduced to 58 inscribed offerings.

3 Athena Athena was no doubt the most popular of the gods in archaic and classical Athens.35 As the city patroness, she was the symbol of the city both outside and inside the polis. The particular political situation in fifth century BC Aegean explains the special magnitude of public homage paid to Athena.36 There is no need to insist on the relevance of the Athenian Acropolis and of the cults developed  As Baumbach has put it for his own work, see Baumbach 2003, 10.  Geagan 1996. 33  Geagan 1996, 146. 34 Schörner 2003. 35  About Athena see Neils 1992; Deacy-Villing 2001. 36  Parker 2007, 395. 31 32

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around the main Athenian political institutions during those years. However, the importance of personal piety linked to Athena should not be disregarded either. In the period that we are analysing, Athena received private votive offerings just as “Athena”, or in her various capacities as Polias, Hygieia, Nike or Ergane – sometimes even Polias Ergane. Not only does epigraphy reveal this more personal aspect of the goddess, but literature too reflects an intimacy that, in Parker’s words, “refutes all attempts to contrast ‘civic’ with ‘private’ in Greek religious experience”.37 He illustrates his view with the spontaneous joy with which the chorus of Athenian women in Euripides’ Ion exclaims, “my goddess” (211) when they happened to find a sculpture of Athena at Delphi. The feeling of individual intimacy with the goddess continued to exist in the fourth century BC. Judging from Demosthenes’ words, it was usual to climb the Acropolis and pray for the State and oneself to be blessed: “How on the first of each month will you climb the Acropolis and pray for blessings on the State and on yourselves?”38 So, it is hardly surprising that private votive offerings dedicated to Athena continued to arrive in significant numbers on the Acropolis until the end of the fourth century BC. Up to 24 private offerings in which the name of the goddess may be clearly read date from the fourth century.39 The formulae are usually very simple: from the anonymous “to the Polias”, to the laconic “so-and-so dedicated this to Athena”, and so on. Many of the inscriptions are fragmentary, so it is impossible to reach conclusions about their exact contents or the people who made the offerings. However, when motivations may be read or imagined, they have to do with the welfare of families,40 with prosperity,41 or with salvation from great unspecified dangers.42 It is significant that up to nine dedications were made to Athena Ergane, patroness of female crafts, who probably did not develop a proper cult, but seemed to be quite popular in this capacity.43 Two of the offerings to Athena Ergane are explicitly identified as aparché (first-fruits) to the goddess.44 This intimacy with the goddess seems so consistently expressed throughout the fourth century BC that the sudden drop which may be detected in the epigraphic evidence from the third century on is quite surprising. There is not even one single votive inscription dating with certainty from the third century BC,  Parker 2007, 396.  Dem. 25.99. 39 To Athena: IG II2 4319–26, 4330, 4332–3, 4335–7; to Athena Polias: 4331; to Athena Ergane: 4328–9, 4334, 4338–9; to Athena Polias Ergane: 4318. 40  IG II2 4318–9, 4321, 4327, 4333(?). 41  IG II2 4319, 4321. 42  IG II2 4323. 43 IG I 561, 1732; IG II2 2939, 4318, 4328, 4329, 4334, 4338, 4339. For the cult to Athena Ergane, see Consoli 2004; Parker 2007, 409; Holtzmann 2003, 178. 44  IG II2 4334, 4339. 37 38

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and only four from the second or the first century BC.45 The next ones are three very similar marble bases offered during the priesthood of a certain “Alexandra, Leo’s daughter”, dating from Augustan times.46 A priestess is mentioned in a short dedication dated “during the priesthood of Flavia Phaenarete”,47 that is, sometime in the first half of the second century AD. There are four more dedications to Athena Polias dating from the first or the second century AD,48 and one to Nike.49 Finally, we find a last dedication which is much more eloquent than the rest: it alludes to the téchne of engravers and is addressed to despoina Pallas.50 No other votive inscription dates with any certainty from after the end of the second century AD. Apart from the sharp decrease in the number of votive offerings from the Hellenistic period on, it is also remarkable that the next votives we find have to do to some extent with the display of status.51 As we have seen, four of them mention the names of the priestesses of Athena Polias who were acting their capacity as priestess – a lifetime capacity, by the way – at that time. The cult of Athena Polias is indeed very well attested through the names of her priestesses until the third century AD. It seems that the priesthood was controlled by the prestigious génos of the Eteoboutadai and held for life.52 There is one final group of inscriptions which deserves attention. Nineteen examples of what seems to be bases of portraits have survived, dating between the third century BC and the second century AD.53 All of these portraits were offered to Athena by the parents of young girls who had served as arrephóroi. The parents were obviously proud of their daughters’ office, so they wanted to leave evidence of it on the Acropolis as an offering to Athena, the goddess served by the arrephóroi. As was the case with other traditional Greek gods, it seems that the cult of Athena Polias continued to be used by the elite as a mark of status, even though the popularity of the goddess seems to have decayed drastically in Roman times. An example of this may be seen in a famous decree honouring the empress Julia 45  IG II2 4340 = Schörner 2003 (from now on VrG), 36, II2 4350 = VrG 261, II2 4349 = VrG 262; II2 4036 = VrG 30. 46  Or not before the reign of Claudius, see Vellek 1969, 57: IG II2 4341 = VrG 162, IG II2 4342–43. 47  IG II2 4345: or, as proposed by Feaver 1951, 12: “under the authority of the priestess”. 48  IG II2 4344, 4346 = VrG 316, 4348 = VrG 277, 3191 = VrG 286. 49 IG II2 4794 = VrG 58 (second century AD). 50  IG II2 4347 = VrG 169. 51  Geagan 1996. 52  Lewis 1955, 7–12. 53  IG II2 3461, 3465–6 (III BC); IG II2 3470–3, 3486 = VrG 193 (II BC); IG II2 3515 = VrG 105; IG II2 3516 = VrG 89, 3488 = VrG 147, 3496 = VrG 138, 3497 = VrG 148 (I B. C.); IG II2 3528 = VrG 90, 3935 = VrG 134 (I AD); IG II2 3482 = VrG 137, 3634 = VrG 174, 3483 = VrG 189, 3484 = VrG 191 (II AD). About the arrephóroi see Parker 2007, 219–22.

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Domna as Athena Polias.54 It is significant that the chief magistrates of the city were compelled by this decree to be present at the festival of Athena as a mark of respect and devotion to Julia Domna. It appears that only under constraint would they take part in the ceremony, which maybe would have not been attended regularly otherwise. To sum up, a marked decrease in the number of votive offerings to Athena Polias seems to have been the rule in Roman times. The cult continued to be attended by young women of the highest birth, and was even used by Roman emperors as a way of placing themselves in the traditional religious life of the city. But, judging from inscriptions, intimacy and personal devotion are not to be linked to Athena Polias in Roman Athens, at least not as frequently as it was in classical times.

4 Attempts at explanation It seems only natural to wonder how the all-powerful Athena of classical times came to lose her primacy as a recipient of votive offerings. Dealing with the logics of polytheism, Parker has recently highlighted how any god’s sphere of influence may be expanded almost without limits. He suggests that a pantheon was recreated and reordered day by day “through the decisions made by individual worshippers”.55 In his opinion, the functions of a certain god may increase more and more: the principle at work would be that “one thing leads to another”,56 so a goddess who was mainly active as protectress of the city, for instance, might also start to be active as a healing goddess, and so on. But what about the decreasing powers of a god? Should they be interpreted as a consequence of the invasion of that god’s sphere of influence by another god? The answer is probably “yes”. But then another natural question arises: why would any god invade a colleague’s field of action? When personal devotion moves from, say, Athena to Asklepios, was it only a question of personal preferences, as Geagan seems to conclude? He suggests that, beginning in the fourth century, “broader public interest and personal religiosity migrated to other cult sites, particularly to the shrines of Asklepios”.57 Without detracting from the other interesting conclusions of his study, I find that it merely describes what was happening, but gives no reasons as to why it should be so. At best, it refers vaguely to changes which were happening not only in Athens, but also in the whole Mediterranean around that time. As I suggested 54  IG II2 1076; SEG XVIII.30; Oliver 1940. The decree established unusual honours for the empress: statues both in the Parthenon and by the goddess in the Erechtheion. 55 Parker 2007, 392. 56  Ibid. 57  Geagan 1996, 162.

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above, I admit the influence of pan-Mediterranean processes on personal piety; but the more immediate religious context should also be taken into account. A further problem is the lack of definition of what he means by the migration of “personal religiosity”. No doubt some of the fields dominated by Athena in classical times were already being taken by Asklepios and his kind in the fifth century BC, mainly in relation with health. But is caring for health to be understood as an equivalent to personal devotion? As I have suggested in my first section, I do not think that personal religiosity constitutes a category in its own right or that it may be correctly understood in isolation from the other components of a religious system. Therefore a drop in the number of votive offerings to Athena may well be attributed to other (major or additional) causes, rather than exclusively viewing it as a question of fashion or part of some general trend that needs no further explanation. I propose that it also might have had to do with deeper, general changes in the Athenian religious framework, which put an end to the smooth functioning of the continuum proposed above.58 As a consequence of these changes, votive offerings and individual initiative might have come to occupy a new position within the system. This is not the place to analyse the reasons why the internal workings of the Athenian religious system changed. Just like any religious system, it underwent constant developments which could be expressed either in new religious trends, or in new meanings for traditional rituals. Hellenistic and, above all, Roman times, brought with them deep changes in the political system and, therefore, in the religious framework of the inhabitants of Greek poleis. I will just mention the one that, in my opinion, constitutes one of the main reasons for religious change: a drastic decrease in the number of people who took part in the political and religious life of the cities. Clear hints at this decrease may be seen, for instance, in the termination of the public lists of prytaneis that were published after Augustan times,59 in the decreasing importance of demes or tribes as centres of collective life,60 in the previously mentioned disappearance of public inventories, or in the decreasing number of young people who could become ephebi and, therefore, be initiated into the political and religious traditions of the city.61 All of these socio-political changes  – among many others  – contributed to gradually change the traditional working of the Athenian religious system. The growing oligarchisation of religious authority, which I have analysed elsewhere, especially in Roman times, might have been one of the developments that more deeply affected the religious system as a whole.62 Religious authority might have  See p. 246.  Shear 1981, 365. 60 Parker 1996, 264. 61  Muñiz Grijalvo 2006. 62  Muñiz Grijalvo 2005. 58 59

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ceased to be felt as a really public affair. People continued to take part in communal rituals, but those rituals had probably acquired new meanings which merit further study. The movements that were taking place at the roots of the Athenian political and religious framework also might have had an influence on preferences for one god or another. Social reasons explained, for instance, how Asklepios came to be promoted by some families in search of popular stages to showcase their generosity.63 Conversely, the cult of Athena ceased to be politically and economically promoted by the Athenian elites, at least not as much as it had been in classical times,64 in favour of the two Eleusinian goddesses or other more popular gods.65 But it was not merely a question of numbers, or of the switchover of votive piety to other gods. Parallel to changes in the religious order, the very position of votive offerings within the religious system might have changed too. Individual initiative, embodied as we saw before to a great extent in votive offerings, started to be directed to gods who demanded no further rituals. By Roman times, when someone was suffering from a disease, it seems that it was less frequent to offer something to Athena than it was to consecrate a typos to Asklepios or to Zeus Hypsistos. In fact, the cult of Zeus Hypsistos is a different case altogether, which may be useful to illustrate my point. Zeus Hypsistos was introduced in Athens some time during the first century AD.66 Judging from the many votives offered to him, he became really popular. Thirty-one offerings have been found in his shrine on the Pnyx. Almost all of them represent parts of the body: eyes, feet, breasts, female genitals. Not all of them are explained by inscriptions, but when they are, the formulae are very simple.67 It is quite obvious that all these offerings were related to the healing capacity of Zeus Hypsistos and to the gratitude of his followers. Zeus Hypsistos’ popularity was based on an absolutely private domain, that of the physical health of his followers. He never occupied any public role. What is more, his cult was never tied to civic or imperial institutions: Mitchell insists that Hypsistos was not linked to sporting or musical competitions, grand festivals, lavish euergetism, or even to animal sacrifice. There was no distinctive iconography of the god either, and only sparse evidence of ritual.68 Nonetheless

 Geagan 1991. 1963, 73; Consoli 2004. 65  Clinton 1974. 66  Although Zeus Hypsistos was already mentioned in classical times, see Mitchell 1999, 100 n. 38. For the cult of Zeus Hypsistos see Nock 1936, 62–66; Simon 1972; Forsén 1993; id. 1996. 67 IG II2 4737 = VrG 378, 4738 = VrG 157 (I / II A. D.), 4782 = VrG 315, 4783 = VrG 26, 4784 (II AD), 4798–4809, 4811 = VrG 385 (II / III AD), 4843 = VrG 204 (imperial age).   68  Mitchell 1999, 107–8, 127. 63

64 Herrington

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his cult occupied a very visible space within the city, the Pnyx, where the ekklesia met in the past.69 It is significant in my view that Hypsistos’ late arrival in Attica meant that his popularity was completely independent of the public cycle of devotion and festivals. In Classical and Hellenistic times, it had been usual that any new god who became minimally popular received some kind of public sanction.70 The success of a god usually meant that the attention of the elite could sooner or later turn to his cult and make it more conventional, standardizing the ceremonies and even the offices attached to the cult. Hypsistos was never adopted by the elite, nor did he receive, to the best of my knowledge, any kind of public sanction. This probably had to do with the fact that, by the time he arrived in Attica, the public and the private domains were not as closely intertwined as before. So a god could be worshipped by an increasing number of people, at a central spot of Athens (the Pnyx), even though he had never had any public bond to the city of Athens, nor to any of its social groups.

5 Conclusions So it is that I come to my conclusions, which should be considered provisional, at best: new findings related to Athena’s cult or detailed research into other cults might easily prove them wrong. Both the amount and the type of votive offerings to Athena went through drastic changes from the third century B. C. onwards. Firstly, the number of private offerings declined in a very significant way; secondly, those offerings which continued to be made put a new emphasis on displaying the dedicant’s status, especially in Roman times. One of the reasons for this might be, in my opinion, that votive piety had been going through a deep change: even though public and even some private votives continued to be presented to Athena, private initiative focused on a different kind of god to achieve a certain kind of results. The popularity of the goddess, as well as her taken-for-granted presence in Athenian political and public religious life, ceased to be a reason to choose Athena as the recipient of votive piety. The decreasing number of votive offerings to Athena, therefore, would only act as a pointer for a broader change in the nature of Athenian religious life from Hellenistic times on. Votive offerings gained an increased independence within 69  See Forsén 1996. The date on which the ekklesía stopped meeting on the Pnyx cannot be fixed with absolute certainty. It is almost sure that it did not meet there in Roman times, or at least not on a regular basis, as its normal seat seems to have been the theatre of Dionysos by that time. Scholars rely on ancient literature to fix a terminus ante quem for the abandonment of the Pnyx as a place of meeting, mainly on Athenaios, V, 212–3 (88 BC), and Pollux, VIII, 132 (second century AD). 70  It happened for instance when Isis arrived in Attica, see Dow 1937.

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the religious system. And, with them, other individual ritual actions also started to occupy a different place within it.

Bibliography Aleshire, Sarah B. 1989. The Athenian Asklepieion. The people, their dedications, and the inventories, Amsterdam. Alroth, Brita 1989. Greek gods and figurines. Aspects of anthropomorphic dedications, Uppsala. Baumbach, Jens D. 2004. The significance of votive offerings in selected Hera sanctuaries in the Peloponnese, Ionia and western Greece, Oxford. Bodel, John, Mika Kajava (eds.) 2009. Dediche sacre nel mondo Greco-romano. Diffusione, funzioni, tipologia, Roma. Bremmer, Jan 2010. “Manteis, magic, mysteries and mythography: messy margins of polis religion”, Kernos 23, 13–35. Burkert, Walter 1995. “Greek poleis and civic cults: some further thoughts”, in Mogens H. Hansen and Kurt Raaflaub (eds.), Studies in the Ancient Greek polis, Stuttgart, 201–10. Chaniotis, Angelos 2006. “Rituals between norms and emotions: rituals as shared experience and memory”, Kernos Suppl. 16, 211–38. Chapot, Frédéric and Bernard Laurot 2001. Corpus de prières grecques et romaines, Turnhout. Clinton, Kevin 1974. The sacred officials of the Eleusinian mysteries, Philadephia. Cole, Susan G. 1995. “Civic cult and civic identity”, in Mogens H. Hansen (ed.), Sources for the Ancient Greek City-State, Copenhagen, 292–325. Consoli, Valentina 2004. “Atena Ergane. Sorgere di un culto sull’Acropoli di Atene”, ASAA 82, 31–60. Dasen, Véronique, Marcel Piérart (eds.), 2005. Idíai kaì demosíai: Les cadres « privés » et « publics » de la religion grecque antique, Liège. Deacy, Susan, Alexandra Villing 2001. Athena in the Classical world, Leiden, Boston. Detienne, Marcel 1986. “Du polythéisme in general”, CPh 81.1, 47–55. Dow, Sterling 1937. “The Egyptian cults in Athens”, HThR 30.4, 183–232. Eidinow, Esther 2011. “Networks and narratives: A model for ancient Greek religion”, Kernos 24, 9–38. Feaver, Douglas D. 1951. Athenian priesthoods, Diss. Johns Hopkins University. Ferguson, William S. 1932. The treasurers of Athena, Cambridge, Mass. Forsén, Björn 1993. “The sanctuary of Zeus Hypsistos and the assembly place of the Pnyx”, Hesperia 62, 507–21. – 1996. “The sanctuary of Zeus Hypsistos and the date of construction of Pnyx III”, The Pnyx in the history of Athens. Papers and monographs of the Finnish Institute at Athens, vol. II, Helsinki, 47–55. Geagan, Daniel J. 1991. “The Sarapion monument and the quest for Status in Roman Athens”, ZPE 85, 145–65. – 1996. “Who was Athena?”, in Matthew Dillon (ed.), Religion in the Ancient world, Amsterdam, 145–63. Harris, Diane 1995. The treasures of the Parthenon and Erechtheion, Oxford.

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Herington, Cecil J. 1963. “Athena in Athenian literature and cult”, in G. T. W. Hooker (ed.), Parthenos and Parthenon, Oxford, 61–73. Holtzmann, Bernard 2003. L’Acropole d’Athènes, Paris. Instone, Stephen, 2009. Greek personal religion. A Reader, Oxford. Jameson, Michael J. 1999. “The spectacular and the obscure in Athenian religion”, in Simon Goldhill, Robin Osborne (eds.), Performance culture and Athenian democracy, Cambridge, 321–40. Keesling, Catherine M. 2003. The votive statues of the Athenian acropolis, Cambridge, New York. Kindt, Julia 2009. “Polis religion – A critical appreciation”, Kernos 22, 9–34. Klinghardt, Matthias 1999. “Prayer formularies for public recitation. Their use and function in ancient religion”, Numen 46.1, 1–52. Lazzarini, Maria Letizia 1976. Le formule delle dediche votive nella Grecia arcaica, Roma. Lewis, David M. 1955. “Notes on Attic inscriptions”, ABSA 50, 7–12. – 1988. “The last inventories of the treasurers of Athena”, in Denis Knoepfler, Nicole Quellet (eds.), Comptes et inventaires dans la cité grecque, Genève, 297–308. Limet, Henri, Julien Ries (eds.). 1980. L’experience de la prière dans les grandes religions, Leuven. Linders, Tullia 1972. Studies in the treasure records of Artemis Brauronia found in Athens, Stockholm. – 1975. The treasurers of the Other Gods in Athens and their functions, Meisenheim am Glan. Linders, Tullia, Gullög Nordquist (eds.). 1987. Gifts for the gods, Uppsala. Maass, Michael 1972. Die Prohedrie des Dionysostheaters in Athen, Munich. Mauss, Marcel 1909. La prière, Paris. Mitchell, Stephen 1999. “The cult of Theos Hypsistos between pagans, Jews, and Christians”, in Polymnia Athanassiadi, Michael Frede (eds.), Pagan monotheism in Late Antiquity, Oxford, 81–148. Muñiz Grijalvo, Elena 2005. “Elites and religious change in Roman Athens”, Numen 52.2, 255–82. – 2006. “Efebos e identidad religiosa en la Atenas romana”, La construcción ideológica de la ciudadanía, Madrid, 465–76. Neils, Jennifer (ed.) 1992. Goddess and polis: The Panathenaic festival in ancient Athens, Princeton. Nock, Arthur D. 1936. “The guild of Zeus Hypsistos”, HThR 29, 39–88. North, John 1989. “Religion in Republican Rome”, CAH2 7, 573–624. – 1992. “The development of religious pluralism”, in Judith Lieu, John North, Tessa Rajak (eds.), The Jews among pagans and Christians in the Roman Empire, London, New York, 174–93. Oliver, James H. 1940. “Julia Domna as Athena Polias”, HSCP Suppl. 1, 521–530. Osborne, Robin 2004. “Hoards, votives, offerings: the archaeology of the dedicated object”, World Archaeology 36.1, 1–10. Parker, Robert. 1996. Athenian religion. A history, Oxford. – 2005. “Greek dedications. Introduction”, Thesaurus Cultus et Rituum Antiquorum I, Basel, Los Angeles, 269–81. – 2007. Polytheism and society at Athens, Oxford.

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Pirenne-Delforge, Vinciane 2009. “La poikilia des offrandes et le souci de les comprendre. Bilan d’une recontre”, in Clarisse Prêtre (ed.), Le donateur, l’offrande et la déesse. Systèmes votifs dans les sanctuaires de déesses du monde grec, Liège, 319–33. Pleket, Henry W. 1981. “Religious history as the history of mentality”, in Henk S. Versnel (ed.), Faith, hope and worship. Aspects of religious mentality in the Ancient world, Leiden, 152–92. Price, Simon R. F. 1999. Religions of the ancient Greeks, Cambridge. Schörner, Günther. 2003 Votive im römischen Griechenland, Stuttgart. Shear, Jr., Theodore L. 1981. “Athens: from City-State to provincial town”, Hesperia 50.4, 356–77. Simon, Marcel 1972. “Theos Hypsistos”, Ex orbe religionum. Studia Geo Widengren, vol. I, Leiden, 372–385. Snodgrass, Anthony M. 1983. “Archaeology”, in Michael Crawford (ed.), Sources for Ancient History, Cambridge, 137–84. Sourvinou-Inwood, Christiane. 2000 a. “What is polis religion?”, in Richard Buxton (ed.), Oxford readings in Greek religion, Oxford, 13–37. – 2000 b. “Further aspects of polis-religion”, in Richard Buxton (ed.), Oxford readings in Greek religion, Oxford, 38–55. Van Straten, F. W. 1981. “Gifts for the gods”, in Henk S. Versnel (ed.), Faith, hope and worship. Aspects of religious mentality in the Ancient world, Leiden, 65–151. – 1992. “Votives and votaries in Greek sanctuaries”, in Albert Schachter (ed.), Le sanctuaire grec, Vandoeuvres, Genève, 247–84. Versnel, Henk S. 1981. “Religious mentality in ancient prayer”, in id. (ed.), Faith, hope and worship. Aspects of religious mentality in the Ancient world, Leiden, 1–64. – 2011. Coping with the gods. Wayward readings in Greek Theology, Leiden, Boston. Vellek, Gary F. 1969. The Priesthoods of Athens (86 BC–267 AD), Baltimore. Woolf, Greg 1997. “Polis-religion and its alternatives in the Roman provinces”, in Hubert Cancik, Jörg Rüpke (eds.), Römische Reichsreligion und Provinzialreligion, Tübingen, 71–84.

Wege und Umwege zum Selbst: Bildung und Religion im frühen Christentum Peter Gemeinhardt 1 Wo finden wir das (christliche) religiöse Selbst im Zweiten Jahrhundert? Das Thema dieses Bandes befreit mich von einer Last. Wenn man über das religiöse Selbst in der christlichen Antike sprechen will, ist in der Regel – und mit guten Gründen – an Augustin kein Vorbeikommen. Die Studien zu Augustins religiöser Autobiographie – oder vielleicht eher: Autohagiographie1 – sind Legion. Das allermeiste dazu ist längst gesagt, wenn auch noch nicht von mir; das wäre aber, für sich genommen, kein guter Grund, sich nochmals zu den Confessiones zu äußern. Nun habe ich aus patristischer Perspektive über das religiöse Selbst im zweiten Jahrhundert zu sprechen, also über eine Zeit, in der sich eine Reflexion religiöser Individualität aus christlicher Perspektive erst zu entwickeln beginnt. Entsprechend spärlich fließen die Quellen, und autobiographische „Bekenntnisse“ sucht man vergeblich. Ja, auch das Selbst selbst muss erst einmal identifiziert werden, da es sich in den Quellen nicht unmittelbar als solches zu erkennen gibt. Lexikalische Bestandsaufnahmen von αὐτός oder ipse helfen hier nicht viel weiter. Die Rede von einem Selbst wird im Folgenden dahingehend verstanden, dass sie die Instanz des reflexiven Verhaltens eines Akteurs zu sich selbst bezeichnet. Ein Selbst weiß um sich selbst und darum, dass es auch anders sein oder handeln könnte, ohne die Bestimmtheit als Selbst zu verlieren. Es setzt sich in Beziehung zur Welt als Handlungsraum und zu seinem Ursprung  – nach christlichem Verständnis: zu Gott. Die Reflexion seiner selbst verschafft dem Selbst damit Orientierung in Zeit und Raum, in Beziehung zu Gott und der Welt. Als quellensprachliches Äquivalent in den christlichen Texten der Antike kann mit Patricia Cox Miller2 die Seele (ψυχή) identifiziert werden. Auch diese ist freilich nur selten ausdrücklich Gegenstand der Reflexion, von Tertullians De anima einmal abgesehen. Wird also aus der Entlastung, nicht von Augustins veröffent Dieser Begriff wird – allerdings eher skeptisch – diskutiert bei Schindler 2009, 97.  Cox Miller 2005, 16–7.

1 2

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lichten Beichtgespräch mit Gott berichten zu müssen, die Last, nun über etwas reden zu sollen, worüber im fraglichen Zeitraum kaum jemand zu sprechen ein Bedürfnis verspürte? Bei näherem Hinsehen bieten die Quellen allerdings durchaus Ansatzpunkte: Beanspruchen doch die frühchristlichen Autoren, die in den Dialog mit der nichtchristlichen Umwelt treten – die Apologeten –, dass sie als Vertreter einer, ja der Philosophie gehört werden wollen. Für die Frage nach dem religiösen Selbst ist das von Bedeutung: Ein Christenmensch ist dann  – in dem umfassenden Sinn, den Pierre Hadot uns darunter zu verstehen gelehrt hat3 – ein Philosoph. Das bedeutet: Er glaubt und lebt vernunftgemäß, aber es beinhaltet noch mehr: Er kann Rechenschaft ablegen über das, was ihn zum Christen hat werden lassen und was ihn bei dieser Gruppe hält, die über mangelnde Anfeindungen von nichtchristlicher Seite nicht zu klagen hatte. Das so verstandene Selbst verhält sich also in mehrfacher Hinsicht reflexiv: nicht nur zu seinem gegenwärtigen Zustand (unter den Bedingungen der zeitlichen Welt) und zu Gott (als dem Ursprung seiner überzeitlichen Bestimmung), sondern auch zu dem Konnex von Vorfindlichkeit und Bestimmtheit, also zu seiner Biographie. Den Weg zum Christentum beschreitet man als (Noch‑) Nicht-Christ, oder wie es Tertullian pointiert in Worte fasst: „Wir sind aus eurer Mitte – man wird nicht als Christ geboren, man wird erst zum Christen.“4 Der Vertreter einer Religion, die zum überwiegenden Teil aus Konvertiten besteht, nimmt hier ganz bewusst diesen Werdeprozess argumentativ in Anspruch: Das christliche Selbst ist nicht einfach gegeben, es entwickelt sich aus anderen – jüdischen, hellenistischen, römischen – Wurzeln; und wer diesen Weg gegangen ist, kann sich und anderen in nachvollziehbarer Gestalt über diesen Werdeprozess Klarheit verschaffen. Tertullian formuliert damit eine Sentenz des Philosophen Seneca um, dem zufolge „niemand als Weiser geboren wird, sondern ein solcher wird.“5 Dieses Werden hat aber – wiederum in umfassendem Sinne – mit Bildung zu tun. Dabei geht es nicht nur und nicht zuerst um Schulbildung (die in diesem Diskurs allerdings fast immer vorausgesetzt wird), sondern um παιδεία als Formgebung der ganzen menschlichen Existenz, eben als Hinführung zur Liebhaberei der Weisheit, also zur φιλοσοφία. Der sapiens ist ein eruditus; und meine Frage lautet daher in präzisierter Form, welche eruditio auf welchen Wegen oder Umwegen zur christlichen sapientia führt. Ich möchte die Frage nach dem religiösen Selbst im zweiten Jahrhundert also aus der Perspektive von Bildungsprozessen behandeln. Diese sind natürlich nur ein Teilaspekt der allgemeineren Frage nach Konversionsprozessen,6 das heißt  Hadot 1991.  Tert. Apol. 18.4: „de uestris sumus: fiunt, non nascuntur Christiani.“ 5 Sen. de ira 2.10.6: „scit [sc. sapiens] neminem nasci sapientem, sed fieri.“ 6  Zur Bedeutung der Philosophie für Konversionsprozesse vgl. schon Nock 1933, 164–86, allerdings ohne dabei dem 2. Jh. gebührende Beachtung zu schenken. 3 4

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nach dem Übergang von einer „heidnischen“ zu einer christlichen Existenz. Sie sind aber insofern von besonderem Interesse, als sie Bildung als Orientierungsinstanz sowohl gegenüber der (Um‑)Welt als auch gegenüber Gott deutlich werden lassen. Das christlich gewordene Selbst blickt zurück auf sein Werden und auf das, was es hinter sich gelassen hat. Dabei wird ganz unterschiedlich beurteilt, ob und wie pagane Bildung, die in der schola publica oder in philosophischer Unterweisung erworben wurde, einer christlichen Bildung im Weg steht oder aber zu dieser hinführt. Ich kann hier nicht das Verhältnis des frühen Christentums zur paganen Bildung insgesamt thematisieren.7 Vielmehr beschränke ich mich auf vier Protagonisten und die jeweilige Reflexion über ihren religiösen Bildungsweg: die Apologeten Justin und Tertullian, den Ich-Erzähler der Urschrift der Pseudoklementinen und den alexandrinischen Universalgelehrten Origenes. Ich erweitere damit das zweiten Jahrhundert vorsichtig um einige Jahrzehnte, um ein repräsentatives Tableau frühchristlicher Theologen präsentieren zu können. Bis zu Augustin werde ich freilich nicht ausgreifen müssen, um das religiöse Selbst in den Blick zu bekommen.

2 Vier bildungsbiographische Streiflichter 2.1 Justin Justin gilt in der christlichen Tradition als „der Märtyrer“; zuerst war er aber Philosoph und Lehrer. Allen Behauptungen eines Celsus und allen Selbstbekundungen zum Trotz war das Christentum schon in der Mitte des zweiten Jahrhunderts keine Religion der kleinen Leute mehr (und war es in sozialgeschichtlich belastbarer Hinsicht wohl auch nie gewesen!).8 Vielmehr bezeugt Justin selbst, dass neben Handwerkern (χειροτέχναι) und ganz gewöhnlichen Leuten (παντελῶς ἰδιῶται) auch Philosophen (φιλόσοφοι) und literarisch Gebildete (φιλόλογοι) zur christlichen Gemeinde gehörten.9 Innerhalb der christlichen Gemeinde von Rom erteilten Lehrer wie Justin, aber auch der später zum gnostischen Schulhaupt verketzerte Valentin philosophischen Unterricht: Unterweisung in den Glaubenslehren des Christentums und in der Art und Weise, wie diese gegen Angriffe von „heidnischer“ Seite zu verteidigen wären. Die institutionelle Anbindung dieses Unterrichts an die christliche Gemeinde war eher locker. Justin vermittelte nicht nur intellektuelle Impulse, sondern vermochte seine Schüler auch existentiell an sich und die von ihm vertretene Lehre zu binden: Als er etwa 165 n.Chr. vor dem römischen Stadtpräfekten Quintus Junius Rusticus angeklagt wurde, begleiteten ihn sechs seiner Schüler, darunter eine Frau. Die Acta Iustini 7 Vgl.

hierzu ausführlich: Gemeinhardt 2007.  Dazu vgl. Merkt 2007, 293–309. 9  Just. apol. 2.10.8. 8

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ac sociorum dokumentieren die Frage des Präfekten: „Hat Justin euch zu Christen gemacht?“10 und die übereinstimmende Antwort, sie seien lange, zum Teil schon von Kindesbeinen an, Christen gewesen, bevor sie Anhänger des von Justin vermittelten λόγος geworden seien.11 Wir haben hier eines der wenigen Zeugnisse für frühkindliche Katechese im Elternhaus. Es gehört freilich zur Topik des Martyriums, dass die Angeklagten die Verantwortung für ihren Glauben selbst übernehmen und keinen Anlass zur Vermutung geben, sie würden ihre religiöse und soziale Devianz auf den Lehrer abschieben, um sich selbst zu entlasten. Die Unterweisung im Elternhaus wurde im christlich-philosophischen Unterricht fortgeführt und schloss, wie der Martyriumsbericht zeigt, ein, dass die Schüler zu ihrem Lehrer dieselbe Loyalität bewiesen, wie es von Schülergemeinschaften allgemein erwartet wurde. Es war zwar nicht die Regel, dem Lehrer ins Martyrium zu folgen; aber für die – temporäre – Existenz als Student war es Usus, sich zum eigenen Lehrer und der um ihn gescharten Gruppe hingezogen zu fühlen und die Wahrheit seiner Lehre mit allem Nachdruck zu verteidigen.12 Die Identität der Schüler, ihr philosophisches „Selbst“ wurde durch die Lehrerpersönlichkeit geformt; und wenn es für die Adressaten der Acta Iustini plausibel war, dass christliche Schüler ihren Lehrer sogar bis in den Tod begleiten sollten, unterstreicht das die Selbstwahrnehmung des Christentums als einer (besonderen) Philosophie. Dieses Selbstbewusstsein kommt auch in der Antwort Justins auf die Frage des Präfekten zum Ausdruck, was denn die spezifischen λόγοι der Christen seien: Ich habe versucht, alle Lehren zu lernen; hingegeben habe ich mich dann aber den wahren Lehren der Christen, selbst wenn diese euch Irrgläubigen nicht gefallen mögen!13

In seinem „Dialog mit dem Juden Tryphon“ unterfüttert Justin die knappe Bemerkung in den Acta mit Details. Ein „Dialog im Dialog“, das Gespräch Justins mit einem alten Mann am Meer,14 bietet einen knappen Abriss des Bildungsganges des Autors.15 Justin klagt, dass die großen Philosophen epigonenhafte Nachfolger gehabt hätten, die nur Lehren tradierten, statt wirklich zur Wahrheit durchzudringen. Er habe sich in seiner Jugend selbst solchen Männern angeschlossen, dabei aber eine Enttäuschung nach der anderen erlebt:16 Bei einem Stoiker wurde ihm alsbald klar, dass dieser Gott nicht kannte und das auch nicht als Defizit empfand. Ein Peripatetiker wollte erst über die Bezahlung verhandeln, 10  M. Iust. rec. A / B 4.5:  Ἰουστῖνος ὑμᾶς ἐποίησε Χριστιανούς; Etwas anders formuliert es rec. C 3.5: Πάντως καὶ σέ,  Ἱέραξ,  Ἰουστῖνος ἠπάστησεν; 11  So die Aussage des Euelpistus: M. Iust. rec. A / B 4.7. 12  So Watts 2005, 234–51. Zu Justins Schule cf. jetzt auch Georges 2012 und Ulrich 2012. 13  M. Iust. rec. A 1.3: Πάντας λόγους ἐπειράϑην μαϑεῖν· συνεϑέμην δὲ τοῖς ἀληϑέσι λόγοις τῶν Χριστιανῶν κἂν μὴ ἀρέσκωσι τοῖς ψευδοδοξοῦσιν. 14 Just. dial. 2.1–8.2. 15  Zur Dialogtechnik Justins vgl. zuletzt Heyden 2009, 204–32. 16  Vgl. zum Folgenden Just. dial. 2.3–6.

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bevor die Unterweisung begann. Ein Pythagoreer schalt den Schüler, er habe sich nicht genug mit Musik, Astronomie und Geometrie befasst, um das zu verstehen, was die Seele vom Sinnlichen weglenke und erst für das Geistige empfänglich mache. Wie für Augustin,17 so war auch für Justin die platonische Philosophie – der er sich ursprünglich zugewandt hatte, weil sie ihm weniger anstrengend erschien –, der Vorhof der wahren Erkenntnis: In kurzer Zeit wähnte ich, weise zu sein, und in meiner Beschränktheit hegte ich die Hoffnung, unmittelbar Gott zu schauen – denn das ist das Ziel der Philosophie Platons.18

Justins Selbst gewinnt also seine Konturen in einem Durchgang durch die verschiedenen Philosophien der Kaiserzeit, geleitet von der Frage nach Gott.19 Der Durchbruch geschieht freilich erst, als er bei einem Spaziergang am Meer einem unbekannten Alten begegnet, der ihn auf sein Verständnis von Philosophie anspricht. Für Justin ist es das wichtigste Ziel eines jeden Menschen, zu philosophieren, und daher ist auch der bedeutendste Beruf derjenige des philosophischen Lehrers. Philosophie ist hiernach „das Wissen dessen, was ist, und das Erkennen des Wahren“20 – die Hingabe an sie mache den Menschen heilig.21 Doch auch der aus dieser Sicht attraktiv erscheinende Platonismus ist nicht das Ziel der Reise, denn dessen Lehre von der Unsterblichkeit der Seele akzeptiert der alte Mann nicht: Die Seele lebt nur, weil und solange Gott ihr Anteil am Leben gibt, und sie vergeht, wenn er seinen Leben spendenden Geist von ihr zurückzieht.22 Als Justin verzweifeln will, weil offensichtlich selbst Denker wie Platon und Pythagoras in die Irre gegangen seien, verweist ihn der Alte auf die Propheten, die älter als die Philosophen seien und nicht durch Argumente, sondern durch das Eintreffen der Prophezeiungen in der Geschichte die Wahrheit ihrer Lehre erwiesen hätten. Der Unbekannte schließt seine Rede mit der Mahnung: Bete aber, dass dir vor allem die Tore des Lichts geöffnet werden! Denn niemand kann [dieses] schauen und verstehen, außer Gott und sein Christus gibt einem die Gnade des Verständnisses.23

Die Wirkung dieser Belehrung lässt bei Justin nicht lange auf sich warten: 17 Aug. conf. 7.9.13 verweist auf nicht näher identifizierte libri Platonicorum als wichtige Hilfe auf dem Weg zur eigenen Konversion. 18  Just. dial. 2.6: ὀλίγου τε ἐντὸς χρόνου ᾤμην σοφὸς γεγονέναι, καὶ ὑπὸ βλακείας ἤλπιζον αὐτίκα κατόψεσϑαι τὸν ϑεόν· τοῦτο γὰρ τέλος τῆς Πλάτωνος φιλοσοφίας. 19  Die verstärkte Einbeziehung religiöser Fragen in den philosophischen Diskurs ist zuletzt dokumentiert in dem Sammelband Hirsch-Luipold 2009. 20  Just. dial. 3.4: ἐπιστήμη ἐστὶ τοῦ ὄντος καὶ τοῦ ἀληϑοῦς ἐπίγνωσις. 21  Just. dial. 2.1: ὅσιοι ὡς ἀληϑῶς οὗτοί εἰσιν οἱ φιλοσοφίᾳ τὸν νοῦν προσεσχηκότες. 22 Just. dial. 6.2. 23  Just. dial. 7.3: Εὔχου δέ σοι πρὸ πάντων φωτὸς ἀνοιχϑῆναι πύλας· οὐ γὰρ συνοπτὰ [ταῦτα] οὐδὲ συννοητὰ πᾶσιν ἐστιν, εἰ μὴ τῷ ϑεὸς δῷ συνιέναι καὶ ὁ Χριστὸς αὐτοῦ.

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In meiner Seele fing es an zu brennen, und es erfasste mich die Liebe zu den Propheten und jenen Männern, die Freunde Christi sind. Ich sprach mit mir selbst über seine [sc. des Alten] Lehren und befand allein diese als verlässliche und nutzbringende Philosophie.24

Der Suchende ist am Ziel, wo ihn nicht nur die intellektuelle Plausibilität einer Lehre, sondern die Authentizität ihrer Vertreter packt. Erst jetzt ist Justin, was er immer werden wollte: „So und aus diesen Gründen bin ich ein Philosoph [geworden]“,25 erklärt er Tryphon – der ihn nun dafür belächelt, dass er sich den Christen angeschlossen habe, anstatt ein tugendhaftes Leben zu führen wie jeder andere Philosoph. Unbeirrt verleiht Justin der Hoffnung Ausdruck, „dass ihr erkennen möget, dass auf dem bezeichneten Weg jedem Menschen es ermöglicht werde, gut zu leben“.26 Das religiöse Selbst  – Justins Existenz als christlicher Philosoph  – ist also nicht einfach da, sondern will erworben, erkämpft und eben: gebildet werden. Die Vertrautheit mit der antiken und zeitgenössischen Philosophie ist dabei kein Adiaphoron: Ohne sie könnte der Apologet sich nicht mit konkurrierenden Erkenntnisansprüchen auseinandersetzen und die Kohärenzen und Differenzen zwischen christlicher und nichtchristlicher Philosophie aufweisen.27 Zwar beruht die wahre christliche Lehre nicht auf Wissenschaft im pythagoreischem Sinne oder auf kunstgerechter Auslegung,28 sondern wird Menschen – durchaus auch ungebildeten – zuteil.29 Aber zu dieser Einsicht muss man erst emporsteigen; und daher muss zwar nicht, aber kann der Weg zur Bildung des religiösen Selbst durch die Institutionen der Philosophie führen. Im Licht der Harmonie von hellenistischem Erbe und christlichem Denken, die Justin für möglich und anzustreben hält, ist das religiöse Selbst ein umfassend gebildetes Selbst. Nur als solches kann es erkennen, dass der christliche Gott Ursprung der Welt und damit des Selbst ist, nach dessen Realisierung alle Menschen – und besonders die Philosophen – streben. 2.2 Tertullian Anders und doch wieder ähnlich liegt der Fall bei dem einige Jahrzehnte später schreibenden Tertullian. Anders, weil wir bei diesem Nordafrikaner nicht auf autobiographisch gestaltete Bemerkungen zurückgreifen können und weil die Antithese zur antiken Bildung (trotz seiner individuellen Meisterung der Rhetorik) prononcierter ausgesprochen wird. Ähnlich, weil es auch bei Tertullian 24 Just. dial. 8.1: ᾿Εμοὶ δὲ παραχρῆμα πῦρ ἐν τῇ ψυχῇ ἀνήφϑη, καὶ ἔρως εἶχέ με τῶν προφητῶν

καὶ τῶν ἀνδρῶν ἐκείνων, οἵ εἰσι Χριστοῦ φίλοι· διαλογιζόμενός τε πρὸς ἐμαυτὸν τοὺς λόγους αὐτοῦ ταύτην μόνην εὕρισκον φιλοσοφίαν ἀσφαλῆ τε καὶ σύμφορον. 25  Just. dial. 8.2: Οὕτως δὴ καὶ διὰ ταῦτα φιλόσοφος ἐγώ. 26  Just. dial. 142.3: ἐπιγνόντες διὰ ταύτης τῆς ὁδοῦ δίδοσϑαι παντὶ ἀνϑρώπῳ νεῖν. 27 Vgl. z.B. Just. 1 apol. 20.3; 23.1 u.ö. 28  Just. dial. 3.6. 29  Just. dial. 55.3; vgl. auch 1 apol. 60.10 f.

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eine entscheidende Frage ist, welche Bildung für einen Christen dienlich und notwendig ist und wo beziehungsweise wie man diese erwirbt.30 Wenn das religiöse Selbst mit der Seele in enger Verbindung steht, böte sich der Traktat De anima als Ausgangspunkt an. Jedoch wird hier zwar viel über die Seele, ihre Konstitution, ihr Verhältnis zum Körper, ihre Entstehung und ihre Zukunft gesagt. Wie die anima naturaliter christiana31 aber ihre Anlagen ausbildet, was ihr dabei hilft und was sie daran hindert, steht in De anima nicht im Fokus. Aufschluss darüber bietet vielmehr Tertullians Frühschrift De testimonio animae, die die Seele selbst zu Wort kommen lässt. Den Ausgangspunkt bildet hier die Einsicht, dass man zwar mit viel Mühe aus den Schriften der paganen Philosophen einige Zeugnisse für die Wahrheit des Christentums zusammenklauben kann, dass diese aber aufgrund des mutwilligen Unglaubens der Menschen ohnehin nicht rezipiert würden: Nicht länger wird für weise und vernünftig gehalten, wer etwas verkündet, das fast christlich klingt, während er, wenn er etwas Vernünftiges oder Weises anstrebt, indem er entweder die [heidnischen] Zeremonien abweist oder die [Weisheit der] Welt widerlegt, als Christ gebrandmarkt wird.32

Vollends wirkungslos bleiben die christlichen Schriften selbst, die niemand zur Hand nimmt, der nicht schon selbst Christ ist.33 Daher muss man zu einem anderen Zeugnis greifen, „das bekannter als alle Schriften ist, ständiger besprochen als alle Theorien, verbreiteter als jede Publikation und größer als der ganze Mensch, das heißt größer als alles, was zum Menschen gehört: Tritt hervor, Seele!“34 Tertullian beginnt also mit der Seele einen Dialog, und das heißt: Das Selbst tritt coram publico in die Reflexion seiner selbst ein. Im Anschluss an die stoische Definition ist die Seele das, was den Menschen zum „vernunftbegabten Wesen“ macht, „das zur Wahrnehmung und zum Wissen imstande ist“.35 Freilich ist die hier angesprochene Seele eine besondere, weil völlig unverbildete Größe: Nicht dich rufe ich herbei, die du in Schulen gebildet, in Bibliotheken bewandert bist, dich in attischen Akademien und Säulenhallen gemästet hast und Rülpser der Weisheit von dir gibst. Ich richte mich an dich, die du einfach geschliffen, ungebildet und ohne Kenntnisse

 Vgl. als Überblick Gemeinhardt 2007, 63–81.  Tert. apol. 17.6. 32 Tert. test. anim. 1.3: Hactenus sapiens et prudens habebitur, qui prope christianum pronuntiauerit, cum, si quid prudentiae aut sapientiae affectauerit seu caerimonias despuens seu saeculum reuincens pro christiano denotetur. 33  Tert. test. anim. 1.4. 34  Tert. test. anim. 1.5: Nouum testimonium aduoco immo omni litteratura notius, omni doctrina agitatius, omni editione uulgatius, toto homine maius, id est totum quod est hominis. Consiste in medio, anima! 35  Tert. test. anim. 1.5: animal rationale, sensus et scientiae capacissimum. 30 31

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bist – so wie jene dich besitzen, die nur dich allein besitzen –, eine Seele, ganz wie sie von der Gasse, von den Straßenkreuzungen und aus der Werkstätte herkommt.36

Die stoisch definierte Seele scheint sich tatsächlich eher kynisch aufzuführen37 und mit Bildungsvorgängen nur wenig im Sinn zu haben. Ihre Kenntnisse stammen nicht aus der Schule, denn „die Seele war vor dem Buchstaben da, die Sprache vor dem Buche, der Gedanke vor dem Griffel, der Mensch an sich vor dem Philosophen und dem Dichter.“38 Das passt zu Tertullians andernorts geäußerter Kritik an der schola publica, die christlichen Kindern bestenfalls nicht schade, in der Christen aber nicht als Lehrer (das heißt als Vermittler paganer religiöser Kultur) wirken dürften, weil sie sonst Götzendienst lehrten.39 Vielmehr stammt ihre Weisheit „aus dem Gemeinsinn, den Gott der Seele zu schenken geruht hat“,40 sie ist unmittelbar zu Gott. Und doch ist die Seele nicht einfach fix und fertig da. Sie ist zwar naturaliter christiana, nach De testimonio animae (und nach dem Apologeticum) jedoch im Werden begriffen: Du bist, soviel ich weiß, keine Christin, denn eine Seele pflegt christlich zu werden und nicht als solche geboren zu sein.41

Besteht ein Widerspruch zwischen naturgegebener und erst noch zu bildender Christlichkeit der Seele? Man muss wohl eher eine fruchtbare Spannung, ja die von Tertullian auch sonst gerne eingesetzte rhetorische Ausdrucksform der Paradoxie diagnostizieren:42 Wenn er am Ende einer langen Reihe von Beispielen für die Gotteskenntnis der Seele fragt: „Woher hast du all das, wenn du doch keine Christin bist?“,43 dann weist die Argumentation hier auf eine prinzipielle Gottebenbildlichkeit und auf eine virtuelle Christlichkeit der Seele hin. Also muss die Naturanlage entwickelt werden, wobei ihr der Teufel als Anstifter des Götzendienstes von Geburt an im Wege steht, was wiederum Erziehung und Unterweisung durch die christlichen Eltern oder andere Instanzen erfordert.44 Der Normalfall ist dabei die Katechese und die darauf folgende Taufe von Er36  Tert. test. anim. 1.6: Sed non eam te aduoco, quae scholis formata, bybliothecis exercitata, academiis et porticibus Atticis pasta sapientiam ructas. Te simplicem et rudem et impolitam et idioticam compello qualem te habent qui te solam habent, illam ipsam de compito, de triuio, de textrino totam. 37 Apuleius tituliert die in Karthago lehrenden Kyniker als rudes, sordidi und imperiti (Flor. 7.7–8). 38  Tert. test. anim. 5.4: Certe prior anima quam littera, et prior sermo quam liber, et prior sensus quam stilus et prior homo ipse quam philosophus et poeta. 39  Dazu Gemeinhardt 2008, 25–43, bes. 26–9. 40  Tert. anim. 2.1: de publico sensu, quo animam deus dotare dignatus est. 41  Tert. test. anim. 1.7: Non es, quod sciam, christiana. Fieri enim, non nasci solet christiana. 42  Zu dieser Interpretation vgl. Schneider 1991. 43 Tert. test. anim. 2.6: Vnde tibi hoc non Christianae? Zum Folgenden vgl. Bickel 1939, 54–61. 44  Tert. anim. 39.1–4.

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wachsenen, denn diese können und sollen die Konversion bewusst und mit allen Konsequenzen vollziehen. Tertullian kann aus diesen Gründen – entgegen dem „Kinderevangelium“ Mt 19,14 („Wehret den Kindern nicht, zu mir zu kommen!“) – die Kindertaufe sogar strikt ablehnen: Sie sollen also kommen, wenn sie heranwachsen, wenn sie beginnen zu verstehen, wenn sie unterwiesen werden, wozu sie kommen; Christen sollen sie werden, wenn sie in der Lage sind, Christus zu kennen! Warum kommen Kinder in unschuldigem Alter überstürzt zur Vergebung der Sünden? Soll es nur in weltlichen Dingen vorsichtiger zugehen, und überlässt man so demjenigen, dem man irdischen Besitz noch nicht anvertraut, den göttlichen?45

Dass die Seele von der Natur als ihrer Lehrmeisterin über Gott als den Ursprung alles Wissens belehrt wird,46 erübrigt nicht, dass sich auch menschliche Lehrer um ihre Bildung kümmern.47 Dabei sind die Quellen dieser Bildung wiederum die ältesten Schriftquellen, von denen auch die paganen Autoren profitiert haben. Wenn die Priorität des Wissensursprungs gewahrt wird, kann Tertullian sogar konzedieren, dass es gar keinen Unterschied macht, „ob das Wissen der Seele von Gott oder durch das göttliche Schrifttum gestaltet wurde.“48 Das religiöse Selbst der Christen ist nach dieser Logik kein anderes als das aller Menschen, nur hat es eine öffentlich kommunizierbare Entscheidung für die bereits in seinem Ursprung angelegte Wahrheit gefällt. „Jede Seele verkündet mit gutem Recht das, was uns nicht einmal zu munkeln gestattet ist“ – und wird sich daher vor dem Gericht Gottes verantworten müssen, wenn sie in ihrem Irrtum verharrt.49 Daher muss die Lebenswende vollzogen und öffentlich gemacht werden, wie es in der pointenreichen Schrift De pallio heißt: Schon der Kleidungswechsel von der Toga zum Pallium zeige den Umschwung der religiösen Affiliation unmissverständlich an. „Es gibt ja auch eine nichtsprachliche Philosophie, die sich mit dem [guten] Leben zufrieden gibt – dann verkündet [dies] der Anzug selbst!“50 Der Autor kann seinem Gewand darin nur zustimmen:

45 Tert. bapt. 18.5: Veniant ergo dum adolescunt, dum discunt, dum quo ueniant decentur; fiant Christiani, cum Christum nosse potuerint! Quid festinat innocens aetas ad remissionem peccatorum? Cautius agetur in saecularibus, ut cui substantia terrena non creditur, diuina credatur? Norint petere salutem ut petentibus dedisse uidearis! 46  Tert. test. anim. 5.1–2. 47  Vgl. zu vergleichbaren Beobachtungen im Bereich der stoischen Philosophie den Beitrag von Jula Wildberger in diesem Band („Delimiting a self by god“). 48  Tert. test. anim. 5.7: Quod cum ita sit, non multum refert, a deo formata sit animae conscientiae an a litteris dei. 49  Tert. test. anim. 6.5: Omnis anima suo iure proclamat quae nobis nec mutire conceditur. 50  Tert. pall. 6.1: nam et elingua philosophia uita contenta est – ipse habitus sonat.

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Nun verkehre auch ich mit dieser göttlichen Gemeinschaft und Schule! Freue dich, Pallium, und frohlocke: Eine bessere Philosophie hat dich bereits für ihrer würdig befunden, seitdem du damit begonnen hast, einen Christen zu bekleiden!51

Das Prozessuale der Bildung steht bei Tertullian weniger im Vordergrund als bei Justin. Ihm kommt es vor allem auf den vollzogenen Religionswechsel an, den er als Möglichkeit und Notwendigkeit voraussetzt  – offenbar im Unterschied zu vielen Zeitgenossen, die gleitende Übergänge bevorzugten und damit vermutlich repräsentativer für das frühe Christentum waren als der wortgewaltige Apologet. Aber wie für Justin, so muss das religiöse Selbst auch für Tertullian eine Veränderung vornehmen, um zu sich selbst zu kommen; und wenn man den ausgiebigen Einsatz seiner eigenen Bildung ernst nimmt, ist auch hier das religiöse Selbst seiner am sichersten, wenn es aus eigener Erfahrung weiß, was es hinter sich gelassen hat. 2.3 Klemens und Petrus in den Pseudoklementinen Der Textkomplex, der unter dem Namen Klemens überliefert ist und der Forschung seit anderthalb Jahrhunderten bleibende Rätsel aufgibt, ist für unsere Fragestellung insofern interessant, als er die wohl früheste christliche Adaptation des hellenistischen Bildungs‑ und Familienromans darstellt. Das erlaubt keine validen autobiographischen Rückschlüsse auf den Verfasser, gibt aber Einblick in ein Konzept geistlicher Bildung, das je nach Einschätzung in zeitlicher Nähe zu Origenes oder zu Justin und Tertullian zu verorten ist.52 Zur überlieferten Gestalt der Homilien gehört ein Brief des Klemens, des fiktiven Petrusschülers und ersten Bischofs von Rom, an seinen Jerusalemer Amtskollegen Jakobus, den Bruder Jesu, den „Bischof der Bischöfe“.53 Hier stellt Petrus, den eigenen Tod vor Augen, Klemens als Nachfolger vor, dem er seine Kathedra anvertrauen will, ihm, der von Anfang bis Ende mein Weggefährte und folglich Hörer aller meiner Reden war. Um es kurz zu sagen: Er hat alle meine Anfechtungen geteilt und sich im Glauben als standhaft erwiesen. Ihn habe ich mehr als alle (anderen) als gottesfürchtig, menschenfreundlich, rein, gebildet, tugendhaft, gut, gerecht (und) geduldig kennengelernt, und er weiß die Undankbarkeiten einiger Katechumenen tapfer zu ertragen.54 51  Tert. pall. 6.2: At ego iam illi etiam diuinae sectae ac disciplinae commercium confero. Gaude, pallium, et exulta: melior iam te philosophia dignata est, ex quo Christianum uestire coepisti; ähnlich bereits pall. 4.10; dazu Gemeinhardt 2007, 74. 52  Zur Datierung der Grundschrift auf bald nach 220 n. Chr. (vermutlich unter Einarbeitung älterer Materialien), der Homilien auf ca. 300–320 n. Chr. sowie der Rekognitionen in ihrer Ursprungsgestalt auf die Mitte des 4. Jhs. vgl. summarisch Klauck 2005, 209. 53  Ep. Clem. Jac. 1.1. 54  Ep. Clem. Jac. 2.3: τῷ ἀπ᾿ ἀρχῆς μοι μέχρι τοῦ τέλους συνοδεύσαντι καὶ οὕτως πασῶν μου τῶν ὁμιλιῶν ἐπακούσαντι, συνελὼν ἐρῶ, ὃς ἐν πᾶσι πειρασμοῖς μου κοινωνήσας τῇ πίστει προσκαρτερῶν εὑρέϑη, ὃν πλεῖον πάντων πεπείραμαι ϑεοσεβῆ, φιλάνϑρωπον, ἁγνόν, πολυμαϑῆ, σώφρονα, ἀγαϑόν, δίκαιον, μακρόϑυμον καὶ γενναίως εἰδότα φέρειν τὰς ἐνίων τῶν κατηχουμένων ἀχαριστίας.

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Klemens’ Widerspruch bleibt wirkungslos, weil er sich schon dadurch als geeignet erwiesen hat, dass er nicht nach Ämtern, sondern vielmehr nach Erkenntnis gestrebt und sich deshalb den Aposteln angeschlossen hat.55 Er ist daher prädestiniert dafür, die „Heiden“ zum Glauben zu bringen und sie in der Botschaft Christi zu unterweisen. Wer ohne solchen Unterricht bleibt, wird aufgrund seiner Unwissenheit verloren gehen. Klemens’ Aufgabe besteht daher darin, für die geistliche Unterweisung in seiner Gemeinde zu sorgen, wie er sie selbst als Begleiter des Petrus ganz persönlich erfahren hat.56 Die Epistula Clementis ist gewissermaßen die Nutzanwendung der Bildungsbiographie, die in den Homilien niedergelegt ist und im Folgenden skizzenhaft dargestellt wird. Der Erzähler erscheint als jugendlicher Grübler, der das Leben nach dem Tod und andere Schicksalsfragen ohne Erfolg zu ergründen sucht – zu seinem eigenen, tief empfundenen Verdruss, „weil ich nicht wusste, dass mir das Nachdenken ein guter Gefährte war, der mir zur nützlichen Ursache für die Unsterblichkeit wurde, wie ich später aufgrund meiner Erfahrung erkannte und Gott, dem Herrn aller Dinge, gedankt habe.“57 Die Verzweiflung über die Ungewissheit bezüglich der Unsterblichkeit seiner Seele und damit der Sinnhaftigkeit von Hoffnung über den Tod hinaus lässt ihn gar an eine Bildungsreise zu den ägyptischen Magiern, Hierophanten und Propheten denken, die ihm ein befreundeter Philosoph allerdings wieder ausredet.58 Es bleibt bei einer klassischen Ausbildung. Wie Justin besucht Klemens eifrig die Schulen der Philosophen, findet hier aber nicht einmal ansatzweise eine tröstende Antwort: Ich erlebte nichts anderes als das Verwerfen und Aufstellen von Lehrsätzen, als Streit und Zank, als die Künste von Syllogismen und das Ersinnen von Prämissen.59

Solche Kritik durchzieht den Klemensroman und steigert sich bis zum Verdikt, die gesamte griechische Bildung sei das Werk eines zutiefst niederträchtigen Dämons60 – so drückt es Klemens gegenüber Appion aus, der den jungen Mann ob seines umfassenden Erwerbs der παιδεία preist und im gleichen Atemzug beklagt, Klemens habe sich unter dem Einfluss des Barbaren Petrus verleiten lassen, nur noch in jüdischen Formen zu denken.61 Auch wenn an anderen Stellen Clem. Jac. 3.2.  Ep. Clem. Jac. 6.1; 13.1. 57 Hom. 1.2.2–3: οὐκ εἰδὼς σύνοικον καλὴν ἔχων ἔννοιαν, ἀϑανασίας ἀγαϑὴν αἰτίαν μοι γενομένην, ὡς ὕστερον τῇ πείρᾳ ἐπέγνων καὶ ϑεῷ τῷ πάντων δεσπότῃ ηὐχαρίστησα. 58  Hom. 1.5.1–9. 59 Hom. 1.3.1: καὶ οὐϑὲν ἕτερον ἑώρων ἢ δογμάτων ἀνασκευὰς καὶ κατασκευὰς καὶ ἔρεις καὶ φιλονεικίας καὶ συλλογισμῶν τέχνας καὶ λημμάτων ἐπινοίας. Zur philosophischen Ausbildung des Klemens vgl. den ganzen Abschnitt hom. 1.1.1–4.7 sowie recogn. 8.7.6; 10.6.4; dazu Kelley 2006, 43–4. 60  Hom. 4.12.1: αὐτίκα γοῦν ἐγὼ τὴν πᾶσαν  Ἑλλήνων παιδείαν κακοῦ δαίμονος χαλεπωτάτην ὑπόϑεσιν εἶναι λέγω. 61  Hom. 4.7.2; vgl. Petrus’ Auftritt in hom. 1.9.2, den Klemens als wohltuend „arglos und unvorbereitet“ (ἀκάκως καὶ ἀπαρασκευάστως) empfindet, während die „heidnischen“ Phi55 Ep. 56

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durchaus differenziert über die Bedeutung rhetorischer Kompetenz für christliche Verkündigung nachgedacht wird,62 so erfährt Klemens doch eigentlich erst durch das Vorbild des Petrus und anderer Apostel eine tragfähige, das Leben auf Gott hin orientierende, eben geistliche Bildung. Schon als Barnabas Klemens zu Petrus bringt, ist sich dieser über die Eigenschaften des Protagonisten im Klaren und schickt sich nun an, diese im christlichen Sinne auszubilden.63 Erst am Ende längerer Reisen und ausführlicher Katechesen – so, wie Tertullian es gegenüber im Kontrast zur Kindertaufe als die richtige Reihenfolge dargestellt hatte – wird Klemens getauft;64 erst jetzt ist er auch formal bereit, dereinst der Nachfolger Petri in Rom zu werden. Zwar drückt er seine große Freude darüber aus, dass er die Wahrheit über Christus, Gott und die Welt gleich bei seiner ersten Begegnung mit Petrus „schnell“ (τάχεως) und nicht, wie auf einem herkömmlichen Bildungsweg, „allmählich“ (βράδεως) erworben habe.65 Tatsächlich wird ihm – und damit auch dem Leser – aber die volle Bedeutung der Botschaft des Petrus erst unterwegs sukzessive deutlich. Die Pseudoklementinen unterstreichen in ihrer besonderen literarischen Gestalt, was wir bei Justin und Tertullian bereits in Dialog‑ und Traktatform gesehen haben: Die Konversion zum Christentum ist ein Bildungsprozess, hier allerdings in Form der Katechese durch Petrus als Lehrer, der das Gelehrte immer zugleich auch vorlebt – was freilich im Prinzip auch für den kaiserzeitlichen philosophischen Lehrer galt. Wie bei Justin erwirbt Klemens durch seinen Besuch zahlreicher Philosophenschulen eher Skepsis als Erkenntnis. Das erstaunt angesichts der kommunikativen Pragmatik des Romanwerkes nicht: Das Ziel besteht in der Erkenntnis der Überlegenheit des Christentums über die konkurrierenden Philosophien (unzweideutig personalisiert anhand des ungebildeten, vom Geist Gottes inspirierten Petrus, der über den gelernten Sophisten Simon Magus triumphiert). Wieviel Bildung man braucht, um in der Lage zu dieser Entscheidung zu sein, wie sehr also das religiöse Selbst der Vorbildung bedarf und inwiefern diese abzustoßen oder doch als Propädeutik fruchtbar zu machen ist  – hieran scheiden sich offensichtlich die Geister. Mit einem weiteren und letzten Schritt nehmen wir dafür noch eine andere Position in den Blick, nämlich die des Origenes.66 losophen Hohn und Spott über den ungebildeten Petrus ausgießen (hom. 1.10.1)! 62 Vgl. dazu Kelley 2006, 51–7; Gemeinhardt 2007, 333–4. 63  Hom. 1.16.1–5; vgl. Vielberg 2000, 79–109, bes. 96–104. 64  Hom. 11.35.1. 65 Hom. 1.21.9. 66  Übergangen wird dabei der ins späte 2. Jh. einzuordnende Athener Klemens, später freischaffender Lehrer in Alexandrien, der zwar auch in einer autobiographischen Notiz seine internationale Bildungsbiographie Revue passieren lässt (str. 1.11.2), tatsächlich aber weit weniger Informationen bietet als Justin. Ob Klemens’ letzter und den Ausschlag für das Christentum gebende Lehrer, die „sizilische Biene“ gemäß der Ansicht des Euseb von Caesarea (h.e. 5.11.2; 6.13.2) mit Pantaenus identisch ist, bleibt mangels einer eigenen Aussage des Klemens unsicher; dazu Fürst 2007, 39/40.43/4. Dass parallel dazu die Nachfolger der Apostel die ἀποστολικὰ

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2.4 Origenes Zwischen 238 und 244 wurde in Caesarea eine Art „Graduiertenfestrede“ gehalten.67 Der Sprecher war Gregor, einst mit moderater Begeisterung Student des römischen Rechts,68 später Bischof von Neocaesarea, bis dato Angehöriger der Philosophengemeinschaft um Origenes. Wie dieser seine Schüler hier (und aller Wahrscheinlichkeit nach auch schon in Alexandrien) an die Fragen nach Gott und der Welt heranführte und zu gebildeten Christen formte, lässt Gregor in seiner Dankrede Revue passieren.69 Bekanntlich begann Origenes seine Lehrtätigkeit als Grammatiklehrer, übernahm aber bereits mit achtzehn Jahren die Unterweisung im alexandrinischen διδασκαλεῖον τῆς κατηχήσεως.70 Diese διατριβὴ τοῦ κατηχεῖν71 führte er hier und später in Caesarea bald auch in anderer Gestalt fort: Gregor Thaumaturgus berichtet, der providentielle Grund für seinen Weg zu Origenes sei „der Unterricht (διατριβή), den wir durch ihn über die Wissenschaften des göttlichen Wortes (περὶ τὰ τοῦ λόγου μαϑήματα) erhalten sollten“ gewesen.72 Zu seinem Unterricht strömten in Alexandrien „angesehene Gebildete und Gelehrte von den ungläubigen Heiden“.73 Dabei ereigneten sich Konversionen, und manche der Neugetauften wurden sogar zu Märtyrern. Das war allerdings nicht das unmittelbare Ziel des Unterrichts und der in ihm vermittelten Lehre.74 Die Attraktivität von Origenes’ Schule lag nicht darin, den Weg zum Martyrium zu bereiten, sondern zum philosophischen Leben unter christlichen Vorzeichen anzuleiten. Nach christlichem Verständnis schlugen die Märtyrer nach dem Tod den direkten Weg ins Paradies ein;75 auch nach Origenes weilten die Heiligen – das heißt hier: die Glaubenden – nach dem Tod im Paradies, nämlich „gleichsam σπέρματα in ihn eingepflanzt hätten (str. 1.11.3), ist ein Motiv, das uns sogleich in Gregors Panegyricus auf Origenes erneut begegnen wird, ebenso wie das vielfach ventilierte, aber nicht befriedigend gelöste Problem der Existenz und Gestalt einer alexandrinischen „Katechetenschule“ (dazu Scholten 1995). 67 Markschies 2007, 102. Das Folgende habe ich ausführlicher behandelt in Gemeinhardt 2011. Vgl. jetzt auch Gemeinhardt 2013. 68  Greg. pan. Or. 1.7. 69 Im Folgenden beschränke ich mich auf diese Quelle und ihre bildungsbiographischen Aufschlüsse. Einen anderen, systematischen Zugang zu Origenes’ Auffassung vom Selbst bietet Berchman 2003, 437–50. 70  Eus. h.e. 6.3.3. Vgl. zur Chronologie Scholten 1995, 19. 71  Eus. h.e. 6.3.8. 72 Greg. pan. Or. 5.70. 73  Eus. h.e. 6.3.13: ὥστε ἤδη καὶ τῶν ἀπίστων ἐϑνῶν τῶν τε ἀπὸ παιδείας καὶ φιλοσοφίας οὐ τοὺς τυχόντας ὑπάγεσϑαι τῇ δι᾿ αὐτοῦ διδασκαλίᾳ. 74  Anders Watts 2005, 246: „Origen understood philosophical explanation to be a gateway through which students could be led to Christianity. For him, education became a method to bring about conversion, and the teacher became a type of missionary.“ Der Verweis auf Orig. hom. Jer. 15.2.8 belegt dies freilich nicht. 75  Dazu jetzt Gemeinhardt 2010 a.

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an einer Stätte der Erziehung und in einem Hörsaal, einer Schule der Seelen“.76 Ans Ziel zu kommen bedeutete also keinen Abbruch des Bildungsprozesses. Gregor wähnte sich sogar schon durch die bloße Mitgliedschaft in der Lern‑ und Lebensgemeinschaft mit Origenes im Paradies auf Erden77 und sah den Abschied von der Schule als Vertreibung daraus. Er fürchtete das Schlimmste: „Wir werden gar keine Muße mehr haben, uns mit Höherem zu befassen.“78 Das „Höhere“ ist nach Gregors Auskunft die Theologie, die „Erkenntnis des letzten Grundes von allem“.79 Gegenstand des vertrauten Gesprächs des philosophischen Lehrers mit seinen Schülern war nichts Anderes als die göttlichen Geheimnisse, und die besondere Autorität des Origenes lag in seiner Rolle als „Künder der Lehren des Logos an die Menschen“, dem der Logos die Botschaften Gottes anvertraut hatte und der diese nun weitergeben sollte, wie die Propheten des Alten Bundes getan hatten,80 die der ϑεῖος παιδαγωγός in seinen Dienst genommen hatte.81 Origenes erschien seinem Schüler als sachkundiger Lehrer, als Nachfolger der Propheten, aber auch des Gottes Hermes, der den Menschen die γράμματα brachte: die Buchstaben oder, in der bildungstheoretischen Bedeutung des Wortes, die Wissenschaften. Bildung ist also ein von Gott inspiriertes Unterfangen und gehört dazu, wenn man sich mit Göttlichem vertraut machen will. Nach Gregor lehrte Origenes ein dreiteiliges Curriculum aus Dialektik, Physik und Ethik: Die Dialektik bietet die formale, die Physik die materiale Voraussetzung dafür, um die Welt vernunftgemäß zu erkennen und angesichts der Ordnung des Alls zu „vernunftbestimmtem Staunen“ (λογικὸν ϑαῦμα)82 durchzudringen. Von der ἐγκύκλιος παιδεία sind besonders Geometrie und Astronomie die Disziplinen, die den Geist des Menschen zum Erhabenen wenden.83 Das philosophische Ziel par excellence ist aber die Ethik, das Streben nach den göttlichen Tugenden, und zwar nicht nur theoretisch, sondern auch lebenspraktisch. Die Philosophen sind daher die Menschen, die vernunftgeleitet leben. Die „Keime“ (σπέρματα) dazu haben alle Menschen in sich, und sie empfangen weitere durch den Lehrer, dessen Aufgabe sodann darin besteht, diese Keime zu kultivieren.84 Menschliche Vernunft und göttlicher Logos wirken dabei zusammen.85 princ. 2.11.6: Puto enim quod sancti quique discedentes ex hac vita permanebunt in loco aliquo in terra posito, quem ‚paradisum‘ dicit scriptura divina, velut in quodam eruditionis loco et, ut ita dixerim, auditorio vel schola animarum. 77  Greg. pan. Or. 15.183–16.184. 78  Greg. pan. Or. 16.193: καὶ σχολὴ μὲν ἡμῖν οὐκέτι πρὸς τὰ κρείττω οὐδ᾿ ἡτισοῦν. 79 Greg. pan. Or. 13.150: τὴν περὶ ϑεολογίας διδασκαλίαν τὴν τοῦ πάντων αἰτίου γνῶσιν. 80  Greg. pan. Or. 15.181: ἑρμενεὺς εἶναι τῶν τοῦ ϑεοῦ λόγων πρὸς ἀνϑρώπους, συνιέναι τὰ ϑεοῦ ὡς ϑεοῦ λαλοῦντος, καὶ διηγεῖσϑαι ἀνϑρώποις ὡς ἀκούουσιν ἄνϑρωποι. 81  Greg. pan. Or. 5.57. 82  Greg. pan. Or. 8.111. 83 Greg. pan. Or. 8.114. 84  Greg. pan. Or. 7.99. 85  Greg. pan. Or. 5.53. 76 Orig.

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Die Basis aller Frömmigkeit (εὐσεβεῖν) ist nach Origenes das vernünftige Denken und Leben (φιλοσοφεῖν).86 Dies will allerdings gelernt sein, ist also wiederum Gegenstand des κατηχεῖν. Das Lernen des Philosophierens und Fromm-Seins geschieht aber nicht durch bloßes Imitieren des Lehrers oder durch Für-Wahr-Halten der erstbesten aufgeschnappten Erkenntnis – Origenes kritisiert scharf die Autoritätsgläubigkeit mancher Zeitgenossen, die auf eine Überprüfung allgemein verbreiteter Ansichten verzichten87  –, sondern durch intime Kenntnis der philosophischen Überlieferung. Gregor betont, er habe „alle vorhandenen Schriften der alten Philosophen und Dichter“ lesen müssen, „ohne etwas zu übergehen oder zu verwerfen; denn, so meinte er [sc. Origenes], wir könnten darüber ja auch noch gar kein Urteil fällen“.88 Der Kanon im Kanon war die platonische Philosophie. Für die Epikureer galt dagegen das Verdikt, dass man lieber ungebildet bleiben als auf solche Art philosophieren lernen sollte.89 Aber weder Platon selbst noch der kaiserzeitliche (Mittel‑) Platonismus war eine normative Größe. Origenes als „Führer zum Studium der hellenischen Philosophie“90 zielte vielmehr darauf ab, „dass uns keine griechische Lehrmeinung unbekannt bleiben sollte“91 – nicht um Detailwissen anzuhäufen, sondern um die kritische Urteilsfähigkeit zu schulen, die die Erkenntnis Gottes als des Retters ermöglichen sollte. Trainiert wurde also das κριτικόν, um dessen Einsatz sich „Griechen und Barbaren, Gebildete und Ungebildete und alle Menschen überhaupt“ bemühen sollten.92 Origenes wurde ein halbes Jahrhundert später von Porphyrius kritisiert, er sei, „obwohl als Grieche unter Griechen erzogen, zu barbarischer Dreistigkeit abgeirrt … Sein Leben war das eines Christen und widersprach den Gesetzen. In seiner Auffassung von der Welt und von Gott dachte er wie ein Grieche und schob den fremden Mythen griechische Ideen unter. Ständig beschäftigte er sich nämlich mit Platon …“.93 Dass dies den Schüler und Biographen Plotins erzürnen musste, ist verständlich. Er stellte ihm Ammonius Sakkas gegenüber, den Lehrer Plotins, der als Kind christlicher Eltern aufgewachsen, durch das intensive Studium der Philosophie aber „zu einem Leben in Übereinstimmung  Greg. pan. Or. 6.78–9. pan. Or. 7.103. 88  Greg. pan. Or. 13.151: Φιλοσοφεῖν μὲν γὰρ ἠξίου ἀναλεγομένους τῶν ἀρχαίων πάντα ὅσα καὶ φιλοσόφων καὶ ὑμνῳδῶν ἐστι γράμματα πάσῃ δυνάμει, μηδὲν ἐκποιουμένους μηδ᾿ ἀποδοκιμάζοντας· οὐδέπω γὰρ οὐδὲ τὴν κρίσιν ἔχειν. 89  Greg. pan. Or. 10.128. 90 Greg. pan. Or. 11.133: οὗτός με πρῶτος καὶ μόνος καὶ τὴν  Ἑλλήνων φιλοσοφίαν φιλοσοφεῖν προὑτρέψατο. 91  Greg. pan. Or. 14.170: οὐδενὸς ἀπειράστους εἶναι ϑέλων δόγματος  Ἑλληνικοῦ. 92  Greg. pan. Or. 7.106. 93  Zit. bei Eus. h.e. 6.19.7–8: ᾿Ωριγένης δὲ  Ἕλλην ἐν  Ἕλλησιν παιδευϑεὶς λόγοις, πρὸς τὸ βάρβαρον ἐξώκειλεν τόλμημα· κατὰ μὲν τὸν βίον Χριστιανῶς ζῶν καὶ παρανόμως, κατὰ δὲ τὰς περὶ τῶν πραγμάτων καὶ τοῦ ϑείου δόξας ἑλληνίζων τε καὶ τὰ  Ἑλλήνων τοῖς ὀϑνείοις ὑποβαλλόμενοις μύϑοις. συνῆν τε γὰρ ἀεὶ τῷ Πλάτωνι … 86

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mit den Gesetzen“ gebracht worden sei.94 Das Beispiel zeigt, dass Konversionen auch in umgekehrter Richtung ablaufen konnten – und dass die authentische, ja in gewissem Sinne normative Philosophenbiographie zum Gegenstand eines Deutungsstreits werden konnte.95 Gerade weil Bildung zur Formung des religiösen Selbst einen entscheidenden Beitrag leistete und weil hierbei zum Teil auf die selben philosophischen Quellen zurückgegriffen wurde, musste dieser Zugriff legitimiert beziehungsweise  – beim anders optierenden Gegenüber  – delegitimiert werden. Ob und in welchem Maße das christliche Selbst schulisch und philosophisch gebildet sein, durfte oder musste, sollte das Christentum auch in den folgenden Jahrhunderten als (Über‑) Lebensfrage begleiten.96

3 Christliche Wege und Umwege zum Selbst Wir haben vier unterschiedliche Konzeptionen von Bildungswegen untersucht, die je auf ihre Weise zur Formung des religiösen Selbst beitragen sollten. Justin absolvierte eine tour d’horizon durch die antiken Philosophenschulen, bevor ihm die Wahrheit des Christentums vermittelt wurde, die er dann selbst auch im Philosophenmantel lehrte. Den Mantel trug auch Tertullian, zog aber eine scharfe Trennlinie zwischen christlicher und nichtchristlicher Philosophie, ohne die Spannung aufzulösen, die sich zwischen der anima naturaliter christiana und dem Satz fiunt, non nascuntur christiani auftat. Die Pseudoklementinen propagieren eine genuin christliche Bildung und sehen den Königsweg zu deren Erwerb im vertrauensvollen Anschluss an den Apostelfürsten und dessen Nachfolger, gerade nicht im Hören philosophischer Lehrer. Für Origenes gilt dagegen, dass das Selbst auf dem Weg der Vertrautheit mit allen akzeptablen philosophischen Strömungen zu sich kommt – und dieser Weg ist zwar ein Umweg, aber ein notwendiger, um kritisch unterscheiden zu können und erst dadurch Gott als das Ziel aller Philosophie in rechter Weise zu erkennen. In doppelter Hinsicht ist bei der Auswertung Vorsicht geboten: Wir haben nur Bildungswege von Gebildeten betrachtet – die Mehrheit der Christen, über deren Unbildung ganz analog zur Gesamtbevölkerung des Imperium Romanum kein Zweifel bestehen kann, haben wir so nicht in den Blick bekommen. Es wäre auch falsch zu suggerieren, es gebe nur Wege zum Selbst, die zugleich Wege zum Christentum seien: Das Beispiel des Ammonius Sakkas illustriert, wie schwierig  Porphyrius bei Eus., h.e. 6.19.7: εὐϑὺς πρὸς τὴν κατὰ νόμους πολιτείαν μετεβάλετο.  Dies hatte im 4. Jh. insofern ein interessantes Nachspiel, als immer wieder – und mit beachtlichen Argumenten – eine Einwirkung der Vita pythagoricae des Jamblich auf Athanasius’ Vita Antonii vertreten wird (zuletzt von Rubenson 2006), in der das philosophische Ideal und insbesondere die Rolle von Bildung bei dessen Herausbildung ganz neu konfiguriert werden (hierzu vgl. Gemeinhardt 2010 b). 96  Vgl. dazu Gemeinhardt 2007, 487–512. 94 95

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im Einzelfall zu bestimmen ist, welche Bildung zu welchem Selbst führte. Das ist selten so eindeutig erkennbar, wie es antike christliche Autoren und moderne Forscher gerne hätten. Vielmehr zeigen die hier besprochenen Quellen, dass die Zuordnung von Weg, Umweg und Irrweg fließend war. Doch stimmen sie darin überein, dass der Weg zum Selbst ein Prozess ist, der gestaltet und reflektiert werden will. Bildung und Religion gehen in diesem Prozess eine vielgestaltige Beziehung ein. Das verbindet wiederum unsere Quellen für das lange zweite Jahrhundert mit Augustins Autohagiographie und Bildungsbiographie. Doch das ist eine andere Geschichte, die (vielleicht) ein andermal erzählt werden soll.97

Quellen „The Acts of Justin and Companions“. In: The Acts of the Christian Martyrs. Texts and Translations by Herbert Musurillo. Oxford, 1972. 42–61. Eusebius von Caesarea, Die Kirchengeschichte. Hg. von Eduard Schwartz. Griechische Christliche Schriftsteller Eusebius II/1–3. Berlin, 1903–1909. Eusebius, Kirchengeschichte. Übers. von Philipp Haeuser. Durchgesehen von Hans Armin Gärtner. Hg. von Heinrich Kraft. Darmstadt, 52006. Gregor der Wundertäter, Oratio prosphonetica ac panegyrica in Origenem. Dankrede an Origenes. Übers. von Peter Guyot. Eingel. von Richard Klein. Fontes Christiani 24. Freiburg, 1996. Die Pseudoklementinen. Bd. I: Homilien. Hg. von Bernhard Rehm/Georg Strecker. Griechische Christliche Schriftsteller 42. Berlin, 31992. Pseudoklementinische Homilien. Einführung und Übersetzung von Jürgen Wehnert. Kommentare zur apokryphen Literatur 1/1. Göttingen, 2010. Justin. Philosopher and Martyr, Apologies, ed. by Denis Minns. Oxford, 2009. Justin Martyr, Dialogue avec Tryphon. Edition critique par Philippe Bobichon, Bd. I. Paradosis 47,1. Fribourg, 2003. Justinus Martyr, Des heiligen Philosophen und Martyrers Justinus Dialog mit dem Juden Tryphon. Übers. von Philipp Haeuser. Bibliothek der Kirchenväter 33. Kempten/München, 1917. Origenes, Vier Bücher von den Prinzipien. Hg. und übers. von Herwig Görgemanns, Heinrich Karpp. Texte zur Forschung 24. Darmstadt, 31992. Tertullian, De baptismo. De oratione. Übers. von Dietrich Schleyer. Fontes Christiani 76. Freiburg, 2006. 160–217. Tertullian, Le Manteau (De pallio). Introduction, texte critique, traduction, commentaire et index par Marie Turcan. Sources chrétiennes 513. Paris, 2007. Tertullians private und katechetische Schriften. Übers. von Karl Heinrich Kellner. Bibliothek der Kirchenväter 7. Kempten/München, 1912. 11–33. Tertullian. De testimonio animae. Hg. von Radbodus Willems. In: Tertulliani Opera omnia. Vol. I. Corpus Christianorum. Series Latina 1. Turnhout, 1954. 173–83. 97 Der

vorliegende Text entstand im Kontext des aus Mitteln der Exzellenzinitiative geförderten Courant-Forschungszentrums „Bildung und Religion“ (EDRIS) an der Georg-AugustUniversität Göttingen.

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Tertullian, Über die Seele (De anima). Das Zeugnis der Seele (De testimonio animae). Vom Ursprung der Seele (De censu animae). Übers. von Jan Hendrik Waszink. Zürich/ München, 1980.

Bibliographie Berchman, Robert 2003. „Self-Knowledge and Subjectivity in Origen“, in Lorenzo Perrone (ed.), Origeniana Octava: Origen and the Alexandrian Tradition. Origene e la tradizione alessandrina, Bd. I. Bibliotheca Ephemeridum Theologicarum Lovaniensium 164 A. Leuven, 437–50. Bickel, Ernst 1939. „Fiunt, non nascuntur Christiani“, in Theodor Klauser, Adolf Rücker (Hg.), Pisciculi: Studien zu Religion und Kultur des Altertums. FS Franz Joseph Dölger. Münster, 54–61. Cox Miller, Patricia 2005. „Shifting Selves in Late Antiquity“, in David Brakke; Michael L.  Satlow, Steven Weitzman (eds.), Religion and the Self in Antiquity. Bloomington, Ind., 15–39. Fürst, Alfons 2007. Christentum als Intellektuellen-Religion: Die Anfänge des Christentums in Alexandria. Stuttgarter Bibelstudien 213. Stuttgart. Gemeinhardt, Peter 2007. Das lateinische Christentum und die antike pagane Bildung. Studien zu Antike und Christentum 41. Tübingen. – 2008. „Dürfen Christen Lehrer sein? Anspruch und Wirklichkeit im christlichen Bildungsdiskurs der Spätantike“, Jahrbuch für Antike und Christentum 51, 25–43. – 2010 a. „‚Tota paradisi clauis tuus sanguis est‘: Die Blutzeugen und ihre Auferstehung in der frühchristlichen Märtyrerliteratur“, in Tobias Nicklas, Andreas Merkt, Joseph Verheyden (Hg.). Gelitten – Gestorben – Auferstanden: Passions‑ und Ostertraditionen im frühen Christentum. Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament II, 273. Tübingen, 97–122. – 2010 b. „Holiness and Education in Late Antique Hagiography“, Studia Patristica XLIV, 521–6. – 2011. „Schola animarum. Bildung und Religion in der Schule des Origenes“, in Reinhard Feldmeier et al. (Hg.), Alexandria: Stadt der Bildung und der Religion. Biblische Notizen 148. Freiburg, 113–23. – 2013. „Glaube, Bildung, Theologie. Ein Spannungsfeld im frühchristlichen Alexandria“, in Tobias Georges, Reinhard Feldmeier, Felix Albrecht (Hg.), Alexandria civitatum orbis mediterranei scripta 1. Tübingen, 439–67. Georges, Tobias 2012. „Justin’s School in Rome – Reflections on Early Christian ‚Schools‘“, Zeitschrift für antikes Christentum 16, 75–87. Hadot, Pierre 1991. Philosophie als Lebensform: Geistige Übungen in der Antike. Berlin. Heyden, Katharina 2009. „Christliche Transformation des antiken Dialogs bei Justin und Minucius Felix“, Zeitschrift für Antikes Christentum 13, 204–32. Hirsch-Luipold, Rainer (Hg.) 2009. Religiöse Philosophie und philosophische Religion der frühen Kaiserzeit: Literaturgeschichtliche Perspektiven. Studien zu Antike und Christentum 51 = Ratio religionis-Studien 1. Tübingen. Kelley, Nicole 2006. Knowledge and Religious Authority in the Pseudo-Clementines: Situating the Recognitions in Fourth Century Syria. Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament II, 213. Tübingen. Klauck, Hans-Josef 2005. Apokryphe Apostelakten. Stuttgart.

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Markschies, Christoph 2007. Kaiserzeitliche christliche Theologie und ihre Institutionen: Prolegomena zu einer Geschichte der antiken christlichen Theologie. Tübingen. Merkt, Andreas 2007. „‚Eine Religion von törichten Weibern und ungebildeten Handwerkern‘: Ideologie und Realität eines Klischees zum frühen Christentum“, in Ferdinand R.  Prostmeier (Hg.), Frühchristentum und Kultur. Kommentar zu frühchristlichen Apologeten. Ergänzungsband 2. Freiburg, 293–309. Nock, Arthur Darby 1933. Conversion: The Old and the New in Religion From Alexander the Great to Augustine of Hippo. Oxford (= Lanham MD 1988). Rubenson, Samuel 2006. „Anthony and Pythagoras. A Reappraisal of the Appropriation of Classical Biography in Athanasius’ ‚Vita Antonii‘“, in David Brakke, Jörg Ulrich (eds.), Beyond Reception. Mutual Influences between Antique Religion, Judaism and Early Christianity. Frankfurt, 191–208. Schindler, Alfred 2009. „Hagiographie und Hagiologie in Augustins Werk, vor allem in den Confessiones“, in Johannes van Oort, Dietmar Wyrwa (Hg.), Autobiographie und Hagiographie in der christlichen Antike. Studien der Patristischen Arbeitsgemeinschaft 7. Leuven, 89–129. Schneider, André, 1991. „‚O testimonium animae naturaliter christianae‘ (Tertullien, Apol. 17,6)“, Museum Helveticum 48, 320–8. Scholten, Clemens 1995. „Die alexandrinische Katechetenschule“, Jahrbuch für Antike und Christentum 38, 16–37. Ulrich, Jörg 2012. „What do we know about Justin’s ‚School‘ in Rome?“ in Peter ­Gemeinhardt, Tobias Georges (Hg.), Between Education and Conversion. Ways of Approaching Religion in Late Antiquity = Zeitschrift für Antikes Christentum 16. Berlin, Boston, 62–74. Vielberg, Meinolf 2000. Klemens in den pseudoklementinischen Rekognitionen: Studien zur literarischen Form des spätantiken Romans. Texte und Untersuchungen zur Geschichte der altchristlichen Literatur 145. Berlin. Watts, Edward J. 2005. „The Student Self in Late Antiquity“, in David Brakke, ­Michael L. Satlow, Steven Weitzman (eds.), Religion and the Self in Antiquity. Bloomington, Ind., 234–51.

General Index compiled by Mihaela Holban Abraham ​121 aeon ​52, 60, 96 Aeschylos ​179 aesthesis ​25 Africa ​192, 204, 212 age ​79, 86, 104, 106–108, 114, 118, 124–125, 189, 192 ff., 267, see also gender, family –, aetas ​146, 195, 200, 209, 267 –, ephebi ​209, 253 –, old ~ ​79, 176, 180, 186, 188, 193–194, 198–207, 229 –, youth ​5, 12, 30, 58–59, 67, 69–70, 79, 109, 160, 183, 193–194, 198, 200–214 –, menopause ~ ​204–206 agency ​23–24, 28, 30, 32, 35, 37–39, 41–42, 84, 131–132 Agrippina ​71 Alexandria ​9, 55, 66–67, 71, 76–77, 85–86, 261, 270–271 Alexander of Abonouteichos ​151, 155 ff., 176 ff., 183, 185–187, 189, 192 ff. Alexander the Great ​185–186 Alkidamas ​181–182 altars ​152, 164, 187, 238 Ammianus Marcellinus ​183, 209 Ammonius Sakkas ​12–13, 273–274 Amorgos ​158 Amphilochus ​158, 187 Anatolia ​150, 155 angels ​52, 59, 107 animals, rational / non-rational ​23, 25, 27, 29, 33, 35 animus / anima ​8, 10, 17, 195, 197, 131, 143, 202–203, 222, 226, 228, 258, 265–267; see also psyche, soul Antinous ​187

Antioch ​153, 176, 185 Antoninus Pius ​120, 155, 162 Anubis ​186 anxiety ​165, 225–226, 229–232, 239 –, sollicitus ​225–226, 229–232 apatheia ​78, 84; see also passions Aphrodisias ​71 apocalypse, apocalyptic texts ​49–50, 54–57, 59, 61, 107, 131, 133 apology (literary genre) ​95, 114, 119–120, 164, 176, 179, 192 ff., 230, 235, 260–261, 264, 266, 268 Apollo ​3, 5, 12–14, 20, 91, 158, 185, 203, 207–208, 211 Apollonius of Tyana ​157, 187, 198–199, 201, 211 apospasma ​27, 29, 33 apostles ​58, 60, 162, 269–270, 274 apotheosis ​181–182, 184, 186–187, 199 apparitores ​59 Apuleius ​158–159, 164, 192 ff., 235, 239, 266 Arabia ​185 Areimanius ​10 arrephóroi ​251 Argos ​158 Ariphron of Sikyon ​239 Aelius Aristides ​71 Aristoteles, Aristotelian views ​7–9, 20, 67, 77, 97, 134, 195, 205, 211 Arnobius ​158 Arrian ​23, 156 Artemidorus ​201–202 ascesis, ascetism ​67, 69, 72–73, 78, 157, 175, 179, 181, 184, 187, 189, 211, 214 Asklepios ​156–158, 161, 165, 179, 184, 199, 252–254

280

General Index

~ Glykon ​197 –, Asclepius (Hermetica) ​130  ff. Asia Minor ​95, 154, 156, 160, 162, 192 associations see groups, group formation atheism ​121, 155, 159, 177 Athena ​39, 243–244, 247–255 ~ Ergane ​250 ~ Nike ​250–251 ~ Polias ​251–252 Athenaeus ​212 Athenagoras ​183, 186 Athenodorus of Tarsus ​187 Athens ​68, 158, 176,178, 185, 187, 201, 243–255 Atlas ​179 Attica ​151–152, 177, 255, 266 Atticus ​99 ~ Herodes Atticus ​164 Attis ​163, 181 Augustine ​4, 112, 115, 133, 233, 259, 261, 263, 275 Augustus ​185, 187, 249, 251, 253 authority, religious ​50, 104, 148–150, 152–156, 159, 161, 198, 203, 214, 235, 245, 251, 253, 272–273 Babylon ​50, 55–57 baptism ​58–59, 75–78, 82, 84–85, 131, 134, 266–267, 270–271 –, baptismal formula ​75, 77; see also initiation Barnabas ​270 beauty, attitude towards ​14, 36, 40, 42, 53, 68–70, 80, 83, 137, 183, 201, 207, 209, 211 behavior ​34–35, 39–40, 52, 54, 59, 61, 68, 74, 117, 127, 137–138, 161, 195–196, 203, 208, 213, 222–225, 230–232, 240, 259 belief ​5, 9–10, 20, 25, 28, 35, 42, 60, 95, 102, 107–109, 112–113, 120–125, 157, 159, 162, 188, 189, 244–246, 261–262, 265, 268–269, 271 Bendis ​165 bible ​57–58, 77, 85, 97, 100–101, 107, 115 biography ​3, 16, 18, 112, 156, 161, 176, 192, 260–261, 269–271, 273–275 –, autobiography ​50, 192, 259, 264, 268, 270

Bithynia ​237 blessings, divine ​10, 14, 79, 121, 154–155, 160, 182, 189 –, benefactions ​73, 146, 232–233, 240 body ​6, 8–12, 17, 19, 24–25, 27–30, 32–35, 39, 43, 67, 73–74, 78–79, 81, 84, 93, 100, 102, 107–108, 111, 132, 134, 136, 139–143, 181, 240, 254, 265; see also animus/anima, age, clothing codes, dualism, gender, health, illness, nature, psyche, sexuality, soul brahmins ​185, 188 canon, canonization ​49, 75, 114, 162, 245, 273 Canon Muratori ​51 Capitoline Hill ​57, 236, 238 Cato the Elder ​193–194, 198–200, 206 Catullus ​212 Cape Sounion ​151, 155 Celsus ​196, 261 Celts see Gaul ceremonies ​156, 205, 252, 255, 265 –, processions ​34, 163–164 Chalcedon ​158 Chaldeans ​11, 137 character (personality) ​14–17, 19, 24, 90, 111, 127, 177, 202–203 charisma ​146–147, 151, 156, 160, 202, 211, 213 Christians, Christianity ​54, 60–61, 66 ff., 75, 77–79, 81, 94–95, 97, 99, 100–102, 107 ff., 126, 130, 139, 155, 157, 159, 161–162, 164, 176, 181–183, 188–189, 200–202, 210, 221, 233, 239, 259 ff. Christology ​50, 52, 181 Chrysippus ​7, 31, 35, 38, 227 church ​24, 51–52, 54, 58–59, 67 ff., 75, 77, 85, 96–97, 100–102, 109, 159, 182, 255 Cicero ​55, 126, 193–194, 197–200, 206, 221, 223 citizenship ​28, 34, 55, 57, 60–61, 67, 187, 236 city, civic life context/religion ​49 ff., 55, 67–68, 70–77, 85–86, 106, 120, 148, 156, 158, 161–166, 182, 186–187, 189, 205, 212–214, 243–244, 246–247, 249–250, 252–255; see also polis

General Index

Claudius ​186, 235–236, 251 Clemens ​51, 269 Clement of Alexandria ​51, 66 ff., 146, 209–210 clothing codes ​53, 66 ff., 120, 157, 159, 186, 212 –, fashion code ​66, 77, 80, 84–85, 192, 253 Codex Sinaiticus ​49 collegia ​153–154, 162 ; see also groups, groups formation communication modes ​41, 50, 76, 153, 162, 164–166, 178 community, community formation ​33, 36, 54, 60–61, 75–77, 104, 130, 159, 182–183, 233, 235, 239–240, 244–246 Commodus ​175, 179 Concordia ​70–72, 76 conversion ​104, 112–113, 117, 119–120, 127, 132, 135 ff., 139, 260, 263, 267, 270–271, 274; see also metanoia Corinth ​106, 162, 164 cosmos, cosmology ​7–12, 18, 25–35, 38, 42, 52, 111, 123, 138, 141 creation, creator ​8, 25–26, 30, 35, 78, 80, 84, 97, 99, 101, 210 –, Demiurge ​8, 15, 98–101,138 cult ​109, 146, 150–152, 155–157, 160, 162, 247–249; see also emperor, hero cult, mysteries, rituals –, foundation ​176, 187, 189, 192, 197–198, 202–203, 214 –, “oriental” ~ ​161, 164 –, public / private ~ ​104, 153–159, 161–163, 165, 232–237, 240, 244–250, 252–255 –, relic ~ ​186–187 –, ~ regulations ​151–158, 244–245 –, worship ​19, 130, 148, 151, 156, 164, 175, 180, 182, 187–188, 233, 239 –, worshippers ​121, 154, 189, 202, 244, 248, 252, 255 curses ​154–155, 180, 236; see also defixiones Cybele see Magna Mater cynics, Cynic views ​156, 176, 181–185, 187–189, 211, 213, 266 Cyprian of Carthage ​159

281

Cyprus ​95, 183 Cyrene ​237 daimon ​13, 19, 34, 58, 165, 188, 201 death ​9, 30, 36, 75, 81–84, 134, 136–139, 141, 154, 163, 175–176, 179, 181–189, 198–199, 202–204, 225, 262, 268–271 –, funeral pyre ​175, 179, 184–185 –, grave ​71, 154, 163 –, immortality ​18, 28, 77, 132, 135, 137–138, 141, 147, 164, 180–181, 185, 188, 235, 237, 263, 269 –, mortality ​91–92, 132, 142–143, 179, 181, 187, 232, 246 –, phantoms ​180–181, 188 –, suicide ​175, 182, 188 Dea Syria ​176, 180 defixiones from Bregenz ​180 Deianeira ​179, 188 deification ​78, 176, 186–188, 201; see also apotheosis Delos ​151, 161 Delphi ​3 ff., 69, 91, 140, 158, 131, 250 Demeter ​159 Demonax of Cypros ​183, 189, 199 demos ​162, 246 Demostenes ​3, 250 dendrophoroi ​156 desires, attitude towards ​24, 54, 58, 67–73, 78–79, 84–85, 134, 136, 141, 187, 230, 237 devotion  ​83, 236, 255 –, personal ​246, 252–253 diadosis ​32 dialogues (literary genre) ​4–5, 9, 50, 58, 70, 74, 104 ff., 130, 135–136, 139, 176–179, 181, 185–186, 199, 227, 262 ff. Dio Cassius ​185 Dio Chrysostom ​71, 209 Diodorus Siculus ​158 Diogenes ​181, 186–187, 199, 201 Diogenes Laertius ​3, 35, 38, 160, 188 Dionysos ​9, 12–14, 153, 156–157, 161–163, 165, 184, 255 –, Orphic-Bacchic gold leaves ​165 Diotima of Mantinea ​107, 118 Domitian ​50 dreams ​151, 179, 202, 245

282

General Index

dualism ​3 ff., 30, 117, 121, 126, 132, 134, 140, 223; see also body, soul –, material / immaterial ​6–8, 100, 106, 132–133, 136, 143, 156, 181, 243, 272 –, good / evil ​6, 10 Dura-Europos ​164 duty ​7, 58, 83, 104, 140, 183, 194, 223 dynameis ​24, 35 education ​15–16, 26, 36–38, 40, 66 ff., 97–98, 108, 123, 125, 130–131, 133, 136, 139, 147, 164, 175–178, 195–196, 211–213, 260 ff.; see also knowledge, paideia –, agonistic model ​70, 73–75, 78, 80 –, catechesis ​262, 266, 270–271 –, disciples ​67, 69, 74, 82, 85, 105, 130–135, 139 –, erudition ​177, 232, 260, 272 –, pepaideumenoi ​175, 189 –, philosophical schools ​74, 77, 79, 105–107, 112–113, 117, 122–123, 181, 183, 210–211, 227, 263, 269–270, 274 –, polymatheia ​177 –, schola publica ​261, 266 –, teachers ​10, 12, 58, 66 ff., 95, 114, 130, 180, 184, 187, 189, 206, 261–263, 266–267, 270–274 Egypt ​11, 17, 56, 165, 176, 186–187, 269 ekklesia see church Elis ​182, 184, 186 elite ​67–70, 72–73, 75–77, 85, 105, 108, 119, 148, 156, 160–161, 175, 178, 212, 221 ff., 251, 254–255 –, magistrates ​59, 70–72, 212, 248, 252 –, senators ​72, 233, 235–237 Eleusis ​159, 254 emotions ​7, 12, 14–16, 222 –, feelings ​117, 127, 229, 245, 250 Empedocles ​184, 201 emperor, Roman ​56, 70, 120, 176, 179, 186–187, 252, 232–240 ~ cult ​109, 233–234, 236, 239 Enlightenment ​111, 115 Ephesos ​106 Epictetus ​23–43, 72, 74, 104, 210 Epicur, Epicurean views ​34, 106, 155–156, 159, 161, 196, 198, 202, 214, 273 Epidauros ​239

epigraphy ​20, 50, 150–151, 153, 156, 159, 163, 198, 233–234, 238–239, 247, 250 –, dedications ​163, 234, 243–244, 247–251, 255 –, formulae ​57, 153–154, 237–238, 245, 250, 254; see also vows epiphany ​133, 135, 140, 155, 157, 245 eschatology ​10, 54, 56–57, 59–60, 76–79 eternity ​8, 11, 17, 19, 79, 96–101, 107, 143 ethics ​3–4, 6, 9 14, 16, 25, 75, 85, 118, 124, 126, 126, 134, 136–140, 147, 153, 212, 227, 272 Etna ​184 eudaimonia see happiness Euphrates ​176, 211 Euripides ​179, 250 Eurystheus ​179 Eusebius of Caesarea ​106, 158–159, 183, 270–274 euergetism ​254 exile ​55, 72  ff. experience ​16, 18, 43, 50, 52, 54, 59–60, 74, 131, 133–135, 146–148, 150–151, 158, 162, 164, 222, 234, 245, 250 Ezra ​50, 55–56, 60–61 family ​55, 71, 76, 112, 157, 163, 165, 204, 206, 231, 234, 238, 246, 250, 254, 257, 268 –, children ​56, 71–72, 74, 79, 85, 142, 179, 181–182, 184–185, 197, 204–207, 230–231, 238, 251, 266–267, 270 –, divinity as father ​29, 33, 35, 77–79, 81, 84–85, 96, 98, 101, 112, 121, 133, 137, 141 –, household ​68–69, 71–73, 75–76, 81, 83, 157, 176, 198 –, marriage ​67 ff., 105, 160–161, 163–164, 204–207, 209, 237–238 –, slaves ​25, 53, 68, 71, 75, 77, 151–152, 154, 157, 179, 185, 189, 202, 236 –, wedding ​69–70, 181–182, 204–206, 210 fear ​13–14, 40, 53, 104, 143, 155, 184, 188, 225 Firmicus Maternus ​76, 158, 267 friendship ​5, 25, 108, 125, 194, 196, 211, 223–234, 239–240, 264, 269 Fronto, Marcus Cornelius ​226, 231–232

General Index

Galen ​29, 184, 226–227 Gallos ​163 Ganymede ​187 Gaul ​95, 176, 180 Gellius, Aulus ​226 gender ​29, 71, 76, 80, 82, 84–85, 94, 96, 138–139, 141, 155, 195, 200, 203, 208–209, 213; see also body, clothing codes, family, sexuality –, beard ​202, 208–210 –, cosmetics, attitude towards ​68, 80, 200, 203, 209–210 –, depilation ​82–83, 208–210, 212 –, effeminacy ​80–82, 84, 203 –, hair ​73, 83, 192 ff. –, jewelry ​70, 82–83 –, masculinity / feminity ​51–52, 56, 68, 70, 76, 80–85, 138, 193, 208–210 Getae see Zalmoxis Glykon ​155, 160, 197–199 gnostic, gnostics ​77–78, 84, 90 ff., 122, 135, 147, 161, 163, 261 –, Valentinian gnostic ​90ff, 121, 132, 261 goetes ​182, 187 –, religious “charlatans”/ fraud ​105, 109, 155–156, 159, 175 ff., 182, 185, 187–189, 198 Greece ​159, 162, 165, 180, 186, 245 –, Greek cities see polis –, Greek education see paideia –, Greek language ​85, 91, 96, 100–101, 107, 131, 234, 237, 239 –, Greek philosophers ​3, 11, 176, 178, 229 –, religion ​159, 245–246, 250–251 –, Greek tradition ​82, 115, 159, 165, 175 –, Greeks ​75, 131, 180, 186, 245, 273 Gregory Thaumaturgus ​271–273 groups, group formation ​49–51, 55, 59, 104, 111–112, 116–117, 119, 121–123, 135, 146–148, 150, 153–157, 159, 162–166, 178, 196, 233, 235–236, 240, 245–246, 255, 260, 262; see also collegia gymnosophists ​185 Hades ​10, 13, 17, 179–181, 184, 187–188 Hadrian ​56, 59, 71, 187, 211

283

Halikarnassos ​158 happiness ​9–10, 28, 36, 53, 69–70, 73, 105, 108, 123–125, 199 –, eudaimonia ​108, 123–125 Harpokrates ​164 health ​11, 194, 199, 207, 221 ff., 253–254; see also illness, vows –, diet ​72, 83, 194, 199 –, healing ​79, 146–147, 158, 186, 197, 199, 203, 227–228, 234, 252, 254 –, hygiene ​121 –, medicine ​194, 227, 232 –, physicians ​29, 197–198, 210, 224–225, 228–229, 238–239 –, salus ​224, 232–233, 237–239 –, therapy ​79, 226–227 Hebe ​180 Hector (Troika) ​187 hêgemonikon ​24 Helios ​157, 164 Hellenism ​55, 82, 90, 110, 114, 122, 147, 165, 176, 179, 188, 227, 243, 246, 251, 253, 255 Hephaestion ​187 Hera ​181, 244 Heracles ​29, 175–180, 182, 184–185, 187–189 ~, as patron deity ​175, 181–182, 184, 187, 189 ~ Ogmios ​178, 180 Heraclitus ​18 heresy ​95, 99, 120–121, 123 Hermas ​49  ff. Hermes ​157, 163, 180, 185, 272 Hermetica ​130  ff. –, Hermes Trismegistus ​130–131, 133, 135 hope ​76, 155–156, 239, 269 Horace ​201, 210 hero cult ​28, 175, 179, 181–182, 184, 186–187, 198 Herodotus ​176, 179, 187, 189 Hierapolis ​176 Hierocles ​6 holy men ​77, 211, 263, 271 Homer ​181, 189 homonoia see Concordia Hygieia ​239, 250

284

General Index

Hyla ​164 Hypsistos see Zeus iconography ​71, 153, 163–164, 254 identity ​4, 16, 50, 60–61, 66, 69, 75, 85, 90, 92, 98–99, 102, 105–106, 108–109, 114, 121–123, 132–133, 148–150, 156, 175, 208, 259, 262 individual ​6–7, 9–10, 13–16, 23, 27–28, 31, 37–38, 41–43, 61, 75, 104–105, 109–112, 114–116, 121–122, 127, 149, 165, 175 ff., 196, 233–234, 239–240, 244–246 ~ options ​4, 6, 20, 41–42, 61, 66, 74–75, 78, 102, 109–110, 116, 123–124, 127, 136, 139–140, 142, 146 ff., 208, 244 –, profession ​59, 195, 201, 203, 210–211, 225 ~ religious actions ​51, 78, 146, 151, 153–154, 166, 192–193, 233–234, 240, 243–248, 250, 252–254, 256 ~ self ​5, 20, 23, 26, 42–43, 52, 114–115 ~ status ​39, 52, 72, 86, 152, 158, 160, 164, 193, 195, 202–203, 211, 251, 255 –, wealth ​53, 60, 69–70, 154, 163, 204, 210, 214 individuality ​37 ff., 96, 108, 113, 115–116, 123, 140, 188, 193, 221, 244, 259 − reflexive ~ ​49  ff. − religious ~ ​49, 52, 146 ff., 214, 259 –, individualism ​105, 109–117, 122 –, individualization ​49, 60–61, 149–150, 243–244 illness ​11, 79, 148, 151–152, 194, 197, 221 ff., 254; see also health –, pain ​36, 179, 185, 188, 197, 221, 224, 226, 240 –, patient ​223–229, 231 –, suffering ​36, 41, 53, 58, 136, 141, 154, 221–222, 224, 226, 231, 254 imitation ​30, 42, 54, 125, 175, 182–183, 187–188, 233 immolation, self-immolation ​176, 182, 184–185 impiety ​121, 236 impulses, attitude towards ​24, 36, 38, 42, 78, 79

initiation ​76–77, 108, 124–125, 146, 148, 152, 158, 163; see also baptism, mysteries inscriptions see epigraphy, vows intellect ​7–9, 11, 15, 109, 131, 133–134, 138 Irenaeus ​95–102, 161 Isaac ​121 Isis ​9–10, 17, 158, 161, 163–165, 202 Israel ​54, 121 Italy ​52, 55, 151, 154, 156, 176 Iunius Rusticus, Quintus ​261 Jacob ​121 Jamblichos ​96, 274 Janus ​238 Jerusalem ​49, 55–57, 268 Jews, Jewish tradition ​52, 60–61, 99, 102, 107–110, 113–114, 117, 119–122, 126, 130, 138, 155, 233, 260, 262, 269 John ​55–57, 76, 97 Josephus, Flavius ​55, 57 Judah ​199 Judea ​50, 157 Julia Domna ​252 Jupiter Capitolinus ​57 ~ Dolichenus ​164 Justin ​95, 104 ff., 161, 261–264, 268–270, 274 Juvenal ​193, 229, 237–238 Kalanus ​185 Keleia ​159 knowledge ​10, 18, 29, 33, 38, 42, 51, 70, 79, 94–98, 100, 107, 123–124, 133, 136–137, 153, 196, 211, 213, 237, 245, 263–265, 269–273; see also education, paideia –, introspection ​5–6, 112, 212 –, “know thyself ” ​3, 5, 19, 91, 131, 140 ~ of divinity ​38, 43, 80, 98, 100–101, 105, 123, 137–138, 141–143, 152, 164, 267, 273 –, self‑ ~ ​4, 6, 19–20, 36, 43, 70, 80, 84, 91, 100, 123, 132–134, 136, 139, 143, 221 –, truth ​34, 36, 79–80, 92, 94, 99–100, 124–126, 141, 156, 262–265, 267, 270, 273–274

General Index

Kokkonas of Byzantium ​157–158 Korybas ​181 Kos ​158 Kronios ​182 laws ​10–11, 35–36, 38, 53, 55, 72, 76, 273–274 letters (literary genre) ​24, 51, 75, 151, 161, 182, 211, 221–225, 228–229, 231–232, 237, 268–269 –, Epistle of Melissa to Clearete ​76 –, Letter to Diognetus ​55, 61, 107 lex sacra ​150 Livia ​231 Livy ​236 logos ​16, 23, 78, 80, 82, 97, 121, 131, 139, 262, 271–272 –, logoi spermatikoi ​35, 272 love ​35, 70, 158, 198, 201, 204, 210, 230–231, 260 − in Christian context ​56, 77, 81, 108, 124–125, 264 –, philautia (self-love) ​36, 69, 132, 134, 138–140, 142 Lucian of Samosata ​151, 155–161, 175 ff., 193 ff. Luther, Martin ​115, 122 luxury, attitude towards ​15, 53, 67, 69, 71–72, 76, 80–83, 210, 214, 240 Lycia ​151–152, 156 Lydia ​152–154 Lycurgus ​14–15 Macedonia ​158–159, 198 madness ​13, 38, 179, 201, 232 magic, magicians ​146–148, 154–155, 157–158, 164, 166, 193–194, 198, 204, 206–207, 211, 213, 225–226, 235, 239, 269 –, cantamina ​235 Magna Mater ​156, 161, 163–164, 202 Manoudaios ​157 Marcion of Sinope ​54, 121–122 Marcus Aurelius ​6, 37, 94, 102, 176, 226–227, 230–233, 239 Mark (gospel) ​49 Marsyas ​207–208, 211 Martial ​200–201, 229

285

martyrs ​77, 95, 104 ff., 182–183, 188, 261–262, 271 –, Martyrium Polycarpi ​188 Melissa (philosopher) ​76 Melqart (Tyros) ​180 memory ​17–18 Men Tyrannos ​150–153, 155–157, 161, 165 Menander Rhetor ​183 Menippos of Gadara ​176–177, 181, 184, 187 metanoia ​52, 117, 139; see also conversion metriopatheia ​69; see also apatheia, passions mind ​6–9, 14, 25, 27, 29, 32–33, 43, 51, 68, 72–74, 105–106, 108, 139, 143, 228, 231 miracles ​60, 146, 184, 186, 165, 203 mirror motif ​34, 37–38, 42, 69–71, 81, 114, 138, 212 Mithras ​163–165 modernity ​4–6, 15–16, 96, 105, 109, 111–112, 115–117, 122, 159, 162 Moiragenes ​157 Momos ​179 moon ​9, 31, 56, 72, 152–153, 188 Moses ​85 Musonius Rufus ​67, 72–74, 80–81, 210 Mysia ​152–154 mysteries ​3, 109, 130, 147–148, 157–160, 162, 202; see also initiation –, mystagogue ​146  ff. –, mystic ​130, 135 mythology ​8–9, 11, 97, 100, 133, 136, 138–139, 164, 177, 193, 273 –, myth of origins ​67, 132–133, 136 Nag Hammadi ​94 Narcissus ​134, 138 nature ​6–7, 10–16, 18–19, 25, 30–31, 33–43, 67–68, 73–91, 93, 98, 102, 138, 181, 188, 193, 195–196, 200, 210–213, 265–267 ; see also physis –, anima naturaliter christiana ​265–266, 274 –, physics ​7, 26, 30–31, 272 –, metaphysics ​4, 6, 8, 13, 78, 97

286

General Index

necessity ​35–37, 41, 43, 82 Nemesios of Emesa ​181 Nero ​71–72 Nicomachus of Gerasa ​96 Nietzsche ​14, 126 Nicolaus of Damascus ​185 New Testament ​49–50, 71, 75–76, 81, 111–112, 199 Nigrinus ​178, 183, 189 norms ​43, 134–135, 147, 203, 225, 273–274 Numenius ​100 Numidia ​159 nous ​97, 131, 133, 141–143; see also intellect Odysseus ​180 Oea ​205 Oenoanda ​156 Oenomaus of Gadara ​156 Oita, Mount ​179, 181 Ogma ​180 oikeiosis ​6, 23 Old Testament ​82, 194 Olymp ​177–181, 188 Olympia ​176, 182, 185–187 –, Olympic games ​182, 184, 186 Omphale ​179 Onesikritus ​185 ontology ​6–8, 13, 26, 78, 92, 94, 100, 102, 114 oracles ​156–158, 160–161, 187, 197, 199; see also Delphi –, Chaldaean Oracles ​137–138 –, Sibylline oracle ​56 oratory ​180, 193, 195, 198, 209; see also rhetoric Origenes ​100, 261, 268, 270–274 Oromazes ​10, 164 Osiris ​9–12, 17, 186 Ostia ​163, 211 Ovid ​231 paideia ​85–86, 175, 260, 269, 273; see also education Palestine ​182 pallium ​267–268 Pan ​181

panegyricus ​188, 235, 271 ff. pantheism ​26–27, 32 pantheon ​165, 186, 252 Paphlagonia ​155, 160 paradise ​51, 54–57, 60, 78, 107, 271–272 parakolouthēsis ​34–35 Parion ​182–183, 186 Parmenides ​211 Parthenon ​249, 252 Parthians ​164, 176 passions, attitude towards ​7, 14–15, 19–20, 69–70, 72, 78–79, 83, 97–98, 210, 239 Patras ​184 patria ​55, 60, 195 patrioi nomoi  ​55 Paul ​50, 75–76, 83, 107, 110–111, 121, 126, 162 Pausanias ​3, 159, 186–187 perception ​6, 23, 25, 34, 106, 100, 110, 117, 122, 124, 126–127, 142, 262, 265 –, senses ​25, 32, 74, 133, 136, 141, 143 Peregrinus Proteus ​157, 175 ff. performance ​24, 26, 30, 35, 38, 42–43, 75–77, 82, 130, 147–148, 152, 158–159, 163, 178, 192, 197, 200, 202, 209, 213–214, 223–225, 230, 233, 235, 238–240, 245 Perictione ​76 peripatetic ​9, 105, 113, 123, 262; see also Aristoteles, Aristotelian views Persia ​10 Persius ​229 person ​4–7, 14, 16–19, 24, 28–30, 41, 43, 52, 54, 80, 92–94, 105, 111–113, 123, 126, 135, 149–150, 152–153, 202, 225 ; see also character, charisma –, attributa personis ​193, 195–196, 203, 212 –, persona ​18, 150–151, 192, 195, 197–200, 202, 211–212, 214, 238 –, personal religiosity ​42, 104, 124, 131, 150, 152, 156–157, 161, 163, 229, 231, 234, 237–238, 245–246, 250, 252–253, 269 –, personality ​15–16, 90, 92, 117, 127, 147, 156, 192, 262 –, personification ​55–56, 180

General Index

Petronius ​202, 236 Petrus ​76, 81, 268–270 phantasiai ​24–25 Phidias ​39–40, 188 philautia see love Philo of Alexandria ​76, 97, 101, 134 Philoctetes ​184, 187 Philostratus ​157, 199, 201 Phrygia ​151–152, 157, 159 Phyntis ​76 physis 14, 31, 91, 93, 102; see also body, dualism, nature piety ​104, 125, 137, 196, 198, 231, 243, 246, 250, 253–255, 273 –, eusebeia ​273 –, pietas ​231 Piraeus ​158 Pisidia ​153, 157 plants ​27, 31, 33, 143, 206 Plato ​3, 5, 7–11, 14, 30, 67, 85, 106–107, 115, 118, 125, 134, 198–199, 223, 229, 263, 273 –, Platonism, Platonic views ​8, 16, 43, 67–69, 77, 91–102, 125–126, 132, 136, 163, 183, 192, 207, 211, 214, 226, 263, 273 Pliny the Elder ​60, 205, 235 Pliny the Younger ​211, 229–231, 233, 235, 237, 239 Plotinus ​93, 98, 273 Plutarch ​3 ff., 67, 69 ff., 76, 81, 91–93, 98, 100, 185, 194, 202 34–35, 52 pneuma ​ Pnyx ​254–255 Poimandres  ​133 polis ​34, 68, 148, 154, 165, 202, 243, 246, 249, 253 –, “polis-religion” ​246 –, politeuesthai ​55 Polydama (Olympia) ​186–187 Pontus ​197 populus ​235–236 Porphyrius ​182, 273–274 Posidonius ​227 power(s) ​10–11, 24, 34–37, 40–42, 60 ff., 70, 106, 108, 124, 137, 142–143, 146, 150, 153, 155, 160, 162, 180, 194, 199, 229, 236; see also dynameis

287

–, divine ~ ​9–11, 34, 72, 111, 132–133, 137, 143, 188, 229, 252 –, magical ~ ​157, 188, 213, 235 –, physical strength ​179–180, 187, 194, 207 –, Roman imperial ~ ​50, 60–61, 70, 178, 233, 235 prayer ​43, 57, 61, 81, 135, 228–240, 243, 245, 250, 263 –, preces ​231, 235–236 preachers ​159, 177, 183, 189 –, kerygma ​137, 139 priesthood ​3, 59, 91, 153–154, 159, 202, 233–235, 237, 247, 251 –, Arvals ​235, 237 –, asiarch ​162 –, episcopoi ​51, 268, 271 –, Galli ​164 –, hierophant ​269 –, pontifices ​235–236 –, presbyteroi ​51, 59 –, Salii ​235 Proclus ​137 prohairesis ​24–25, 27–29, 32–33, 35–36, 37–43 Propertius ​231 prophets, prophecy ​10, 50, 52, 107–108, 124–125, 147–148, 155, 160, 177, 182, 187, 192 ff., 263–264, 269, 272, Protesilaos (Chersonnes) ​187 providence ​29, 38, 141, 197, 271 psyche ​8–9, 24–25, 31, 93, 131, 259 ; see also animus/anima, soul Ptolemaeus ​94–95, 97, 99 Ptolemaios ​165, 186 Ptolemais ​237 Pudentilla, Aemilia ​204–207, 213 Pythagoras, Pythagorean views ​7, 76–77, 96–97, 105–106, 113, 157, 160, 176, 182–183, 186, 188–189, 198–199, 201–203, 211, 263–264, 274 Quintilian ​195, 231 reason, faculty ​7, 11, 14–15, 21, 24, 28–29, 33–34, 36–38, 69–70, 72–74, 78, 80, 143, 221, 232 –, non-rational beings see animals

288

General Index

–, rationality / irrationality ​7–8, 11, 13–15, 20, 25, 29, 33–35, 74, 78, 96, 98, 265 Religion / religious tradition ​50, 52, 54–55, 59, 66–67, 77, 79, 85, 93, 99, 109, 118, 126, 130, 149, 159, 184, 188, 229, 235, 245, 251–253, 261 responsibility, understanding of ​24, 27, 37–38, 42, 138–139, 143, 262, 267 –, eph’hemin ​42 revelations ​50–52, 55, 76, 80, 107, 130 ff., 152 rhetoric ​67, 73, 82, 105–107, 112–113, 118, 122, 125, 135, 137, 139, 176–177, 180, 183, 192 ff., 226, 236–237, 264, 266, 270 –, eloquence ​180, 209, 213, 229 –, speeches ​12–13, 30, 71, 83, 86, 107–108, 175, 178, 182, 184, 194–195, 204, 207, 212–214, 235 Rhodos ​158 rituals ​76–77, 86, 130, 134–135, 139, 150, 153, 157, 159, 162–164, 231, 233–234, 237–240, 243–247, 253–254 –, innovation ​156, 162–163, 221 Rome ​49–50, 56–60, 72, 95, 245, 247 –, army ​53, 229, 237 –, cultural tradition ​49, 52, 66, 71, 75–78, 81–82, 84–85, 114, 123, 126, 147, 156, 176, 206, 222, 260 –, Empire ​50, 53, 55, 57, 59, 61, 69–70, 72–73, 76, 86, 95, 108, 110, 112, 119–120, 149, 151, 178, 188, 207, 212, 221–222, 230, 234–235, 238–240, 243, 246, 251, 254–255, 260, 274; see also emperor –, law ​53, 153, 271 –, provinces ​154, 156, 176, 213, 237 –, religion ​57, 104, 109, 221, 230 ff., 245, 249, 253; see also priesthood Rutilianus, P. Mummius Sisenna ​160 Sabazius ​157–159, 161, 181 sacraments ​147 sacred texts ​81, 104–105, 164, 235, 245 sacrifices ​68, 152–154, 158–159, 189, 233, 235, 238, 246, 254 salus see health, vows

Samos ​160, 185, 189 sanctions ​154, 235, 244–245, 255 satire (literary genre) ​155, 176–178, 182, 189, 193, 196–198, 200, 202–203, 206, 214, 229, 237–238 scala naturae ​33 sceptics ​4 Scythians ​187, 189 sects ​147, 161, 183, 268 Selene ​160 self, individual see individual –, religious ~ ​51–52, 165, 193, 214, 259, 261, 264–268, 270 self-awareness ​3, 6–7, 20, 23–24, 31, 37, 93, 105, 111–112, 123–124, 127, 137, 140, 260, 262, 267 self-care ​68, 70, 72–74, 78–80, 91, 116, 125, 221 ff. self-construction ​5, 10, 15, 17–18, 20, 43, 60, 66–67, 75–76, 85, 113–114, 116, 122, 126–127, 151, 161 self-fashioning ​51 ff., 60, 192, 214 self-image ​114, 151, 162, 197, 211–212, 214 –, God’s image/humans ​72–73, 77–78, 80, 83–84, 100–101, 143 self-knowledge see knowledge self-love see philautia self-perfection ​37–39, 41, 77–78, 228, 239–240; see also education self-representation ​60, 196, 207–208, 211–213, 222–224 selfhood ​39, 41, 104, 113–118, 122–123, 126–127, 146, 148–150, 156, 161–162, 214, 221–222, 227; see also person –, religious ​146, 156 Seneca ​17, 126, 179, 186, 221–225, 227–232, 239, 260 Septimius Severus ​154 Septuaginta  ​101 Serapis ​151, 153–154, 161, 163, 165 Sextus Empiricus  ​27, 32, 227 sexuality ​66, 74, 81–83, 116, 158, 161, 204, 206–209, 212 –, prostitution ​83, 198, 202 –, voluptas ​200, 203 Silenus ​9 Simon Magus ​161, 270

General Index

sin ​51, 53, 57, 61, 78, 97, 100, 112, 121, 152, 267 Smyrna  ​162, 210 snake ​155, 157–159, 198; see also Glykon Socrates ​3, 30, 39, 68–69, 107, 118, 134, 183, 188, 201 sophists ​73, 105, 113, 160, 183, 185, 210–211, 213, 270 –, Second Sophistic ​118, 155–156, 175, 177, 192 Sophocles ​179 Soranus of Ephesus ​205 soteriology ​130, 133, 135 –, salvation ​60, 76–77, 79, 108, 124–125, 136, 139–140, 146–148, 250 –, saviour ​108, 124–125, 130, 133, 135, 181 soul ​4, 7–9, 11–15, 17–19, 24, 27–33, 35, 39, 41, 43, 49–50, 53–54, 60–61, 67, 74, 78–79, 81, 84, 93–94, 98–102, 105, 108, 124–126, 132, 143, 152, 160, 181, 186, 222–223, 226–228, 251, 263–267, 272, see also animus / anima, body, dualism, psyche statues, as medium ​39–40, 42, 72, 162–164, 183–184, 186, 188, 250, 252 Stoicism, Stoic views  ​6–7, 9, 21, 24–27, 29–32, 35–36, 38, 42–43, 61, 67, 73–74, 77–78, 105, 123, 199, 210, 221–223, 226–230, 239, 262, 267 –, definition of soul ​265–266 Styx ​231 subjectivity ​4, 41, 68–69; see also person subsellium ​59 Suetonius ​202, 235–236 sun ​11, 31–32, 56, 72 Synesius ​201 Tacitus ​57, 236 Taurus ​226 telos ​4, 73, 78 temperance ​71, 73, 76, 137–138, 229 temples ​3, 5, 20, 55, 57, 110, 151–158, 164, 180, 184, 186, 200–201, 229, 236, 248 –, property ​154 Tertullian ​95, 183, 259–261, 264–270, 274 Thasos ​158, 187 Theagenes of Patras ​184 Theagenes of Thasos ​187

289

theatre ​178, 197, 223–224, 255 theios aner ​189, 214 theism ​26–27, 32 theology ​25–26, 54, 66, 75, 78–79, 82, 86, 133, 136–138, 140, 261, 272 Theophrastus ​68 Theopompus ​10 Theseus ​179 Thespiae ​164 Thessalonike ​157, 162–163 theurgy ​214, 235 Thrace ​15, 157, 159, 189 Tibullus ​231 tragedy (literary genre) ​179, 185, 189, 231 Trajan ​59, 71, 179, 233, 235, 237 tranquility ​14, 17, 70, 72–73, 155, 230 Trophonius ​187 Tryphon ​104 ff., 262, 264 Typhon ​11, 17 universe see cosmos, cosmology Valentinus see gnostic vates ​201–202 Lucius Verus ​176 Vespasian ​72 Vesta ​238 vice ​3, 6, 68–69, 82, 200–201, 210 virtue ​3, 6–7, 9, 14–15, 19–20, 69–70, 72–73, 75, 82–83, 264, 268, 272 visions ​50–52, 55–56, 58, 71, 76, 78, 81, 131–137, 140–141, 214 volition ​24, 34, 37–38, 42–43 vows (vota) ​151, 228  ff. –, gifts ​147 –, pro salute ​231–234, 236 –, votive offerings ​56, 147, 158, 243 ff. wisdom ​10, 28, 72, 79, 82, 97–100, 105–107, 112, 121–127, 160, 193, 201, 228, 260, 265–266 –, Achamoth ​99 –, sapientia ​260, 265–266 –, sophia ​97, 99 wonders see miracles Xenophilos ​198 Xenophon ​39, 67–69

290

General Index

Zalmoxis ​189 Zeno ​29, 199, 211 Zeus ​25, 28–29, 31, 39–40, 177–179, 181, 185, 187

~ Hypsistos ​254–255 –, temple of ​184, 188 Zion ​56 Zoroaster ​10, 164

Index of Sources compiled by Mihaela Holban Acta Arvalia 8.9–24 ​161 – 12:23 ​199 Alex. Aphr., mixt. 216.14–7 BRUNS (SVF  2,473) ​31 Ambr., off. 2.1.36  ff. ​183 Amm. 14.11.28 ​209 – 29.1.38–9 ​183 Anon. Lat. 98; 2.213F ​208 Apollod. 3.82 ​187 – 3.86 ​187 – 3.129 ​187 – 9.2 ​187 – 9.19 ​187 Apul., apol. 4 ​211 – 4.1 ​207 – 4.11 ​209 – 13–16 ​212 – 26.1–2 ​164 – 40.3 ​239 – 54.5 ​235 – 67 ​204–5 – 72.11 ​230 – 88 ​205–6 – 89 ​205 Apul., flor. 3.72–77 ​208 – 3.98 ​208 – 3.144–52 ​208 – 7.7–8 ​266 Apul., met. 5.18 ​231 – 10.26 ​231 – 11 ​158 – 11.22–30 ​159 Ael. Arist., or. 23 ​71 – 24 ​71 – 26.31 ​71 Aristot., an. I 4.408a28 ​9 – I 4.409a29 ​9

– I 5.411b8 ​9 – II 1.412a27–8 ​8 – II 1.412b5–6 ​8 – II 2.413b24 ​8 – II 2.414a19 ​8 Aristot., eth. Nic. 1106a 23–4 ​20 – 1106b 35  ff. ​20 – 1125a 13–17 ​68 – 1127b 25–30 ​67 – 1168b–1169a ​134 Aristot., hist. an. 585b 3–5 ​205 Aristot., metaph. Λ 7. 1072b 3 ​7 – 986a 25–30 ​97 Aristot., phys. A 9.192a 16 ​7 Aristot., top. 1.1 ​195 Arnob., adv. nat. 5.21 ​158 Arr., an. 7.3 ​185 Artem., oneir. 1.18 ​202 Ascl. 10 ​135–6, 140, 143 – 19; 22; 32 ​135 Athenag. 26.3 ​183 Athen., deipn. 13.565c ​212 – 5.212–3 ​255 Aug., conf. 7.9 ​263 Aug., c. acad. 3.26 ​4 3 Bar ​61 Canon Muratori I. 77–80 ​51 CCCA 3, p.123 no. 394 ​163 CCCA 6, p. 64 no. 197 ​163 CCID 202 ​164 – 327–8 ​164 Cens. 17.4 ​199 Chaldean oracle Fr. 15 ​137 Cic., Cato 5 ​193 – 12 ​200

292 – 13 ​198 – 23 ​199 – 35–6 ​194 – 51–57 ​206 Cic., de orat. 2.27.116; 2.24.100 ​195 Cic., inv. 1.34–43 ​195 Cic., leg. 2.5 ​55 Cic., nat. deor. 2.19 ​32 Cic., off. 1.107–25 ​197 Cic., Phil. 2.7 ​223 Clem., hom. 1.1.1–4 ​269 – 1.2.2–3 ​269 – 1.3.1 ​269 – 1.5.1–9 ​269 – 1.9.2 ​269 – 1.10.1 ​270 – 1.16.1–5 ​270 – 1.21.9 ​270 – 4.12.1 ​269 – 4.7.2 ​269 Clem. Al., Paid. 1.2.1 ​79 – 1.2.4 ​78 – 1.5.20 ​79 – 1.6.25 ​78 – 1.6.31–2 ​77 – 1.12.98 ​78 – 1.41–3 ​85 – 1.46.1 ​85 – 2.2.25.3 ​79 – 2.3–20 ​73 – 2.8.64–68 ​80 – 2.10 ​80, 85 – 2.11–2 ​80, 82 – 2.87.3 ​200 – 3.1.1–11 ​82 – 3.1.2.4 ​80 – 3.2.4–14 ​83 – 3.3.15–8 ​80 – 3.3–21 ​73 – 3.11–2 ​80, 81 – 3.2.5.4 ​83 – 3.3.16–23 ​83 – 3.11.53–82 ​83, 84 – 3.19.2 ​209–210 – 6.12 ​78 Clem. Al., protrep. 4.49.1 ​187 – 9 p. 216 ​158 Clem. Al., strom. 1.11.2 ​270

Index of Sources

– 1.11.3 ​271 – 1.27 ​79 – 1.29.8 ​200 – 1.28 ​80 – 2.16 ​80 – 2.18–22 ​78 – 2.23.140.1 ​85 – 2.26.22–5 ​77 – 2.54.17–26 ​77 – 2.255.3 ​77 – 4.4 ​78 – 4.8.58–9 ​75, 81 – 4.8.62.4 ​82 – 4.10, 24 ​80 – 4.13.2 ​77 – 4.14.1–3 ​77 – 4.41.1 ​77 – 5.4 ​80 – 6.9.71.1–5 ​84 – 6.12.100.1 ​81, 84 – 7.3.17.3 ​84 CH I ​131–2, 134–6 CH I 4–19 ​132 CH I 13–14 ​134, 138–9 CH I 18 ​131–3, 136, 138–141 CH I 27–28 ​136, 138–9 CH I 30 ​135 CH IV ​131, 134–6, 141–2 CH IV 2 ​134 CH IV 6 ​131 CH XIII ​131–2, 133–5 CH XIII 3–4 ​131, 142 CH XIII 4 ​133 CH XIII 10–13 ​131, 133, 135, 142 CH XIII 15 ​131 CIL XIV 28 ​163 Col. 3.5–6 ​83 – 3.9–10 ​76 – 3.18–4.1 ​81 1 Cor. 15 ​76 – 11 ​120 2 Cor. 5 ​76, 107, 108 Cypr., epist. 59.3 ​159 DAUX 1973, 242–3 ​164 Demosth. 25.99 ​250 Dio Cass. 54.9.10 ​185

Index of Sources

Diod. Sic. 4.4.1 ​158 Diog. Laert. 1.13 ​3 – 6.76, 95,100 ​188 – 7.158–9 ​35 – 7.88 ​38 Diogn. 5.5.10 ​107 – 5–6 ​55, 61 Dion. Chrys., or. 33.63 ​209 – 38, 39, 40 ​71 Eph. 4.22–24 ​76 – 6.11, 14 ​76 – 5.21–33 ​81 23–43 Epict., disc. ​ – 1.1.1–5 ​24 – 1.1.23 ​28 – 1.3.3 ​34 – 1.3.4 ​35 – 1.6.37 ​43 – 1.9.1, 6 ​28 – 1.9.4–5 ​29, 33 – 1.9.11–16 ​30 – 1.12.11–16 ​38 – 1.12.26 ​28 – 1.12.14 ​28 – 1.14 ​30–34 – 1.14.6 ​28 – 1.14.13–14 ​27, 34 – 1.16.12–17 ​25 – 1.18.19 ​42 – 1.19.13–5 ​36 – 1.20 ​24 – 1.29.4 ​36 – 1.29.29 ​28 – 2.5.4–8 ​25 – 2.6.8–14 ​42 – 2.8 ​39–41 – 2.8.1–4 ​33 – 2.8.4–8 ​25 – 2.8.10–14 ​27, 29 – 2.10.21–3 ​35 – 2.11.1 ​37 – 2.14.7 ​37 – 2.14.27 ​36 – 2.16.33 ​27, 34 – 2.16.42 ​43 – 2.17.17 ​37 – 2.18.15–26 ​41

– 2.20.15 ​36 – 2.23.5–22 ​35 – 2.24.19 ​36, 42 – 2.26.3 ​35 – 3.1.26–29 ​210 – 3.1.27 ​74 – 3.1.43 ​43 – 3.3.1–4 ​35 – 3.24.94 ​28 – 4.1.51 ​37 – 4.1.100 ​29 – 4.1.104 ​34 – 4.6.5–6 ​28 – 4.7.6 ​28 – 4.7.7 ​37 – 4.7.35 ​28 – 4.9.18 ​28 – 4.10.14 ​37 Epict. ench. 7 ​104 Epist. Clem. Jac. 1.1 ​268 – 2.3 ​268 – 3.2 ​269 – 6.1 ​269 – 13.1 ​269 Eur., Ion 211 ​250 Eus., chron. 236 ​183 Eus., hist. eccl. 4.18.6 ​106 – 5.11.2 ​270 – 6.3.3, 8, 13 ​271 – 6.13.2 ​270 – 6.19.7 ​274 – 6.19.7–8 ​273 – 6.43.11 ​159 Eus., pr. ev. 2.2.19 ​158 Ez. 40–48 ​55 4 Ezra ​8.52  ​55 – 10.51–6 ​55 – 11–2 ​56 Firm. Mat., err. 10.2 ​158 Firm. Mat., math. 10.9 ​76 – 19.14 ​267 Front., ep. 1.2 ​226 – 4.11 ​232 – 5.31 ​232 Gal. 3.17 ​76 – 3.26–28 ​77

293

294

Index of Sources

Gal., de praecog. (CMG 5.8.1.78) ​226 Gal., defin. medic. 94.19.370 ​29 Gell., noct. Att. 8.3 ​183 – 12.5 ​226 – 12.11 ​183 Gen. 3.21 ​100 – 1.26 ​101 Greg., pan. Or. 1.7 ​271 – 5.53 ​272 – 5.57 ​272 – 5.70 ​271 – 6.78–9 ​273 – 7.99 ​272 – 7.103 ​273 – 7.106 ​273 – 8.1 14 ​272 – 8.111 ​272 – 10.128 ​273 – 11.133 ​273 – 13.150 ​272 – 13.151 ​273 – 14.170 ​273 – 15.181 ​272 – 15.183–16.184 ​272 – 16.193 ​272 Hdt. 3.91; 7.91 ​187 – 4.94–96 ​189 Herm., vis 1.1 [1] 8 ​51 – vis 1.4 [1] 3 ​59 – vis 1,2 [2] l  ​51 – vis 2.3 [7] 4 ​51 – vis 2.4 [8] 3 ​51 – vis 3.1 [9] 4 ​59 – vis 3.1 [9] 6 ​59 – vis 3.2 [10] 4–6  ​58 – vis 3.2 [10] 5 ​59 – vis 3.5 [13] ​58 – vis 3.7 [15] 3 ​58 – mand 11 [43]  ​18  ​60 – mand 12.4 [47] 5 ​60 – sim 1 [50] ​53, 57 – sim 1 [50] 8–10 ​60 – sim 3 [52] 3 ​52 – sim 5 [54] 1 ​53 – sim 5 [55] 8 ​53 – sim 8.2 [68] 1 ​58 – sim 8.6 [72] 6 ​58

– sim 8.7 [73] 3 ​58 − sim 9.9 [86] 7 ​59 Herakl., frag. 51 DK ​18 – 101 DK ​3 Hier., epist. 38.3 ​201 – 125.19 ​200 Hierocl. ap. Stob. 4.671.7–16 ​6 Hom., Od. 11. 604 ​181 – 15.248 ​187 Hor., ars 156–78 ​210 2 Isa. 47; 49.14–50.3 ​55 IG I 561 ​250 – 1732 ​250 IG II² 1076 ​252 – 1365 ​153 – 1366 ​151  ff. – 2939 ​250 – 3461 ​251 – 3465–6 ​251 – 3470–3 ​251 – 3482 ​251 – 3486 ​251 – 3515 ​251 – 3516 ​251 – 3528 ​251 – 4318 ​250 – 4319 ​250 – 4321 ​247, 250 – 4323 ​250 – 4327 ​250 – 4328 ​250 – 4329 ​250 – 4330 ​250 – 4331 ​250 – 4332 ​250 – 4333 ​250 – 4334 ​250 – 4335–7 ​250 – 4338 ​250 – 4339 ​250 – 4340 ​251 – 4341 ​251 – 4342–43 ​251 – 4344 ​251 – 4345 ​251 – 4346 ​251 – 4347 ​251

Index of Sources

– 4737 ​254 – 4794 ​251 IG VII 2681 ​163 IG X.2.1. 255  ​151 IG XI.4. 1299  ​151 IGUR 160 ​157 IK Prusa ad Olympum no. 48 ​163 IK Smyrna 600 ​162 – 639 ​162 ILS 9365–6. ​151 Iren., adv. haer. I 1, 1 (FChr 8/1, 128, 23–25 BROX) ​96 – I 1, 3 (FChr 8/1, 130, 23 BROX) ​96 – I 2, 2 (FChr 8/1, 132,31f BROX) ​97 – I 2, 2 (FChr 8/1, 134, 11 BROX) ​98 – I 2, 2 (FChr 8/1, 134, 17 BROX) ​98 – I 2, 4 (FChr 8/1, 136, 18 BROX) ​98 – I 4, 1 (FChr 8/1, 146,23f BROX) ​98 – I 4, 1 (FChr 8/1, 146, 20–148, 28 BROX) ​ 99 – I 5, 3 (FChr 8/1, 156, 27–158, 9 BROX) ​ 99, 100 – I 5, 5 (FChr 8/1, 160, 6–10 BROX) ​100 – I 5, 5 (FChr 8/1, 160,10f BROX) ​101 – I 6, 1 (FChr 811, 162, 6–11; 26f; 29f BROX) ​101 – I 23–4 ​161 Ier. 29; 32.43 f. ​55 Ioh. 3.4; 7.9; 17.4; 18; 18.12 ​76 – 16.19 ​57 – 17 f.; 21 f. ​56 – 21.22–3 ​55 Ios., bell. Iud. pr. 3–4 § 9 ​57 Ios., c. Apion 2.6 ​55 Iust., 1 apol. 20.3 ​264 – 23.1 ​264 – 26.2–4 ​120, 161 – 60.10  f. ​264 Iust., 2 apol. 2.2 ​120 – 2.10.8 ​261 Iust., dial. 1.1–2 ​111, 125 – 1.1–74.3 ​108 – 1.4 ​123 – 1.6 ​108 – 1–9 ​118 – 2.1 ​263 – 2.1–8.2 ​262 – 2.3–4 ​105, 123–4

– 2.3–6 ​262 – 2.5–6 ​105 – 2.6 ​263 – 3.1 ​105, 107 – 3.2 ​107, 124 – 3.3–4 ​124 – 3.4 ​263 – 3.6 ​264 – 4.7 ​125 – 5.4 ​125 – 6.2 ​263 – 7.1 ​125 – 7.3 ​125, 263 – 8.1 ​264 – 8.1–2 ​108, 124–5 – 8.2 ​264 – 8.3 ​120 – 11.5 ​121 – 20.6 ​120 – 35.3 ​120 – 35.5–6 ​121 – 55.3 ​264 – 56.16 ​108 – 74.4–142.3 ​108 – 85.41 ​108 – 92.5 ​108 – 141.5 ​120 – 142.3 ​264 Iuv., Sat. 2.8–15 ​202 – 6.388–90 ​238 – 6.390–2 ​238 – 6.532–4 ​202 – 10.190–200 ​193 Joh. Chrys., in Hebr. hom. 7.3 ​200 Lact., inst. 2.12.23; 13.3 ​199 Lamprias Catalogue no 177 ​3, 5 – 209  ​4–5 – 221  ​4–5 – 226 ​4–5 Liv. 8.9.4  ​236 – 9.46.6  ​236 – 10.28.14 ​236 Lucian, Alex. 3 ​199, 156 – 6 ​157–8 – 9 ​158 – 11 ​199

295

296 – 13 ​199, 202 – 14 ​158 – 15 ​157–8 – 23 ​158 – 38 ​159 – 39–41 ​160 – 41–42 ​161 – 43 ​160 – 47 ​155–6 – 53 ​199 – 59–60 ​197 Lucian, apol. 5.8 ​179 – 12 ​176 Lucian, bis acc. 20.37 ​176 – 27 ​176 Lucian, cal. 17  ff. ​187 Lucian, Charon 4.15 ​179 Lucian, deor. conc. 1.3 ​181 – 6 ​179 – 7. 14 ​179 – 8 ​187 – 9 ​189 – 12–3 ​187 Lucian, dial. deor. 8 (5) ​187 – 10 (4) ​187 – 15 (13) ​179 Lucian, dial. mort. 6.4 (20.41) ​184 – 10 (3) ​187 – 11 (16) ​179, 181 – 13.2–3 ​186 – 27 (19)–28 (23) ​187 Lucian, Dem. 21 ​183, 189 – 65 ​199 Lucian, fug. 1–2 ​185 – 7.1–3 ​185 – 7.8–9 ​185 – 23.2–5 ​185 – 31.8 ​185 – 32.10 ​181 Lucian, gall. 2.1 ​179 – 17.2 179 Lucian, Herm. 7.18 ​179 Lucian, hist. conscr. 10.17–21 ​179 Lucian, Icar. 27.5 ​181 Lucian, ind. 14 ​186 – 5.14 ​179 – 23.18 ​179 Lucian, Iupp. trag. 32 ​179

Index of Sources

– 42 ​189 Lucian, Peregr. 4.3 ​184 – 4.10 ​184 – 5.4 ​184 – 6.1–2 ​188 – 11 ​157 – 11–16 ​176, 183 – 12 ​183 – 15 ​182 – 21.10 ​184 – 24.9–25.2 ​185 – 25.6–20 ​185 – 27–30 ​186 – 33 ​184 – 39–41 ​186 – 43 ​183 Lucian, Philops. 18–20 ​186 – 29–32 ​201 Lucian, somn. 17.1–5 ​179 Lucian, Skyth. 1.18 ​187, 189 – 2.4 ​189 Lucian, symp. 13.8 ​182 – 14.12 ​182 – 16.6 ​182 Lucian, Syr. D. 1.8 ​176 – 3.5–6 ​180 Lucian, Tox. 34.4 ​185 Lucian, vit. auct. 8.4–8 ​181 Ps.-Lucian, macr. 18 ​198 2 Macc. 6 ​55 Marcianus, inst. 3 = Dig. 47.22.1.pr.-1.1 ​ 154 M. Aur., ad se ips. 2.2 ​6 – 8.56 (p. 82,10f DALFEN) ​102 – 11.12 (p. 108, 17–19 DALFEN) ​94 Macr., Sat. 4.3–4 ​185 – 23.17 ​187 Mart. 6.57 ​202 – 10.47.6 ​229 – 10.83–85, 93 ​200 – 12.7 ​201 – 12.23 ​201 – 12.28 ​202 M. Just. rec. A 1.3 ​262 – A/B 4.5 ​262 – A/B 4.7 ​262 – C 3.5 ​262

Index of Sources

Max. Taur., serm. 107.2 ​202 Men. Rhet. (Sprengel III 349) ​183 Mus. Ruf. 17.14–29 ​73 – 19 ​73 – 19.3–4 ​74 – 19.11–14 ​74 – 21 ​210 – 38.5–7 ​74 N H VI, 6 ​131, 133, 135 – VI, 58.4–9 ​131, 143 – VI, 60.25–61.1 ​131, 143 Orac. Sib. 5.408–27 ​56 Orig., hom. Jer. 15.2.8 ​271 Orig., princ. 2.11.6 ​272 Ov., Pont. 3.1.148 ​231 P. Haun II 13 ​76 Paus. 1.34.3 ​187 – 2.14.1–2 ​159 – 2.18.4–5 ​187 – 2.20.5 ​187 – 3.15.8 ​187 – 5.17.7 ​187 – 6.11.5–9 ​186 – 9.39 ​187 – 10.10.4 ​187 – 10.24.1 ​3 Perictione 143.26–28 ​76 1 Petr. 3.3–5 ​76, 81 Petron. 109.8–10 ​202, 236 Phil., spec. leg. 1.102; 3.169–71 ​76 – leg. all. I 49; III 28 ​134 – sacr. AC 26–27 ​76 Philostr., VA 1.8 ​201 – 8.30 ​199 – 8.17–19 ​201 Phyntis 153.15–28 ​76 Plat., apol. 21bc ​3 Plat., Crat. 428 d ​134 Plat., Gorg. 465b ​67 Plat., leg. 10.896d ff. ​11 Plat., Phaedr. 247b ​9 Plat., Phaid. 64e–65a ​67 Plat., polit. 271 e ​67 Plat., Tht. 163 b-165 e ​134 – 176e ​14

297

Plat., Tim. 30a; 52d–53b ​8 Plin. maior, nat. hist. 3.39 ​60 – 7.14.61 ​205 – 28.11 ​235 Plin. minor, epist. 1.10.5–7 ​211 – 1.12.8 ​231 – 10.3 ​237 – 10.100 ​237 – 10.101 ​237 Plin. minor, paneg. 92.3 ​235 Plut., ad principem ineruditum 3.780F; 5.782A ​72 Plut., adv. Col. 1118c ​3 Plut., Alex. 69.4–7 ​185 Plut., am. 770b ​7 Plut., an seni 789 D; 793 B ​194 – 792  f. ​3 Plut., Arat. 49.1 ​14 Plut., Cimon 2.5 ​18 Plut., coniugalia praecepta 24.141D ​69 – 48.145C ​69 – 48.145E ​70 – 11.139E ​70 Plut., cons. ad Apoll. 116cd ​3 Plut., de anim. proc. 1014 e  ​8 – 1015e ​8 – 1024a ​8 – 1026ef ​8 – 1026b ​10 Plut., de capiend. ex inim. 89a ​3 Plut., de E 385d ​3 – 387–8. ​20 – 388e–389c 12 – 392a–392e ​3, 91–2 – 393bc; 393f–394a ​13 – 394c ​3, 19, 91 Plut., de fac. 941f–942b; 943a; 945bc ​9 Plut., de garr. 511b ​3 Plut., de Is. 369a–371c ​10 – 369c ​8 – 372ef  ​7 – 373ab  ​17 Plut., de Pyth. or. 408e ​3 Plut., de sera 550d ff. ​14, 17 Plut., de tranq. an. 473b–474b ​17 – 475d–476a ​14 Plut., de virt. mor. 441e, f ​7 – 443cd ​20

298

Index of Sources

– 444c ​15, 20 – 444d–446c ​69 – 451cd ​13, 15 – 451de ​20 – 452b ​14 Plut., Demost. 3.2 ​3 Plut., Mor. 352c-d ​202 Plut., Praecepta gerendae reipublicae 805D ​ 71 – 4.800F; 31.823B ​72 Plut., quaest. conv. 7.2.700e ​3, 5 Plut., quom. adolesc. poet. 36a ; 49b ​3 Plut., quom. adulat. 49b; 65 f. ​3 Plut., septem 164b ​3 Plut., Sert. 25.6 ​14 Poll., 8.132 ​255 Porph., vit. Pyth. 14; 35 ​182 Procl., comm. in Plat. Rep. I 28.1–2 ​137 Prop., eleg. 2.9a.23 ​231 Quint., decl. 8.5.12 ​231 Quint., inst. 5.1.1 ​195 – 5.8.4 ​195 – 5.10.24–27 ​195 RICIS 105/0303 ​163 – 105/0402 ​164 – 113/0536 ​151 – 202/0101 ​151 – 308/0401 ​163 – 314/0601 ​151 Rom. 13.12 ​76 SEG 18.30 ​252 – 49.814 ​157 – 56.754 ​157 Sen., benef. 3.9.2 ​224 – 4.4.2 ​232 – 6.16.4–5 ​225 Sen., de brev. vit. 10.3–6 ​17 – 11 ​229 Sen., de ira 2.10.6 ​260 Sen., epist. 5.8 ​230 – 8.1.3 ​229 – 10.4.4 ​229 – 23.2 ​230 – 32.2 ​230 – 32.4 ​229

– 41.5 ​229 – 47.5 ​230 – 65.1–2 ​223 – 72.6 ​228 – 74.2 ​230 – 77.12 ​229 – 78.21 ​223 – 101.3 ​225 – 113.18 ​24 – 124.19 ​230 Sen., Phoen. 459–60 ​231 Serv., Aen. 4.653 ​199 Sext. Emp., adv. math. 9.79–80 (SVF 2.1013) ​32 – 11.61–2; 11.66 ​227 Sext. Emp., Pyrrh. Hyp. 3.170 (SVF 3.75) ​ 27 Soran., gyn. 1.4.20 ​205 Strab., 15.1.37 = FgrHist90 F 100 ​185 – 157.271. 668. 675–676 ​187 Suda Λ 683 ​183 Suet., Caes. 45.2 ​202 Suet., Claud. 22 ​236 Syll³ 985 = SOKOLOWSKI 1955 no. 20 ​ 153 Synes., Cyr. Eul. 6 ​201 Tac., dial. 17.3 ​199 Tac., hist. 1.50 ​236 – 4.53.3 ​57 Tat., or. 10 ​187 – 25 ​183 Tert., apol. 17.6 ​265 – 18.4 ​260 Tert., bapt. 18.5 ​267 Tert., test. anim. 1.3–5 ​265 – 1.6–7 ​266 – 2.1 ​266 – 2.6 ​266 – 5.1–7 ​267 – 6.5 ​267 – 39.1–4 ​266 Tert., pall. 4.10; 6.2 ​268 – 6.1 ​267 Tert., suppl. marty. 4 ​183 Theophr., Characteres 23.8 ​68 1 Thess. 5.8 ​76 Thuk. 2.68 ​187

Index of Sources

Tib. 3.4.53; 3.10.12 ​231 1 Tim. 2.8–10 ​76, 81 – 3.1–5 ​81 Tit. 1.6–9 ​81 TOTTI 1985 no. 11 ​151 – 14 ​151

299

WAGNER 1956/57, 215–264. no. 8; 9 ​180 Xen., oec. 9.6–8, 10.1–13; 15 ​68