Touch and the Ancient Senses 9781844658718, 9781844658725, 9781315719665

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Touch a n d t he A ncien t Senses

Purves’ volume provides a powerful corrective to sight as the preeminent sense in Classical scholarship. As each essay demonstrates, touch blurs the boundaries between subjective and objective experience in providing what Purves calls a “feeling for the past”. This volume is required reading for scholars interested in the relationship between perception, cognition, and affect in interpreting ancient texts and artifacts. Karen Bassi, University of California, Santa Cruz, USA Unlike the other senses, touch ranges beyond a single sense organ, encompassing not only the skin but also the interior of the body. It mediates almost every aspect of interpersonal relations in antiquity, from the everyday to the erotic, just as it also provides a primary point of contact between the individual and the outside world. The essays in this volume explore the ways in which touch plays a defining role in science, art, philosophy and medicine and shapes our understanding of topics ranging from aesthetics and poetics to various religious and ritual practices. Whether we locate the sense of touch on the surface of the skin, within the body or – less tangibly still – within the emotions, the sensory impact of touching raises a broad range of interpretive and phenomenological questions. This is the first volume of its kind to explore the sense of touch in antiquity, bringing a variety of disciplinary approaches to bear on the sense that is usually disregarded as the least refined of the five. In these pages, by contrast, we find in touch a complex and fascinating indicator of the body’s relation to object, environment and self. Alex Purves is Professor of Classics at the University of California, Los Angeles. She is the author of Space and Time in Ancient Greek Narrative (2010) and co-­editor, with Shane Butler, of Synaesthesia and the Ancient Senses (2013), published in this ­ esture, is “Senses in Antiquity” series. A new book, Homer and the Poetics of G forthcoming.

T he Senses i n A n t iqu i t y Series editors: Mark Bradley, University of Nottingham, and Shane Butler, Johns Hopkins University

Like us, ancient Greeks and Romans came to know and understand their world through their senses. Yet it has long been recognized that the world the ancients perceived, and the senses through which they channelled this information could operate differently from the patterns and processes of perception in the modern world. This series explores the relationship between perception, knowledge and understanding in the literature, philosophy, history, language and culture of ancient Greece and Rome. Published Synaesthesia and the Ancient Senses Edited by Shane Butler and Alex Purves Smell and the Ancient Senses Edited by Mark Bradley Sight and the Ancient Senses Edited by Michael Squire Taste and the Ancient Senses Edited by Kelli C. Rudolph Forthcoming Sou nd and the Ancient Senses Edited by Shane Butler and Sarah Nooter

Touch an d t he Ancien t Senses

Edited by Alex Purves

First published 2018 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2018 selection and editorial matter, Alex Purves; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Alex Purves to be identified as the author of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record for this book has been requested ISBN: 978-1-84465-871-8 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-84465-872-5 (pbk) ISBN: 978-1-315-71966-5 (ebk) Typeset in Sabon by codeMantra

Con t en ts

vii ix xi

List of figures List of contributors Acknowledgements

Introduction: what and where is touch? 1 Al e x Pu rv e s

1 Hands know the truth: touch in Euryclea’s recognition of Odysseus 21 Si lv i a Mon t igl io

2 Touching, proximity, and the aesthetics of pain in Sophocles 34 Na nc y Worm a n

3 Aristotle and the priority of touch 50 R e becc a St e i n e r G ol dn e r

4 The duality of touch 64 Dav i d Se dl ey

5 Getting to grips with classical art: rethinking the haptics of Graeco-Roman visual culture 75 V e r i t y Pl att a n d M ic h a e l Squ i r e

6 In the body of the beholder: Herder’s aesthetics and classical sculpture 105 H e l e n Sl a n ey

7 Contaminating touch in the Roman world 121 Jac k L e n non

8 The touch of poetry in the Carmina Priapea 134 El i z a bet h You ng

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9 In touch, in love: Apuleius on the aesthetic impasse of a Platonic Psyche 150 G i u l i a Sissa

10 Noli me tangere: the theology of touch 167 C at h e r i n e Con y be a r e

11 Losing touch: impaired sensation in Greek medical writings 180 R e becc a F l e mm i ng

193 219

Bibliography Index

vi

Figu r es

I.1 Anne-Louis Girodet de Roussy-Trioson, Pygmalion and Galatea, 1819. Oil on canvas. Paris, Musée du Louvre: inv. RF2002-4 (© RMN-Grand Palais/Art ­Resource, NY; photograph by Thierry Le Mage). 12 I.2 Walter Crane, Illustration of the Midas story, in which the king’s daughter turns into a statue when he touches her, for Nathaniel Hawthorne’s A Wonder-Book for Girls and Boys (1893). Photo: Wikimedia Commons. 13 1.1 “The nurse Euriklea washing Ulysses’ feet after his return”, 440 bce, by the ­Penelope Vasepainter. Attic red-figured skyphos from Chiusi, Museo ­Archeologico (Art Resource NY; photograph by Erich Lessing). 23 5.1 Marble “Lely Venus”, second century ce (perhaps after a Hellenistic model of the third century bce). Marble, 1.120 m. London, British Museum: inv. 1963, 1029.1 (© Album/Art Resource, NY). 76 5.2 Gallery 18b of the British Museum in London, with plaster casts of the Parthenon Frieze (part of a touch-oriented tour for the visually impaired) (photograph by M.J. Squire). 77 5.3 Photograph showing a blind visitor (Pedro Gonzalez) touching a 3D version of Diego Velázquez’s Apollo in the Forge of Vulcan in June 2015 (part of the “Hoy toca el Prado” exhibition at the Museo del Prado in Madrid): the painting was one of six copies of works by Old Masters made for the museum’s special exhibition for the blind; it was made using a relief technique that adds volume and texture to the polychrome painting (© Gerard Julien /AFP/Getty Images). 78 5.4 Constantin Brâncuși, Sculpture for the Blind [I], 1920. Marble, 17 × 29 × 18.1 cm. Philadelphia, Philadelphia Museum of Art: inv. 1950-134-20 (© ARS, New York). 80 5.5 Attic grave-stele of Baco, Socrates and Aristonike, depicting a dexiōsis (“handshake”) motif, c. 340 bce. Marble, 147 × 92 × 20 cm. Paris, Musée du Louvre: inv. MND 909 (© RMN-Grand Palais/Art Resource, NY; photograph by Hervé Lewandowski). 83 5.6 Wall painting from the Synagogue at Dura-Europos, showing Ezekiel and the “Valley of Life” – with the “Hand of God” emerging from the frame, second quarter of the third century ce (© Art Resource, NY). 85 vii

Figures

5.7 Apse in the Basilica of Sant’Apollinare in Classe – with detail of the “Hand of God” (upper centre), sixth century ce. (© Scala/Art Resource, NY). 86 5.8  Statue of a “Crouching Venus”, with the traces of the hand of Eros on the back, second century ce. Marble, 0.96 m. Paris, Musée du Louvre: Ma 2240 (photograph by V. Platt). 88 5.9  “Venus Colonna”, second-century ce Roman version of Praxiteles’ Knidian ­Aphrodite (from the mid-fourth century bce). Marble, 2.04 m. ­Vatican, Musei Vaticani: inv. 812 (© Vanni Archive/Art Resource, NY). 90 5.10  Roman ivory doll (with gold necklace, bracelets and anklets) from the sarcophagus of Cossinia at Tivoli, late second century or early third century ce. Rome, Museo Nazionale Romano (Palazzo Massimo alle Terme): inv. 262725 (© Scala/Art Resource, NY). 92 5.11  Bronze statuette of the “Crouching Venus” type, first century bce (height 20 cm). Copenhagen, Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek: inv. 2004 (© Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek; photograph by Ole Haupt).96 5.12  Rock crystal amulet engraved with the words Iaō eulamō Abrasax, first to fifth centuries ce. Ann Arbor, Kelsey Museum of Archaeology (­University of Michigan): inv. KM 26050 (© Kelsey Museum of Archaeology).99 5.13a S ard oval gem, engraved with a “Crouching Venus” and Cupid, first century bce, in a modern gold setting. 12 mm (height). Boston, Museum of Fine Arts: inv. 03.1015 (© [2018] Museum of Fine Arts, Boston).101 5.13b  Plaster impression of the same gem (© [2018] Museum of Fine Arts, Boston).101 5.14  Carnelian intaglio of a hand pinching an ear, with the Greek inscription ­“Remember!” (MNHMONEYE), second century ce. 9 × 7 mm. London, Victoria and Albert Museum: inv. 576–1871 (© Victoria and Albert Museum, London).103 6.1  Étienne-Maurice Falconet, “Pygmalion at the foot of a statue that comes to life, also called Pygmalion and Galatea”, 1761. Paris: Musée du Louvre, RF2001 (© RMN-Grand Palais (Musée du Louvre); photograph by Michel Urtado).106 6.2  “Sleeping Hermaphrodite”, Roman replica from an original created around the middle of the second century bce, mattress executed before 1620 by Bernini (1589–1680). Ancienne collection Borghèse. Paris: Musée du Louvre, inv. MA231 (© RMN-Grand Palais (Musée du Louvre); photograph by Hervé Lewandowski).116

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Con tr ibu tors

Catherine Conybeare is Professor and Chair in the Department of Greek, Latin, and Classical Studies at Bryn Mawr College. Her work brings the texts of late antiquity into conversation with contemporary theoretical concerns. Her most recent books are The Laughter of Sarah: Biblical Exegesis, Feminist Theory, and the Concept of Delight (2013) and the Routledge Guidebook to Augustine’s Confessions (2016). Rebecca Flemming is Senior Lecturer in Ancient History in the Faculty of Classics and a Fellow of Jesus College, University of Cambridge. She has published widely on classical medicine, especially as it intersects with gender and other patterns of power in antiquity. She is co-editor of the forthcoming volume Reproduction: A History from Antiquity to the Present Day. Rebecca Steiner Goldner is a faculty member at St. John’s College, where she teaches a liberal arts curriculum including language, philosophy, literature, mathematics and natural science. Her academic work focuses on sensation, embodiment and habit in both Aristotle and 20th century French thought. Jack Lennon is Lecturer in Ancient History at the University of Leicester. He works on Roman religion and cultural history. He is the author of Pollution and Religion in Ancient Rome (2014) and has published on ancient sacrifice, Roman dining and the role of impurity in Roman oratory. Silvia Montiglio is the Basil L. Gildersleeve Professor of Classics at Johns Hopkins University. She has published on several aspects of Greek and Roman literature and is the author of a number of books, most recently Love and Providence: Recognition in the Ancient Novel (2013), The Spell of Hypnos: Sleep and Sleeplessness in Greek Literature (2016) and The Myth of Hero and Leander: the History and Reception of an Enduring Greek Legend (2017). Verity Platt is Associate Professor of Classics and History of Art at Cornell University. She is the author of Facing the Gods: Epiphany and Representation in Graeco-­ Roman Art, Literature and Religion (2011) and co-editor (with Michael Squire) of The Art of Art History in Graeco-Roman Antiquity (2010) and The Frame in Classical Art: A Cultural History (2017). Alex Purves is Professor of Classics at the University of California, Los Angeles. She is the author of Space and Time in Ancient Greek Narrative (2010) and Homer and the Poetics of Gesture (forthcoming). She is also the co-editor, with Shane Butler, ix

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of Synaesthesia and the Ancient Senses (2013), the first book in this “Senses in Antiquity” series. David Sedley taught 1975–2014 at the University of Cambridge, where he was ­Laurence Professor of Ancient Philosophy from 2000 and remains a Fellow of Christ’s ­College. He has edited The Classical Quarterly (1986–1992) and O ­ xford Studies in Ancient Philosophy (1998–2007). His most recent monograph is ­Creationism and its Critics in Antiquity (2007). Giulia Sissa is Distinguished Professor of Political Science and Classics at the ­University of California, Los Angeles. She is the author of books and articles on the history, anthropology and philosophy of the ancient world, including: Madre ­M ateria. Biologia e sociologia della donna antica, with S. Campese and P. Manuli (1983); Greek Virginity (1990); The Daily Life of the Greek Gods (with Marcel Detienne, 2000); Le Plaisir et le Mal. Philosophie de la drogue (1997); L’âme est un corps de femme (2000); Sex and Sensuality in the Ancient World (2008); Jealousy. A Forbidden Passion (2017). Helen Slaney is Research Facilitator at the University of Roehampton. Her DPhil monograph, The Senecan Aesthetic: A Performance History was published in 2015. She has also published on the reception of theatre and dance, and is currently working on kinaesthetic responses to ancient material culture in the late-­ eighteenth century. Michael Squire is Reader in Classical Art at King’s College London. His research crosses the fields of visual culture, literary criticism and aesthetics, and he was editor of Sight and the Ancient Senses (2016) – published in the same “Senses in Antiquity” series. Nancy Worman is Ann Whitney Olin Professor of Classics at Barnard College, and is affiliated with the Program in Comparative Literature and the Department of Women’s, Gender, and Sexuality Studies. Her research focuses on the body in performance in classical Greek drama and oratory, as well as ancient literary criticism and theory. Her most recent book, Landscape and the Spaces of Metaphor in Ancient Literary Theory and Criticism (2015) treats the landscaping of ancient literary aesthetics; two current projects are on embodiment in Greek tragedy and Virginia Woolf’s gendering of Greek tragic style. Elizabeth Young is the Blegen Research Fellow at Vassar College. She is the author of Translation as Muse: Poetic Translation in Catullus’ Rome (2015).

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Acknowledgem en ts

I thank the contributors for their commitment and enthusiasm in seeing this volume to completion; I have greatly enjoyed reading and learning from their essays. Many thanks in addition to Silvia Montiglio and David Sedley, who first presented their papers at a panel on touch, which I organized with Shane Butler at the Annual Meeting of the American Philological Association (now Society for Classical Studies) in 2012, as well as to the other speakers on that panel: Brooke Holmes, Ellen Oliensis and Heinrich von Staden. The editors of the Ancient Senses series, Mark Bradley and Shane Butler, have been the best guides one could ask for, offering advice and inspiration in equal measure. At UCLA, Caitlin Halasz, Chrysanthe Pantages, Zachary Borst, Caitlin Eddings and Justin Vorhis offered invaluable assistance in assembling the volume for publication at different stages in the process. Special thanks to Lionel and Orlando.

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I n troduct ion What and where is touch? Alex Purves

Touch, according to Aristotle, is the single sense that no animal can live without. It alone is what differentiates animate creatures from plants, for even sponges and ascidians have a “certain flesh-like substance” and thus must be expected to possess some degree of sensibility or aisthēsis.1 While humans enjoy the use of five senses, these less advanced creatures can exist only with the sense of touch. 2 At the core of sentient life, then, is touch, and this might encourage us to believe that it is the most basic or foundational of the senses. Indeed, the commonality of touch to the senses in general was central to Democritus’ influential theory of atoms – so much so that the Pre-Socratic philosophers were later criticized by Aristotle for focusing too much on the haptic sense, or “represent[ing] all objects of sense as objects of touch”. 3 But even as Aristotle placed touch last in importance in his categorization of the five senses, he was also formulating the notion of an all-encompassing “common sense” (koinē aisthēsis), which was much more closely related to touch than to any of the other four.4 It is not just in philosophy, moreover, that touch takes on this kind of foundational role. It is instrumental to the beginnings of human life in such disparate sources as Pygmalion’s caress of an ivory statue, the moulding of clay or handling of stones in Graeco-Roman creation myths or the contact between male and female seeds in the womb. 5 Similarly, advancing from biological life to sentient thought, 1 Aristotle, Parts of Animals 4.5.681a27–8. Cf. History of Animals 8.1.588b17–21. Translations of Aristotle are from Barnes (1984) unless otherwise noted. 2 At History of Animals 1.3.489a17–18, Aristotle states “One sense, and one alone, is common to all animals – the sense of touch” (πᾶσι δὲ τοῖς ζῴοις αἴσθησις μία ὑπάρχει κοινὴ μόνη ἡ ἁφή). See also On the Soul 2.2.413b4–10, 2.3.415a3–5, 3.12.434b10–25 and Pliny, Natural History 10.90. 3 Sense and Sensibilia 4.442a29–b1: πάντα γὰρ τὰ αἴσθητα ἁπτὰ ποιοῦσιν. See further Porter (2010: 416); Morales (2005: 130–5); Laks (1999: 265); Freeland (1995: 228); Chapter 4. Empedocles and Anaxagoras similarly started their observations from a kind of common theory of touch, with Empedocles likening all of the senses to the palms of the hands (palamai). See further Clements (2014: 123) and Chapter 5. 4 Aristotle placed the sense of touch last in his discussion of the senses in On the Soul (the individual senses are discussed at 2.7–11), but on the prominence he nevertheless gives to touch, see Chapter 3. Aristotle refers to the “common sense” (koinē aisthēsis) only three times of which we can be certain: On the Soul 3.1.425a27; On Memory and Recollection 1.450a10; Parts of Animals 4.10.686a31. See further Heller-Roazen (2007); Gregoric (2007: 65–8); Chapters 4 and 9. 5 For ancient creation myths of man formed from clay or earth see Hesiod, Works and Days 61; Ovid, Metamorphoses 1.399; Conybeare on Genesis in this volume (Chapter 10). The notion of male and

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touch typically emerges in post-classical philosophy as the single decisive sense in the history of subject formation, as attested to by sources as varied as Condillac’s eighteenth-century Treatise on Sensations or Judith Butler’s recent The Senses of the Subject. 6 Current work in neuroscience, too, has zeroed in on touch’s prominence in several different areas of the brain, particularly in relation to social and emotional perception.7 Yet at the same time as touch took on this important and originary force in ancient accounts, it was also just there. Despite atomism, touch can hardly be said to have exercised much theoretical attention from philosophers before Aristotle,8 and its pervasive and primary nature would seem to run counter to successful attempts to define it. Like taste and smell, touch is a private, intimate and subjective sense and thus, it has been suggested, particularly resistant to language and description.9 Certainly one of the paradoxes that commonly surrounds touch is that – for all its immediacy – it is surprisingly ungraspable as a single sense or concept.10

What and where is touch? One of the problems, for Aristotle, is that touch is more varied than the other senses in relation to its objects or properties. From the very beginning of his account of touch in On the Soul, he wonders if he should be treating it as one sense or many (2.11), and he has to grapple with the further complication that, unlike the other four senses, touch does not have a singular “sense object” such as colour is to sight or sound is to hearing.11 It has, by contrast, the ability to perceive such different qualities as temperature, pressure, moisture, thickness, texture, weight and vibration.12 If vision is located in the eye and hearing in the ear, which part of the body houses the tactile sense? Touch has a particular affinity with the hand (“haptic” comes from the Greek verb haptesthai, to grasp), and the touch that occurs by means of the hand is often marked by agency or action. With my hand, I can reach out to grab, feel, inquire, test, hurt, supplicate, caress, fix, operate, craft, sculpt, paint or write (each time utilizing some aspect of the tactile sense). But we also experience touch in many

female seed meeting to create fertilization was not universally agreed upon, but presented in the Hippocratic corpus and Aristotle’s History of Animals (Dean-Jones 1994: 148ff., esp. 172). 6 Cf. Serres ([1985] 2008: 22) on consciousness revealing itself in the tactile folding of flesh, tongue, lips and teeth. 7 Linden (2015). 8 Laks (1999: 265); Sorabji (1971). 9 Howes & Classen (2014: 1–13). Some theorists have even speculated that the attempt to describe or articulate the tactile sense is counter-productive. See e.g., Serres, who claims that the sensory body is “drowned out by language”, ([1985] 2008: 14); Moshenska (2014: 4–5). 10 Purves (2013a: 29) with further references. 11 These sense objects (ta aisthētika), also known as “special perceptibles”, are those objects of perception that are available to one sense and one sense only. Cf. Gregoric (2007: 30); Chapter 3. 12 Aristotle, On the Soul 2.11.422b19–23. On touch’s resistance to simple classification and refusal to align itself neatly with the other senses, see, among others, Sorabji (1971); Freeland (1995); Johansen (1997). At one point in On the Soul (2.10) Aristotle will be forced by his own logic to make taste a subset of touch (cf. Sense and Sensibilia 2.439a1–2).

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other parts of the body besides the hands. Perhaps it is more accurate to say that the sense of touch is located in or on the skin and to understand the skin as a permeable border between ourselves and the world that allows feeling to flow freely between the inside and the outside of the body. Already, as Aristotle saw (and as Rebecca Steiner Goldner explains in her essay for this volume), this presents us with a problem. For can the pain of a stomach ache also be categorized as a form of touch? What about the puncture wound that passes through the skin and is felt both on the exterior and interior of the body?13 Does this still make the skin the site or organ of touch? And, queries Aristotle, if the skin (derma) or flesh (sarx) is the organ of touch, what is touch’s medium? If air is the medium of both vision and sound, then wouldn’t it be logical to consider flesh the medium of touch?14 Modern treatments, such as Mark Paterson’s The Senses of Touch (2007), diffuse the sense further by situating touch within the broader compass of the “haptic system” popularized by the work of James Gibson in the 1960s. This includes proprioception (knowing, without sight, where one’s limbs are in space), the vestibular system (the ability to maintain one’s balance) and kinaesthesia (one’s sense of movement).15 These various registers of internal touch are connected to the ability to feel oneself as a body, and each is important insofar as it makes clear the essential unlocatability of touch.16 While the other senses are housed within clearly marked single or double apertures positioned around the face (apertures which can, if one chooses, be blocked off by shutting the eyes or mouth, putting the hands over the ears or holding the nose), touch has no such clearly identifiable organ.17 This is an ancient problem as well as a modern one, whose difficulty Aristotle flags by in one place calling the organ of touch the heart (kardia) and in another the flesh (sarx).18 In Hellenistic philosophy, as David Sedley explores in this volume, this notion of an “inner touch” was also deeply ambiguous and productive. All of these examples speak to a form of touch that is sensed on the inside of the body (within our internal organs, within our sense of ourselves as fully cohesive and connected beings or even within the deeply interior world of the emotions).19 When an Aristophanic character refers to his anguish as a gnawing at the heart using the verb “bite” (daknein), when Anacreon refers to love-sickness as the feeling of being “beaten” (koptein) by a hammer (fr. 413 Page) or when Cicero refers to the shock of unexpected grief as a “blow” (plaga) or “strike” (Tusculan Disputations 3.59), do these feelings register any less haptically than when one individual reaches out and touches another on the hand? Or what about those senses of touch that are so light 13 Holmes (2010: 58–68). Alternatively, when we feel hot, do we feel it on the inside or the outside of our bodies? (Cf. Chapter 4). 14 On the Soul, 2.11.423a21–b26. See further Chapter 3. 15 Gibson (1966); Paterson (2007); Foster (2010: 1–14); Fulkerson (2013: 1–16); O’Dea (2014); Chapter 6. 16 On the neurological condition of being “touch blind” – that is, without proprioceptive sense – see ­Linden (2015: 81). It is difficult to function without proprioception; those afflicted have difficulty walking and must rely on vision to know where their limbs are located. 17 As discussed in relation to Biblical exegetical texts in Chapter 10. 18 Sense and Sensibilia 2.439a1–2; Parts of Animals 2.1.647a14–21. Cf. Lloyd (1996: 126–37). 19 On the experience of touch as “intrinsically emotional” see most recently Linden (2015: 3) and n. 61, below. On the relationship between touch and affect, see Chapter 2.

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as to not register as a concrete feeling at all, such as Lucretius’ likening of the first stirrings of particles inside the body to the footsteps of a gnat trailing lightly and imperceptibly across one’s back?20 David Linden’s recent bestselling Touch includes a humourous diagram of the human body where hands, mouth, tongue, genitalia and feet are grossly enlarged to denote “each body part scaled to the size of its representation in [the brain’s] touch map” (2015: 64, and the hands are by far the biggest). These organs, as he shows, have the highest density of sensory receptors and thus are primarily associated with the sense of touch. It is no surprise, too, to find that the essays in the present collection focus on the hands more than any other part of the body. 21 But, as I have been suggesting, and as these same essays also demonstrate, touch does not just reside in the fingers and palms. We may have been primed to think of touch as a manual art in part because of debates that started in the Enlightenment and continued into twentieth-century studies of phenomenology, from “Molyneux’s Problem”, which focused on the hands of a blind man who has recently been afforded sight, 22 to Maurice Merleau-Ponty’s famous paradox of a pair of hands meeting and trying to feel simultaneously the experiences of touching and being touched. 23 But the question of what and where touch is continues to move around. Luce Irigaray, for example, has intriguingly challenged Merleau-Ponty’s classic account with a feminist reading of touch that settles instead on the lips. 24 Her reframing of touch draws our attention away from agentic or causative structures (hands that “do things”) and from touch as a sense that we almost compulsively compare with vision. 25

Touch: the crudest or most discerning sense? Touch is often classified as a “low” sense, best fit for the farmyard, bedroom or nursery, because it is the most proximal and immediate of the five and because – as we have seen – it is common to all creatures. While sight, especially, is associated with the intellect and an abstracted distancing, touch connects us to the ground and the lower parts of our bodies. Accordingly, scholars have long observed touch’s association both with groups of lower social status and with so-called primitive (i.e. those that 20 Lucretius, On the Nature of Things 3.381–95. 21 The male sexual organ is a contender for second place as the site where touch is particularly focalized (see Chapters 1 and 8). 22 William Molyneux exchanged a series of letters with John Locke beginning in 1688 about whether a man blind from birth, if he were given the gift of sight, would be able to recognize without touching them the difference in shape between a sphere and cube. The men agreed that he would not, and some years later they were proven right when the experiment was performed on a man who had successfully undergone an operation to restore his sight. See also Diderot’s “Letter on the Blind” ([1749] 1999). Both works are discussed in Paterson (2007: 37–48) and Chapter 6. 23 Merleau-Ponty (1968: 130–5), discussed further below and in Chapter 3. 24 Irigaray (1993: 151–84); cf. Paterson (2004). 25 See also J. Butler (2015: 149–70) on Irigaray and Merleau-Ponty. Most of our experiences of touch are blind (cf. Linden [2015: 39]) on how well we can feel for a quarter within a pocket), but a privileging of the hands, which we often imagine within our line of sight, can also lead to a privileging of sight within the realm of touch.

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carry associations of “early” or “natural”) cultures or periods. 26 A similar cultural downgrading of touch can be detected in its association with female pursuits such as weaving, housework and handiwork.27 But Aristotle and Pliny the Elder also classified touch as a sense that was the most refined among humans compared to other species (unlike, they argued, vision, hearing and smell, which were more acute in some other animals than in us). 28 Thus, in Aristotle’s words: While in respect of all the other senses we fall below many species of animals, in respect of touch (kata de tēn haphēn) we far excel all other species in exactness of discrimination (akriboi). That is why man is the most intelligent (phronimōtaton) of all animals. This is confirmed by the fact that it is to differences in the organ of touch (para to aisthētērion touto) and to nothing else that the differences between man and man in respect of natural endowment are due: men whose flesh is hard (sklērosarkoi) are ill endowed with intellect (aphueis tēn dianoian), men whose flesh is soft (malakosarkoi), well-endowed (eupheis). (Aristotle, On the Soul 2.9.421a20–6) In this passage, touch is portrayed as an important discriminator, leading to the idea that it has a special capacity for feeling out the truth. The skilled and sensitive fingers of a soft human hand, like the soft lips that make speech possible, 29 denote a special form of intelligence in their bearer. With touch, according to this logic, comes a means of discerning the truth.30 Socrates frequently employs the image of the “touchstone” (basanos) when seeking out the truth of an argument, and the same word is used of inquiry by torture (according to the theory that only through the most violent form of touch can the truth be extracted from slaves). 31 The discriminating touch is particularly important in ancient medical practice, where we find doctors using it in order to diagnose maladies, according to the temperature of the skin or the viscosity or firmness of the body’s fluids and parts. The skin on the hands of the doctor, Galen tells us, is “at the precise midpoint between all

26 Toner (2009: 123–61); Classen (2012); Chapter 7. Touch has an affinity with smell in this regard. See further Bradley (2015a) on the presumed “baseness of smell”. For the hierarchy of the senses, see also Howes (2005: 10); Baltussen (2015), and on smell as a positive or negative indicator of class or character, Bradley (2015a); Potter (2015); Green (2015); Toner (2015). 27 Gowing (2003); Classen (2012: 71–92); Mueller (2016). 28 Aristotle, Sense and Sensibilia 4.441a; Pliny, Natural History 10.88: ex sensibus ante cetera homini tactus, dein gustatus; reliquis superatur a multis (“of the senses man ranks first in touch among all animals, then in taste, but for the rest he is surpassed by many others”). 29 As Aristotle says elsewhere, it is due to the softness and fleshiness of their lips that humans, alone, are gifted with speech (Parts of Animals 16). 30 See further Chapters 1 and 10. 31 On the skin of slaves as “a surface of violence” in Roman comedy, see Krebs (2016) and on the slave’s touch see Chapter 7. On the slave as “subhuman”, see Aristotle, Politics 1.10. Implicit in Aristotle’s theory is the notion that slaves, due to the coarseness of their skin, must be handled more roughly in order to be brought up to the level of accurate discernment and truth-telling.

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extremes”, and thus an effective “instrument of assessment (gnōmon) of all perceptible objects”, since it can discern most accurately the differences between soft and hard, hot and cold, wet and dry.32 But it is particularly in their feeling of the pulse that ancient physicians gained increasing knowledge of the body; indeed the science of pulse-feeling (sphygmology) was so important a subject in ancient medicine that Galen wrote no fewer than thirty-five treatises on the topic. 33 Touch’s special relationship to truth and accuracy often cast it against sight in the battle between illusion and reality, since the three-dimensional object that can be “grasped” (both mentally and physically)34 would seem to belie the kinds of illusion that optics can so readily produce. 35 So lifelike was the Athenian Myron’s sculpture of a bronze cow from the fifth century, for example, that several later epigrams told how its observers (including even a calf!) were fooled into thinking it was a real, animate being.36 Only under the pressure of touch was the heifer’s truth revealed. As this epigram puts it: ἐν βοῒ τᾷδ᾿ ἐμάχοντο Φύσις καὶ πότνια Τέχνα· ἀμφοτέραις δὲ Μύρων ἶσον ὄπασσε γέρας· δερκομένοις μὲν γὰρ Φύσιος κράτος ἥρπασε Τέχνα· αὐτὰρ ἐφαπτομένοις ἡ Φύσις ἐστὶ φύσις. In this heifer Nature and mistress Art vied with one another, and to both Myron bestowed an equal prize. To those looking upon her, Art has surpassed Nature, but to those touching her, Nature is [after all] nature. (Greek Anthology 9.738, Julian, Prefect of Egypt)37

32 Galen, Mixtures 1.9, trans. P. Singer, as cited in van der Eijk (2015: 681–6). In the same treatise, Galen calls the skin the perfect medium between hot/cold and hard/soft. The physician’s sense of touch was also discussed in H. von Staden’s “Touch in ancient medicine”, delivered at the Touch panel organized by Alex Purves and Shane Butler at the 143rd Annual Meeting of the American P ­ hilological ­A ssociation (a summary can be found here: https://classicalstudies.org/annual-meeting/143/ 065­vonstaden). On the notion of skilled hands, see, differently, Sudnow (2001). 33 See Chapter 11. The special relationship that Galen posits between touch and accuracy, without taking into account the subjective nature of the haptic experience, is connected, as van der Eijk notes, to the optimistic belief held by ancient thinkers such as Aristotle and Galen in a kind of natural kinship between humans and their environment, which was thought to manifest itself in the inborn ability of the senses to have cognitive access to the natural world (2015: 685). 34 The Greek word haptesthai, like English “grasp”, has both a physical and a cognitive meaning. Cf. Ellis (forthcoming) and several of the essays in this volume. 35 Cf. Hardie (2002: 144), on Ovid: “touch is the sense above all that guarantees presence and reality”. Cf. ibid.: 180, 183, 208; Classen (2012: 27). This sentiment of course goes against the philosophical doctrine of Plato’s Socrates, who states that “true Being (ousia) stands apart, without color or shape, [and] is incapable of being touched (anaphēs)”, Phaedrus 247c6–7, as cited in Porter (2010: 91–2). 36 Myron’s cow is the subject of 36 epigrams in the Greek Anthology and one in the Milan Posidippus. See further Squire (2010). 37 Translation mine (here and below). Cf. Greek Anthology 9.796: “Sculptor Myron, a wanderer came to drive off your heifer, / but having touched (psausas) the bronze he was revealed to be an empty thief”; Squire (2010: 600ff.).

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Similarly, one might say that a clever painting of grapes deceives the eye by inviting the hand’s reach, but never deceives the hand itself: μικροῦ κατέσχον τὸν βότρυν τοῖς δακτύλοις, ὑπεραπατηθεὶς τῇ θέᾳ τῶν χρωμάτων. I came just short of grasping the bunch in my fingers, fooled completely by the appearance of the colours. (Greek Anthology 9.761, Anonymous) As Platt and Squire discuss in their chapter for this volume, this trope of playing on the distinction between illusion/reality and sight/touch was popular in discussions of ancient art, both in poetry and prose. Thus Pliny, in his account of a competition between Zeuxis and Parrhasius (Natural History 35.65), recounts how Zeuxis’ painting of grapes (so realistic as to incite birds to peck at them) was surpassed by Parrhasius’ painting of an illusionistic curtain (in turn so realistic that Zeuxis asked for it to be pulled back). There is no deceiving the sense of touch in either case – the fingers (or beaks) of anyone reaching toward the painting would soon bump up against the truth. The artist’s touch matters in these examples, too, and even more so when it comes to sculpture.38 Time and again in the epigrams on Myron’s cow, we find suggestions that it is his extraordinary moulding of the beast that has somehow brought it to life, that the heifer would run to pasture if its feet were not fixed to the ground, would give milk to the calf if Myron had fashioned her insides in the same way he had her surface.39 The enduring conceit of the living-sculpted cow, even when proved false, still engages, therefore, in the dream that an artist’s touch might be so sensitive, so delicate, as to dispel the boundary between animate and inanimate objects.40

Pygmalion The best-known ancient example of the phenomenon of the artist’s animating touch is Pygmalion, who fell in love with an ivory statue of his own creation and, in caressing her, brought her to life. In Ovid’s famous account of the transformation of the statue from ivory to life we see touch – including the touch of a kiss – transmitting both pressure and heat to its object, as the ivory-flesh is worked and moulded beneath the thumb. In the course of being handled, the figure “gives” (subsidere), “yields” (cedere) and “bends” (flectere): admovet os iterum, manibus quoque pectora temptat: temptatum mollescit ebur positoque rigore subsidit digitis ceditque ut Hymettia sole cera remollescit tractataque pollice multas flectitur in facies ipsoque fit utilis usu. 38 As Bradley (2014: 192) observes, touch was fundamental to statuary, which was finished by a process of smoothing and polishing. See also, on the sculpting of bronze and its haptic qualities, Stewart (2015). Slaney, Chapter 6, takes the notion a step further, showing how the body of the beholder engages in an imaginative haptic engagement with the sculpted work of art. 39 Pliny, Natural History 34.58, as quoted (with other examples) in Squire (2010: 594, 607–10). 40 Gross (1992); Platt (forthcoming a).

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… He leans again to kiss her; and he reaches with his hands to touch her breasts. The touched ivory had lost its hardness; now his fingers probe; grown soft, the statue yields beneath the sculptor’s touch, just as Hymettian wax beneath the sun grows soft and, molded by the thumb, takes on so many varied shapes – in fact, becomes more pliant as one plies it. (Ovid, Metamorphoses 10.282–6, trans. Mandelbaum [1993], with modifications) The passage is important enough for our understanding of ancient touch to merit discussion in two of the contributions to this volume.41 All I want to draw attention to here is the almost imperceptible crossing of the threshold between subject and object that takes place in the reversal across line-end between the active verb temptat (282, “he touches, handles, tests”, but also in other meanings “he feels the pulse,42 tries the strength, attacks”) and the passive participle temptatum (283, “touched” [of the ivory]). We are close here to what Merleau-Ponty would come to refer to as the paradoxical “crisscrossing … of the touching and the tangible” – a fantasy of reciprocity and reversibility between toucher and touched, where the moment of contact between one body and another becomes permeable, transitory and difficult to decipher.43 The fantasy of Pygmalion’s initiating touch is also transferred, in later traditions of the myth, to Galatea’s own hand turned back upon herself (the statue, Galatea, goes unnamed in Ovid’s version). Thus in Rousseau’s dramatization (performed in 1770), G ­ alatea wakes up, touches her own body, and exclaims “This is me!” Turning her hand next to a block of marble, she says: “This is no longer me”, and finally, touching Pygmalion: “Ah, me again!”44 It is no accident that the statue-brought-to-life discovers her identity through the tactile sense. Twenty-five years earlier, Condillac’s Treatise on the Sensations (1745) posited a hypothetical statue which is afforded the realization of each sense one by one in the process of transforming into life. There too it is through touch alone that the statue becomes cognizant of herself as a sentient being. Upon placing her hands upon herself and feeling the “reply” between the touched part of her body and the touching part, she – as knowingly as Rousseau’s Galatea after her – cries “This is me! This is me again!”45 In these accounts, the fingers make an impression on the skin that is critical to the formation of the self.46 But in other writings on touch there is also, crucially, a gap.

41 Chapters 5 and 6 offer a fuller treatment of this extraordinary figure. See also Hardie (2002); Hersey (2009). 42 The pulse of the statue does in fact leap into life a few lines later in Ovid’s account. 43 Merleau-Ponty (1968: 133). Leder (1990) is illuminating on the topic of the necessary absence of one’s own body from the perceptual field. 44 “C’est moi … ce n’est plus moi … Ah, encore moi!” as cited in S. Stewart (1999: 33–4), who is in turn citing Gross (1992: 84–5). 45 “C’est moi! C’est moi encore!” Condillac, Traité de Sensations 1.5.4, trans. Carr (1930: 88): “As it continues to touch itself, everywhere the sensation of solidity will represent two things which exclude one another, and which at the same time are contiguous, and everywhere the same sentient being will reply from one to the other: this is myself, this is still myself!” (See further Heller-Roazen [2007: 226]). Later Herder, in confirming the superiority of sculpture over painting in Plastik (Sculpture … from Pygmalion’s Creative Dream) will write “I feel myself! I am!” (“Ich fühle mich! Ich bin!”, Gaiger 2002: 9). 46 Wyschogrod (1980: 198): “These characteristics force us to a conclusion: touch is not a sense at all; it is in fact a metaphor for the impingement of the world as a whole upon subjectivity”.

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Jean-Luc Nancy calls this a deferral, “through which the touch detaches itself from what it touches, at the very moment when it touches it”.47 That elusive moment of non-coincidence is perhaps best articulated by Merleau-Ponty in the description I referred to above of the left hand touching the right: To begin with, we spoke summarily of a reversibility of the seeing and the visible, of the touching and the touched. It is time to emphasize that it is a reversibility always imminent and never realized in fact. My left hand is always on the verge of touching my right hand touching the things, but I never reach coincidence; the coincidence eclipses at the moment of realization, and one of two things always occurs; either my right hand really passes over to the rank of touched, but then its hold on the world is interrupted; or it retains its hold on the world, but I do not really touch it–my right hand touching. I palpate with my left hand only its outer covering. (1968: 147–8) If touch denotes “realness”, in the sense of “I am! I exist!” (a sensualist rewriting of Descartes’ cogito ergo sum, as Jason Gaiger observes),48 it also runs into difficulties in trying to navigate the channels between active and passive, transitive and intransitive, one body and two. To “palpate” with the hand the “outer covering” of the skin is (from the outside) to engage precisely in the act of touching, but – just as Aristotle wanted flesh to be the medium rather than the organ of touch – so this example makes obvious the fact that touch only “works” if it is felt on the inside, too. Whether organic or inorganic, the material reached for by the hand must somehow “touch back” with its own pressure, temperature, curvature or texture.49 In the Pygmalion myth, for example, the way in which the ivory invites and responds to the hand renders it an especially suitable medium for lifelike representation. 50

Midas The mythological antitype to Pygmalion, although much less cited in discussions of touch, is the figure of Midas. For Midas, like Pygmalion, also had a desperate desire and such was the force of his wish that his touch, like Pygmalion’s, had the power to transform. But in this case, the king who wished that everything he touched would turn to gold eventually found himself in a world where everything felt the same. While ivory, as we have just seen, becomes pliant and creative beneath the fingers of Pygmalion,

47 Nancy (2008: 49–50); Chapter 10. See also Derrida (2005: 298): “To touch, to touch him/it, is possible only by not touching”. 48 Gaiger (2002: 9). 49 This notion of “touching back” or “haptic feedback” is a key aspect of current technological research. As haptics researcher Allison Okamura puts it in a New York Times video entitled “The Future of Touch beyond the Apple Watch” (Fergusson & Naudziunas 2015) the current problem with a touch screen is that “you touch it, but it doesn’t touch you back.” For the recent invention of an artificial hand that can feel for itself, see Talbot (2014). On the not-feeling of touch (numbness), see Chapter 11. 50 See Chapters 6 (on the material of sculpture) and 5 (on ivory). On the fingers appearing to soften into statues (as if into flesh) see Moshenska (2014: 151–5).

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Midas’ story moves in an opposite direction and leads to the opposite effect. There, everything touched turns into the same lifeless and cold substance, immediately hardening into a form that does not “touch back”. Leslie Kurke has argued that in antiquity gold maintained “the standard of sameness over time”, with writers like Pliny remarking on its pre-eminence precisely because of its resistance to outside influence (such as fire or repeated use).51 Gold thus proves the exception to Aristotle’s important premise about the haptic sense: that what moves or touches us is rarely unmoved or untouched itself.52 The frightening effect of the Midas myth developed into a version for children in which the king’s flowers, food, drink and even daughter all eventually turn to gold. The moral of the story is easy to grasp, as everything Midas reaches for stiffens, locking him into a prison devoid of sensory pleasures. In a cruel reversal of Aristotle’s “most sensitive/intelligent” man, Midas becomes numb and brutish, unable to feel anything as the hard feel of the gold stands in for a generalized absence of sensory perception. The story, as I have mentioned, is perhaps best known via its transition through Nathaniel Hawthorne’s nineteenth-century storybook retelling, but – like the myth of Pygmalion – it also occurs in Ovid’s Metamorphoses. What I described in the case of Pygmalion as the reversibility of touch can be identified differently in Ovid’s rendition of the story of Midas: laetus abit gaudetque malo Berecyntius heros pollicitique fidem tangendo singula temptat vixque sibi credens, non alta fronde virentem ilice detraxit virgam: virga aurea facta est; tollit humo saxum: saxum quoque palluit auro; contigit et glaebam: contactu glaeba potenti massa fit … But Midas was delighted; quite content, he went his way and, on his path, began to touch this thing, then that – so he could test the truth of Bacchus’ promise. It was hard to trust his own eyes, but when he had bent a green twig (virgam) hanging from a low oak branch, the twig (virga) was turned to gold. And, too, a stone (saxum) that he had picked up from the ground; that stone (saxum) soon showed the color of pale gold. He touched a clod (glaebam); beneath the spell his finger held, that clod (glaeba) became a chunk of gold. (Ovid, Metamorphoses 11.107–13, trans. Mandelbaum [1993], adapted) As with Pygmalion, we again see the verb temptat, here paired with tangendo (“by touching he tests, feels for …” 108).53 In addition, the objects of the king’s touch (a twig, a stone, a clod of earth) rapidly change case across the line from accusative to nominative (virgam: virga, 110; saxum: saxum, 111; glaebam … glaeba, 112), reflecting again touch’s curious affinity for doubling or reversing back upon the subject

51 Kurke (1999: 50ff.) who quotes Pliny, Natural History 33.59–60 on gold’s pre-eminence (50, n. 22) by reason of its resistance to fire and because “use wears it away least of all” (minimum usus deterit). 52 See Chapter 3, n. 15. 53 Ovid, Metamorphoses 10.82–3: manibus quoque pectora temptat: / temptatum … See above (7).

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(Merleau-Ponty’s chiastic “crisscrossing”, discussed above). As Midas moves on to touch more things (wheat, apples, pillars, water) “scarcely could he grasp with his mind his hopes, dreaming that everything had turned to gold” (vix spes ipse suas animo capit aurea fingens / omnia, 119–20, trans. Mandelbaum adapted). But what the mind fails to grasp (capere) by dreaming (fingere) – and note Ovid’s twofold use of haptic metaphors – becomes not just a failure of imagination but also a failure of touch itself. For soon it begins to narrow all of Midas’ senses to the point where everything feels, looks and tastes the same:54 tum vero, sive ille sua Cerealia dextra munera contigerat, Cerealia dona rigebant, sive dapes avido convellere dente parabat, lammina fulva dapes admoto dente premebat; miscuerat puris auctorem muneris undis: fusile per rictus aurum fluitare videres. But when he reaches out to touch the gifts of Ceres, they grow hard; and if, with avid teeth, he bites a piece of meat, where they have bit that piece, his teeth met yellow gold. He mixes some pure water and wine of Bacchus, Midas’ benefactor; and in his mouth it’s liquid gold that floats. (Ovid, Metamorphoses 11.122–7, trans. Mandelbaum [1993]) The bread that “stiffens” beneath Midas’ hands does so with a verb, rigere, that also denotes numbness (its cognate noun rigor was used earlier by Ovid to describe Galatea before Pygmalion’s caress, 10.283). In contrast to the pliant “warming” of Galatea’s skin like wax, a warming which spreads in both directions between the ivory and Pygmalion’s fingers, here the coldness of a metal that does not touch back seeps over into a numbness or hardness felt within Midas’ hand and teeth as well. Indeed, as Rebecca Flemming discusses in her chapter for this volume, among the various categories of numbness discussed in ancient medical texts there is one that seems to describe a certain “on-edgeness of the teeth” (haimōdia), as if, like Midas, one found oneself unexpectedly biting into metal. The teeth, described by Ovid as “avid” or “hungry” (avidus), symbolize the uncanny mismatch between intensity of feeling and inability to feel that has come to characterize Midas’ life.

Touch and the self Two nineteenth-century illustrations of these Ovidian myths together offer a diptych of the reversible and transformative power of touch (Figures I.1 and I.2). In both images, the man holds up outstretched fingers in the moment after the touch, while the woman – just as her flesh is transforming from ivory or into gold – holds her opposite hand to her breast. The left side of both images stages the reach of desire, while the right presents – less ostentatiously but no less significantly for each of the myths – the self-reflexive touch (“Who am I? What have I become?”). In both cases, there is, to return to Jean-Luc Nancy, a “gap” – an unbridgeable divide across the touch which the myth’s side-step into fantasy exposes. 54 For the objects of Midas’ touch paling to a golden colour, cf. Metamorphoses 11.111, 116.

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Figure I.1  Anne-Louis Girodet de Roussy-Trioson, Pygmalion and Galatea, 1819. Oil on ­canvas. Paris, Musée du Louvre: inv. RF2002-4 (© RMN-Grand Palais/Art ­Resource, NY; photograph by Thierry Le Mage).

Figure I.2  Walter Crane, Illustration of the Midas story, in which the king’s daughter turns into a statue when he touches her, for Nathaniel Hawthorne’s A Wonder-Book for Girls and Boys (1893). Photo: Wikimedia Commons.

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Anne Carson has described Midas as a figure “stranded in his own desire”, whose touch stops time and sets him at an impasse.55 She compares him to the children in a fragment from a lost play by Sophocles who, upon grabbing hold (harpazein) of an ice crystal, reach a point where they can neither continue to hold it nor put it down.56 For Carson, ice in the hands illustrates the painful pleasure of desire, which is predicated upon the ever-elusive quest to make contact with, to hold onto, the thing that one wants.57 Midas’ gold proves inflexible and unyielding to the touch, and I have introduced it as an “antitype” to Pygmalion’s malleable ivory in an attempt to pun on the Greek word antitupon (repellent, resistant, from the verb tupoun, to form by impress, mould, sculpt). 58 For touch should, ideally, always engage with the ability of one body to shape or in some way affect another, and this notion of impressionability or sensibility is an important category in phenomenology insofar as it explains the subject’s shaping by the world. 59 According to such a reading, our engagement with the world positions our bodies on the threshold between sensible and sentient, so that it is impossible to separate knowledge and feeling from the basic principle of touch.60 Within the realm of touch, therefore, we can class affect (which is often dimly felt on and around the skin), sensibility and emotion in the shared vocabulary of phrases like “she felt afraid” and “she felt the stone”. Similarly, expressions like “touchyfeely” or “to stay in touch” indicate a special affinity between the realm of the haptic and the self’s connection with the world.61 The English word “feel” capitalizes on this especially, but thinganein, sentire and tangere can also denote both tactile and emotional contact.62 Touch, in this sense, promises a bridging of the gulf between our interior selves and the world on the other side of the skin.63

55 Carson (1986: 136). 56 Ibid. 112: τέλος δ’ ὁ θυμὸς οὔθ’ ὅπως ἀφῇ θέλει / οὔτ’ ἐν χεροῖν τὸ κτῆμα σύμφορον μένειν (“But there comes a point – / you can’t put the melting mass down, / you can’t keep holding it”.) 57 Another good example of this phenomenon, discussed by Hardie, which fits well with Pygmalion is the story of Narcissus, the virgo intacta who is forever reaching forward and trying to touch his elusive reflection. The object of his desire, as Hardie observes, is both himself and “that which cannot be touched” (quod tangere non est), Ovid, Metamorphoses 3.478; Hardie (2002: 156). On touch and desire, see further Chapter 9. 58 The adjective antitupon is used by a character in a fragment from Alexis’ lost comedy, A Picture, who, upon attempting to have sex with a statue, was displeased to find the stone “cold and unyielding” (psuchrotēta kai to antitupon, Athenaeus, Deipnosophists 13.605), discussed in Kindt (2012: 155). On the ancient lore of statue love (agalmatophilia), see Hersey (2009) and Chapter 5, esp. n.38. On ancient wax as a quintessentially “typographic” medium, see also Chapter 5. 59 See e.g. J. Butler (2015) on the impressionability of the “I” and, differently, Kristeva (1982) on the abjection of the “I”, a process that is also often mediated through touch and the skin (Krebs 2016; Chapter 2). 60 See especially Merleau-Ponty (1962, 1964: 9–25, 1968: 130–55) for the articulation of the theory that our perception of the world, our vision of it, is also a form of touch. 61 Moshenska (2014: 6–7) discusses the expansion of meanings, both literal and figurative, of the English word “feel”. See also ibid. 13–14. On the close relationship between touch and feeling, see S. Stewart (1999: 31); Sedgwick (2003: 1–24 [“even to talk about affect virtually amounts to cutaneous contact”, 17]); Paterson (2007: 6–7); Linden (2015: 3–4). 62 Liddell et al. ([1940] 1996) s.v. θιγγάνω “metaph., of the feelings, touch”, with reference to Euripides, Hippolytus 310, Alcestis 108, Trojan Women 1216–17; Aeschylus, Agamemnon 432. These touch metaphors, Linden notes, can be found in a variety of languages and appear to have deep biological roots (2015: 10). See further Chapter 2. 63 Irigaray (1993: 151–84).

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Touch and antiquity One important aspect of that “other side”, for classicists, is the ancient world, where we are faced with the problem of how to handle material remains that repeated touching would eventually wear away or destroy.64 The cumulative damage of touch over time stands in contrast, moreover, to a wistful notion that touch can somehow erase the distance between the past and ourselves, as if we might “connect” with antiquity through the experience of handling its remains. The diary of a young woman visiting the decidedly more tactile British Museum of the pre-Victorian era recounts her thrill at touching ash from a Greek urn on which a female figure is depicted (“I felt it gently, with great feeling … just as her best friend might once have grasped her hand”).65 Our own experience of the classical past, by contrast, is decidedly less haptic; we cannot touch ancient objects except in the most controlled of circumstances, although that may not stop us from entering into an imaginatively tactile relationship with them. Recent technological advances in the handling of ancient artefacts have also coincided with a small boom in haptic-oriented methodologies, which seek to explore how the senses can grant us a different form of access to the past. The fields of sensual archaeology, sensual geography and sensual history, for example, have all fostered important work on how touch can uncover practices and data that the eye alone may miss.66 More generally, the importance of touch to religion, ritual and supplication, as well as to a variety of social structures and routines, has become increasingly apparent in a variety of publications.67 Indeed, in virtually all disciplines within the study of the ancient Mediterranean world, our knowledge of the culture can be enhanced by paying attention to its texture, feel and materiality.68 Were ancient Greece and Rome themselves more “tactile” cultures? Was their approach to touch profoundly different from our own? In Athens, during a period of particular overcrowding (425 bce) during the Peloponnesian War, the comic hero of Aristophanes’ Acharnians speaks of “dodging the vermilion rope” (a long rope that left a vermilion dye on those it touched, used for herding Athenians into the assembly) and complains – with that “heart-bitten” phrase I referred to earlier – of the officials pushing and jostling for front-row seats. Such incidental references to touch in everyday life give us some indication of the haptic nature of the ancient city.69 From a philosophical 64 Classen (2014); Chapter 5. 65 From the diary of Sophie von La Roche (1786), as quoted in Classen (2012: 141–2), with other examples of the “oft-perceived ability of touch to bridge both space and time”. This passage was first brought to my attention in a talk delivered by Helen Slaney, subsequently published as Slaney (2016) but without the passage included. I discuss the post-classical attempt to “touch” the past in Purves (2016), drawing on Porter (2005). 66 See further Smith (2008); Skeates (2010); Hunter-Crawley (2012); Day (2013); Howes (2013); Purves (2013a, with bibliography); Howes & Classen (2014). 67 See Toner (2009: 123–44; 2014); Rüpke (2007: 98–9); Lennon (2014; Chapter 7); Noel (2016); Bassi (2016); Habinek (2016); Petsalis-Diomidis (2018). 68 For recent work in this area see e.g. Young (2015); Telò (2016); Holmes (forthcoming); Platt (forthcoming b); Purves (forthcoming). 69 Crowding in Rome, for example, appears to have been a particular problem for the non-elite, leading to a significant amount of skin-to-skin contact (Toner 2014). For a good introduction to the topic of the multisensory ancient city, see the “Classics Confidential” podcast https://

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point of view, we can see touch playing an important role not only in Epicureanism and ancient theories of medicine, but also in the Hippocratic theory of environmental determinism, which works primarily on a haptic grid of soft/hard and wet/dry.70 Scholars have argued that modern thought overly privileges vision in relation to the other senses and that vision, although undeniably sensory in origin, has long sided with the metaphysical.71 Certainly, the Cartesian emphasis on mind over body has skewed us toward a more Platonic vision of the world where the physical is downplayed, and we have tended, as a result, to pass over the sensory aspects of ancient aesthetics and thought.72 At the same time there is a certain easy association that can be made between touch and earlier cultures (what Joe Moshenska, in his book on touch in the Renaissance, refers to as a nostalgia for a simpler age of touch and truth),73 which I want to resist in this volume by avoiding categorizing the ancient world as either more or less “haptic” or “sensory” than our own. Rather, the essays that follow explore how the tactile sense emerges across a number of ancient practices, periods and genres and provides a new perspective or feeling for the past. Touch pressed on the ancient world in different ways, and with different types of intensity; the concepts of handling, observing, verifying and philosophizing, to name just a few examples, were explored through configurations of the haptic sense that are at times continuous with and at other times different from our own. The essays in this volume seek to show how and where we might find touch in the ancient world, and – once we start looking for it – the kinds of models and patterns of haptic sensibility that emerge.

Overview The eleven chapters that follow collectively explore the historical development of thought on touch across a broad span of Greek and Roman periods (starting with Homer and ending with Avitus, a sixth-century bishop), while also identifying individual contexts and case studies in which haptics emerge as a dominant consideration. The essays are arranged in roughly chronological order, beginning with the discovery of Odysseus’ scar, one of the most foundational passages of interpretative touch in Western literature.74 Silvia Montiglio’s “Hands know the truth: touch in Euryclea’s recognition of Odysseus” offers an examination of Eurycleia’s handling of Odysseus’ scar and an illustration of how touch works in the process of recognition quite differently from the way sight and hearing do. (The last part of her essay shows how this idea is accentuated by the Roman tragedian Pacuvius and the novelist Petronius.) In particular, Montiglio demonstrates how Euryclea’s sensing of the scar, like the dog Argus’ sensing of his master, works on an immediate and pre-rational level. Touch, in her analysis, is not therefore a form of decoding or discernment, but rather in itself a

classicsconfidential.co.uk/2016/12/12/senses and the essays in Haug & Kreuz (2016). See also the resources collected by Jeff Veitch et al. at https://sensorystudiesinantiquity.com. 70 Thomas (2000); Purves (2013a). 71 See e.g. Jay (1993); Porter (2010); Butler & Purves (2013: 1–7); Squire (2016: 9–13), for a variety of opinions on the issue. 72 For a critique of such practices, see Sontag (2001); Porter (2010); Keilen (2013). 73 Moshenska (2014: 12). 74 As emblematized by the first chapter of Auerbach’s Mimesis (Auerbach [1953] 2003).

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kind of empathy or truth, connected through Euryclea to the touch shared between an infant and its mother. Montiglio ends her essay with a brief discussion of tragedy, arguing that it is difficult to show touch on stage in the same way one might through the narrative form of epic or the novel. In the next essay in the volume “Touching, proximity and the aesthetics of pain in Sophocles”, Nancy Worman tackles head-on the problem of “watching touch” in Sophoclean drama by focusing on how affect, suffering and intimacy are expressed through tactile contact with the tragic body, especially through touch’s capacity to both attract and repulse. Through touch, Worman argues, the Sophoclean hero is turned into an abject and compelling object, and it is touch that provides the audience with a sensory experience of tragic suffering. Her essay highlights the status of touch within aesthetics, especially insofar as touch, as the only sense the audience cannot directly engage with, is experienced – through the careful manipulation of a “hands-on” viewing – as a shared affect between characters on and off the stage. From Worman’s assessment of tragic touch we move, with “Aristotle and the priority of touch”, to Rebecca Steiner Goldner’s analysis of Aristotle’s extensive writings on touch and the senses in On the Soul. After a brief survey of touch in philosophical thought up to the time of Aristotle, Steiner Goldner argues that Aristotle highlights the role of touch in marking ontological difference and facilitating awareness of one’s own body, as well as its various abilities to protect that body through motion, resistance or assimilation. Drawing out the difference between contact, a necessary condition of all motion, and animate or sentient touch, her essay demonstrates the importance of the haptic sense to material and sensible change, which in turn leads to the soul’s awareness and cognition of itself as an independent entity. Turning to Lucretius, David Sedley in “The duality of touch” considers the problem of touch as both an external and an internal sense. Like Aristotle and Galen (discussed in this volume by Flemming), Lucretius addresses touch last in his discussion of the senses, focusing on the work of sensing by the body qua body (corporis sensus), as distinct from the sensing done by the specialized organs, and regardless of whether its object is internal or external to the body. Sedley goes on to offer a new interpretation of Lucretius’ cryptic remark tactus enim, tactus, pro divum numina sancta, / corporis est sensus …, traditionally read as “for touch, yes touch, by the holy spirits of the gods, is what the body’s sensation is” (On the Nature of Things 2.434–5), arguing the point to be rather that touch is a dual process, a “touching of touching”. The phrase tactus uterque (“the two kinds of touch”) that occurs a little earlier in the text refers not to two contrasting tactile experiences, as it has regularly been understood, but either to the contrast between external and internal touch or, more probably, to their partnership in constituting a full tactile experience. In their chapter on touch and visual culture, “Getting to grips with classical art: rethinking the haptics of Graeco-Roman visual culture”, Verity Platt and Michael Squire consider how art’s reality and representation, its matter and form, are configured through touch. This essay, the only one in the volume not dealing primarily with texts and therefore covering more ground than the other chapters, offers an excursus of ancient art’s engagement with the haptic sense via detailed readings of both sculpted figures and miniature wax seals. The authors demonstrate that ancient objects are grounded in culturally specific models of perception and cognition, which invite a complex play with different modes of “haptic viewing” (that is, viewing that 17

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engages the sense of touch as well as, more broadly, a sensory engagement with the work of art). Their chapter presents two case studies: first sculpture’s invitation to touch especially as manifested through the Knidian Aphrodite and Ovid’s Pygmalion, and then the intricate, tactile medium of engraved gems and the impressions they leave when stamped into wax, in a process which itself provides a metaphorical apparatus for discussion of the sense impressions in Aristotle and the Stoics. Both ivory and wax are, as the authors show, particularly tactile and fleshlike media, making materially present the connection between the haptic and the optic modes in our perception of ancient art. The attention paid by Platt and Squire to the notion of “beholding” with the eye is turned to different effect by Helen Slaney’s “In the body of the beholder: Herder’s aesthetics and classical sculpture”. For whereas Platt and Squire examine ways in which the eye can touch or hold, as if it were an extension of the hand, and how the object itself calls out to be handled and touched by the fingers, Slaney shows how, in Johann Gottfried Herder’s understanding of ancient art, the whole body apprehends the art object through a form of interior and mobilizing touch. Sculpture, for Herder, is “the fine art of touch”, but one that is always kinaespheric, as Slaney puts it, and proprioceptive. Like Johann Winckelmann before him, Herder’s conception of classical Greece was shaped around the canon of its sculpture. But it is particularly the way we imaginatively engage and defer touch when looking at sculpture that matters, according to Herder. Just as in childhood (here Slaney draws on current work in neuroscience and cognitive theory), when we learn slowly through feeling what we later apprehend quickly by sight, the viewing of a classical art work invites the beholder into a form of abbreviated touch, and it is the deferral of that touch which leads to the ultimate aesthetic pleasure of sculpture. In Slaney’s essay, therefore, Pygmalion substitutes for us and our own imagined orientations toward the work of sculpture, according to Herder’s “creative dream” of anticipated reciprocity. This chapter forms a complementary pair with the one that precedes it, for while Platt and Squire deal with the realia of touch (how the object feels and the effects of its impress), Slaney deals with its cognitive and imaginary momentum. Moving from imagined to real touch, from embodied but covert haptic apprehension to overly determined and overt physical contact, Jack Lennon’s “Contaminating touch in the Roman world” draws our attention to the dangers of touch across several strata of Roman society. He elaborates on the relationship between contact and contamination in the religious and non-religious spheres by tracing the prescriptions and rituals by which social contagion was controlled. The concept of contagion, as he explains, was always linked to touch, whether via blood-stained hands, impure mouths or accidental contact with an executioner’s clothing. Even in more mundane settings, touch had the power to cross the line between the sacred and the profane, leading to several laws and anxieties about its use, from the touching of altars to the sharing of cups at dinner parties. For the Roman social elite, therefore, it was also a useful tool, allowing them to police the boundaries of proper and improper contact between bodies by means of reinforcing the association of dirt and impurity with prostitution, slavery and the lower social classes. Elizabeth Young’s “The touch of poetry in the Carmina Priapea” focuses on the haptic properties of reading as they are played out through the especially violent and penetrative aspect of the phallic god Priapus within the Roman collection of epigrams 18

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dedicated to him. By figuring the act of reading as a corporeal encounter based on reciprocal bodily contact, Young focuses on the scene of violation with which the reader is repeatedly threatened as she is invited to enter the poem’s garden. Although this violent and transgressive touch is always deferred, it factors, Young argues, into the visceral and embodied experience of reading the collection. Bridging the gap between the overt and violating touch explored by Lennon and the covert, ever-deferred touch described by Slaney, Young’s chapter reminds us again of the inherently paradoxical and ungraspable nature of that sense which is, at the same time, the most concrete and tangible of the five. With “In touch, in love: Apuleius on the aesthetic impasse of a Platonic Psyche”, Giulia Sissa takes as her subject the relation of touch, knowledge and desire in the story of Cupid and Psyche in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses. She begins from the striking observation that Psyche, although she spends several nights touching the body of Cupid in the dark, does not trust her hands. Instead of knowing what she feels – the human form of her husband – Psyche believes instead her sisters’ stories that Cupid must be a monstrous snake. Sissa then goes on to ask the question, first through a Platonic and then an Aristotelian lens: why does the soul not trust the information it has gained through the synaesthetic or “common” sense (koinē aisthēsis) based primarily on touch? In the process, she lays stress on the fact that seeing Desire (Cupido) only makes the soul want to touch it more, so that Apuleius never allows us to abstract knowledge and pleasure from the sense of touch. With Catherine Conybeare’s essay, “Noli me tangere: the theology of touch”, we consider the tactile sense from the perspective of the early Christian interpreters. For the sixth-century bishop Avitus, as Conybeare shows, touch, not sight, emerges as the most spiritual of the senses, and in his exegesis of Genesis he gives special prominence to that sense above all others in his rendition of the story of Eve. Avitus’ haptic sensibility can be traced back to a similar focus on touch in Augustine, for whom it is both the most material and earthly of the senses but also – due to its u ­ nlocatability – the most ethereal and diffuse. Touch, therefore, links the material body to the incorporeal soul, for as an expression of being that is spread throughout the body, the sensation of touch approximates the completeness of the ensouled experience. As with our discussion of Condillac’s statue’s discovery of herself, for Augustine man becomes a living soul only after having acquired the sense of touch, at that moment when he “begins to have feeling in his body”. Touch, therefore, emerges as a crucial sense in our understanding of the Fall (in Avitus, Eve is offered liber tactus, “unencumbered touch” associated with free will) and of the ongoing puzzle of Christ’s words to Mary Magdalene, as it alone of the senses is shown to mediate between Christianity’s most material and most spiritual concerns. The final essay in the collection, by Rebecca Flemming, “Losing touch: impaired sensation in Greek medical writings” examines the absence of touch. Numbness appears in different guises in the Greek medical tradition, pertaining to diseases and their symptoms, as it also applies differently to sensation and mobility. Flemming’s essay, like Worman’s, draws attention to the special relationship between touch and pain, as it also addresses the question of sensation in general (in the medical writers’ discussion of numbness and paralysis, touch becomes a kind of “somatic aisthēsis”, which can be variously lost and compromised). From the Hippocratic corpus to Galen, touch is vital to the medical practitioner’s art, especially in his exploration of the nervous system and the pulse, as Flemming shows. But in this chapter we also find discussion of the peculiar 19

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sensations of feet falling asleep, the “on-edgeness” of teeth or the kind of numbness in the heart (resulting from an excess of menstrual blood) that can cause girls to lose their minds. The chapter synthesizes many of the important points raised in other chapters in the volume, for it outlines not only the intricate relationship between touch and somatic sensation (especially movement, as Steiner Goldner argued) but also the basic difficulty of locating and categorizing touch with which this Introduction began. The volume does not aim to be comprehensive, and many areas of ancient touch remain to be explored beyond the essays offered here. What this book does hope to do, however, is to give some indication of touch’s importance to the ancient categories of philosophy, aesthetics, literature, art, religion and science, as it also seeks to situate touch more broadly within the contexts of epistemology, experience and the senses. As the chapters here show, touch mediates almost every aspect of interpersonal relations, from the mundane to the sacred, the everyday to the erotic, just as it also provides a decisive point of contact between the individual and the world. Whether we locate the sense of touch on the surface of the skin or within the body, the sensory impact of touching raises a number of important interpretive and phenomenological questions. Despite its usual categorization as a lowly and base sense, therefore, this book hopes to impress upon its reader touch’s manifold possibilities as an index of both intuition and interpretation.

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1 H a n ds know t he tru t h Touch in Euryclea’s recognition of Odysseus Silvia Montiglio Introduction For the protagonists of two well-known Biblical stories, to touch is to believe. So Thomas, in the King James Version, says: “Except I shall see in his hands the print of the nails, and put my finger into the print of the nails, and thrust my hand into his side, I will not believe” (John 20: 25). The narrative, with an ascending tricolon, suggests that the finding of the eye must be backed up by a poking finger and further by the application of the whole hand for Thomas to believe that Jesus has come back from the dead. The second, older story tells how Jacob, disguised as Esau to deceive blind Isaac, succeeded in his trick because Isaac trusted his tactile and olfactory memory more than his ears: ‘I pray thee, that I may feel thee, my son, whether thou be my very son Esau or not’. And Jacob went near unto Isaac his father; and he felt him, and said, ‘The voice is Jacob’s voice, but the hands are the hands of Esau’. (Genesis 27: 21–2) Isaac without hesitation disregards the perceived identity of the boy’s voice in favour of the feel of his skin (as hairy as Esau’s, because covered with animal hide) and, soon thereafter (27: 27), the smell of the clothes he wears (Esau’s).1 There are no comparable episodes in Greek epic or tragedy. Blind heroes do not rely either on their nostrils or on their hands to try to identify individuals they cannot see. Touch helps the blind find his way or measure distance, as with the seer Phineus, who “feels (ἀμφαφόων) for the walls” to reach the door of his dwelling and welcome the Argonauts (Apollonius, Argonautica 2.198–9); or with Polyphemus, who “gropes about (ψηλαφόων) with his hands” to find the stone that blocks the entrance to his cavern (Odyssey 9.416) and “feels” (ἐπεμαίετο) his sheep and his ram, searching for Odysseus and his comrades (9.441, 9.446); or again with the blind judge who could “feel” (ἀμφαφόων) with his hands how much farther Odysseus’ discus has reached than the others’ (Odyssey 8.195–7). Touch also makes physically present to the blind his loved ones and their love. Oedipus greets Ismene’s arrival at Colonus with these words: “Child, you have come? … Child, you have appeared? … Touch me (πρόσψαυσον), child”. And she: “I am touching (θιγγάνω) both of you” (Sophocles, 1 For further discussion of the relation between touch and belief in biblical texts, see Chapter 10.

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Oedipus at Colonus 327–9). 2 For Oedipus, Ismene fully “appears” when he feels her hand. But the blind man knows who she is, for he has followed her arrival with his ears, by listening to Antigone’s agitated description of her approaching (310–23). Tragic characters who are sighted come to recognize the identity of other characters primarily through their eyes, by inspecting a bodily feature or an object that functions as a token. Hearing, too, can play into the recognition process, when the token is cross-examined or when the truth is revealed from stitching together bits of narratives (as in Oedipus the King). In contrast, touch participates in recognition scenes only once the identification has occurred, as the main sensorial channel to express the happiness generated by the unexpected discovery. Tactile effusions are a regular staple of dramatic recognitions:3 but the hands are not their means.4 In the Odyssey as well, the protagonists of recognitions abandon themselves to the joy of touching each other after the happy reunion. Recognition always draws two bodies together, through kisses, embraces, the clasping of hands. 5 The Odyssey, though, exploits touch also to bring about recognition, in the episode in which Euryclea identifies her master by feeling his scar while she washes his legs. In that episode touch rules, the loving touch of the old nurse whose hands discover the truth and, in response to their discovery, the aggressive touch of the hero stripped of his disguise. This essay is concerned with the role of touch in the footbath scene: how does touch work in the process of recognition, compared to sight and hearing? And why does Odysseus’ old nurse, and no other, come to the truth with her hands rather than with her eyes, ears or thought? What do the sensorial means by which she discovers Odysseus tell us about the nature of their relationship?6 To conclude, I briefly discuss two Roman adaptations of the scene, Petronius’ witty rewriting of it and its stage rendering by the tragedian Pacuvius, and suggest possible reasons touch acquires even more prominence there than it has in Homer.

Euryclea’s hand A mid-fifth-century vase (Figure 1.1) brings the paramount role of touch in the footbath scene upfront by depicting Odysseus with his leg in the centre of the visual field and Euryclea as she feels his skin from a kneeling position. In the words of one critic, “her right hand moves up his silhouetted lower leg as if searching for the scar. Indeed, perhaps she has just felt it, for she raises her head toward her master”.7

2 On Oedipus’ need to touch his daughters, see further Chapter 2. Translations are mine unless otherwise indicated. 3 See Sophocles, Electra 1281–7; Euripides, Ion 1435–44, Helen 627–35, Iphigenia in Tauris 827–31. 4 With one possible exception, discussed below. 5 Odyssey 10.397, 16.190, 16.214, 21.223–5, 23.207–40, 23.347–8, 24.397–8. See Murnaghan ([1987] 2011: 15). 6 Melissa Mueller (2016) discusses the importance of touch in this scene in a paper she kindly shared with me in advance of publication. Some of our conclusions overlap, but our thinking has developed independently. 7 Havelock (1995b: 188). The fact that Odysseus is standing rather than sitting suggests that the painter was working from memory, not with the Homeric text before him. Havelock argues that depictions of the bath scene in Greek art are based on aural knowledge of the epic.

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Figure 1.1  “  The nurse Euriklea washing Ulysses’ feet after his return”, 440 bce, by the ­Penelope Vasepainter. Attic red-figured skyphos from Chiusi, Museo ­A rcheologico (Art Resource NY; photograph by Erich Lessing).

The sensitivity to the work of touch that we glean from this painting is generally not shared by discussions on the Homeric scene, which tend to focus on other aspects of it and to pass over or underestimate its tactile texture; and this since antiquity.8 Aristotle mentions the scene approvingly for the manner in which the token of identity, the scar, is exploited: instead of being exhibited by Odysseus with the intended goal of producing recognition, as it happens later with Eumaeus and Philoetius, the scar 8 Modern scholarship has drawn attention to the placement of the recognition within the plot: ­Murnaghan ([1987] 2011: 28–9), and especially to Homer’s narrative strategies: Genette (1980: 48–62); Slater (1983); Auerbach ([1953] 2003); de Jong (1985; 1999: 156–9; 2001, 476–7); Purves (2013b); Beneker (2016). The recognition has also been read as an agonistic poetic performance: ­Karydas (1998). Two critics sensitized to the meaningfulness of touch in the episode are Scodel (2002) and Clayton (2004: 78), although the latter’s gendered understanding of touch as pertaining to a “feminine economy”, one of “taking the other into oneself and being taken into the other also”, is arbitrary.

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is discovered by chance, and the discovery produces a sudden and dramatic reversal (Poetics 16.1454b25–30). But Aristotle does not comment on the sensory medium involved. His silence is consistent with his general interest in the objects and circumstances that trigger recognitions or in the artistry of their unfolding, rather than in the role of the senses in them. The philosopher’s own taste favours recognitions that are the least dependent on immediate sense perception: the best ones, he says, are those “arising from the facts themselves” (Poetics 16.1455a16–17), as in Oedipus the King, where the truth comes to light by a chain of revelations. The second best is “through deduction” (ἐκ συλλογισμοῦ), as in Aeschylus’ Libation Bearers (in Aristotle’s, biased, reading): “someone similar to me [Electra] has come; only Orestes is similar to me; therefore Orestes has come”.9 This kind of recognition results from purely logical inferences. The only category for which Aristotle acknowledges the sensory medium is “recognition by memory” (διὰ μνήμης), and the only senses he acknowledges are hearing and sight: the sight of an object, the hearing of a story, which causes the concerned character to remember events of his life and betray his emotion, thus prompting the recognition (Poetics 16.1454b37–55a6).10 Contrary to Aristotle, the Byzantine scholar Eustathius notices the active role of touch in the footbath scene but wavers between attributing the recognition to touch or to sight and hearing. For him, touch is the verifier of a discovery that Euryclea has already made. As she readies herself to wash the feet of Penelope’s guest, she tells him: “I have not yet seen any man as similar to another as you are to Odysseus in appearance, voice and feet” (Odyssey 19.380–1). Eustathius takes these words to mean that Euryclea has recognized Odysseus by those features: It seems that Penelope looked at Odysseus modestly, not in the fashion of her cousin Helen, whereas the nurse cast a busier eye on the whole stranger (περιεργότερον δὲ ἡ μαῖα ἐπιβάλλειν τὴν ὄψιν ὅλῳ τῷ ξένῳ), and the similarities [to Odysseus] were settled more exactly … Hence, note, Odysseus’ disguise by Athena was nothing but an artful concealment, directed … at the simple minded and those unable to scrape up his recognizable features. For the dog Argus was right on the mark in its perception (ἀκριβὴς ὢν αἰσθέσθαι) and now the old nurse knew (ἔγνων) Odysseus. (Commentary on the Odyssey 2.206.42–207.1) Eustathius equates Euryclea’s inquisitive eye with Helen’s in the episode (narrated by her in Odyssey 4) in which she unmasks Odysseus’ identity when he spies on Troy dressed like a pauper, as he is in the foot-washing scene. Both women, the critic argues, see through the disguise.

9 Poetics 16.1455a4–6. Cave (1988: 247) points out that the actual process of recognition in this scene runs quite differently and that Aristotle purifies it of all material signs and reduces it to sheer reasoning. 10 Aristotle is not sensitized to the power of smell to conjure up memories (on which see Ackerman [1990: 5–11]; Telò [2013: 54] with further references), but neither are the texts on which he bases his taxonomy of recognition. While in a modern Italian rewriting of the Odyssey (Guerra 2007) the hero knows Ithaca by the smell of a local plant, Homer’s Odysseus has to be told where he is and to see the island.

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Eustathius continues: Odysseus attempts to deny that he is Odysseus by agreeing to the resemblance (“old woman, so they all say who saw both of us with their eyes, that we are much alike”: Odyssey 19.383–5), but “does not persuade the nurse”, who “lurking in the recesses of the room will grope for the sign, the scar (τὸν γνωρισμὸν ψηλαφήσει τὴν οὐλὴν), as she washes Odysseus, and will know the truth”.11 Euryclea would not discover the scar by serendipity but would search for it to confirm her prior discovery of the stranger’s identity. Hers would be a “curious hand”, pursuing the curious investigation of the eye.12 On this interpretation, touch only serves to complete the work of sight and hearing, to provide the final and decisive evidence of a truth of which Euryclea is already certain. For the Byzantine scholar her hands seek the known sign, gnōrismon, rather than just coming to feel the scar in its startling concreteness.13 Euryclea proves Eustathius wrong. She says straight out that her hands, not her eyes or her ears, pierced through Odysseus’ disguise: “And I did not know you until I handled all the body of my master” (οὐδέ σ’ ἐγώ γε / πρὶν ἔγνων, πρὶν πάντα ἄνακτ’ ἐμὸν ἀμφαφάασθαι, Odyssey 19.474–5). Only touch provides Euryclea with certain knowledge: egnōn. Eustathius transfers egnōn from her feeling hands to her earlier impression of a resemblance, whereby he devolves to sight and hearing the cognitive work that Homer assigns to touch.14 Homer brings touch to the front-stage by darkening the scene. As he is about to have his feet washed in an “all shiny (παμφανόωντα) cauldron”, Odysseus shies away from the light: ἷζεν ἀπ’ ἐσχαρόφιν, ποτὶ δὲ σκότον ἐτράπετ’ αἶψα· αὐτίκα γὰρ κατὰ θυμὸν ὀΐσατο, μή ἑ λαβοῦσα οὐλὴν ἀμφράσσαιτο καὶ ἀμφαδὰ ἔργα γένοιτο. νίζε δ’ ἄρ’ ἆσσον ἰοῦσα ἄναχθ’ ἑόν· αὐτίκα δ’ ἔγνω οὐλήν He was sitting by the hearth, but instantly he turned towards the darkness, for suddenly a thought occurred to him and he feared that, taking hold of him, she might notice the scar and the facts be revealed. But she drew near and washed her master. And suddenly she knew the scar. (Odyssey 19.389–93) Is Odysseus’ abrupt receding from the light aimed only to prevent Penelope from discovering his identity? Or is he hoping to avoid detection altogether? The indetermination of the language authorizes this additional reading: “he feared that … 11 οὐκ ἔχει δὲ καὶ τὴν γραῦν πειθομένην, ἀλλ’ ἐνδομυχοῦσα τὸν γνωρισμὸν ψηλαφήσει τὴν οὐλὴν ἐν τῷ τὸν Ὀδυσσέα νίπτειν καὶ γνώσεται τἀληθές (2.207.5–6). 12 Hands may be said to be generally curious. See Yi-Fu Tuan in Classen (2005: 75): “Hands are restless; indeed, it is tempting to speak of them as curious”. There is a difference, however, between hands that move to feel someone’s skin and hands that feel to search for a particular spot, as do Euryclea’s in Eustathius’ reading. 13 Consider the word order: “she will grope for the sign, the scar …”. 14 In the following lines (2.207.9–10), however, Eustathius seems to qualify his statement that Euryclea “knew” Odysseus from seeing him: “the old woman will know her master from touching the scar, which has, as is likely, a hollow” (ἡ γραῦς δὲ τὸν δεσπότην γνώσεται ἁψαμένη τῆς οὐλῆς ἐχούσης, ὡς εἰκός, καί τινα κοιλότητα).

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she [Euryclea] might notice the scar”. Implying: “maybe she will not, if she cannot see it”.15 Whatever the case, the darkening creates an intimate space where touch, unaided by vision, will operate more intently and sharpens the audience’s awareness of Euryclea’s hand, which straightaway notices without her seeing: “she drew near and washed her master. And suddenly she knew the scar”.16 The continuous action of washing is interrupted by the aoristic discovery, by a tactile illumination that responds, with a strong dramatic contrast, to Odysseus’ likewise aoristic attempt to hide (ἐτράπετ᾽).17 Touch triggers Euryclea’s realization of her master’s identity instantly and unreflectively. Her discovery coincides with the moment in which her feeling hand rests on the hollow of Odysseus’ scar. She does not grope for a gnōrismon or, to use the Homeric term, a sēma. She does not even “recognize the signs” (σήματ’ ἀναγνούσῃ, ἀναγνόντος), as Homer says of other protagonists of recognition, but she “knew the scar”: the concrete, tangible thing. Penelope and Laertes both “recognize the signs (σήματ᾽) that Odysseus had shown forth (πέφραδ’), sure and certain” (Odyssey 23.206, 24.346). Although recognition signs in Homer prompt vivid memories, rather than inferential reasoning,18 the phrase “they recognized the signs” puts forward the objects in their secondary, abstract meaning, “pointing beyond themselves”.19 And those objects turned signs have not been felt but “explained” or “shown forth”: phrazein. Odysseus’ scar of course is also a sēma and becomes one explicitly in the narrative when Odysseus presents it to his loyal servants’ eyes to convince them of his identity (Odyssey 21.217), but not when it rests in Euryclea’s hand.20 The psychological contact that signs generally awaken “with a past moment that unites the characters”21 this time is activated by physical contact, and the memory it instigates never loses touch with the scar. Euryclea keeps holding Odysseus’ leg while she recalls the boar hunt in which he was wounded. 22 The flashback, kindled by a tactile recognition, unfolds while her hands are still on the tangible object that kindled it. Readers might forget this fact. They might agree with Auerbach’s argument that “the aged Euryclea, who a few 15 See also Mueller (2016). 16 Compare, in Herodotus (3.69.3–6), the narrowing of the senses to touch in the narrative of the discovery of the false Smerdis by his wife, which takes place at night and while he sleeps. See Purves (2013a: 34–6). 17 On the dramatic force of the contrast between the imperfect and the aorist in the two lines, see Russo et al. (1992 ad loc.) and Karydas (1998: 26, n. 51). Purves (2013b) notes also the similarly sounding hizen/nize, anagrams of each other. 18 See Scodel (2002). 19 The phrase is Scodel’s (2002: 110). 20 Euryclea’s touch is similar to Helen’s intuitiveness when she recognizes Odysseus disguised as a pauper (Odyssey 4.250). The two episodes, as we have seen, are paired by Eustathius and both narratives dispose with sēmata. On Helen’s recognition see Nagy (1990: 203, n. 8). Conversely, when Euryclea is far removed from Odysseus’ body and wants to persuade Penelope that the stranger is Odysseus, she uses sēma for the scar (Odyssey 23.73). 21 Scodel (2002: 106). 22 Who is reminiscing is debated: de Jong (1985, 1999, 2001) thinks that Euryclea is the focalizer. Scodel (2002) and Beneker (2016) suggest that both Euryclea and Odysseus are remembering. Clayton (2004: 79) also speaks of “shared memory” but based on the mistake that Odysseus is touching Euryclea at the same time as she is holding his leg. ἔγνω, the verb that governs the flashback, seems to give prominence to Euryclea as the protagonist of the recollection (though not necessarily as focalizer: see Scodel’s critique [2002: 109–10]).

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lines earlier had touched the wanderer’s foot, has entirely vanished from the stage and from the reader’s mind”. 23 But as soon as the narrative reverts to the present, Homer reverts, and with greater emphasis, to Euryclea touching the leg: “holding it [the scar] in the palms of her hands, the old woman knew it as she felt it” (τὴν γρηὺς χείρεσσι καταπρηνέσσι λαβοῦσα / γνῶ ῥ᾽ ἐπιμασσαμένη, Odyssey 19.467–8). Euryclea’s hands are mentioned for the first time in the episode, and with the additional detail of their “palms”, which both “hold” and “feel” the scar. Further to bring up the power of touch to produce recognition and memory is the repetition of “she knew” (γνῶ), harking back to the instant of her tactile illumination (ἔγνω). The evocation of the boar hunt is thus framed at both ends by the image of the nurse touching Odysseus’ leg and reactivating knowledge with her hands: of the scar, its history, and its hero. Touch further fills the scene by helping Euryclea recover from the happy shock of the recognition, which causes her to drop the leg, spill the water, weep and become speechless (19.472) – until her hand reaches Odysseus’ face: “Touching Odysseus’ chin she spoke to him: ‘Surely you are Odysseus, my son, and I did not know you until I handled all the body of my master’” (473–5). By this moving hyperbole, which recasts the pointed discovery of her fingers as an all-embracing tactile exploration, Euryclea overstates the work of her feeling hand and obliterates her previous intuition by sight and hearing.

The nurse and the dog Euryclea’s immediate recognition by touch fits her intimate bonding with Odysseus: bonding in a literal sense, through touch. Euryclea was the first to touch Odysseus. Suggesting her for the foot-washing, Penelope tells the stranger that the old woman took Odysseus in her arms as soon as he was born (19.355). This evocation of Euryclea’s tactile intimacy with Odysseus satisfies the latter’s request for a woman worthy of touching (ἅψασθαι, 19.348) – not, more distantly and neutrally, “washing” – his feet. The emphasis on their tactile connection both foreshadows the recognition and gives biographical depth to its sensorial medium. Likewise, in the course of the flashback spurred by the discovery, as she is holding Odysseus’ leg, Euryclea remembers that she was the one to place Odysseus on his grandfather’s knees as a newborn babe (19.401–2); and when she touches his chin, she calls him “my child” (19.474). The two are bound in a mother-child relationship, as Odysseus himself points up by reminding her that she nurtured him “at her breast” (19.482–3). 24 We can imagine that Euryclea has indeed “handled all the body of her master” when he was an infant. The visceral nature of Euryclea’s relationship with Odysseus brings her closer to the dog Argus than to the other members of the household. Indeed, Eustathius pairs her recognition with Argus’, although without going into detail. A main feature they share is that both nurse and dog recognize by “feeling”, she by the feeling of a hand, he by the feeling of his master’s presence. As Odysseus and Eumaeus walk by, engaged in conversation, the “dog who lay there … lifted his head and his ears” (Odyssey 17.291). What is the stimulus that rouses old Argus from his lethargy? 23 Auerbach ([1953] 2003: 5). 24 On Euryclea as Odysseus’ substitute mother, against whom the real mother, Anticlea, is set off, see Murnaghan ([1987] 2011: 28–9), followed by Karydas (1998: 27) and Frank (2000: 518). Boitani (2014: 89–90) further notes that Euryclea is the only “mother” Odysseus still has.

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In bringing the episode to a close, Homer specifies that the dog saw Odysseus before dying: “But the fate of black death seized Argus, once he saw (ἰδόντ’) Odysseus in the twentieth year” (17.326–7). Sight, however, did not produce the recognition. When Odysseus first walked by him, Argus could not see him, for his head had drooped together with his ears. Did he lift head and ears because he knew Odysseus by his voice? Perhaps, but Homer only says that Argus “became aware (ἐνόησεν) of Odysseus, as he drew near” (301). Homer attaches no specific sense to the discovery, suggesting that Argus simply sensed Odysseus’ presence.25 Eustathius sought to attach a physical sense to the recognition left so tellingly undetermined by Homer, and he attributed it to smell: he [Argus] became aware of Odysseus … not from sight, it is probable, for his forms were altered, but, being a hunting dog, with the sharpness of his sense of smell, by means of which, people say, even at night trackers distinguish what is theirs and what is not. 26 Eustathius’ reading, which could find evidence in Eumaeus’ observation that Argus was “keen of smell” (Odyssey 17.317), by dismissing sight and replacing it with smell stresses the instinctive, pre-rational character of Argus’ recognition. 27 The seventeenth-century French critic La Mesnadière follows suit and goes further, suggesting that the recognition happens through a sixth sense: In the Odyssey, Odysseus after his long journeys was recognized in his house by his Son and his Nurse, when they saw him in person, and by a Dog who felt [sentit] him. Here are recognitions produced by reason in humans and by feeling in animals [Voilà des reconnoissances faites par la raison dans les hommes, et par le sentiment dans les bestes]. 28 Writing in a cultural climate in which the cri du sang, the visceral certainty that an apparent stranger is in fact a blood relation, is becoming an increasingly popular motif in narrative and dramatic literature, La Mesnadière understands Argus’ perceptiveness as a sentiment akin to that primeval commotion. A sentiment that disposes of sight but is one with smell: taking advantage of the double meaning of sentir, to smell and to feel, the French critic can play up the identification of the two senses or at least blur the distinction. La Mesnadière contrasts animal feeling and human reason, the latter served by sight and exemplified by Euryclea and Telemachus. The goal of drawing a neat distinction between animals and humans to the advantage of the former prevents the French critic from realizing that Euryclea’s recognition of Odysseus is much more akin to Argus’ than to Telemachus’. In fact, Telemachus’ stands diametrically opposite Euryclea’s: 25 Mueller (2016) maintains that the immediacy of Argus’ recognition brings it closer to the gods’ model of cognition, likewise instantaneous. 26 2.145.45–6: ἐνόησεν Ὀδυσσέα … οὐκ ἐκ τῆς θέας ὡς εἰκός, ἠλλοίωτο γὰρ τὴν μορφὴν, ἀλλ’ ὡς ἰχνευτὴς ὀξύτητι ὀσφρήσεως, ᾗ, φασὶ, καὶ ἐν νυκτὶ διακρίνει τὸ οἰκεῖον τοῦ ἀλλοτρίου. At 2.206.46 Eustathius uses αἰσθέσθαι. 27 Mueller (2016) likewise attributes Argus’ recognition of Odysseus to smell. See Bradley (2015a: 5) on animals and smell. 28 The original French is quoted from Vuillermoz (2009: 26).

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while Odysseus does not expect to be discovered by the nurse, he receives Athena’s instructions to disclose his identity to his son; while Euryclea recognizes Odysseus in the shadow, Telemachus witnesses an epiphany that shocks his vision and his mind (“his son marvelled at him and, seized with fright, turned his eyes aside for fear that he might be a god”: Odyssey 16.178–9) and breeds disbelief: Odysseus has to explain not only himself but also the power of the gods in order to convince his son that he himself is not a god. Euryclea instantly believes her hands, but Telemachus does not believe his eyes and for some time not even his father’s words. The French commentator failed to notice that the sentiment that triggers Argus’ recognition of Odysseus, whichever physical sense partakes in it, is shared by Euryclea as much as it can be by a human. For the nurse comes close to recognizing Odysseus by a sixth sense. Prior to noticing the resemblance between the stranger’s features and Odysseus’, Euryclea is drawn to the stranger by a strong subliminal sympathy, a sentiment that causes her to merge him with Odysseus, to talk to the one while thinking of the other. Eustathius is sensitive to Euryclea’s sympathetic cast of mind: “the old woman’s thoughts follow the mind of the stranger”.29 Euryclea, though, does not just “think” (νοεῖ) with the stranger, but in his presence she feels Odysseus’ predicament. When Penelope summons her to do the washing, Euryclea addresses her absent master by “you”: “alas, for you (σέο), my child” (19.363). But the audience will think that she is addressing the stranger, because the narrator does not mention the addressee in the speech-introduction. 30 The nurse then switches to the third person for Odysseus and instead addresses the stranger before her eyes by “you”: “perhaps women reviled him, too (καὶ κείνῳ) … as all these bitches revile you” (370–2). In her affective collapsing of the two men into one, Euryclea intuitively feels the stranger’s hidden identity as her hand does with certainty soon thereafter. Her empathetic identification of the two men brings her near to the truth, which she discovers by a sense that, like empathy and unlike sight or hearing, cannot keep a distance from its object.

Odysseus’ counter-touching Euryclea’s recognition of Odysseus shares yet another feature with Argus’: they are the only two episodes of recognition that Odysseus does not control. His movement away from the light is his ill-conceived and last-minute attempt to gain mastery over a situation that he himself has created by accepting the foot-washing and giving himself up to the feeling and instantly knowing hand of the nurse. 31 29 ἡ γραῦς νοεῖ κατὰ τὸν νοῦν τοῦ ξείνου (2.206.26). 30 See de Jong (2001) on 19.361–81. This scholar reads Euryclea’s words at 19.363 as a complex instance of dramatic irony: she does not know she is talking to Odysseus when she addresses him. Russo et al. (1992 on 363–70) note that Homer is teasing the audience by giving it the illusion that Euryclea has recognized the stranger, “impossible though it be”. But the episode also suggests that Euryclea feels Odysseus’ closeness in the stranger. For Purves (2013b: 45, n.31), the lines “already suggested that on a subconscious level she recognized her master”. 31 Alexandrian scholars deleted the lines (19.346–8) with which Odysseus asks for an old woman to wash his feet, but modern editors tend to consider them genuine. See Russo et al. (1992 ad loc.). Probably Odysseus hoped that Penelope would choose Eurynome, who did not know him as well as Euryclea (see Scodel 2002: 109, referencing Köhnken 1976), but once Euryclea appears, he still gives in to his need for emotional warmth.

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Odysseus compensates aggressively for his failure to control the proceedings, and does so by his own hand, which now in turn goes after Euryclea in the dark and draws her nearer to him as she drew nearer to him to wash him: “feeling for her throat, he seized it with his right hand (χείρ’ ἐπιμασσάμενος φάρυγος λάβε δεξιτερῆφι), and with the other he pulled her closer to him, and said …” (19.480–1).32 Diction and rhythm underscore the equivalence between this line and “she knew the scar, feeling it, and she let his leg fall” (γνῶ ῥ’ ἐπιμασσαμένη, πόδα δὲ προέηκε φέρεσθαι), audibly casting the movement of Odysseus’ hand as the response to Euryclea’s: the verb for touching is the same, epimaiomai, which does not appear in the description of Euryclea touching Odysseus’ chin after the emotional shock of the discovery (the verb there is haptomai); and epimaiomai occupies the same metrical position (covering the second half of the first foot, the second foot and the first half of the third) in the two lines, which, furthermore, have an identical metrical pattern (entirely dactylic). The additional shared detail of holding a bodily part (λαβοῦσα, 467; λάβε, 480) builds one more resonance between the descriptions of Euryclea’s discovery through touch and of Odysseus’ response by the same means. Odysseus’ counter-touching reconfigures the typical joyful and effervescent response to recognition through tactile effusions as a threatening confrontation.

Petronius’ spoof The character who plays Odysseus in the Roman novelist’s parody of the episode is even less in control of the proceedings than the Homeric hero. Petronius’ scene stars two former lovers: Encolpius in the role of Odysseus and Lichas of Euryclea. Encolpius and his love-boy Giton have disguised themselves as branded slaves to avoid capture by Lichas, on whose boat they have ended up unwittingly. The two seeming slaves, however, are found and beaten. While Encolpius keeps a heroic silence under “torture” (three lashes!), his friend screams and is recognized by his voice. It is now Encolpius’ turn to be discovered: Lichas, qui me optime noverat, tanquam et ipse vocem audisset, accurrit et nec manus nec faciem meam consideravit, sed continuo ad inguina mea luminibus deflexis movit officiosam manum et “salve” inquit “Encolpi”. miretur nunc aliquis Ulixis nutricem post vicesimum annum cicatricem invenisse originis indicem, cum homo prudentissimus confusis omnibus corporis orisque lineamentis ad unicum fugitivi argumentum tam docte pervenerit. Lichas, who knew me very well, as if he, too, had heard my voice, ran to me, and did not consider my hands or face, but instantly, looking down, he applied a busy hand to my groin and said, “Greetings, Encolpius”! No one should be surprised that Ulysses’ nurse after twenty years discovered the scar that revealed his identity, when a very clever man so knowingly came up on the only proof of identity of a runaway slave, while every feature of his body and face was blurred. (Petronius, Satyricon 105) The scene reshapes the one in the Odyssey by devolving all the work to touch. Even before mentioning the Homeric recognition explicitly, Encolpius alludes to it by the 32 Mueller (2016) perceptively notes that Odysseus fails to use his usual weapon, cunning.

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marked details that Lichas “did not consider my hands or face”, and ran to him “as if he had heard my voice”. The emphasis on “voice”, “hands” and “face” harks back to Euryclea’s (and Penelope’s) remarking on the same features before the foot-­washing.33 Lichas, though, does not hear a voice and does not remark on Encolpius’ bodily features, but bypasses them. The mention of a voice that has not spoken and of hands and a face that are not seen thus draws attention to the irrelevance of sight and hearing, which in Homer do preliminary work, for the identification (except, in the case of sight, to guide Lichas’ hand to the spot he is going to fondle). The devolvement of the identification entirely to touch is in keeping with the thematized malfunctioning of Encolpius’ penis34 as well as with the sexual nature of his relationship with Lichas, who “knew him well” (optime noverat). A double meaning is implied: on the one hand Lichas knew that Encolpius was the man because Giton was there and on the other he knew Encolpius intimately.35 The first meaning explains why Lichas does not need to see or hear, but goes straight to Encolpius knowing that he must be he. The second explains that he straightaway touches the locus of their intimate connection. Sight and hearing are replaced by inference (where there is Giton there must be Encolpius), and knowledge by inference is confirmed by a mocking touch. Lichas’ dismissal of sight and hearing might also be intended as an improvement on the Homeric scene: Lichas is “a very clever man”; a better, faster detective than Euryclea, one who does not need to look, listen, and ultimately even touch to figure out Encolpius’ identity. For touch, although it does all the work, is not the means to recognition, as in the Odyssey; it only serves to prove Lichas right and to humiliate Encolpius by replacing a proper acknowledgement. Lichas’ verbal greeting (salve, Encolpi!) casts his grabbing of Encolpius’ member as a parallel gesture of greeting in lieu of a formal handshake. The salutation is the work of a busy hand or officiosa manus, which irreverently reinvents the canonical gesture of shaking hands.36 Lichas not only does not shake hands but skirts Encolpius’ altogether, denies their existence: he “did not consider his hands”. Lichas’ crude sexual knowledge of Encolpius results in his ignoring his former lover except for that one spot, the touching of which alone elicits a greeting. The fondling is a parodic revisitation of the tactile expressions of joy that crown recognition in epic and drama: “I found you again, dear Encolpius! Let me give you … a prickshake!”37

Euryclea’s hand on the tragic stage Petronius probably knew the scene of Euryclea’s recognition not only from the Odyssey but also from Niptra (The Washing), a tragedy by Pacuvius of which we have a handful of fragments.38 The play seems to have conflated the subjects of two tragedies

33 To be precise, Euryclea says “form” (demas, Odyssey 19.381). Penelope, if we believe her, does not notice a resemblance but imagines one: “Wash the age-mate of your master. Perhaps Odysseus is already like him in feet and hands. For quickly do mortals grow old in trouble” (Odyssey 19.358–60). In the narrative, however, Penelope’s words prepare for Euryclea’s, as already Eustathius saw (2.206.5–8). 34 Encolpius suffers from bouts of impotence throughout the novel. 35 See Vannini (2010: 170). 36 Vannini (2010: 171) points out that officiosam manum refers to shaking hands but also has erotic overtones. 37 For further discussion of the episode, see Montiglio (2013: 159–63). 38 See Warmington (1936, vol. 2, fr. 265–73).

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by Sophocles, Niptra, which culminated with the footbath scene, and Odysseus Acanthoplex (Odysseus Wounded by the Spine), centred on the hero’s death at the hands of his son Telegonus. 39 Two fragments relating to the recognition draw the audience’s attention to the role of touch in it. In the first Euryclea40 asks Odysseus for his foot: cedo tuum pedem mi, lymphis flavis fulvum ut pulverem manibus isdem, quibus Ulixi saepe permulsi, abluam lassitudinemque minuam mollitudine. Give me your foot, that in golden yellow water I may wash away the tawny dust with these same hands with which I often stroked Ulysses’; and with the softness of my hands let me soothe your weariness. (Pacuvius, Niptra [The Washing], Fr. 266–8)41 Euryclea puts forward the calming touch of her hand, a detail that is not in Homer (but might have been in Sophocles). The Latin playwright makes the audience feel the softness of that hand in their ears, by the smooth sound-pattern of the lines that describe the hand’s work: a mellow rhyme extended over four syllables ([las]-situdinem-[mol]-­ litudine) and a cluster of caressing sounds, l’s, m’s and n’s (permulsi, abluam / lassitudinemque minuam mollitudine).42 The second fragment, which immediately follows (269), according to Warmington’s reconstruction gives voice either to Euryclea’s perception of a resemblance between the stranger and Odysseus or to her recognition of him: lenitudo orationis, mollitudo corporis (“the gentleness of your speech, the softness of your body”). In both case scenarios, the texture of the stranger’s skin offers Euryclea proof or almost proof of his true identity. Her hand has a tactile memory that is not recorded in the Homeric scene, where the trigger of recognition is not the feel of Odysseus’ skin but the discovery of a hollow in his leg. The added emphasis on tactile sensations might have been spurred by dramatic needs. An ancient playwright must have faced greater challenges than a narrator in rendering the scene. Narrative does not have to reckon with the audience’s eyes but only with their imagination, and by words alone can foreground an intimate setting and intimate gestures. Homer only needs to say that Odysseus moved away from the fire and that Euryclea moved closer to him for his audience to imagine their proximity in the dark. But how could a dramatist suggest the shadowy intimacy in which Euryclea feels the scar? How could he manage to make her touch visible, to narrow the focal attention to her hand reaching to Odysseus’ leg and foot?43 The setting of the performance, in daytime and in an open-air theatre, and the absence of stage lighting 39 See Sutton (1984: 88–9); Baier (2000: 286–8); Manuwald (2003: 35). 40 Cicero, our testimony, says Anticlea. The substitution is consonant with the importance of mothers in Pacuvius’ tragedies (see Baier 2000: 289; Manuwald 2003: 58), although it is generally considered Cicero’s mistake (discussion in Manuwald [2003: 46, n. 5]. She believes that Anticlea is correct). For lack of certainty, I choose Euryclea to avoid confusion in comparing the Homeric with the tragic scene. 41 Text and translation are Warmington’s (1936), the translation slightly modified. 42 See also, with a different slant, Ribbeck’s comment (in Baier 2000: 289): “The lines … have a lovely mellowness. They swirl around the ear like the warm wave of the bath”. 43 Touch is the only sense that an audience cannot experience directly but must view: see Chapter 2.

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would be serious obstacles to the enactment of the scene. Furthermore, how much action did the spectators see, and how much of it did the playwright have to drive into their imagination by verbal pointers? Touching of course could be seen on stage. But the proximity of the two personages in the bath scene and the body parts involved in the touching – a hand, a foot – would have required a close-up that could not be easily achieved visually. In the absence of visual aids, Pacuvius chose to emphasize touch rather than appearance (“you resemble Odysseus in form and feet”) to bring Odysseus’ foot and Euryclea’s hand close together before the imagination of an audience whose physical eyes could hardly see them. The invisible intimacy between the two characters and their contact are suggested by the anticipation of Euryclea’s soft touch and by the reactivation of her tactile knowledge of Odysseus’ soft body. *** In these two Roman rewritings of the Homeric scene, the knowing hand works in opposite ways: caressingly mellow in Pacuvius, who musters phonic effects to make us feel its velvety touch; aggressively humiliating in Petronius. But both authors underscore the reason for the exceptional role touch plays in that scene: the two parties involved have enjoyed a strong tactile intimacy. The sensorial means of Euryclea’s recognition of Odysseus sets her apart from his other human relations, who come to acknowledge his identity only after viewing and cross-examining tokens, and rather brings her nearer to his old dog, who possibly activates a “lower” sense, smell, in his own recognition of his master.44 Both characters are also endowed with a sixth sense, a pre-rational and sympathetic instinct, which is akin to touch or smell rather than to hearing and sight. In later Greek literature novelists will exploit more intuitive means to recognition, such as gut feeling or even breathing,45 but not touch. ­Euryclea remains unique in the Greek literary landscape because, pace ancient and early-­modern critics, she does not see but feels her loved master through his disguise, with a hand that foils his misplaced reliance on a covering darkness and instantly knows the truth.46

44 This is not the place to enter the hot debate over Penelope’s possible recognition of Odysseus in Book 19. If she does recognize him, it is through emotional channels, though sight and hearing might also participate. Needless to say, touch does not. 45 See Montiglio (2013). 46 Heartfelt thanks to Alex Purves for inviting me to contribute to this volume; to her and to Shane Butler for commenting on drafts of this paper; and to Alex again for her support at every corner.

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2 TOUCH I NG, PROX I M I T Y, A N D T HE A EST HET ICS OF PA I N I N SOPHOCLES Nancy Worman There are at least ten words indicating sense perceptions or their organs in the first fifteen lines of Sophocles’ Ajax, an emphasis on embodied experience that outstrips other extant plays, although the openings of Oedipus the King, Oedipus at Colonus and Philoctetes also situate spectators by means of such indicators, especially sight but also hearing and touch. If this were any other genre than drama, the sheer density and complexity of these sensory orientations would be striking, but their resonance would work primarily through language and visualization in the mind’s eye. That is to say, if we were to treat such scenes as read text, then while the indications of sights and sounds might call up sense memories and affective impressions in the reader, the perceptual experience would operate on this one circuit: text on the page, images in the mind, sensations in the body.1 But among ancient genres, drama has an anomalous status, insofar as the read text encompasses only one of its registers (the linguistic) and thus only part of its mimetic range. Thus, unlike the other poetic genres addressed in this collection, and in at least one regard more like the visual arts, drama activates a richer perceptual surround, since its “text” in its fullest realization both puts bodies on view and itself plays directly on the body’s senses. 2 This chapter addresses some of the ways in which touch is envisioned on the tragic stage. I use the term “envisioned” purposefully, since the genre dictates that touch – alone among the other senses typically represented, which chiefly include sight and hearing but largely exclude smell and taste – remains just that: directly presented to the eye and witnessed as an object of vision or described and offered only to the mind’s eye. It is thus the one represented sense in which the audience cannot participate directly, at least in its most fully haptic form, that is, as touch rather than resonance, sense memory or multi-sensory experience. Yet, as Alex Purves notes in the Introduction to this volume, touch is also the most embodied and essential of the senses; as such it serves as a primary analogy for sense experience more generally, as well as undergirding both early ancient theories of sense perception and contemporary arguments about the types of embodied knowledge that interactions among the 1 See Chapter 8 in this volume for the powerful effects that poetic language can have on the reader’s senses. 2 For the sensory impact of statues and other visual/tactile media, see Chapters 5 and 6. I set aside the question of Homeric epic as a performance genre, since what I am attempting to clarify here does not make any claims about actual ancient performances, only about textual indicators of dramatic enactment. Cf. Chapter 1 for how touch can operate in the Homeric text.

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senses and sense memories afford.3 Orchestrations of tragic scenes often suggest such interactions and thus seem to encourage an embodied knowing in the audience, a recognition and “feeling with” that is culturally shaped and determined.4 This is the type of experience that has led contemporary theorists of aesthetics and affect such as the film theorist Vivian Sobchack to treat spectatorship as an “address of the eye”. This address draws upon shared bodily consciousness – a sensory awareness catalyzed by viewing – of lived inhabitation as “mine” but also capable of extension from the bodies doing the watching to those depicted and back again. 5 In contrast, theorists of tragic effect often privilege viewing and spectacle alone when analysing what constitutes its distinctive aesthetics.6 Yet while spectacle may serve as the essential frame, it alone cannot account for all of the conflicting sensations generated onstage and induced in the audience. In Sophocles’ dramas, the visual display of heroic bodies in pain almost always includes the significant positioning and touching of them – usually handling them with care while manhandling hovers as a threat. Touch in these scenes becomes an effect of sight; but because touch depends on proximity, it is the only perception engaged by the dramatic event that models shared space and bodily sensation. Due to its special status, it calls attention to how in drama affect may express itself between bodies, rather than as the emotional expression, posture or vocalizing of a single body.7 Touch thus highlights the strangeness of affect as what exceeds the body and draws others into its circuit; in performance settings, this circuitry may be expressed in the tragic shudder as a group experience.8 3 See esp. Sobchack (1992); Marks (2000). See also Fisher (1997) on “interperformance” and “distal touch” in performance art; Witmore (2012) on Shakespearean theatre and the Aristotelian notion of “sensing with” (sunaisthanesthai). 4 See Williams’ famous formulation of this phenomenon as “structures of feeling” (1977: 19, 131); these shape cultural production and the reception of its media – the historical, material and affective conditions in which art emerges in and through its practices. 5 Sobchack (1992: 260–3); this is a gross oversimplification of her innovative formulation of a “semiotic phenomenology” (1992: 6) engaged especially with the work of Merleau-Ponty (1962); see also Marks (2000: 139–53), who formulates a “tactile epistemology” heavily influenced by Sobchack’s work. Cf. Marks (2002); Sobchack (2004); also Deleuze on cinema (e.g., [1983] 1986). On ancient materialist ideas about sense perception, see esp. Porter (2010). Cf. Eagleton’s argument that modern aesthetics was “born as a discourse of the body”, that is not merely as art appreciation but rather involving “the whole region of human perception and sensation” that aisthēsis invokes (1990: 13). 6 E.g., Seale (1982); Segal (1980; 1993: 123–30); Wiles (1997); Rehm (2002). 7 Deleuze (1988: 127–8). On Deleuze’s expansion of Spinoza’s notion of affect as “escape”, see (e.g.) the cultural geographer Thrift (2004: 61–3); cf. also Sedgwick (2003: 17–19) on touch and affect. Cultural critics and literary theorists (following Sedgwick and others) theorize affect as not ­synonymous with emotion, since they associate it more closely with the body’s experiences; see ­Papoulias & Callard (2010: 35–6) on the emancipatory politics of this theorizing. Cf. Leys (2011: 443), who points out that for both these cultural theorists and the neuroscientists whose work they cite, “[A]ffect is a matter of autonomic responses that are held to occur below the threshold of consciousness and cognition and to be rooted in the body”. While I am not equipped to make any claims here about precognitive reaction and so on, it is useful for my purposes that these theorists focus on the body’s close surround and the linkages between touch and affective experience. These emerge from their interest in performance studies and the “body in its lived materiality” (440); she flags the influence of Deleuze and Sedgwick and cites among others Thrift (2004) and Clough & Halley (2007). 8 Cf. the kind of sensory mimesis that Benjamin argued is an essential aspect of what he terms the “mimetic faculty”; compare also the self-analogizing that Silverman captures as “flesh of my flesh”, arguing that many influential artists and thinkers have envisioned human relationality as a “flesh”

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The interactive and layered qualities of dramatic effects thus invigorate a lively sensorium, in which characters’ directorial gestures that highlight emotions, perceptions and their postures in relation to significant others and/or objects model for the audience sensory reactions, communicating judgments about aesthetic, physical and ethical orientations. While theorists of theatre semiotics have gone some way toward indicating how such complexities work in the realm of signification, they largely set aside questions about how semiotic references triangulate in relation to sense perception, affect and what I would call the materiality of the signs. By this, I mean the ways in which the dramatic text offers up in the fullness of its realization a layered, often contradictory, experience that combines figurative images with indications of enactment, including what theorists of theatre semiotics call proxemics (nearness indicators), blocking, deportment, contact and costuming.9 It is my contention that attending to the enactment indicated by the play script and thus to the theatricality of figurative imagery, as well as its material or “material” extensions, can help to nuance our understanding of the ways in which dramatic texts sort out power, authority and acts (righteous or otherwise) in relation to embodied identity – not only male versus female, but also citizen versus foreigner, old versus young, aristocrat versus slave and even human versus creature or object.10

Sensing the body in pain Since viewing “the body in pain” (to use Elaine Scarry’s phrase) is arguably the dominant aesthetic experience of tragedy, here I focus on touch in relation to pain’s representation and its affective impact on characters and audience.11 My discussion thus inflects arguments in favour of sensuous, embodied ways of knowing with a focus on one of the more nebulous aspects of perceptual experience. Scarry locates the body in pain – and different types of tragic expression, Philoctetes being a favourite ­example – at the intersection of sensation and its object, where different power-knowledge configurations conspire to inhibit or foster access to tools, resources and pleasures.12

rooted in an admission of kinship, an “ontological connectedness” and correspondence (2009: 4, 152–4). On Benjamin ([1955] 1978) on mimesis and aura, see Marks (2000: 139–40). 9 On the complexities of semiotic reference in drama, see Ubersfeld (1977); Serpieri (1978); Elam (1980); Issacharoff (1989); Aston & Savona (1991); Fisher-Lichte (1992). For a revisionist theorizing of theatrical ways of meaning that advances a materialist semiotics, see Knowles (2004); while the book does not engage with more recent work on materialism and thus focuses more on new historicism and cultural materialism, it is useful for its promotion of “thick” readings. See also Fortier ([1997] 2016: 22–8), who points out that Barthes’ essay on costume urges attention to social, interactive apprehension of (e.g.) texture; cf. Barthes ([1964] 1972: 41–50), though my notion of the “materiality of the signs” does not involve hypothesizing about actual productions, as he is doing here. 10 From my perspective, these must be taken together if we are to apprehend fully the material quality of dramatic signification – that is, as indexical (i.e. as concrete entities, postures, etc. indicating themes, concepts, etc.) and viewing itself as sensuous and mimetic, as a kind of “feeling with” (see again Marks 2000). For a sustaining of attention to the semiotic in such affective encounters, see Brinkema (2014). 11 Scarry (1985); see esp. the discussion on pp. 164–6. 12 Scarry (1985: 5, 7, 10, 17, 53). For example, the bow operates in Sophocles’ play as all three (tool, resource, pleasure); an instrument of power, it also promotes and impedes knowledge and cathects desires.

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In contrast to more recent theorists’ emphases on sensory combinations, Scarry distinguishes the senses, especially vision versus touch, to highlight the control and understanding that comes of surveying from a distance (i.e. as an object in the visual field) in contradistinction to perceiving the body up close, vulnerable and in conjunction with the self. For her own reasons, however, Scarry largely avoids clear differentiations between pain and its representation, which means that how mimesis is mediated by the body is backgrounded in her account. In fact tragic representation frequently bridges the remove that vision (and sound as well) can afford, calling out for a whole-body experience in which touch may activate a feeling of proximity and shared sensation.13 In tragedy, this sense of proximity is often more horrifying than otherwise, as heroes in pain are usually tainted by their deeds and suffering for them, sometimes to disgusting effect, as with Philoctetes’ festering foot or Oedipus’ gouged-out eyes. In Powers of Horror, Julia Kristeva dwells on the imagination’s cringing responses to tactile qualities that characterize the abject – the untouchable, barely conscionable, and yet compelling outcast object – and highlights the affects generated by it.14 One of her favourite examples is the debilitated Oedipus.15 Kristeva regards Oedipus at the end of Oedipus the King as most importantly what Creon terms him: an agos (1426), a polluted figure whose visible scarring both draws attention to and yet obscures the nature of his crime, as blinding does not signify incest. From this perspective there is something peculiar about his taint and its bodily marking, something my focus might encourage us to regard as a weird incommensurability between this body’s sensuous history and its visible demarcations, since touch rather than vision would seem a more fitting sense for a perpetrator of murder and incest to truncate. And this blinding is all the more interesting for its dramatic ironies as a visible sign.16 Thus, for instance, in Oedipus the King when the lofty hero emerges in his newly debilitated state, he orchestrates the chorus’ approach to and viewing of his body as an object of tragic pleasure – the aesthetic experience that Edmund Burke piquantly termed “delightful horror”.17 In the midst of all this visual manoeuvring, which holds the onlookers in thrall at a careful distance, Oedipus makes one very intimate move: while the chorus shudders and the audience with it, Oedipus gropes about for his daughters and gathers them to him, so that they serve as props for a profoundly unsettling tableau. Attention to a materialist semiotics would encourage, in this instance, the recognition that touch is a physical act and a sign with multiplying significance, as contact and support may indicate bonding, steadfastness, and incest, the family story lending a uniquely creepy turn to such proximities.18 I should note as well that what we are dealing with specifically in tragedy and even more specifically in Sophocles’ dramas is the experience not only of bodies in pain

13 See again Marks (2000: 139). 14 Cf. Ahmed (2004) on disgust, and see further below. 15 Kristeva (1980: 99–105). 16 Oedipus claims that he had blinded himself so that he not face seeing his family, either living or dead (Oedipus the King 1371–7), but the irony of the sensory switch-off remains. 17 Burke ([1767] 1958: 73). 18 Note that many commentators have sought to excise this ending; see the discussion in Dawes ([1982] 2006).

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but also of heroic affects and postures that emanate violent potentialities, whether violence committed or violence threatened. In the scenes on which I focus here the heroes are approached hesitantly and handled gingerly, sometimes in contrast to threat, so that proximity and touch are central aspects of the spectacle. The intensity of the sensory experience for the audience involves the kind of attraction-repulsion that accompanies violent acts and the marks of their aftermath. Proximity and touching, then, uniquely draw the audience in close to debased, debilitated heroes – despite the fact that the heroes themselves often still entertain fantasies of violent revenge. In Sophocles’ dramas, responses to heroic forms tend to fall into two primary categories of aesthetic response, one of which reproduces tragic experience (sight) while the other offers possibilities for reactions that lie outside of its scope (touch), at least in its narrower sense as direct bodily contact.19 Sophocles also sometimes indicates how seeing and hearing may reinforce or heighten the sense of distance, objectifying and/or isolating objects of perception. Consider, for instance, the arrivals of the heroes early on in the Philoctetes and Ajax: the chorus exclaims at Philoctetes’ lonesome cry from offstage, which signals for them his status as cipher and outsider; Tecmessa encourages the chorus to look as she displays Ajax’s slumped, post-manic form to them, which in its bloody isolation only puzzles them further. 20 Touch instead brings things and people closer, attaching body to body and engaging less often awesome or terrifying effects than piteous or tender ones. As historians and theorists of western aesthetics often emphasize, touch is persistently denigrated in the tradition as a sense not appropriate to higher art forms. 21 The sheer proximity of the body can complicate its reception, since embodiment in its humbler regards runs counter to the elevating effects of art. As such, we may be tempted to consider touch less tragic, since its aesthetic contributes a humbling, intimate, and almost private aspect to this public commemoration of heroes. 22 On the other hand, tragedy also frequently dramatizes rituals associated with handling the dead, which lends some dignity to touching bodies. So, for instance, in the later part of Sophocles’ play Ajax’s giant corpse is both a protection for and protected by his family members, who warn the aggressive Agamemnon and Menelaus to keep away from it, as well as the more helpful Odysseus. 23 Also important for our purposes is the fact that these scenes indicate the extent to which touch can be violent, a crucial extension of the abuses that Creon levels at Oedipus in the Colonus play. 24 Again, onstage touching is primarily a visual event for the audience, as actors’ gestures show them the effects of tactile sensations, as well as who and what 19 Though sound is also central to the hero’s performance of his pain – think especially of Philoctetes – the staging of and aesthetic responses to heroic embodiment most often privilege the visual and include touch as a crucial aspect of the tableau. 20 See Worman (1999, 2000). 21 E.g., Paterson (2007); cf. Field (2001); Sedgwick (2003). As Slaney notes in her reading of Herder in this volume, the exception proves the rule, as those thinkers who focus on touch deliberately counter a perceived bias in favour of sight as the primary sense. See also Purves’ discussion in the Introduction to this volume. 22 See Kaimio (1988), who points out that instances of touch in tragedy increase toward the end of the century. 23 Worman (2001). 24 Again, see Kaimio (1988); also Kosak (1999).

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individuals are in relation to others. Yet such gestures may themselves provoke a fuller sensory awareness, as mimesis and memory pull the perceiving bodies in close to the onstage experience. 25 Thus, characters intermittently desire to touch bodies, sometimes warn others from presuming to do so, or draw back from contact. 26 Heracles’ orchestration of his body’s impact, for instance, focuses on handling it in its pain, especially grasping it and lifting it up as if for better viewing (Trachiniae 1018–25). In Philoctetes Neoptolemus physically assists Philoctetes, but it is the assistance more than the touching that the scene emphasizes. For reasons that carry the shock of tragic experience (parricide and incest), the plots that involve Oedipus foreground touch in a manner unparalleled elsewhere in Sophocles’ extant plays. 27 In Oedipus the King the hero’s transformation from noblest to debased (kallistos to athlios) appears to render him more approachable at the play’s end; and something similar occurs in Oedipus at Colonus. This startling difference is marked particularly by proxemics. 28 While Oedipus remains the bold king with his senses physically intact, his only gestures toward others are commanding or abusive and tinged with violence. When, in contrast, he is blind and debilitated, he seeks fond physical contact with his daughters (Oedipus the King 1480–3, cf. 1469–74; also Oedipus at Colonus 173, 200–1, 329, 1112–13) and connections to others, as long as they are Athenians (Oedipus the King 1321–3, 1503–10, 1130–5).29 So if we want to pursue more fully the sensuous knowledge that tragic representation affords in its semiotic materialities, we should consider how these abject bodies and their affects register at tragedy’s unique intersection, that is, at points where directive language suggests or indicates explicitly visual and tactile details, where sight and touch together achieve an uncanny aesthetic impact. I focus here on how such sensory intersections frame Sophocles’ heroes as uncanny and compelling objects, emphasizing the language and stage business that highlights sensory response and bodily stature, at moments when the hero and/or other characters draw attention to and encourage the viewing and touching of the abject body as a tragic entity. If the Oedipus plays foreground such moments most emphatically, other plays also contribute significant details for characterizing and understanding these experiences. Further, the tragic orchestration of viewing bodies in pain encourages the audience to regard the sensory impacts of these bodies by highlighting internal reactions to them. That is, Sophocles’ characters – including the heroes themselves – regard and handle the heroic body as an object to be appreciated or denigrated. They tell the chorus (and thus the audience) what to look at and see in it, how to approach and handle it; and the heroes themselves often highlight the great chasm between their formerly elevated statures and the devolutions of their bodies into objects of horror and pity.

25 This is largely Bergson’s notion ([1911] 1988), although he emphasizes memory while Benjamin ([1955] 1978) focuses on mimesis; see Marks (2000: 145–53) for the importance of their awareness of such sensations as acculturated rather than natural and universal. 26 E.g., Oedipus’ withdrawal from Polyneices in the Colonus play; Odysseus from Hecuba in Euripides’ Hecuba. 27 Cf. Derrida on mimesis and metaphor: “[W]hen mimetic ellipsis is in play, Oedipus, the serpent, and parricide are not far off” (1982: 240, n. 43). See also Pucci (1992). 28 See Serpieri (1978); Elam (1980). 29 See further below (45–9).

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Since Sophocles’ plays emphasize viewing and touching bodies in relation to particular characters and at distinct moments in his plots, I have divided the core of my discussion into two sections: one on the display and handling of other Sophoclean heroes in extremis (i.e. Heracles, Ajax and Philoctetes) and the other on the complex sensory puzzle that Oedipus embodies and stage-manages for his audience.

Displaying and handling heroic bodies Just before Heracles is carried in on his bed of pain toward the end of Trachiniae, the chorus of women cries out that the mere sight of him may be deadly. They wish that a wind might blow them away, so that they not experience death “straightaway” when looking upon the horror (μὴ ταρβαλέα θάνοιμι / μοῦνον εἰσιδοῦσ’ ἄφαρ, 957–8). They claim that their fear arises from the report that the attendants are bearing home “some unspeakable phenomenon” (ἄσπετόν τι θαῦμα, 961). When Heracles enters, his attendants and he himself depict the pain he is suffering as a devouring thing, wild and implacable (e.g., 975, 985–7, 1028–30, 1054–7) – the monstrous enemy of his final labouring (cf. 1046–7). Heracles also terms this new fiend “the inexorable flower of frenzy” (ἀκήλητον / μανίας ἄνθος);30 and he deems a long shot (lit. “a wonder that I see from afar”: θαῦμ’ ἂν πόρρωθεν ἰδοίμην) the possibility that some singer or artful surgeon (τίς γὰρ ἀοιδός, τίς ὁ χειροτέχνης / ἰατορίας) might release him from his agony (998–1003).31 True to form, he soon calls for violence, demanding that someone “cut off the head” of his pain (ἀπαράξαι 〈μου〉 / κρᾶτα … τοῦ στυγεροῦ, 1015–17, cf. 1034–5).32 The visualizing intensity of Heracles’ language, which combines frenzy’s flower and its singer/surgeon, the ravening beast of pain, and a sense of wonder, frames his staging of the suffering body as a terrifying, mysterious and resonant event, an event that shakes the senses. Like Philoctetes, he repeatedly cries out in anguish, but unlike him he insists on exhibiting his body as the quintessential “wretched form” (ἄθλιον δέμας, 1079), exemplary in the visibility of its torment – the perfect tragic object. 33 In his stage-managing of the scene, he puts his son Hyllus to work as the model for the audience’s experience of the moment, encouraging both kind and violent touching as well as close-up viewing. Echoing the elderly attendant who calls upon Hyllus to hold onto him (cf. σὺ δὲ σύλλαβε, 1019), Heracles enjoins his son, “Hold me, here … here, lift me up!” (τᾷδέ με, τᾷδέ με / πρόσλαβε κουφίσας, 1024–5). Then as the disease assaults him (θρῴσκει δειλαία), he cries out repeatedly and finally urges Hyllus instead to take up his sword and strike him under the heart (παῖσον ἐμᾶς ὑπὸ κλῇδος) (1028–35).34

30 Cf. Reinhardt on Oedipus and the “flowering in his torment” (1947: 140), and see further below. 31 On this and other medical terms in the scene, see Allan (2014: 267–9). 32 See Biggs (1966) on what she terms the “disease theme” in this and the other plays discussed here; Budelmann (2007: 444–6) and Allan (2014) on Sophocles’ representation of pain; also Holmes (2008: 242–4) on the hero’s body in pain as a site of uncertainty and fascination. 33 Heracles’ stage-managing would seem to offer a counterexample to Scarry’s argument that pain is all experience and without object, since here he uses his body as precisely the object of vision that Scarry aligns with viewing from a distance (1985: 164–70). Cf. Kristeva (1980: Chapter 1) on abjection and its affects; see further below, p. 47. 34 As does Philoctetes with his foot and then his whole body (Philoctetes 747–8, 1204–7).

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In his central speech, Heracles wishes the same death on Deianeira as punishment for her, not yet knowing that she has already done this herself. He laments at length the loss of his glorious body at the hands of a woman’s poison (as he thinks), ordering Hyllus to bring her out with his own hands and place her into his father’s (δός μοι χεροῖν σαῖν … ἐς χεῖρα, 1066–7), so that, with this son to father, hand-to-hand transfer, he can assess husband and wife as two suffering bodies laid out side by side – his poisoned, hers defiled (λωβητὸν εἶδος, 1069). So here we have a concertedly tactile, grotesquely embodied version of the family triangle, as son and father serve in Heracles’ distorted vision as manhandlers of their mother and wife. This envisioned proximity seems to drive Heracles to a further conflation: since he has been poisoned by a woman whose nature is “feminine and unmanly” (θῆλυς οὖσα κοὐκ ἀνδρὸς φύσις, 1062), he deplores that he “moans and cries out like a girl” (ὥστε παρθένος / βέβρυχα κλαίων, 1071–2) and finds himself to be a feminine wreck (θῆλυς ηὕρημαι τάλας, 1075).35 Next Heracles calls upon Hyllus for a new task: proximate viewing of his father’s wreckage. “Draw near to the breast of your father” (προσελθὼν στῆθι πλησίον πατρός, 1076), he says, “and look at the evidence of the sort of misfortune I am suffering” (σκέψαι δ’ ὁποίας ταῦτα συμφορᾶς ὕπο / πέπονθα) (1077–8). He then expands this intimate viewing of his body to urge the chorus and attendants to view it: δείξω γὰρ τάδ’ ἐκ καλυμμάτων. ἰδού, θεᾶσθε πάντες ἄθλιον δέμας, ὁρᾶτε τὸν δύστηνον, ὡς οἰκτρῶς ἔχω. Release these wounds from their coverings – see, all of you view my wretched form, look upon its misfortune, how pitifully I suffer. (Sophocles, Trachiniae 1078–80) This sorry, feminized body in its insistent directorial frame compares very miserably with the hero’s form of old, the one that Heracles then hails in a heraldic lament, naming its glorious parts: “Oh hands, hands, oh back and breast, oh dear arms!” (ὦ χέρες χέρες, / ὦ νῶτα καὶ στέρν’, ὦ φίλοι βραχίονες, 1089–90).36 Instead of this marvellous specimen of manhood, his body is now “unstrung and bedraggled” (ἄναρθρος καὶ κατερρακωμένος, 1103), a “nothing that can even crawl” (τὸ μηδὲν ὦ … μηδὲν ἕρπω, 1107–8). Recall that at the outset of this scene the female chorus fears that viewing such a terrible devolution, in which the hero’s near-dead body serves the

35 This is an unusual move in Sophocles: heroes in distress often call themselves wretched, nothings, close to dead, but they rarely invoke female weakness as an appropriate image for their unraveling (see Worman, 2012). Since, however, Heracles thinks that Deianeira is responsible for the loss of his beautiful hero’s body, he interweaves his mourning of it with vicious fantasies of manhandling hers and fears for his own loss of manly force. Cf. Kosak (1999: 105–7), who argues that touching itself effeminizes the hero, since it is an indication of helplessness. 36 The heraldic blazon of parts is a figure of praise poetry (Lanham [1991: 61], but cf. Bakhtin [1984: 426–7] on comic abuse); here Heracles strikingly juxtaposes the heroic form with its opposite – the abject body. Cf. also Barthes (1974: 214–15) on the blazon’s reversion of the body to the “dust of words”.

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dramatic function of the terrifying revelation of corpses extruded from the skēnē door, might itself be deadly. They also wish for escape from this sight, since they have heard that it is unspeakable. Their affective postures thus communicate shrinking and withdrawal, rather than any sensory participation in the “becoming” (or rather, the un-becoming) of this once-heroic form. 37 Heracles urges the opposite: no matter how terrible the viewing, it must be undertaken – and close up, body to body, as if by sheer proximity the viewers could share fully his horrifying experience. 38 Something parallel to this feminine recoil from viewing torment and the male insistence on it occurs in Ajax at the first discovery of the hero’s corpse. As the chorus of sailors cries out at its discovery, Tecmessa declares it “not to be looked upon” (οὔτοι θεατός, 915) and seeks immediately to cover it.39 She asserts, “No one, not even a friend, would endure to view him bubbling up dark blood from his nostrils and his gory wound from his self-slaughter”: oὐδεὶς ἄν, ὅστις καὶ φίλος, τλαίη βλέπειν φυσῶντ’ ἄνω πρὸς ῥῖνας ἔκ τε φοινίας πληγῆς μελανθὲν αἷμ’ ἀπ’ οἰκείας σφαγῆς

(Sophocles, Ajax 917–19)

When Teucer arrives on the scene, he demands a viewing, although he deems it “the most painful to me of all spectacles that I have seen with my eyes” (ὦ τῶν ἁπάντων δὴ θεαμάτων ἐμοὶ / ἄλγιστον ὧν προσεῖδον ὀφθαλμοῖς ἐγώ, 992–3). He reports that he heard rumours, but now the actual sight of the draped corpse destroys him (ὁρῶν ἀπόλλυμαι, 1001). “Go ahead and uncover [it]”, he says, “so that I can look upon the entire woe” (ἴθ’, ἐκκάλυψον, ὡς ἴδω τὸ πᾶν κακόν, 1003). He then exclaims upon viewing, “Oh, sight hard upon the eye!” (ὦ δυσθέατον ὄμμα, 1004). At the end of his lamenting, Teucer leans in and grasps his brother’s body, seeking to lift it free of the sword (σ’ ἀποσπάσω, 1024). This wrenching of Ajax’s giant corpse initiates a series of encounters that centre on how it ought to be treated and (literally) handled. First Menelaus comes barging in and demands that it be exposed on the shore as food for the sea birds (1064–5), warning Teucer that if he attempts burial he will end up buried himself (1089–90). They argue, Menelaus stomps off again, and Tecmessa enters with the child Eurysakes. Teucer instructs the boy to come stand at his father’s side and lay his hand on the body, kneeling by it as a suppliant (πρόσελθε δεῦρο, καὶ σταθεὶς πέλας, 1171), holding in his hands (ἐν χεροῖν ἔχων) locks of hair from the three family members (1073–4). He urges him to hold onto and guard the hair (ἔχ’ αὐτόν, ὦ παῖ, καὶ φύλασσε) and to fall upon and hold the body (προσπεσὼν ἔχου, 1180–1). He then commands the chorus (Ajax’s crew) to stand nearby and protect the body and its suppliant (ὑμεῖς … πέλας / παρέστατ’, ἀλλ’ ἀρήγετ’), lest someone come to wrench them apart.

37 Again, see Deleuze (1988: 127–8) on affect as immanence; also Thrift (2004: 61–3). 38 Cf. again Scarry (1985: 164–6) on pain and proximate sensing through touch. 39 See Finglass (2009: 274–8) on Tecmessa’s covering of the body as a possible unveiling of herself; unveiling, as he shows, can be an act of female mourning; cf. Segal (1980: 128–9 and 1981: 117) and Worman (2001: 242–4) on the significance of the cloak and the imagery of enfolding.

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Enter Agamemnon, after a brief choral interlude, who does indeed threaten and insult the whole family, thus providing the affective opposite to the intimate handling that Teucer had just orchestrated. Teucer argues with him as well and declares that if he should cast out Ajax’s corpse, he will cast out as well three family members prepared to lie with it (βαλεῖτε χἡμᾶς τρεῖς ὁμοῦ συγκειμένους, 1309), as if their hands on his body achieved a permanent bond. Then Odysseus, in this play the consummate diplomat, intervenes and slowly turns Agamemnon aside from his violent intentions. He also offers Teucer assistance with the burial, but Teucer is reluctant to accept his helping hand (lit. “I shrink from allowing you to touch the tomb”, τάφου μὲν ὀκνῶ τοῦδ’ ἐπιψαύειν ἐᾶν), lest he do something that would seem badly handled to the dead (τῷ θανόντι … δυσχερές) (1394–5). The play ends with preparations for the burial, in which Teucer sets the chorus members to various tasks and requests that Eurysakes “lovingly touch [Ajax’s] sides and lift them up with me” (φιλότητι θιγὼν πλευρὰς σὺν ἐμοὶ / τάσδ’ ἐπικούφιζ’, 1410–11).40 The bodies of both Heracles and Ajax are threatened with violence by the sword and both at their own hands; the action contrasts this violence, again in both cases, with the witnessing and gentle handling of their dead or near-dead bodies. The handling of weapons thus is closely juxtaposed with the treatment of the heroes, an unnerving coincidence that Philoctetes draws out to the greatest extent. There, the central struggle is over the Greek army’s need for Philoctetes’ bow, at least initially as opposed to Philoctetes himself. They need the bow, but they recoil from the hero, because he is such a noisy, festering thing (7–11). The play foregrounds repeatedly the grossness of the hero’s suppurating foot and the pain he suffers from it, as well as the sensory enmeshing it encourages (crying, oozing, viewing).41 Only Neoptolemus, sent by Odysseus to take the bow from Philoctetes, gets close enough to serve as an affective companion to this body’s excruciating sensory effects.42 Up close, Neoptolemus is overwhelmed by sympathy for Philoctetes’ condition, and between these two there are repeated intimate negotiations around handling his pain as well as his bow (e.g., 667–70 vs. 761, 816–17). Of the three plays discussed in this section, Philoctetes stages what is by far the fullest experience of the hero’s body in pain. A pair of central scenes places side by side the handling of the bow and the up-close witnessing of his disease and sharing in its painful emanations. Philoctetes first urges Neoptolemus to approach and lay hands on the bow (παρέσται ταῦτά σοι καὶ θιγγάνειν, 667), declaring that he should know himself as the only one worthy to touch it (ἐπιψαῦσαι, 669). Immediately after this exchange, they enter Philoctetes’ cave, so that Neoptolemus can be in close attendance at his suffering (τὸ γὰρ / νοσοῦν ποθεῖ σε ξυμπαραστάτην λαβεῖν, 674–5). When they emerge after a brief choral ode, Philoctetes has an attack, screams that the disease is consuming him (βρύκομαι, 745), and calls out for Neoptolemus to take up his sword and cut off

40 Note that a similar scene ends the Trachiniae, with Hyllus and attendants hovering around Heracles’ body, in preparation to carry him to his burial. 41 I.e., Philoctetes is a sensory virtuoso, screaming, festering and even stinking, such that he draws back from the assistance of Neoptolemus’ attendants (889–91). This is the only indication of smell, a comparatively lowly sense perception (especially when bad), in the plays under discussion. 42 Again, cf. Scarry’s contentions about the close-in experiencing of pain versus viewing from a distance (1985: 164–70).

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his foot (747–8; cf. 1204–7). Neoptolemus cries out in horror and pity, eventually asking Philoctetes whether he wants him to hold and touch him (βούλῃ λάβωμαι δῆτα καὶ θίγω τί σου; 761). Instead, in a move that effectively offers the bow as a less abject proxy for his debilitated body, Philoctetes insists that Neoptolemus take it and keep it under careful guard (762–6). In fact, it is remarkable that the two do not touch except in formal pledge (see below), especially given that this play and this scene in particular stage such an elaborate display of the body in pain, complete with an affective companion.43 Instead, the two characters handle the bow, and once Philoctetes has offered up this proxy item, the pain overwhelms him again. Now he accompanies his screams with threatening fantasies of the Greek commanders suffering similar agonies (791–5), interspersed with requests that Neoptolemus stay close to him. After this second outburst, he also asks that Neoptolemus give him his hand in a pledge of loyalty (ἔμβαλλε χειρὸς πίστιν), and Neoptolemus complies (813–14) – again, the one time in all of this i­ntimate experience of bodily suffering that the two touch.44 The scene ends with P ­ hiloctetes collapsed in a fevered sleep while Neoptolemus stands over him, holding the bow. The struggle over this weapon reaches its fullest pitch with the re-entrance of ­Odysseus, in this play a bold schemer. He brings with him a more violent form of touching, since he orders his attendants to seize Philoctetes, in order to prevent his threat of suicide (1003). An extended struggle ensues, during which Odysseus and Neoptolemus also draw their swords on each other, but because this is not a tragedy in the fullest sense, the weapons do not take on the ominous qualities or carry with them the grim atmosphere of the other two dramas. Of these three plays, then, only Trachiniae foregrounds the detailed viewing and touching of the hero’s body in pain, while Philoctetes stages the most elaborate sensory and affective surround for it, with the handling of the bow standing in for touching and propping up Philoctetes himself. Since the scenes in Ajax centre around a dead body, there can be no such sensory and affective intimacy. Yet the careful covering and uncovering of the hero’s corpse and the family’s holding onto and gentle handling of it communicate a sense of shared space and sensation, such that Teucer’s declaration that exposing Ajax will expose the whole family equally serves to underscore the profound claim of these familial proxemics. Further, for all three plays, the characters and chorus members repeatedly draw in close to the heroes’ abject bodies, mediating sensory and affective sharing for the audience. These intimate gestures also thereby counter some of the distancing effects of that abjection, the nearness of the emotional and physical experiences bridging at least to a certain extent the isolation of extreme suffering. Finally, in these scenes, close-in viewing provides a sensory experience that parallels touch, sharing its intimacy and impact.

43 See Schein (2013: 236) on the tenor of this scene and ad 263–6 on touching as a mark of weakness (citing Kosak 1999, who compares Heracles in the Trachiniae and Pentheus in the Bacchae). Kosak (1999: 95–8) makes the point that touching among male characters who are not related is rare, which underscores the delicacy of the characters’ affective postures in this scene. 4 4 Neoptolemus does help Philoctetes stand up in the next episode, a gesture paralleled by another intimate sense experience – namely, the hero’s concern about his smell (889–91).

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Oedipus touching Oedipus’ body evokes intensified versions of such responses and group dynamics, as it devolves from heroic to debilitated. In Oedipus the King, his confidence and physical dominance suffer a complete reversal, but as with Heracles in Trachiniae, the drama does not focus in on his actual body until late in the action, when it is no longer lofty. Here at the play’s end, Oedipus’ physical stature contrasts so fully with his intellectual and political one as to be singularly appalling; – what Karl Reinhardt once termed “the flowering of his torment”.45 Oedipus now emerges as a “miserable form” (ἄθλιον δέμας)46 whose careful viewing he demands, a polluted thing that shocks Creon by its “uncovered” condition, as if it were already a corpse.47 Oedipus seems to “luxuriate” (as Reinhardt also put it) in his ravaged state, a perversely aestheticizing extension of the play that is so elaborating as to give some editors pause.48 Like Heracles, he lingers on the visceral details of his physical undoing, offering his maimed body as the centre point around which sensory and affective reactions cluster. As he fully confronts his status as a polluted being and expatiates on what he has been and done, he also engages in directorial gestures, drawing all eyes and some hands to him. By means of his manipulation of tragic viewing and proxemics, Oedipus insistently frames himself as the tainted and suffering target of communal denigration, so that here too the hero oversees his defiled body’s tragic impact.49 Oedipus first seeks physical contact directly after he has demanded to be thrown out and thereby hidden from sight and hearing, as if this more lowly sense perception were better suited to his new status as a figure deserving condemnation. Touch, that is to say, seems to be of a different ethical order at this moment in his tragedy’s unfolding. “Come”, he says to the chorus, “deign to touch this wretched man – be ­persuaded, do not fear” (ἴτ’, ἀξιώσατ’ ἀνδρὸς ἀθλίου θιγεῖν. / πίθεσθε, μὴ δείσητε, Oedipus the King 1413–14). Although just before this he has lamented that by his hands the fatal crossroads drank his father’s blood (αἳ τοὐμὸν αἷμα τῶν ἐμῶν χειρῶν ἄπο / ἐπίετε πατρός, 1400–1), now he reaches for the hands of others. He seeks out his daughters in particular, explaining in markedly haptic terms how close they were: “Everything I touched they always shared” (ἀλλ’ ὅσων ἐγὼ / ψαύοιμι, πάντων τῶνδ’ ἀεὶ μετειχέτην, 1464–5). Pursuing this sensory emphasis, he begs Creon to allow him to touch his daughters with his hands (καὶ μάλιστα μὲν χεροῖν / ψαῦσαι μ’ ἔασον); when Creon complies, he exclaims to them, “Touching with my hands I seem to have you, just as when I saw!” (χερσί τἂν θιγὼν / δοκοῖμ’ ἔχειν σφας, ὥσπερ ἡνίκ’ ἔβλεπον, 1469–70). But they appear elusive, so that soon he is asking piteously, “Oh children, wherever are you? Come here, come to my hands, these that are sibling” (ὦ τέκνα, ποῦ ποτ’ ἐστέ· δεῦρ’ ἴτ’, ἔλθετε / ὡς τὰς ἀδελφὰς τάσδε τὰς ἐμὰς χέρας, 1480–1). Despite the pathetic tenor 45 Reinhardt (1947: 140); the phrase is Sophoclean, but used of Heracles, cf. Trachiniae 998 and discussion in the previous section. 46 Oedipus the King 1388; cf. Oedipus at Colonus 576, Trachiniae 1079. 47 ἀκάλυπτον, Oedipus the King 1427; Cf. καλύψατ’, 1411. See also Ajax 916, 1003, Antigone 28, Trachiniae 1078. 48 I.e., some chose to excise sections of the final scene and/or credit them to later productions; see Olson (1989) for bibliography and overview; also Dawes’ commentary ([1982] 2006: 192–3). 49 Again, cf. Heracles at the end of Trachiniae. On Euripides’ treatment of some aspects of this dynamic, see Zeitlin (1991).

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of the scene and the obvious need for the blind man to replace his lost sense with this other one, it is difficult to avoid the disturbing extensions that touch must carry for this family: the shadow of incest, the sibling hand. Similarly, in Oedipus at Colonus, the play in which the exiled and debilitated Oedipus effectively stumbles into seeking sanctuary in Athens, he repeatedly reaches out for his daughters as a sensory replacement that is nonetheless unnerving for its pitiful necessity. It does not help matters that he is a horrifying sight: when the elders of Colonus who make up the chorus first enter, they exhibit trepidation upon seeing and hearing Oedipus (he is “frightening to look upon, frightening to hear”, δεινὸς μὲν ὁρᾶν, δεινὸς δὲ κλύειν, 141). Yet they quickly turn to guiding him around the sacred grove by means of carefully orchestrated directives that indicate with unusual precision the blocking of this special stage presence. They do this from a distance, but with the more intimate assistance of Antigone, who reaches out to touch Oedipus, as he requests (Oedipus: πρόσθιγέ νύν μου [“touch me!”]; Antigone: ψαύω καὶ δή [“See I touch you!”], 173). 50 He may in his ravaged state seem similar to Philoctetes, but the initial receptions of these two exiles are quite different in relation to emotional response and proxemics. The step-by-step direction and hand-to-hand manoeuvring of Oedipus’ body (again, especially by Antigone, who also props him up here, 200–201) draw him in close to the communal interaction in a manner distinct from the fearful and distanced postures that the chorus and Neoptolemus (at least initially) adopt when confronted by Philoctetes. Although Oedipus is similarly outcast, and Creon at least thinks him worthy only of insulting forms of touching (i.e., manhandling), his daughters and the Athenians handle him with extreme care. When Theseus recovers Oedipus’ daughters from Creon’s attempted abduction later on in the action, Oedipus again seeks them out (especially Antigone) physically, reaffirming the bond with them that is emphasized repeatedly when they are first onstage. 51 He also fully marks out the stage business of their reunion: “Lean your torso into me, child” he urges each daughter, “embracing me on either side, in-growing to me who grew you” (ἐρείσατ’, ὦ παῖ, πλευρὸν ἀμφιδέξιον / ἐμφύντε τῷ φύσαντι, 1112–13). This is a remarkably detailed and physical family reunion, reverberating despite its apparent sweetness with echoes of the language of sowing that Oedipus and others used in the earlier play to revile the over-determination of his kinship bonds. 52 This threesome thus forges a striking but adumbrated tragic entity; it is simultaneously moving and unsettling, an anomalous object within any aesthetic scheme. Its ethical impact is equally ambiguous, since the poignancy of the familial tableau urges mutual support and incorporation, while the blind man’s need for touch seems only too convenient given the double bond with his daughters that lends this tableau its incestuous cast. At the centre of all this touching in the Colonus play is Oedipus’ body, for which Oedipus himself urges a special consideration and the strange status of which he highlights. There is little question that this late drama frames Oedipus from the 50 On the spatial indicators and proxemics of the scene, see Edmunds (1996: 51–3). 51 Oedipus at Colonus 1102–3, 1112–14; cf. 173, 200–201 (Antigone), 329 (Ismene). 52 To paraphrase Lévi-Strauss; cf. Oedipus the King (1210–12, 1256–7, 1485, 1497–8); cf. 259–60, 457–60. See Knox ([1957] 1998: 113–16). The verb ἐμφύειν, literally to “implant” also has the haptic sense of to cling on hard to the hand in Homer.

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outset as a debased and outcast presence, but the tensions it generates around his status appear to foster rather than impede communication. Isolated and yet unnervingly familiar, for Kristeva Oedipus remains a figure of abjection at Colonus, but now by signalling in language “the gouged-out eye, the wound, the basic incompleteness” of the human condition. 53 This strange inhabitation Oedipus dramatizes by talking and gesturing his way toward exalted status and the grave, so that communication and contact in this play run counter to the isolating horrors of abjection. Thus Theseus, the Athenians, and by extension Athenian audiences receive the abject body of the outcast hero with a wary but profound reverence. It is, as Oedipus himself admits, “not excellent to the eye” (οὐ σπουδαῖον εἰς ὄψιν, 577), which means that, in Aristotle’s terms, it is not conventionally tragic (Poetics 1449b24–5; cf. 1448a1–2, b34–5). It is compelling and yet frightening to approach or touch, an anomalous form just beyond reach of comprehension if not of hand. This is precisely the confluence that Kristeva characterizes as central to the abject, especially in relation to Oedipus when he is at Colonus: deserving of rejection or reverence? Profound or perverse? Revolting or sacred? In fact, abjection has a curiously entangled relationship with touch, such that it signals the introduction of a different aesthetic and ethical dimension into the tragic frame, indicating other types of psychic experience on and off stage. Kristeva characterizes abjection as a borderland where excess and transgression proliferate, where identity is fragile, the body is experienced as chaotically open to defilement and language repeatedly attempts to control and reconfigure the experience. Her descriptions of this psychic drama intermittently dwell on tactile sensations (real or imagined) and the repulsion that these may incite, as with the skin that forms on milk (cette peau à la surface du lait) but also blood, putrefaction, corpses – a whole théâtre vrai of untouchable things.54 Although the mind and flesh recoil from the abject, Kristeva’s own dramatizing of it suggests its ineffable attractions. Disgust, as Sara Ahmed has pointed out, works on the surface of bodies, by means of what she calls a “sensuous proximity”, an inter-corporeality that may transform this border/skin contact into some repulsive other. Both of Sophocles’ Oedipus plays suggest that this may express itself as a horror of one’s own embodied history, as when the post-traumatic Oedipus reconfigures his incestuous acts as a festering scar (ὕπουλον, Oedipus the King 1396). As Ahmed notes, the close-in experiencing that arouses disgust and abjection fosters the eroticizing of this proximity, since “it involves contact between skins”, “disturbing” them with the possibility of desire. 55 Such awareness captures something deeply mysterious about these plays. Touch should be the impossible gesture in the handling of Oedipus, and not only because he is ravaged and outcast and thus tainted. His sexual adventures with his mother and his murderous encounter with his father suggest that in this family

53 Kristeva (1980: 105): “l’oeil crevé, la blessure, l’incomplétude fondamentale”. 54 Kristeva (1980: 10–11). Cf. Steiner Goldner on Aristotle in this volume, n. 32: “In Generation of Animals, Aristotle distinguishes between flesh (sarx) and skin (derma) ‘the skin … is formed by the drying of the flesh, like the scum up on boiled substances’ (2.6.743b9–15). Thus, when I speak of flesh I refer not to what is most immediately the outer limit of the body, which is a form of flesh already degenerating or corrupted into something else”. 55 Ahmed (2004: 88).

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sheer proximity has a terrible realization in touch. Yet Oedipus at Colonus seems to indicate quite the opposite, to offer as a corrective the helping and the healing hand. 56 In keeping with this reverential treatment, late in the play Oedipus undergoes a final transformation from abject and piteous to transcendent – at the edge of rapture and the abyss. 57 In his final moments onstage, we see this elevated aesthetic played out in sensory and affective terms, as Oedipus breaks with the sensations and emotions that he shared with his daughters and Theseus to move into a space beyond. Now, in his lofty state he cannot be handled or guided, as he warns his daughters: “Come forward, but do not touch, let me find the holy tomb myself!” (χωρεῖτε, καὶ μὴ ψαύετ’, ἀλλ’ ἐᾶτέ με / αὐτὸν τὸν ἱερὸν τύμβον ἐξευρεῖν, 1544–5). As the light that is no light to him touches his form for the last time (ὦ φῶς ἀφεγγές … / νῦν δ’ ἔσχατόν σου τοὐμὸν ἅπτεται δέμας), he moves as if in processional off the stage, exclaiming in priestly fashion to those gathered around him, “Blessings on you forever!” (εὐτυχεῖς ἀεί) (1549–55). This drama centred on viewing and touching the tragic form continues in the messenger’s speech, now at a sensory remove for both chorus and audience but with the additional aural accompaniment of a thunderous divinity. As the messenger relates, when Zeus Chthonios rumbles in forewarning, Antigone and Ismene quake and weep and fall at their father’s knee in lamentation (1607–9). Oedipus first embraces his daughters (πτύξας ἐπ’ αὐταῖς χεῖρας, 1611); but then the god roars out an inquiry as to why he delays, which causes everyone’s hair to stand on end (1624–5). He then commands his daughters to join hands with Theseus in a shared pledge of loyalty (δός μοι χερὸς σῆς πίστιν ἀρχαίαν τέκνοις / ὑμεῖς τε, παῖδες, τῷδε, 1632–3). As he moves off, he nudges his children away with gentle hands (ψαύσας ἀμαυραῖς χερσίν, 1639), since only Theseus can accompany him further into the grove. But soon the point comes at which even Theseus cannot draw close to his near-heavenly form: when Oedipus vanishes, the messenger explains, “The king himself held up a hand to his head, shielding his eyes, as if from some awesome terror made manifest and unendurable to look upon” (ἄνακτα δ’ αὐτὸν ὀμμάτων ἐπίσκιον / χεῖρ’ ἀντέχοντα κρατός, ὡς δεινοῦ τινος / φόβου φανέντος οὐδ’ ἀνασχετοῦ βλέπειν, 1650–2). Even in the narrative, and even as it recedes from what is already a profound sensory remove, Oedipus’ body sustains its unique character as something to be carefully handled while he carefully handles others, until at last it retreats into a fully mysterious realm and slips from the audience’s grasp as a tragic object. The peculiar intensities of the tragic experience lie at least partly here, where verbal directives and proxemics highlight the body’s stature and senses, drawing the audience’s own sensory reactions and perceptions toward abject sights and urging their uncanny attractions by indications of proximity and touching. These directorial gestures and the tremulous reception of the internal audiences model for the audience how to look, draw near and respond to touch – as well as how to understand what 56 See again Edmunds (1996); also Murnaghan (1988). Cf. Euripides’ Phoenician Women, which ends with touching as protecting and caring for the dead, though not without the shadow of the family drama lending the contact a creepy resonance. 57 See, e.g., Kuhns (1982); Ramazani (1989) (on Yeats and “tragic joy”); for the place of the sublime in ancient aesthetics, see Porter (2010: 453–519).

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such proxemics and handling mean in relation to debilitated heroes and their abject bodies.58 Further, focusing on the moments that stage reactions to the devolutions of heroic forms opens a distinctive angle on this impact, foregrounding frictions between debased yet intimate and carefully maneuvered bodies on the one hand and the elevating, often distancing language of tragic awe on the other. This brings us back to aesthetics and aisthēsis, to art and the body’s sensory and affective surround, and so to the special status of touch within the aesthetic scheme. Of the senses central to tragic enactment (again, setting aside taste and smell), only touch demands body-to-body proximities and thus the sharing of space and experience. While the audience can see and hear isomorphically with the chorus and characters onstage, touch is unshareable and yet the sense that most encourages its extension via the “tactility” of sense memory and embodied spectatorship. If by such means touch pulls one into the midst of things, sometimes terrifyingly so, its dramatization also has need of sight for its impact – a kind of mirror effect of Oedipus’ sensory deprivation. In fact, this need may expose the outermost of all those uncanny reverberations for which Oedipus’ blind groping serves as the catalyst: his sightless need for touch both echoes and compensates for his transgressive handling of his parents, while the audience effectively shares his need by experiencing this sensory compensation in reverse.

58 See Worman (1999, 2001).

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3 Ar istotle a n d t he pr ior i t y of touch Rebecca Steiner Goldner

In his treatise On the Soul, Aristotle produced what was likely a more detailed and comprehensive account of sensation than any prior work. We can exist without any other sensitive capacities, but, Aristotle tells us, lacking touch there is no animal life; to destroy the capacity to touch is to destroy the very animal (On the Soul 3.13.435b19). To touch is to be contacted and to respond, a paradigmatic and profound capacity not merely to exist, but to live as a body in a world. For Aristotle, talk of soul is not distinct from science, and it is touch which best manifests the moment when phusis erupts into psuchē, a genesis from which it never fully escapes. Aristotle is often assumed to privilege vision over other sensitive capacities; in this chapter, I will call that assumption into question by examining the intricacies, difficulties and importance he attributes to the sense of touch. While contact pervades the natural world, the capacity to touch inaugurates an entirely new form of natural being, one capable not only of sentience but of actively pursuing its own preservation and perfection. In order to make sense of this claim, I begin by examining the distinction between contact in nature and animate touch before turning to a more detailed reading of the account of touch that occurs in On the Soul 2.11. The aim of the chapter is to illustrate that Aristotle presents us with the first philosophical treatment of touch as one of five distinct senses and, moreover, that he attributes to touch a particular privilege and importance for living beings insofar as touch situates the sentient being both within the natural world and, simultaneously, as differentiated from it.

Early philosophy and touch Among the ancients, the most robust philosophical treatment of sensation certainly belongs to Aristotle, and although the Pre-Socratics and Plato address sensation and perception, their attempts are far less rigorous and systematic than that of Aristotle.1 Aristotle alone considers touch as a sense in its own right, while his predecessors neglected touch with surprising uniformity. The middle books of Aristotle’s On the Soul can be viewed not only as the first codification of the notion that there are five distinct senses but also that touch, in spite of the problems it presented to ancient thinkers, is a single, unified and separate capacity.

1 Grene (1974) is helpful on the difference between the terms sensation and perception when talking about Aristotle (her choice is to use sense-perception in most cases).

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In order to consider the radical novelty of Aristotle’s treatment of touch, it is worth noting that to most ancient thinkers, questions of sensation or perception (aisthēsis) involved epistemological concerns; that is, they were invested in sensation primarily insofar as it could be regarded as a faculty that yielded truth or knowledge. To Aristotle’s predecessors, most of whom considered vision paradigmatic and prefatory to knowledge, mere touch seemed very far removed from cognition and most wholly associated not with thought but with the body. For thinkers prior to Aristotle, it appears to be in question whether the sense of touch existed at all, and Aristotle takes pains within On the Soul to show that touch is indeed a sense comparable to the other four. While Aristotle has epistemological concerns regarding sensation, because his discussion of sensation occurs in the middle of his work on the soul, it is more accurate to say that for Aristotle, questions of sense – and touch in particular – are also ontological questions, that is, questions about being, types of beings, and the differences among beings. Aristotle’s student and successor as head of the Lyceum, Theophrastus, is perhaps the best source for Pre-Socratic thought pertaining to sensation, yet he has very little to offer regarding touch.2 The Pre-Socratics were in great part physicists who contemplated the material, structure and motion of the natural world, and in various ways they reduced all sensation to a form of contact among natural things. Empedocles and Democritus, most notably, believed that perception occurs when an emanation or effluence (aporroē) from the object meets with our sense organ, either within the body or in a space between the organ and the object. Insofar as all sensation depends on contact, contact as a discrete form of sensation was rudimentary and of little interest to these thinkers.3 They had little reason to investigate touch as a separate sense since the account of the other senses already included a discussion of contact between the sensing and sensible bodies. Plato, in the Timaeus, does not include touch per se when he appeals to the existence of sense perception. Plato’s account of sensation in this work is overwhelmingly physical; he refers not to organs of sensation but to properties in the object and properties of the body that interact with those objects, interactions described in terms of cuts, divisions, compression and force (62a–65a). Plato refers to hot/cold, hard/soft, heavy/light, smooth/rough (clearly tangible qualities) with the general designation of perceptual properties, and he has no distinct talk of touch at all. In the same dialogue, Plato clearly suggests the privilege he affords to the eyes when he declares that in forming the human body “the eyes were the first of the organs (τῶν ὀργάνων) fashioned by the gods, to conduct light”, a light directly related to the pure fire produced by the sun (45b2–3, trans. Zeyl [Cooper & Hutchinson (1997)]). Seeing occurs when the daylight from the sun meets with the light emanating from the eye, the most divine of our organs of sense.4 The tangible objects are not related to any particular organ,

2 Theophrastus’ work On the Senses comes down to us through a paraphrase and commentary compiled in the sixth century by the Neoplatonist Priscian of Lydia. 3 Aristotle comments in Sense and Sensibilia that Democritus and most of the natural philosophers say something very absurd insofar as they make all sensation a kind of touch (4.442a29–b1) (= πάντα γὰρ τὰ αἰσθητὰ ἁπτὰ ποιοῦσιν [“for they make all objects of perceptions tangible”]). Theophrastus (On the Senses, 7) likewise uses a form of haptomai (contact, touch) to describe Empedocles’ theory of sensation. 4 Plato uses two forms of the verb piptō in the passage at 45c (ekpipton, 45c3; sunepesen, 45c6). Both contain a notion of meeting up with, yet ostensibly avoid the precise language of touch or contact.

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and when Plato speaks of flesh, he designates it as “the cause of a kind of insensibility (anaisthēsian)” (74e8–9) so that the body parts that are more fleshy have less soul in them (74e10–75a5).5 While the Theaetetus has perhaps the most positive perspective on sensation and its relationship to knowledge,6 once again Plato’s discussion focuses on sight and colour, and he offers no definitive claims about touch.7 Aristotle takes the accounts of his predecessors seriously, and he inherits much regarding his approach to sensation from them, including certain methodological tools (for example, he begins his treatment of a given sense by considering first the objects towards which it is directed) but also in his attention to what occurs in the space that intervenes (between the object and the subject).8 Socrates hypothesizes in the Theaetetus that sensation is a variety of motion, a theory that becomes critical to Aristotle’s own definition of sensation.9 However, when Aristotle names five discrete forms of sensation in On the Soul and affords touch the most sustained treatment of those senses, he genuinely diverges from his predecessors and initiates a long legacy of assuming the senses to be no more and no less than five, among which the importance of touch becomes continuously a question.10 Aristotle’s answer to this question regarding the importance of touch is not straightforward, and it is further obscured by a scopophilic tradition in western philosophy that has elided or absorbed a much wider variety of thought on sensation. Attention is often focused on Aristotle’s claim, at the beginning of his Metaphysics, that we love our senses, but in particular sight.11 In contrast to the opening of his Metaphysics, throughout On the Soul Aristotle speaks of the priority of touch both as the general ground for all sentience, for animality and even for human excellence. Likewise, Aristotle ends On the Soul by returning to the sense of touch, reminding us that touch is “the only sense necessary” for (animal) life (3.13.435b18–19).12 Although nutrition is, to Aristotle, the most basic of the living capacities, touch

5 On lack of sensation (anaisthēsis) see further Chapter 11, this volume. 6 For a good discussion of this relationship, see Modrak (2006). 7 As part of his final refutation of the theory that knowledge is perception, Socrates uses the verb haptomai to deny that sensation has any access to truth or being, stating that sensation has no claim “to touch the truth” (alētheias hapsasthai, 186e4). Socrates’ use of the verb haptomai is truly perplexing here and might be seen to belie the claim he is ostensibly making in this moment. 8 Useful accounts of Aristotle’s engagement with the Pre-Socratics on the subject of sensation can be found in Laks (1999) and Cherniss (1964, esp. 314–22). 9 See Theaetetus 156a–157a for Plato’s use of activity, passivity and motion with regard to sensation, as well as 182a–b. See Gregoric (2007, esp. 6) for Aristotle’s interest in and engagement with the theories from the Theaetetus. 10 The question of the status and unity of touch pervades even the most contemporary work. It is expressed, for example, by Paterson (2007), Classen (2012) and recently by Fulkerson (2013) who writes that he has to “defend the view that touch, despite its functional diversity, is a single, unified sensory modality” (xi). 11 The opening of Metaphysics famously speaks of our love of the senses but, in particular, of vision: “All men, by nature, reach out for knowledge. A sign of this is our pleasure in the senses; indeed we love the senses on their own account, apart from their usefulness, and we love sight most of all” (πάντες ἄνθρωποι τοῦ εἰδέναι ὀρέγονται φύσει. σημεῖον δ᾽ ἡ τῶν αἰσθήσεων ἀγάπησις· καὶ γὰρ χωρὶς τῆς χρείας ἀγαπῶνται δι᾽ αὑτάς, καὶ μάλιστα τῶν ἄλλων ἡ διὰ τῶν ὀμμάτων (1.1.980a22–3, my translation). 12 Translations from On the Soul are my own unless otherwise noted. Translations from other works by Aristotle are from Barnes (1984) unless otherwise noted.

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distinguishes animal (sensate) life from that of plants, and sensate life, even at its most bare, is incipiently knowing life. The kind of soul or living being that is identified by a capacity for touch patently distinguishes itself in critical ways from the merely physical world. Touch represents an awareness of one’s own body and entails various abilities to protect that body through motion, resistance or assimilation – abilities perhaps refined and perfected in more intricate faculties but nonetheless impossible without touch.

Contact and touch Although Aristotle firmly distinguishes between animate and inanimate beings, both belong to the natural world. Thus, for Aristotle, a discussion of soul and its faculties never fully transcends the realm of physics, or nature, and so we turn first to his work on the natural world as laying the ground for his work on life. We might say that mere contact occurs between inanimate beings while touch is the capacity of something that has soul (I will use these terms to differentiate between the two), but for Aristotle there is both a structural and linguistic connection between contact and touch. At the same time, in order to define touch as a sense and not merely as a physical process, Aristotle must illustrate that there is some difference between inanimate contact and animate touch. The Greek language provides no clear means of establishing a difference between contact and touch, but if we look first at Aristotle’s works on the physical world (namely, his Physics and Generation and Corruption) we can bring into relief certain features of contact that become the foundation for his account of sentient touch and that also enable us to highlight certain differences between the two phenomena. The words used in Greek for both contact and touch are all some form of a single root word, the verb haptomai (the root of our terms haptic, haptology, etc.). Aristotle does not have the luxury of employing different terms to describe events of touch separately from those of contact, and so we must depend largely on context.13 This is meaningful since contact and touch are both different and the same. Experiences of contact subtend experiences of touch, which, by virtue of being animate, distinguish themselves from mere contact. Within the physical world, contact is a necessary condition of all motion (kinēsis):14

13 Aristotle does, on occasion, make use of the verb thinganō (to touch, handle, take hold of) as in the passage from Physics 3.2 below, but this term manifests the same problems as haptomai, namely, a lack of precision – and one still present in English usage, in spite of having the word contact to describe non-­ animate experiences of touch. In English, touch and contact are frequently used interchangeably; translators and scholars of Aristotle do not therefore differ from common usage when they at times use the two terms as if they were the same. I would argue, however, that to be more rigorous we ought to consider touch as a particular variety of physical contact, that is, a deliberate, intentional or sensitive act. 14 Aristotle’s definition of motion extends beyond locomotion and includes four primary forms of change: generation and corruption (substantial change), locomotion (change of place), alteration (change of quality) and growth and diminution (change of quantity). Aristotle offers slightly different lists of the types of beings and types of changes in Categories than he does in Physics, but we can generally accept these four as consistent. Physics 3.1–3 ultimately defines motion as the actualization of what is potential as potential. For a discussion of this definition (in slightly different terms than the ones I use here), see Sachs (1995: 249).

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τὸ γὰρ πρὸς τοῦτο ἐνεργεῖν, ᾗ τοιοῦτον, αὐτὸ τὸ κινεῖν ἐστι· τοῦτο δὲ ποιεῖ θίξει, ὥστε ἅμα καὶ πάσχει· διὸ ἡ κίνησις ἐντελέχεια τοῦ κινητοῦ, ᾗ κινητόν, συμβαίνει δὲ τοῦτο θίξει τοῦ κινητικοῦ, ὥσθ᾽ ἅμα καὶ πάσχει. For to act on the movable as such is just to move it. But this it does by contact (θίξει), so that at the same time it is also acted on (πάσχει). Hence motion is the fulfillment of the movable as movable, the cause being contact with what can move, so that the mover is also acted on. (Physics 3.2.202a5–8) Aristotle here labels contact a cause of motion, although he probably means more precisely a necessary condition: one thing must make contact with another before it can cause any change in that other. In fact, when something that is or is active in a particular way is brought into contact with something that can potentially be or be active in that same way, the active cannot fail to move the potential if nothing prevents it from doing so. In both the Physics and Generation and Corruption, Aristotle maintains that all movement (and thus all change) requires contact, and so all movement requires bodies with extremities that can meet one another. A typical or standard account of natural change requires that bodies contact one another with the result that one body becomes like the other in some way: the fire heats the wood, and the wood then becomes fiery; the cue ball hits the eight ball, and the eight ball moves in turn; the sugar contacts the water, and the water becomes sweet. In Generation and Corruption, Aristotle reiterates the importance of contact for enabling change in the natural world when he insists that in order to understand action and passion, “it is necessary to also understand contact (haphē). For action and passion in the strict sense are possible only between things which contact one another (hapsasthai allēlōn)” (1.6.322b22–4, my translation). Sentient change, however, will not work in exactly the same way, although it retains many characteristics of natural change including the necessity of bodies. Yet of all the forms of sensation, touch bears closest resemblance to contact and thus retains more characteristics of natural change; it remains just beyond the threshold between the contact and sensation and therefore can highlight the differences between them. In cases of mere contact, what is moved cannot stop or resist the alteration. When something insentient comes into contact with that for which it has a potency, it is moved (actualizing its potential), and such movement entails the destruction of a former state into its contrary (cold to hot, standing still to rolling, small to bigger).15 To be natural but not animate is to be powerless to stop this alteration, incapable of remaining the same and required to move to a contrary state. Touch, however, suggests a different type of limitation and a different type of potency to be changed. Like physical contact, touch requires bodies with extremities 15 Many alterations can be reciprocal without being animate, however. Contact may result in an alteration to the mover as well, such that these standard, contrary-based alterations tend to be reciprocal to some degree. The hot water sacrifices some heat to the food it cooks; the cue ball loses some momentum to move the next ball; the food is destroyed in the process of nutrition. Only rarely, Aristotle points out, is that which moves or touches unmoved or untouched itself, and at Generation and Corruption 1.6.323a32–3 Aristotle gives the intriguing example of how we say that the grieving man touches us but that we do not touch him.

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and also involves some shared activity and potency between the sense and its object.16 But the contact of a sensate body with another body (animate or inanimate) retains only some of the characteristics of contact, and the relationship between the two phenomena is intricate. However, the change(s) brought about by touch include not only the material changes of contact, but sensible changes that differ dramatically from physical changes. Although sentience is a particular form of potency for change and does result in a type of change in the one sensing, it is not a typical potency where the sentient being becomes alike in quality to that which it senses; rather, the sentient being becomes aware of the quality without being utterly changed by it. Although I am clearly altered in some way in these cases, when I see green, neither I nor any part of my eye becomes green, and when I touch ice I do not become frozen myself.17 A sensate body, unlike insensate bodies, can be altered by active qualities without itself becoming those qualities, at least within certain limitations.18 Most notably, the sensate body can and will move away from the fire that threatens to make it burn, unlike the natural but insensate body, which will simply become fiery (should it have the potency to become fiery). Sentience is the ability to be contacted without being changed in standard ways, and this is not only the defining characteristic of sentience in general but is paradigmatic of touch. Touch distinguishes itself from mere contact insofar as it seems to imply some choice about what kind and to what extent the toucher will allow herself to be altered. Touch appears to entail cognition – at least an incipient and highly embodied form of cognition – in the form of awareness of pain and pleasure, with the result that touch represents the first ability of the animate being to protect and preserve itself. We might go so far as to locate in touch the first source of a capacity to actively seek one’s own good.19 As a natural thing, the animate being remains always vulnerable to the natural changes and standard alterations brought about by contact, but touch, a variation of contact, is the reflective ability of the animate to resist its own vulnerability through preventative or preservative measures. A sentient being must first and foremost register the changes that are closest to it without being in constant peril from that which it contacts, or else it would never be able to pursue any higher good than persistence. Whereas the natural or standard alteration brought about by mere contact is irresistible, touch is the defining and most necessary animal capacity precisely because it entails an ability to recognize and thus resist such change.

16 For my account of the intervening space between touched and toucher, see Goldner (2011). Here, we might wonder in what way the grieving man from Generation and Corruption touches us, but it is certainly not a typical form of sensation (this use of touch seems metaphoric), as indicated in the note above. 17 This lack of physical change has some limitations – my hand might actually get quite cold when I touch ice because the hand is a body part composed of elements subject to change. The organ of touch (to be discussed later) is the most corporeal of the organs of sense (Parts of Animals 2.1.647a19–21), and it is therefore the most likely to undergo physical change along with sensing. 18 For a discussion of Aristotle’s unusual use of alteration and “acted upon” with regard to sensation, see Nightingale (2015: 63–4). 19 In Generation of Animals 1.23.731a33–4 Aristotle makes explicit the relation between sentience and knowledge, claiming that all animals “have sense-perception, and this is a kind of knowledge” and that sensation differentiates it from those organisms that have only life (i.e. plants).

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Touch and problems in On the Soul As we have seen, contact is a condition of natural change and motion, but touch, according to Aristotle, is the defining characteristic of animal life; there is no animal that does not have touch, and touch underlies all other capacities of sensation. 20 Indeed, Aristotle believes that “if they were deprived of this sense alone, animals would necessarily die”, and touch is the only sense necessary to be an animal (On the Soul 3.13.435b4–5). 21 Though humans have all of the other senses and also have higher cognitive abilities, human acuity in touch relates to excellence of thought, as Aristotle tells us “with respect to touch he (the human) is precise in a way that greatly surpasses the rest, and this is why he is the most intelligent (phronimōtaton) of the animals” (On the Soul 2.9.421a20–3). In fact, among different humans, one with softer skin (hence a more precise sense of touch) will be more intelligent than one with tougher skin. Thus, in On the Soul, unlike Metaphysics, “touch is the primary form of sense” (αἰσθήσεως δὲ πρῶτον ὑπάρχει πᾶσιν ἁφή, 2.2.413b4–5), a comment leading one commentator to suggest that “the de Anima [On the Soul] seems to be the battleground upon which sight and touch seek supremacy”. 22 Aristotle recognizes the importance of touch not only for knowing particular qualities, but also for knowing those very things that will best preserve the animal and direct her towards higher ends. Danger at a distance is danger one can avoid (at least some of the time), but danger that one touches is far more threatening and must be recognized and responded to with haste. Touch is the last of the five senses examined in On the Soul, where the entire discussion of sensation is introduced with general claims (2.6) that precede a ­chapter-by-chapter account of each particular sense (2.7–11). Aristotle first posits that the most direct and reliable form of sensation is directed at those things particular or proper (idion) to a given sense (such as sound is to hearing), and it is the case that the five proper senses are each defined by its relationship to a particular type of object. 23 “By proper”, Aristotle writes, “I mean what does not admit of being perceived by any other sense, and about which it is not possible for the 20 My reading here focuses on On the Soul, and while I will reference other texts insofar as they inform us concerning sensation, my reading is primarily limited to the claims about touch from this one text. 21 This point is reinforced in the History of Animals: “One sense, and one alone, is common to a­ nimals – the sense of touch” (1.3.489a17–18). In this text, Aristotle lists what types of animals have which senses. Testaceae, for example, have not only touch but smell and taste; they must have smell in order to be attracted to putrefied bait that is at a distance from them, and if they smell the bait they must also be able to taste it (4.8.535a10–13). An extremely interesting case is that of the sea-­anemone, which, Aristotle says, resembles a plant except that “it has no shell, but its entire body is fleshy (σαρκῶδεs τὸ σῶμα πᾶν ἐστιν αὐτῆs). It perceives (aisthanetai), and, if you put your hand to it, it will seize and cling to it” (4.6.531a33–b2). The anemone’s reaction indicates to Aristotle that it does not merely contact but touches the hand, though this appears to be the only sense present in the anemone. 22 Golluber (2001: 660). 23 To be precise, Aristotle says “we speak of the sense object (to aisthēton) in three ways” (2.6.418a8), and he immediately follows this by saying that “of these (three kinds of objects), two are perceived in themselves (kath’ hauta) and one accidentally (sumbebēkos)” (418a9–10). He continues that, of the two (perceived in themselves), one kind is proper to each sense while the other is common to all senses. Thus, regarding objects, Aristotle believes there are three divisions: proper, common and accidental. For this paper, we are only interested in the proper objects of sensation, all of which are sensed kath’ hauta.

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sense to be deceived, as sight with colour and hearing with sound and taste with ­fl avour” (2.6.418a11–14). 24 In order to understand each sense, it is necessary first to ­u nderstand the proper objects of those senses since “the being of each sense is by nature inclined towards these things” (καὶ πρὸς ἃ ἡ οὐσία πέφυκεν ἑκάστηs αἰσθήσεως, 2.6.418a25). The sense has an innate capacity to be directed outwards, but this is no simple intentionality as the sense is, by its very nature (pephuken), directed and drawn towards particular and specific objects – and only to these objects. Nature, as an internal source of motion and rest, operates within the sense as a source of motion towards particular things, and the sense itself has no essence or being – ­no ousia – without the existence of the appropriate external objects. The being of the sense and of the sensible object towards which it is directed are bound together by their very natures. The general operation of sensation “appears to be some kind of alteration” (δοκεῖ γὰρ ἀλλοίωσίς τις εἶναι, 2.5.416b34–5). The organs of sensation are brought into activity when in contact, either mediately (in the case of sight, hearing and smell) or more directly (as with touch and taste, though these, too, turn out to be mediated), with an object to which they bear a particular kind of potency and a shared material basis. 25 The proper object of sight is colour, and the medium for sight is that which lacks colour, i.e., the transparent, which is typically found in a body of air or water. The organs for sight, which have to contain a spatially bounded form of the medium, are the eyes (specifically the pupils). Though touch will be the last of the senses that Aristotle examines, it is the functional structure established in his account of the other senses (object–medium–organ) that must define touch as a particular sense rather than as a form of common or accidental perception. However, this functional structure is complicated when we arrive at the haptic sense, and Aristotle goes on to show the ways in which each of the three components presents problems with respect to touch (though he will ultimately establish that the structure holds with respect to touch). The account of touch follows all of the other senses, including taste, which is by Aristotle’s own admission “some sort of tangible” (hapton ti, 2.10.422a8), and the position of touch as last in the text indicates that Aristotle will rely heavily on analogy and disanalogy. 26 Indeed, it is my belief that it is in order to set up the analogy to the other senses that Aristotle begins with sight

24 Aristotle continues this sentence by foreshadowing some of the concerns he will raise in 2.11 regarding touch, namely, that “touch has more than one distinct thing proper to it” (trans. Sachs [2001]). 25 The objects proper to a given sense belong to a single category representing a set between two contraries. 26 Aristotle easily establishes that there is a faculty for sensation – to aisthētikon – but less easily defines what that includes. It is certainly manifested in and through bodily organs, but its operation seems somewhat distinct from those organs, so we must consider with regard to each sense what we include when we use the word to mean the full capacity. When I refer to a “sense”, I generally (unless otherwise specified) refer to the capacity housed in an organ, or to an organ already informed by the capacity (the seeing eye, or whatever the compound will be for touch). A sense cannot function without its form or without its organ, and together the function (or the capacity) and the organ are the sense. For a discussion of the organs of sense, including their necessity, according to Aristotle, see Johansen (1997).

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and ends with touch, and thus that the order of discussion does not undermine the primacy of touch in the text. If Aristotle can illustrate that, in spite of some patent difficulties, touch fits the paradigm of the other senses, then he will have shown that touch is indeed a discrete sense and that there are five proper senses. The account of touch occupies On the Soul 2.11 (422b18–424a18) and Aristotle begins with a series of impasses (aporia) about touch: ἔχει δ’ ἀπορίαν πότερον πλείους εἰσὶν ἢ μία, καὶ τί τὸ αἰσθητήριον τὸ τοῦ ἁπτικοῦ, πότερον ἡ σὰρξ καὶ ἐν τοῖς ἄλλοις τὸ ἀνάλογον, ἢ οὔ, ἀλλὰ τοῦτο μέν ἐστι τὸ μεταξύ, τὸ δὲ πρῶτον αἰσθητήριον ἄλλο τί ἐστιν ἐντός. A problem is whether touch is one or many, and what the sense organ that is perceptive of touch is, whether it is the flesh and something analogous to this in other animals or whether it is not, but the flesh is the medium, while the primary sense organ is something else inside. (On the Soul 2.11.422b19–23, trans. Sachs 2001, modified) Touch, therefore, defies easy classifications and strains the structure of sensation (established in the four preceding chapters of On the Soul) to its very limits when ­A ristotle has problems identifying the object, medium and organ of touch. 27 In what follows, I will move through Aristotle’s account of each component of touch (object– medium–organ), indicating as particularly fruitful those moments of disanalogy with the other senses.

Object of touch As discussed above, Aristotle describes a faculty first with reference to the object of that capacity, and so he begins On the Soul 2.11 by noting that the problems pertaining to touch and to the objects of touch are the same and by calling into question whether touch is one thing or many. Unlike the single object of perception (to idion aisthēton) that is in each case particular to each of the other senses (such as sound is to hearing or vision is to sight) there are several kinds of objects of touch, and they belong not to one pair of contraries, but to many – hot/cold, dry/moist, hard/soft (422b25–7). 28 Though “body” might appear as a possible candidate for the object of touch, bodies are simply compositions of those very contraries. 29 The relationship between these tangible contraries and body is important. In Generation and

27 Whether touch is one or many might be seen as a question about how touch can be one capacity with many objects. 28 Hearing is of the high and deep pitch, which pertains to the motion of the blow struck, sight is of white and black, which yields all colour. The lists pertaining to touch are more varied and wide-­ ranging. The list offered above, from On the Soul, is slightly different from that of Generation and Corruption 2.2. 29 The issue of body as the object of touch is also raised in this volume by Sedley, who also discusses whether touch is one of the five senses or whether all senses might reduce to touch, if all sensing happens through the body.

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Corruption, Aristotle writes that “since perceptible is equivalent to tangible, and tangible is that of which the perception is touch, it is clear that not all the contrarieties constitute forms and principles of body, but only those which correspond to touch” (2.2.329b6–9). Black and white, the contraries that underlie vision, always remain mere qualities and never principles of a body because “the object of vision … is a quality of tangible body” (329b14), and the qualities of touch, those that form bodies, are the necessary conditions for all other sensitive qualities. The tangible attributes, however, are those “of body as body” (On the Soul 3.11.423b27) – they are the principles and forms of body. As such, that they are multiple seems less perplexing, and the diversity of bodies might explain why they require multiple principles. However, this same multiplicity produces the very problem Aristotle acknowledges regarding their status as objects of a sense, namely, that “what one thing underlies in touch, as sound does in hearing, is not clear” (422b32–3). It may well be that the contraries pertaining to touch are multiple because the fact that they are tangible is secondary to the fact that they are the constituent qualities of all bodies.

Medium and organ of touch Sensation requires a medium, a fact that Aristotle believes to be irrefutable, since, at On the Soul 2.7.419a12, he informs us that “if what has colour is placed in immediate contact with the eye, it cannot be seen” (trans. Smith 1984), and he notes the need for something in between, a medium (metaxu, 419a16, 20, 27). Aristotle confirms that this medium is necessarily present with sight, smell and sound (419a25) and that while it is not immediately apparent, the same is true of touch and taste. Aristotle is in particular interested in refuting the Pre-Socratic materialist account that makes all sensation a form of touch rather than an affective change. 30 Although he agrees with the materialists who posit that a medium is necessary for sensation, the role of the medium is more intricate for Aristotle: the medium is not simply the intervening space in which atoms from the object come into contact with the sense. For Aristotle, the medium does not enable contact between the sensor and the sensible but is necessary precisely in order to prevent this contact, which, he tells us, would make sensing impossible. So, on the one hand, contact is necessary, but, on the other, direct contact destroys the sense. Insofar as sensation is a form of motion, there must be contact between the mover and the moved, or there must be intervening movers. The medium is just such an intervening mover, or a moved mover.31 The medium serves as a moved mover because the sensible object moves the medium, which in turn moves the sense organ. The medium is necessary, or sensation would require direct contact between the object and the sense organ, which we know from the experience of sight is impossible. Thus the medium is moved by the sensible object, and it is the first place in which the non-standard alteration occurs because, while the medium must be affected in order to move or affect the organ, the medium, 30 Aristotle’s refutation of the materialists allows the medium to have an active role in sensation. What we come to see, in particular when we arrive at 2.12, is that the medium is the first thing capable of receiving the sensible form through some sort of non-traditional alteration; the medium of air can be moved and move without becoming the same (materially) as that which moves it. 31 See On the Soul 3.12.434b26–435a2 for Aristotle’s account of the medium as moved mover.

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like the sense, does not become the quality that moves it. Though the transparent air is affected by the red of the apple in some way, it does not itself become red, just as my pupil does not become red from the sight of the apple. The medium, like the sense organ, must maintain its neutrality and thus be moved without being affected or altered in a standard way. In order to count touch as one among the set of senses, Aristotle needs to maintain the structural analogy to the other senses; touch too, therefore, requires a medium in spite of phenomenological evidence to the contrary. Ultimately, Aristotle will confirm that the medium of the sense of touch is the flesh (sarx, On the Soul 2.11.423b26), but flesh, as the very limit of the internal and external, raises its own set of complications.32 Flesh appears more viable as a candidate for the organ of touch – it is a part of our body and is immediately affected by the tangible object. Whereas with distal senses the object first moves the medium, which in turn moves the sense organ, tangible objects move the organ and the medium immediately. Aristotle compares this to being hit while carrying a shield: we do not say the shield is hit and then we are hit by the shield, but that the body and shield are struck simultaneously (423b15). For touch, it appears that the medium functions only minimally, if at all, as an intervening mover, yet the medium is nonetheless necessary. Flesh struggles to fit the role of medium according to other criteria as well. Flesh is a part of my body, whereas the media through which sight, hearing and smell are transmitted (i.e., air or water) are external bodies. Flesh is vulnerable to material alteration (and even to destruction) and thus leads me to be so as well. Since it does not lack entirely those qualities to which it is receptive (as transparency is that which lacks colour), flesh can suffer a standard alteration of quality along with the other changes it undergoes when it encounters the tangible. Flesh is particularly likely to undergo temperature fluctuations resulting from its environment or objects it contacts, but, less evidently, it suffers other changes as well. Contact with something rough or hard can result in the flesh growing tougher or bleeding. The imperturbability of the transparent (in air or water) seems particularly important to its role as medium because it suggested a neutrality not easily threatened with a standard change of quality.33 This neutrality allowed the medium and, in turn, the organ to register changes in a non-standard way while the externality of the air or water provided spatial and temporal mediation that rendered the sensible object less affective. 34 Flesh is vulnerable to being physically changed itself and, because it is a part of the sensing subject and not external to her, a threat to the flesh is a direct threat to the sensor. In fact, Aristotle

32 In Generation of Animals, Aristotle distinguishes between flesh (sarx) and skin (derma) “the skin, again, is formed by the drying of the flesh, like the scum upon boiled substances” (2.6.743b6–8). Thus, when I speak of flesh I refer not to what is most immediately the outer limit of the body, which is a form of flesh already degenerating into something else. 33 At On the Soul 2.7.418b4–6 Aristotle explains that to be transparent means not to be visible in itself (ou kath’ hauto), but to be visible on account of the colour of some other thing. 34 Aristotle goes so far as to suggest at 2.7.418b7–9 that it is on account of their relationship to an even less changeable substance, aether, that air and water can serve as media, “Neither air nor water is transparent because it is air or water; they are transparent because each of them has contained in it a certain substance which is the same in both and is also found in the eternal upper body. Of this substance light is the activity”.

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tells us at 435b18 that, while too strong a sound or sight can render the organ of that sense insensate, an excess of a tangible attribute can destroy the very animal. Finally, although flesh might serve as the medium for touch, it is also likely that the organ of touch is either the flesh or a body part composed primarily of flesh (as other organs are all, to some degree, fleshy). In Sense and Sensibilia, we are told that the primary organ of touch is the heart (2.439a1), itself a fleshy organ. Since we learn in Parts of Animals that the heart is the primary source of motion and sensation (3.3.665a11) and in On the Soul that touch is the primary form of sense, Aristotle appears to closely connect if not conjoin the flesh and the heart as medium and organ for touch. We are perceptive of tangible objects throughout our body, and we have flesh, in varying degrees, throughout the body. The immediacy of the sensation upon the object’s encounter with flesh further complicates its role as medium. Flesh simply does not fit the structural analogy to the other senses. It fails to satisfy the criteria established concerning media, and its failures to do so suggest it is not simply the medium but also the organ of touch. Yet the organ of touch is itself a problem. Aristotle tells us that what the organ is “escapes us” (2.11.423b6–7), and is “not clear” (423a11–12) and, in fact, he fails to identify the organ of touch in On the Soul. In his biological works, Aristotle will designate flesh the organ of touch (Parts of Animals 2.8.653b30) and suggests that flesh “is the organ and the medium through which the object acts combined, comparable to the pupil with the whole transparent medium attached to it” (653b25–7). Thus, according to his account in Parts of Animals, there is no real difference, in touch, between the medium and the organ, and whereas the media and organs of the other senses are discrete, regarding touch “nature was compelled by necessity” to unite them (653b27–9). While the other senses operate through an external medium and an entirely different internal organ, touch happens only through the sensate body itself. The aporia with which Aristotle begins his account of touch leads us to recognize the priority of touch. It is the primary act of the living body to come into contact with another substance and to do something more than merely be altered by it. Bodies are constituted by their tangible qualities, and touch is the first and only sense required to be sensitive. Moreover, the relationship between toucher and touched requires no external mediation. The space (and hence medium) for other modes of sensation appears only when the toucher and touched are set apart. I see from a safe distance, and seeing engages far less of my body than touching does. To touch is to risk my own preservation, immediately and directly.

Conclusion In vision there is a distance between the seer and the seen that allows us to hold them apart and thus to question how they can even be capable of affecting one another. Aristotle’s account of touch effaces that distance and insists instead upon the closeness of the toucher and the touched, a closeness encapsulated in the medium of touch, which fills the role of something external while remaining part of the touching body. The touched and the toucher are similar in so many ways that Aristotle’s haptology accurately gestures towards only the slightest of differences between them, a divergence whereby one being (the toucher) ever so slightly defies the rules of the natural world by 61

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escaping the typical structures of contact and alteration, and its ability to do this defines it as animate and therefore as active in its own persistence. The active persistence of the animal depends upon a precarious relation between its existence as physical and as ensouled since “an animal is an ensouled body and every body is tangible (tangible means perceptible to touch), it is necessary also for the body of the animal to be perceptive of tangible things, if the animal is to preserve itself” (On the Soul 3.12.434b11–14). All bodies are tangible, but among them only those bodies that have the ability to touch (when other bodies would merely be contacted) can defy the typical results of motion and alteration. We might think here of French phenomenologist Merleau-Ponty, who identifies a kinship between touched and toucher when he describes how my hand, while it is felt from within, is also accessible from without, itself tangible, for my other hand, for example, if it takes its place among the things it touches, is in a sense one of them, opens finally upon a tangible being of which it is also a part. (1968: 133) In his last work, Merleau-Ponty offers an ontology of flesh (la chair) that begins in touch but extends to all of sensation and all of the world alike, designating flesh as the “thickness” between the two that encompasses both. 35 Like Aristotle, Merleau-Ponty locates this kinship and reciprocity between sentient and sensible in the flesh itself, the flesh that is always on the threshold of inner and outer, sentient and sensible, and vulnerable not only to sensitive change but to physical change as well. Because of this vulnerability, Aristotle claims that we never find a capacity for touch without a capacity for locomotion.36 Aristotle locates the connection between touch and movement in the faculty of desire, so that to feel pleasure or to feel pain is to act with the sensitive mean towards the good or the bad as such. And both the faculties of aversion and desire (orexis) are in actuality the same as this: and desire and aversion are not other, either from one another or from the faculty of sensation. (On the Soul, 3.7.431a10–14) To have touch is to have desire, and since nature does nothing in vain, if an animal has desire, that animal must be able to pursue what it desires and to avoid those things to which it has an aversion. In humans and other complex animals, this relation is complicated and refined by the additional faculties of imagination and reason, both of which can influence our determination about what is good in ways that extend beyond sensitive information so that “the desired thing always causes movement, but this is either the good or the apparent good” (3.10.433a27–9). 37 35 Ibid. 135. 36 See On the Soul 3.11.434b9. 37 Within On the Soul, Aristotle recognizes the ethical implications connecting sense, ­desire and behaviour when he comments that sometimes “[a man] acts according to desire such as the one without self-restraint” (3.9.433a3) and the relationship of touch to moral choices is emphasized in the

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Thus, for Aristotle, the being who touches is not yet a being who knows, in the typical sense of the word, but a being who responds to the world with resistance, self-preservation and movement towards what appears as good.38 To have touch is to be an animal because it means actively working with and against those things in the world that perfect and threaten us. To touch is to contact something and to be moved by it, yet also to be ­capable of resisting determination by that contact. Touching is to be situated in the physical world while being able, within limits, to transcend it, to react to it and to reflect upon it. In this sense, while Aristotle uses touch as a way to delimit the difference between the being of a plant and that of an animal, touch is also a rudimentary but paradigmatic form of a response to the world that culminates in knowledge and the pursuit of the good.

Nicomachean Ethics through the discussion of temperance and self-indulgence, which are particularly related to the pleasures of touch and taste (2.10.1118a23–7). The connection between the discussion of touch in On the Soul and the Nicomachean Ethics is far more interesting and complex than I allow here (but see Chapter 9, this volume). 38 As Montiglio illustrates in Chapter 1, touch yields a particular form of recognition in Odysseus’ homecoming.

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4 T he duali t y of touch David Sedley

In this chapter, my aim is to make some headway with understanding two distinctions operative in Hellenistic philosophy. One, the better recognized of the two, is the distinction between “touch” viewed as a contact sense, and “touch” understood as (non-cognitive) physical “contact”. This distinction is well outlined by Rebecca Steiner Goldner in the present volume, and I shall do my best to follow her example in using “touch” for the former, “contact” for the latter. The other distinction, which has only rarely even been acknowledged, is that between external and internal touch. In the second main part of this chapter, I shall illustrate the interplay of these two dualities through a close philological study of one passage of Lucretius’ Epicurean poem in which, I maintain, both are being put to work. But first, internal touch deserves its own introduction.

Internal touch In Hellenistic philosophy “internal touch” (ἐντὸς ἁφή, tactus interior) emerges as a technical term for the sense that makes us directly aware of changes going on inside us. In Cicero’s Academica Lucullus, praising on behalf of the doctrinal “Old Academy” the rich informational input provided by the senses, asks quid de tactu, et eo quidem quem philosophi interiorem vocant, aut doloris aut voluptatis, in quo Cyrenaici solo putant veri esse iudicium quia sentiatur? And what about touch, in particular the kind of touch the philosophers call “internal”, which has as its object either pain or pleasure, and in which alone the Cyrenaics think the criterion of truth lies, because it is what we feel? (Cicero, Lucullus 20) Later, in his reply on behalf of the sceptical “New Academy”, Cicero recruits the Cyrenaics to his own side: quid Cyrenaei videntur, minime contempti philosophi, qui negant esse quicquam quod percipi possit extrinsecus, ea se sola percipere quae tactu intumo sentiant, ut dolorem ut voluptatem; neque se quo quid colore aut quo sono sit scire, sed tantum sentire adfici se quodam modo.

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What do you think of those by no means contemptible philosophers the Cyrenaics? They deny that anything external can be cognized, and say that they have cognition only of the things that they feel through internal touch, such as pain and pleasure, and that they do not know what colour or what sound something has, but only feel that this is how they are being affected. (Cicero, Lucullus 76) In these passages, the concept of “internal touch” has a special association with the Cyrenaics, but is also attributed broadly to “the philosophers”, an attribution confirmed by other sources so far as both Epicureans (more on this below) and Stoics1 are concerned. As for the specific association of internal touch with the Cyrenaics, Epicurus’ older contemporaries and rivals, it is no doubt explained by the special importance that this sense acquires in their system. According to their epistemology, we have no cognitive access at all to external objects, but only to the ways in which we are internally affected: whether fire is hot or honey sweet we are in no position to say: we can say only that we are “heated” and “sweetened”. It is internal touch that gives us secure cognitive access to that internal heating or sweetening. And, the Cyrenaics being hedonists, if the internal state is found by internal touch to be pleasant, that guarantees its goodness; if painful, its badness. 2 The role of internal touch as the Cyrenaics’ criterion of truth is therefore fundamental to their ethics. We should note that in one of the examples I have given, that of sweetening, the internal state cognized is the state of one particular sense organ, the tongue, and that in the two examples mentioned by Cicero it is the state of, respectively, the eye and the ear. Typically, it seems, internal touch will be the second-order sense by which we are aware of first-order sensations attained through all five of the individual senses, and not through the sense of touch alone. It should therefore be no surprise to find that, in Hellenistic usage, “internal touch” comes to be assigned the same co-ordinating role with regard to the individual senses as had in the Aristotelian tradition been assigned to the “common sense” (κοινὴ αἴσθησις).3 No other school of the period followed the Cyrenaics in denying the perceiving subject cognitive access to the external world – that is, in limiting all perception to internal touch. But it seems to be precisely from their resistance to this school’s distinctive brand of scepticism that the other Hellenistic schools derived the valuable epistemological distinction between two kinds of touch. The danger they faced was the reduction of all states of sensory cognition to internal touch, with the resultant 1 Aetius 4.8.7: οἱ Στωικοὶ τήνδε τὴν κοινὴν αἴσθησιν ἐντὸς ἁφὴν προσαγορεύουσι, καθ᾽ ἣν καὶ ἡμῶν αὐτῶν ἀντιλαμβανόμεθα (“The Stoics call this [Aristotelian] common sense ‘internal touch’, on the basis of which we also have cognition of ourselves”). 2 See Tsouna (1998) for a full analysis, including in particular pp. 18–20 on internal touch. 3 For the Stoics see n. 1 above. For the similar function of the “internal sense” in Augustine’s On Free Choice of the Will, see Brittain (2002: 288–95). For physiological identification of the “common sense” as a kind of touch, registered by the unitary pneuma that links all the sense organs, cf. Calcidius, Commentary on Plato’s Timaeus 214, apparently reporting the doctor Asclepiades: isque communis sensus est tactus, sed fit proprius ob diversitatem membrorum quibus sentimus. qualia enim fuerint organa sentiendi, talis sensus existit, ut per oculos visus, auditus per aures, atque in eundem modum ceteri; unus tamen est spiritus, qui in multis deformatur. On the Aristotelian “common sense”, see esp. Gregoric (2007).

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imprisonment of all knowledge inside a world consisting of nothing but their own experiential states. The solution adopted was not to deny the existence of internal touch, which was presumably acknowledged to be a familiar aspect of self-awareness, but to make it just one half of a duality: internal and external touch. Consider in particular a passage from a Herculaneum papyrus (PHerc. 19/698) on the theme of the senses, containing a work which is certainly Epicurean, and which has credibly been attributed to Lucretius’ contemporary Philodemus (as I shall henceforth call the author): ἡ δὲ ἁφὴ κατὰ μὲ[ν] | τὸ ἴ ̣διον τὸ μηδεμίας | ἀντιλαμβάνεσθαι ̣ ποι|ότητος· κατὰ δὲ τὸ κοινόν, | ἡ ποία σάρξ ἐστιν, ὃ παρ ̣|ακ ̣[ο]λουθεῖ κα ̣ὶ ταῖς ἄλ ̣|λαις αἰσθήσεσιν, τὸ ἑτε|ρογενῶν ποιοτήτ ̣ων | ἀντιλαμβάνεσθαι· [σκ]λη|ρῶν ̣ γὰρ καὶ μ[α]λακῶ[ν] | οὖσ[α] κ ̣ριτική, καταλαμ|βάνει καὶ θερμὰ καὶ | ψυχρά, τά τε ἐν ἑαυτῆι καὶ παρ᾽ ἑαυτῆ[ι] … Touch, so far as its peculiar characteristic is concerned, has as its most peculiar characteristic4 that of registering no quality at all. [As 17.1–6 of the same text has previously made clear, this is because its special object is simply body as such – definitionally equated in Epicureanism with “the tangible”.] So far as concerns its common characteristic of registering the qualitative states of the flesh – a concomitant property of the other senses too – it has as its most peculiar characteristic, that of registering qualities different in kind: for as well as discriminating hard and soft things, it perceives hot and cold things, both those within itself and those adjacent to itself … ([Philodemus, On the Senses] 26.3–16)5 For our immediate purposes, particular importance should be attached to the closing clause: touch perceives both hot and cold, both within itself and adjacent to itself. These two functions represent, in effect, the contrast between internal and external touch. The example of temperature perception makes it immediately clear why the sense of touch is likely to have been singled out for this second-order function. Sensing the heat of an adjacent or nearby object is a paradigmatic function of the sense of touch. It is not the same sensation as that of simply feeling hot in oneself. Nevertheless the two sensory functions can easily converge: you may feel hot and take some time to decide whether the source of the heat is an internal one, such as fever, anger, exertion or embarrassment, or external, for example the warmth of the room, the weather, or the proximity of a fire. Such reflections make plausible the assumption that the underlying sensory mechanism is one and the same. In one respect, on the other hand, this Epicurean text departs from what we have seen to be the norm set by the Cyrenaics. According to the latter school, and to some others in their wake, internal touch registers the respective states not just of the body as such but of all the sense organs. For Philodemus, by contrast, that state of awareness is not the special province of touch, because each sense has (along with externally

4 Here and below supplying ἰδιώτατον ἔχει from 25.7–8. 5 PHerc. 19/698, col. 29, ed. Monet (1996: 112–13). The translation is from Sedley (1989).

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directed awareness) internal awareness of its own qualitative state. As he says, touch has the “common characteristic of registering the qualitative states of the flesh” – common because it is “a concomitant property of the other senses too”. That is, just as internal touch tells you that you are hot, or have backache, analogously it is your sense of taste that tells you that you are experiencing sweetness, your sense of hearing that tells you that you are experiencing a buzzing noise, and so on. Thus touch’s access to internal states of the perceiver is not, as in the tradition inaugurated by the Cyrenaics, a ­“peculiar” function – that is, one unique to it – but a “common” function. This Epicurean narrowing of the scope of internal touch seems a readily defensible refinement to the Cyrenaic concept. Think, for example, of the huge difference ­between being aware that your eyes ache, the province of touch, and being aware that you are experiencing redness or brightness, the province of sight. The same restriction of internal touch to tactile sensations will turn out to be maintained by Lucretius, to whom I now turn.

Touch in Lucretius Setting aside for the time being the distinction between external and internal touch, I  turn to a related question: whether for the Epicureans, and if so how, touch is somehow basic to all perception. Consider this quotation from Cyril Bailey, writing in 1928: In its essence sense-perception does not differ, according to Epicurus, from the passive sensation of touch: it … rests in all cases on the primary condition of contact between the object and the organ of sense …: “for touch, yea touch”, says Lucretius in an unusual outburst of emphasis, “by the holy powers of the gods, is the sense of the body”.6 The view has been a persistent one. To take a further notable example, David Furley in 1971 wrote that, for the ancient atomists in general, the connection between the thinking subject and the external world is nothing but touch: tactus enim, tactus, pro divum numina sancta, as Lucretius strenuously insists.7 The consensus8 reflected by these two eminent scholars is that for the Epicureans, as represented here by Lucretius, all the sensory modalities, including even the supposed distance senses sight, hearing and smell, are in reality reducible to the perceiving subject’s directly touching the object.

6 Bailey (1928: 404). 7 Furley (1971: 607) = (1989 [reprint]: 161). 8 Cf. Ernout & Robin (1925: ad loc.): “La solennité de la formule montre l’importance de toucher pour la doctrine. Toutes les impressions de sens, étant dues à l’émission de particules émanées des objets, se réfèrent en dernier lieu au toucher”. Also Rosenmeyer (1996: 142): “… as if Lucretius himself were astonished, in the absence of a specialized organ of touch, by the power vested in mere contact”. There have been many similar remarks on the Lucretian line in question.

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The idea is not as preposterous as it may sound, because in the case of the paradigmatic distance sense, sight, the Epicurean theory holds that what we most directly register is not the distant object, but the successive films of atomic particles (simulacra in Lucretius’ terminology) streaming off it and literally entering the eyes. Although we do thereby “see” the external object itself (Lucretius 4.258), and cannot in any strict sense “see” the atomic films, the way the external object presents itself to us may well fail to correspond to the shape, colour etc. of the object, due to distortion during transit, and its reliability depends instead on its being an accurate reflection of the state of these films upon arrival. The Epicurean accounts of the other distance senses, hearing and smell, are similar. Even if the distance senses do not touch their objects – my nostrils do not touch the cheese on the other side of the room – they do operate by touching something, namely, effluences emanating from their objects. On such an account, touch and taste may well seem to be achieving a direct apprehension of their object which sight, hearing and smell mimic only with the help of something intermediate. In the rival visual theory of the Stoics, itself a development of Plato’s, the eye generates tension in a cone of air with its apex at the eye, and visible items with which that cone makes contact are thereby enabled to impact upon the eye at a distance. Stoic vision is thus analogous to holding out a rod to detect external objects. Set against this alternative, Epicurean vision is much more like bringing the external object, or at any rate a representative bit of it, to the sense organ and detecting it there. That perhaps makes initial sense of the widespread interpretation according to which the Epicureans reduce all the senses to touch. And even though no other Epicurean text or source confirms this theoretical claim,9 when one reflects on the line and a half of Lucretius cited by both authors (2.434–5), and translated as we saw above by Bailey, it may seem hard to disagree with their conclusion: tactus enim tactus, pro divum numina sancta, corporis est sensus … But what precisely do these words mean? From here on my argument becomes unavoidably philological. The lines occur towards the end of a section, 2.398–443, in which Lucretius has been defending his thesis that atoms vary in shape: the variety of ways in which any single sense can be affected, he argues, is best explained by the hypothesis that differently shaped atoms are affecting it. The argument works its way one by one through the five senses. It starts with the sense of taste, emphasizing the variety of flavours (398–407): honey is made of smooth round atoms that glide over the tongue, wormwood of hooked atoms that assault the mouth. Lucretius then proceeds similarly through the three distance senses – hearing (408–13), smell (414–17) and vision (418–21). In each of these first four cases, he contrasts agreeable and disagreeable sensations within the same sense modality, insisting that they must be caused by differently shaped atoms. He next (422–30) generalizes his point so far: in 9 It is attested for Democritus, but only in the form of a Peripatetic criticism of him that his account of sensation does in fact reduce it to touch without remainder (DK 68A119, 135 = Theophrastus, On the Senses 55, 72).

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any sense modality, the agreeable sensations are caused by smooth atoms, the disagreeable ones by rough atoms; also, he adds, there are plenty of sensible properties intermediate between these two extremes, where further atomic shapes must come into play. With these principles in place, Lucretius finally turns to the fifth sense, touch ­(431–41). The full text and translation (leaving the traditional reading of 434–5 in place for now) are as follows: denique iam calidos ignis gelidamque pruinam dissimili dentata modo conpungere sensus corporis, indicio nobis est tactus uterque. tactus enim, tactus, pro divum numina sancta, corporis est sensus, vel cum res extera sese insinuat, vel cum laedit quae in corpore natast aut iuvat egrediens genitalis per veneris res, aut ex offensu, cum turbant corpore in ipso, semina confundunt inter se concita sensum; ut si forte manu quamvis iam corporis ipse tute tibi partem ferias atque experiare. quapropter longe formas distare necessest principiis, varios quae possint edere sensus.

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440

Also, that it is by being differently toothed that hot fire and freezing frost stimulate the body’s senses differently is demonstrated to us by the two kinds of touch. For touch, yes touch, by the holy spirits of the gods, is what the body’s sensation is, whether when something from outside enters it, or when something born inside the body causes either hurt or, if emitted through the procreative business of love, pleasure, or as a result of a blow, when the particles inside the body itself upset and confuse our sensation by bumping into one another, as you could test if you were to strike any part of your own body with your hand. Hence the shapes of atoms capable of causing this variety of sensations must themselves differ vastly. (Lucretius 2.431–43) But what do lines 434–5 mean? The question has received virtually no detailed discussion, either in the commentaries or even in the one specialized study so far devoted to the topic of touch in Lucretius.10 Let us start with the actual expression corporis … sensus in 435. In principle, corporis here might be an objective genitive. The meaning would then be that touch is “the sensing of body” as such. There is as a matter of fact evidence that at least one branch of the Epicurean tradition held body as such to be the proper object of touch,11 analogously to the way that colour and sound are respectively the proper objects of sight and hearing. But that is unlikely to be the point here,12 because the passage 10 Schoenheim (1966). 11 [Philodemus, On the Senses] col. 20, see n. 5 above. 12 Besides, at 4.491 Lucretius makes it fairly clear that as colour is to vision, i.e. its special object, so in his view texture and temperature (not body) are to touch.

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on touch has already opened by observing (431–3) that heat and cold have different ways of “stimulating the body’s senses”, compungere sensus / corporis. Here at least it would be hard to take corporis as an objective genitive, because the accusative plural sensus indicates that the reference is quite generally to the senses, which must therefore be broadly those “of the body”, i.e. exercised by the body.13 This formula (432–3) makes it unlikely that a mere two lines later in the corresponding singular expression corporis … sensus the genitive corporis has, without warning, switched its function to that of an objective genitive. Nor does anything in the argument require the shift. Hence corporis … sensus in 435 means, as it has always been assumed to mean, sensing done by the body. But does it, as the Bailey interpretation assumes, refer to the sensing done through all five senses, and reduce all of it to touch alone? If that were so, it would be hard to see why the reduction should occur just here, and what its relevance to the current argument could be. We at this point expect Lucretius to be completing his survey of the five senses by focusing on touch in its normal role, conceived as just one of the five senses. There is, then, every reason to understand corporis … sensus to refer to the sense of touch – that is, to sensing done by the body qua body, as distinct from sensing done by tongue, eyes or other specialized organs. A natural objection to this reading is that in that case Lucretius’ extraordinary fanfare, tactus enim tactus, pro divum numina sancta, would be his way of heralding the assertion of a terribly obvious truth, that the body’s own sense is, yes, touch! Why the big fuss? The answer, I suggest, is that the passage’s intended emphasis is a quite different one. Let me explain this proposal in two parts. First, we should notice that at 435 the sentence does not end with corporis est sensus, but continues: vel cum res extera sese / insinuat, vel cum laedit quae in corpore natast … (“whether when something from outside enters it, or when something born inside the body causes hurt …”). The overall point is, I think, the following: when the body itself (as distinct from eyes, ears, etc.) perceives something, the sense responsible for this (the corporis … sensus) is always touch, regardless of whether it is perceiving something external or internal to the body. This surely puts the main focus on the distinction between external and internal touch.14 Indeed, note how closely Lucretius’ distinction resembles the final lines of the Philodemus passage (p. 66 above): “for as well as discriminating hard and soft things, it [touch] perceives hot and cold things, both those within itself and those adjacent to itself …”. Second, and with this same distinction in mind, we should scrutinize the expression at 433, tactus uterque, and ask what it refers to. To repeat the translation of 431–6, Also, that it is by being differently toothed that hot fire and freezing frost stimulate the body’s senses differently is demonstrated to us by the two kinds of touch (tactus uterque). For touch, yes touch, by the holy spirits of the gods, is what the body’s sensation is, whether when something from outside enters it, or when something born inside the body causes hurt … 13 At 432 it is indeterminate whether the plural sensus refers at this stage to a plurality of senses (sight, touch, perhaps smell) by which we apprehend fire and frost differently, or simply connotes sensation generically, albeit with reference to one particular sense, as already at 403–7. 14 The connection of the Lucretius passage with the theory of internal touch is well noted in passing by Asmis (1984: 105, n. 2).

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Here tactus uterque has commonly been understood to refer back to the duality mentioned just before, the sensation by touch of (a) fire and (b) frost. But we have to account for the immediately ensuing “For …” (enim) in 434, a connective which makes better sense if we assume that tactus uterque instead refers forward, to a duality that is about to be introduced or explained. What duality? An attractive answer might be that tactus uterque refers forward to the distinction, about to be sketched at 435–7, between external touch and internal touch. With this distinction in mind, our entire Lucretian passage might be paraphrased as follows: (431–3) Fire and frost affect our senses differently from each other because they have different atomic compositions. (433) This is proved by the two kinds of touch. (434–5) For all sensing done by the body qua body is identifiable with the sense of touch, (435– 6) whether what touch senses be (1) something external impinging on the body , (436–7) or (2) something, (a) painful or (b) pleasant, purely internal to the body, (438–41) or (c) internal disruption resulting from an external blow. (442–3) This wide range of tactile sensations reveals the wide variety of atomic shapes with or among which contact is being made. On such a reading, tactus uterque (433) refers forward to what I have labelled (1) and (2), respectively external and internal touch, the pairing being marked in lines 435–6 by vel … vel. To restrict the list of kinds of touch to this pair alone, we would have to take it that item (2) of the pair, internal touch, is itself being subdivided by aut … aut … aut into (a) the body’s purely internal tactile pain, (b) the body’s purely internal tactile pleasure, and (c) the body’s internal tactile disturbance occasioned by external blows. Whether this distinction between external and internal touch is or is not the intended reference of tactus uterque is a question I shall return to at the end. Before that, another interpretative problem must be tackled. An emphasis on the two kinds of touch, however this is interpreted, may not seem to correspond to the main emphasis indicated by Lucretius himself. His tactus enim, tactus, pro divum numina sancta suggests that a quite extraordinary amount of weight is being put on the word “touch” itself. Repetition is a familiar Lucretian device for underlining a word, as in the famous iteration of deus applied to Epicurus at 5.8, deus ille fuit, deus inclute Memmi (“He was a god, yes a god, great Memmius”). For all its disadvantages the traditional interpretation of our present line, according to which perception in general is being reduced to touch alone, was at least able to account for the heavy emphasis on tactus, whereas mine fails to do so. My proposed solution is as follows. In tactus enim tactus, we should read the second tactus as tactūs, genitive: when the body itself senses something, this is tactus tactūs, “a touching of touching”. For the device, compare Lucretius 3.275, where the nameless fourth component of the soul is called anima … animae, “the spirit of the spirit”. 71

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What point would tactus … tactūs convey? It would be Lucretius’ recognition of the double sense of the word “touch”, which in Greek and Latin as in English can refer either to the tactile sense, or to physical contact as such. The body’s use of its own sensory faculty is properly speaking “touch of touch”, or “touching of touching”: an awareness, by the tactile sense, of direct corporeal contact. The implied message is that the sense of touch, being a “touching of touching”, is not simply the body’s way of directly registering what is externally adjacent to it, but is its internal tactile awareness of contact, whether the contact be between the body and whatever is adjacent to it, or purely internal to it. Lucretius’ point, summed up at the end of the passage (442–3), will be that the sense of touch offers particularly rich guidance to the wide variety of atomic shapes, because of the plethora of direct contacts that it registers. It may be objected that, if Lucretius had intended us to read his phrase as tactus enim tactūs, he would not have written the line in such a way that neither metre nor syntax could enable readers to recognize the construction. This challenge potentially raises deep questions about how Latin authors composed their work and how their audiences expected to encounter it. Ambiguities that trouble the eye may well be, as in this case, absent from the spoken word, whether in dictation to a scribe or in oral performance. But rather than get into such intractable problems here, let me instead point out an important pair of parallels for the ambiguity, if such it is. At 1.419–20, Lucretius announces that omnis … natura consists in just two things, bodies and void.15 As commentators have long noticed, there is little doubt that here omnis is the genitive of the neuter omne, “the all” or “the universe”, so that the phrase omnis … natura does not after all mean “all nature”, but translates Epicurus’ expression ἡ τοῦ παντὸς φύσις, “the nature of the all”.16 Just before that, at 1.363, Lucretius has similarly used natura inanis, not to mean “empty nature”, as one might assume, but to translate what the Greek sources tell us to be Epicurus’ own favoured phrase, ἡ τοῦ κενοῦ φύσις, “the nature of void”.17 No reader not already familiar with the Greek Epicurean texts could possibly have spotted these genitives, and yet there they are. The same may well apply to tactus … tactūs.18 Given the parallel from book 1, the construal “a touching of touching” gains in plausibility if Lucretius here too is assumed to be borrowing an established phrase from his Greek master. We have no direct evidence of an expression such as ἁφὴ ἁφῆς having been used by Epicurus, but there is one consideration that nevertheless favours the conjecture. It concerns the exclamation pro divum numina sancta in 434. Because it is uncharacteristic of Lucretius to use so charged a religious exclamation, other than when making a specifically religious point (as at 2.1093–4), this phrase has always

15 1.419–20, omnis ut est igitur per se natura duabus / constitit in rebus; nam corpora sunt et inane. 16 See Smith (1975: ad loc.), appositely citing Plutarch, Against Colotes 1112F: ὥσπερ ἀμέλει καὶ κενοῦ φύσιν αὐτὸ τὸ κενόν, καὶ νὴ Δία τὸ πᾶν παντὸς φύσιν ὀνομάζειν εἴωθε. 17 See previous note. 18 For anyone who remains dissatisfied with this solution, it has been pointed out to me by Shane Butler that the same result could be obtained without postulating a lengthened syllable, by understanding tactus (“touch”, nominative singular of the noun) … tactus (“touched”: perfect passive participle): literally “touch touched” and hence once again “a touching of touching”. In principle, if less convincingly, these two latter parsings could be reversed, “touched touch”, yet again with the same result.

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come over as a device for adding a quite extraordinary amount of emphasis to the already emphatic mention of touch.19 But there is another possibility. The bishop Dionysius criticizes Epicurus for flouting his own belief in detached gods by constantly invoking divinities, with expressions like μὰ Δία, νὴ Δία and πρὸς τῶν θεῶν.20 This alleged tendency on Epicurus’ part in fact finds confirmation even in the meagre surviving papyrus scraps of his treatise On Nature. 21 My conjecture is therefore that Epicurus himself had already referred to touch as a “touching of touching”, adding one of his characteristic exclamations, such as πρὸς τῶν θεῶν (“by the gods”), in acknowledgement of the paradox. 22 If that were so, Lucretius’ enigmatic line, tactus enim tactus, pro divum numina sancta, need be neither more nor less than his reverential translation of a ringing phrase from the master. 23 Finally, I return to a loose end that I left hanging earlier. Asking what was meant by tactus uterque in 433, I rejected a reference back to the twin perceptions of fire and frost, and suggested tentatively that instead it might refer forward to the ensuing distinction between external and internal touch. However, this latter supposition relies on reading lines 435ff. as maintaining a twofold distinction between external and internal touch, in what most editors have recognized to be more naturally construed as a threefold distinction: purely external touch, purely internal touch, and a third kind which is a mixture of the two. 24 An alternative reading therefore deserves serious consideration. This – and it will be my closing suggestion – is that tactus uterque refers to the immediately following enigmatic expression itself, tactus … tactūs in 434. On such a construal, the first part of the passage can be paraphrased as follows: (431–3) Fire and frost affect our senses differently from each other because they have different atomic compositions. (433) This is proved by the two kinds of “touch”. (434–5) I say “two” kinds of touch, because the body’s own special sense is a touching of touching!!! (The exclamation marks have been added to represent Lucretius’ pro divum numina sancta.) 19 Cf. Solmsen (1955: 60, n. 41): “A problem for which an Epicurean sees fit to importune the gods has surely ceased to be a minor one”. 20 Dionysius ap. Eusebius, Preparation for the Gospel 14.27.10: καὶ δὴ κατ’ ἐκείνων τῶν μηδὲν πρὸς ἡμᾶς ὅρκους τε καὶ ὁρκισμοὺς μυρίους τοῖς ἑαυτοῦ βιβλίοις ἐγγράφει, ὀμνύς τε συνεχῶς “μὰ Δία” καὶ “νὴ Δία” ἐξορκῶν τε τοὺς ἐντυγχάνοντας καὶ πρὸς οὓς διαλέγοιτο “πρὸς τῶν θεῶν” … 21 See Epicurus frr. 29.18.3, 31.11.5 Arrighetti 2 . 22 In fr. 120 Usener (Plutarch, Against Epicurean Happiness 1101A) Epicurus, whose own language is being repeated more or less verbatim here, seems to use νὴ Δία to soften an extravagant metaphor, when he refers to weeping as “lubricating the eyes”: νὴ Δία λιπαίνειν τοὺς ὀφθαλμούς. This may be an analogous use. 23 One testimony to this Lucretian practice is 1.145, res quibus occultas penitus convisere possis, which captures Epicurus’ proposal to συνορᾶν … περὶ τῶν ἀδήλων at the exactly corresponding point (see Letter to Herodotus 38, in turn reflecting On Nature book 1), with the rare compound convisere accurately recalling the Greek συνορᾶν. 24 See Bailey (1947: ad loc.); Ernout & Robin (1925), Munro (1886), Giussani (1896–8) and Bailey (1947) favour the three-part analysis, contrary to Merrill (1907), who defends the two-part (vel … vel …) alternative with triple subdivision of the second part (aut … aut … aut …).

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That hot and cold stuffs are constituted by differently shaped atoms, Lucretius would be saying, is confirmed by both kinds of touch:25 not simply, that is, by the tactile sense itself, but also by the many atomic contacts to which our bodies are subject, such as when fire or frost assails us or when matter is violently redistributed inside us. On all such occasions one kind of touch, the body’s tactile sense, duly registers the other kind of touch, the physical contact. And it may be that two-level process leading to tactile awareness that Lucretius, quite possibly echoing a paradoxical expression of Epicurus’ own, labels “a touching of touching”. 26

25 Strictly, uterque should refer to the two kinds of touch severally, not to both in partnership, but cf. 5.853–4 for the latter use: feminaque ut maribus coniungi possit, habere / mutua qui mutent inter se gaudia uterque. 26 My thanks to David Butterfield, and to an APA audience (over Skype), for helpful comments on earlier drafts of this chapter; also to Pamela Zinn for discussion.

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5 GET T I NG TO GR IPS W I T H CLASSICAL ART Rethinking the haptics of Graeco-Roman visual culture Verity Platt and Michael Squire “Please do not touch!” reads the polite imperative beneath the crouching “Lely Venus” statue in room 17 of the British Museum (Figure 5.1). It is an instruction repeated in countless museums: like gallery-objects the world over, classical antiquities invite the eye; with the aid of speaking exegetes or museum audio-guides, certain exhibits can even be made to “talk”. But a more hands-on engagement would appear anathema to post-Enlightenment “art”.1 In the modern-day museum, ancient artefacts may be seen, sometimes even heard; but they are rarely, if ever, to be touched. 2 There are good pragmatic reasons for this sort of prohibition. The task of the museum is not to just display but also to preserve, protecting prized objects from physical damage and decay. Occasionally, museums do provide opportunities for more tactile engagement, such as in the adjacent gallery in the British Museum (room 18b), where specially mounted casts accompanied by braille texts introduce the “Parthenon marbles” (Figure 5.2);3 likewise some recent exhibitions have gone out of their way to provide “hands-on” encounters, whether by facilitating “handling sessions” of ancient objects (as in the recent 2015 “Defining Beauty” exhibition at the British Museum) or else by using three-dimensional reproductions to give the visually impaired perceptual access to paintings (e.g. Figure 5.3).4 Generally speaking, though, galleries are

1 On “art” as a post-Enlightenment concept, see Kristeller (1990: 163–227), along with Shiner (2001), Porter (2009) and Platt & Squire (2010, 2017). Beard & Henderson (1994) are particularly provocative on the proscription against touch in modern museological displays of Graeco-­Roman materials. 2 Cf. Classen (2005: 275–86) on the active encouragements of “touching” in early modern museums; cf. S. Stewart (1999). Candlin (2010b) argues that the modern museological denial of touch is partly to protect curatorial privilege (“as closely connected to the conservation of territory as it is to the preservation of objects”, 73). 3 For a book version, see Bird, Jenkins & Levi (1998). On the limitations of the British ­Museum’s “optical prosthesis”, see Hetherington (2002); more generally on “tactile pictures”, see Lopes (1997) and Hopkins (2000). 4 Figure 5.3 relates to the 2015 exhibition “Touching the Prado” in Madrid (between January and June 2015), which included 3D renditions of Old Master paintings designed for the visually impaired; opaque glasses were provided to facilitate a parallel experience for fully sighted visitors (cf. www.museodelprado. es/en/exhibitions/exhibitions/at-the-museum/hoy-toca-prado/exposicion/). On the use of replicas to

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Figure 5.1 Marble “Lely Venus”, second century ce (perhaps after a Hellenistic model of the third century bce). Marble, 1.120 m. London, British Museum: inv. 1963, 1029.1 (© Album/Art Resource, NY).

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Figure 5.2  Gallery 18b of the British Museum in London, with plaster casts of the Parthenon Frieze (part of a touch-oriented tour for the visually impaired) (photograph by M.J. Squire).

forced to control our tactile compulsions: the very instruction not to touch responds to a deep-set urge for a bodily mode of contact – one that invites (or even demands) that we transgress the limits of vision. Such sensory temptations are not unique to Graeco-Roman objects. As numerous critics have argued (following Herder’s late eighteenth-century lead, as discussed in this volume by Helen Slaney), the medium of sculpture – as distinct from painting and other two-dimensional forms – has been particularly championed for its appeal to a “deep” sense of touch.5 Yet, as we argue in this chapter, ancient objects play with that sense in especially knowing and self-referential ways, grounded in culturally specific models of display, perception and cognition. In this context, it is important to remember that ancient beholders would have encountered objects in contexts very different from those of the modern museum (and within sensory regimes that diverge in important ways from those of the modern West). The modern museological injunction “Please do not touch!”, so integral to the conceptualization of prized art objects, is quite alien to the cultural environments in which pre-modern objects were originally embedded and circulated.6 Numerous finely worked objects – now facilitate touch (and their limitations), see Cassim (2014): such shifts in medium necessarily disregard the precise sensation of material and form that tactile contact is supposed to enable (cf. Dent 2014: 13–14). 5 On Herder’s Pygmalion, see Benjamin (2014), along with Slaney (Chapter 6). On sculpture and touch more generally, see Dent (2014) – with Johnson (2002), Harvey (2002a, along with other chapters in the same book) and Moshenska (2014: 143–74) on Renaissance materials. 6 For recent discussions of ancient “museum analogues”, however, see e.g. Chevallier (1991: esp. 132–77); Rutledge (2012); Gahtan & Pegazzano (2014); Rouveret (2015).

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Figure 5.3  Photograph showing a blind visitor (Pedro Gonzalez) touching a 3D version of Diego Velázquez’s Apollo in the Forge of Vulcan in June 2015 (part of the “Hoy toca el Prado” exhibition at the Museo del Prado in Madrid): the painting was one of six copies of works by Old Masters made for the museum’s special exhibition for the blind; it was made using a relief technique that adds volume and texture to the polychrome painting (© Gerard Julien /AFP/Getty Images).

forbidden to the hand by virtue of their status as “antiquities” – were expressly designed for their tactile appeal: some were intended to be carried and manipulated (such as vessels and lamps), some to be worn on the body (such as jewellery and clothing) or caressed, or to be washed, dressed and carried in the context of ritual devotion.7 In various scenarios, the very appeal to touch defined the function of an object or its framework of use: consider how cult and imperial statues could serve as loci of asylum, for example, with their embodied presence safeguarding the bodies of those who activated their tutelary power.8 While tactile contact with such objects was no doubt carefully framed and controlled, the invitation to touch was a crucial aspect of their conception and execution.9 If tactility is important for understanding the contexts in which ancient objects were used, it is also fundamental for getting to grips with the actual forms of

7 On the handling of vessels, see e.g. Lissarrague (1990) and Hedreen (2007); on lamps, see Bielfeldt (2014, 2016). For the ritual tending of sacred images, Scheer (2000: 54–66), Bettinetti (2001: 137– 60) and Weddle (2010). Cf. Naiden (2006), on supplication. 8 For some introductory comments on “touching statues” in Roman culture, see Stewart (2003: 261–99); cf. Perry (2015). 9 On the physical, social and ideological “framing” of ancient art, see Platt & Squire (2017).

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Graeco-­Roman art. As we argue in this chapter, the sense of tactile immediacy and proximity is crucial to the operations of classical naturalism, predicated on the idea of the manufactured object as look-alike stand-in for thing represented: objects not only depicted sensuous bodies (inviting strokes, kisses, even sexual encounters), but also prompted acts of tactile violence (resulting in their own defacement or destruction).10 The verificatory powers of touch, it follows, were repeatedly thematized in relation to the promise – and failure – of illusionistic representation. We are by no means the first to express this point. In a landmark study published in 1901, Alois Riegl famously argued that the “tactile” dimension of classical art was central to processes of both making and viewing images in Graeco-Roman antiquity.11 For Riegl (working in part within the framework of Hegel’s 1820s Lectures on Aesthetics), the story of art could be told as a history of shifting relations between the “haptic” and the “optic”.12 Charting the evolution of art’s so-called “will to itself” (or Kunstwollen), and proceeding from ancient Egypt through to Byzantium and mediaeval Europe, Riegl constructed a narrative of shifting sensory priorities: whereas Pharaonic art predominantly appealed to concerns with the “tactile impenetrability” of surfaces and the denial of space (the “haptic”), late-antique artists developed a purely “optical” set of stylistic strategies, rejecting earlier appeals to tactile referents.13 This historical trajectory, Riegl maintained, was determined by art’s shifting appeal to Nahsicht (“close vision”) and Fernsicht (“distant vision”), each associated with radically different ideas about the denial or emphasis of pictorial space. Crucially, Riegl understood the naturalistic forms of classical Greek and Roman antiquity to operate between these two extremes: in particular, the layered, tactile planes of Classical relief sculpture invited Nahsicht and Fernsicht (and thus the “haptic” and “optic”) at one and the same time, suggesting a degree of graduated, perspectival depth within a clearly delimited space.14 While depending upon the possibility of literal tactile encounter, Riegl’s concept of the “haptic” nevertheless relies on a broader notion of touch – one that overlaps with (and can even be subsumed by) models of vision. Within the history of art and aesthetics, the idea of “haptic viewing” seldom refers to literal tactile contact with artworks; instead, it draws upon a visual awareness of material properties such as volume, density, space and texture.15 Although on rare occasions artworks are designed to prioritize tactile encounter (consider, for example, Brâncuși’s egg-shaped Sculpture for the Blind [I] [Figure 5.4]), it is virtually impossible to escape the primacy of the

10 On so-called damnatio memoriae in the context of “touching statues”, see especially Stewart (2003: 261–99), with Latour & Weibel (2002) on iconoclasm more generally. 11 Riegl ([1901] 1985). Amidst a burgeoning bibliography on Riegl’s intellectual ancestry and influence, see Pächt (1963); Podro (1982: 71–97); Olin (1992); Iversen (1993); Barasch (1998: 143–70); Woodfield (2001); Vasold (2004); Elsner (2006); Gubser (2006); Cordileone (2014). 12 On Hegel’s influence on Riegl and the “Viennese School” of art history, see Gubser (2006); Cordileone (2014); cf. more generally the essays in Kottman & Squire (2018). 13 In prioritizing the “optical”, Riegl was himself influenced by contemporary artistic movements, especially Impressionism: see Olin (1992) and Barasch (1998: 154–5); on Kunstwollen, see Reichenberger (2003). 14 See e.g. Riegl ([1901] 1985: 61): “In relief (and in painting) Greek antiquity always kept the plane ground as last absolute, clear support for spatial movements, as the calming symbol of tactile materiality to which the eye always desires to return”. On Classical relief sculpture, see Summers (2003: 448–9) and Neer (2010: 183–214). 15 Cf. Slaney, this volume on Herder. Compare Berenson (1896), on the “tactile properties” of objects depicted in Renaissance paintings, oscillating between literal and metaphorical forms of touch.

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Figure 5.4  Constantin Brâncuși, Sculpture for the Blind [I], 1920. Marble, 17 × 29 × 18.1 cm. Philadelphia, Philadelphia Museum of Art: inv. 1950-134-20 (© ARS, New York).

visual in the operations, reception and discourse of art objects.16 Indeed, in an attempt to assert the value of touch, more recent formulations of “haptic perception” have extended the relationship between vision and touch to other senses, aligning it with “an orientation to sensuality as such”, and by extension, to an inner sense of “feeling” or “sensation”.17 Touch, in this sense, proves inseparable from “being touched”, both in a corporeal and affective capacity.18 At the same time, this co-opting of touch by other forms of sensory engagement threatens to subsume the tactile into the metaphorical.19 Despite an insistence on the objecthood and materiality of things, talk of tactility (constrained as it is by language) can often elude attempts to draw out the combined corporeal and conceptual qualities of the artwork. 20 16 On Brâncuși’s sculpture, see Barassi (2014); on the relationship between blindness and representation, cf. Derrida (1991, 1993); Heller (2000). On the primacy of sight in antiquity, see Squire (2016: 8–19) – discussing ocularcentrism in the context of “The Senses in Antiquity”. 17 See Paterson (2007: 79–81). This expanded notion of the haptic has been influentially applied to the paintings of Francis Bacon by Deleuze (2003) (discussing the influence of Riegl at 99–108). 18 On the complex relationship between touching and being touched, see Alex Purves’ discussion of Merleau-Ponty (1968) in the Introduction (4, 9). 19 See, for example, Brown & Phu (2014) and Olin (2014: esp. 1–20, on “tactile looking”). 20 Note that, as in the etymology of “theory” (from the Greek theōria, “going to see”), our language still tends to default to metaphors of vision when addressing the conceptual: cf. Squire (2016: 8–19).

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Turning to ancient models of sense perception, we might note that the “tactileoptical” consciousness Riegl observed in Greek art was itself grounded in notions of aesthēsis that suggest a crucial continuity between the worlds of object and beholder. As Alex Purves discusses in her introduction to this volume (1–7), Aristotle deemed touch the lowest of the senses in his sensory hierarchy, whilst simultaneously making it paradigmatic of all perception; likewise, touch provided ancient thinkers, from the Pre-Socratics to the Stoics, with profoundly haptic models for the acquisition of empirical knowledge. Particularly important here are ancient haptic frames for approaching the sense of vision. Although different philosophical schools championed widely divergent theories of “seeing”, veering between what have been labelled “extramissive” and “intromissive” camps, all could agree that “sight” was premised on some form of “touch”: the very act of seeing was thought to depend on a moment of tactile contact between the visual rays that facilitate sight on the one hand, and seeing subjects or seen objects on the other. 21 As the Hellenistic Greek astronomer Hipparchus put it (himself defending the “extramissive” position), the eye consequently acts as a sort of visual “hand”; likewise, in a favourite Stoic analogy, the pneuma emitted from the eye was said to “feel” its way, just as a blind man uses his cane to “see”. 22 While ancient philosophies could segregate and hierarchize between the different senses, “touch” and “sight” were repeatedly conceived as intermingling senses, their delineation somewhat more complex than it might first appear. What, then, do such models of perception mean for approaching the material objects of Graeco-Roman artistic production? How was the sense of touch evoked, invited, stimulated or frustrated by ancient artists? And in what ways did Greek and Roman authors make use of such ideas to explore the possibilities and limitations of visual representation? Our objective in this chapter is to explore these questions over a deliberately broad timeframe. Other contributors to this volume explore ancient ideologies of touch through the principal prism of texts. By contrast, we set out to interrogate the actual matter of ancient “visual” culture: to explore how the impulse to touch and grasp visual objects could supplement or subvert their appeal to the eyes. The metaphorical ability of classical objects to “touch” their audiences, we argue, is premised on the viewer’s potential (or frustrated) desire to engage with them through direct contact: because touch proves integral to ancient art’s testing of its own mimetic and perceptible limits, it was fundamental to the dynamics not only of seeing and being seen, but also of knowing and believing. With those aims in mind, we organize the remainder of this chapter in two parts. In the first section, we concentrate on ancient sculpture (arguably the most “tactile” medium of all), exploring how touch could be exploited as an epistemological “touchstone” for probing the ontological status of statues: the three-dimensional forms of classical naturalism, we argue, both encouraged and responded to the fantasy of a sculpted object transformed into a tangible, touching and conscious subject. The second part then turns from life-size sculpture to miniature engraved 21 See Lindberg (1976: 1–17); Rakoczy (1996: 19–37, with summary on 272); Squire (2016: esp. 15–16). 22 For Hipparchus’ analogy, see Diels (1879: 404); on the Stoic “cane analogy”, see Lindberg (1976: 9–11) (citing Galen, On the Doctrines of Hippocrates and Plato 7.7). Cf. Smith (1996: 21): “Whatever their specific differences, all Greek theories of vision share in common the fundamental premise that without physical contact between eye and visible object vision cannot occur”.

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gems: it surveys how the value of such finely worked objects (worn upon and manipulated by the body) worked in tandem with their function as seal-stones (designed to impress their glyptic iconography into soft wax or clay). In the case of gems, we argue, this combination of tactile replication and bodily intimacy goes hand in hand with the use of the seal ring as a metaphor for haptic models of sense perception in Greek philosophy. Although our assumptions about classical “Idealism” all too easily suggest an aesthetic that effectively dematerializes art objects through a form of abstracted and disembodied ocularcentrism, we conclude that the relationship between matter and form, object and beholder, hand and eye, was continually tested, examined and reformulated in antiquity – by artists, authors and (be)holders.

Touch, sculpture and the verification of form For modern viewers of the “Lely Venus” in the British Museum (Figure 5.1), touch is formulated as transgression. When viewed through the lens of antiquity, however, the haptic appeal of ancient art calls for a rather more nuanced interpretation: the tactile qualities of objects – and three-dimensional, sculpted objects in particular – work hand in hand with their appeal to the eyes. At stake here is a broader set of cognitive associations. From the beginnings of Archaic Greek thought and literature, we find touch being formulated as an extension of the eye, probing the boundaries between visual apparition and material reality. Consider, for example, a famous passage in the Odyssey in which the Homeric protagonist encounters the dead spirit of his mother, Anticlea (11.153–224). After spying Anticlea’s shade and engaging it in conversation, Odysseus is finally moved to an act of embrace. But this touching moment conveys a truth that our protagonist’s eyes and ears had failed fully to grasp: three times did Odysseus attempt to “seize” (ἑλέειν, 11.205) his mother’s psuchē, we are told, but three times did she slip from Odysseus’ hands “like a shadow or even a dream” (τρὶς δέ μοι ἐκ χειρῶν σκιῇ εἴκελον ἢ καὶ ὀνείρῳ / ἔπτατ᾽, 11.207–8). Of course, Odysseus is interacting not with an artistically wrought image, but with a ghostly apparition – a shadowy, dream-like “soul” (psuchē). Yet the language in which Anticlea’s apparition is described proves significant: as eidōla, the souls of the Underworld anticipate later Greek vocabularies of visual representation (as well as Latin terminologies of the imago). 23 Like manmade images, ghosts have an ambiguous relationship with the material world: while they are in one sense dependent upon an objective reality (appearing, intermingling, even acting within it), they nonetheless purport to float free of physical bodies; they exist within a purely optical sphere that resists the corporeal immediacy of touch.24 For Odysseus, full of longing for his dear departed mother, bodily embrace consequently functions as a means of verification. While visual semblances spark a desire for tactile intimacy, haptic engagement paradoxically exposes the visual “shadow” as lifeless apparition. Odysseus’ attempt to embrace his mother’s eidōlon anticipates a favourite ­topos in classical art and art-critical discourse. In terms of funerary commemorations 23 On the complex ontology of the eidōlon, see Vernant (1983: 305–290; 1991: 164–85); Bardel (2000). On the category of the eikōn, see Platt (2014), with further bibliography. On the Latin imago, see e.g. Daut (1975); Flower (1996: 32–59); Crowley (2011). 24 On the ambiguous materiality inherent in the Greek term phasma (which can refer to ghosts and apparitions), see Platt (2011: 255–7).

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Figure 5.5  Attic grave-stele of Baco, Socrates and Aristonike, depicting a dexiōsis (“handshake”) motif, c. 340 bce. Marble, 147 × 92 × 20 cm. Paris, Musée du Louvre: inv. MND 909 (© RMN-Grand Palais/Art Resource, NY; photograph by Hervé Lewandowski).

specifically, one might think of the tactile dexiōsis (“handshake”) so popular on Classical Attic funerary stelai: emblazoned at the literal and figurative centre of Athenian grave-markers in the late fifth and fourth centuries bce, the dexiōsis motif visualized a continuity in physical contact even at the moment of corporeal dissolution ­(Figure 5.5).25 25 Attic funerary stele of Baco, Socrates and Aristonike, c. 340 bce: Paris, Musée du Louvre, inv. MND 909; see Clairmont (1993: 4.149–50, no. 4910); Hamiaux & Pasquier (2001: 162, no. 156). On the dexiōsis motif, see e.g. Davies (1985); Pemberton (1989); Turner (2016: 152–4).

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Tellingly,  this  represented  act  of tactile proximity is embedded within the medium of sculpted relief: just as with Odysseus’ attempted embrace of his mother’s psuchē, the promise of depth – of embodied plasticity, and of tactile engagement with the visualized dead – proves quite literally shallow.26 Similar ideas inform later Hellenistic and Roman literary discussions of other categories of artwork. Repeatedly, we find the topos of “touching” an object being harnessed to ideas about artistic verisimilitude: bodily contact provides a sort of epistemological touchstone, one through which viewers might (hope to) distinguish between the living and the life-like – as indeed between the real and the realistic. 27 When it comes to naturalistic painting, touch would emerge as a favourite means of probing the limits of mimetic illusion – most famously in the Elder Pliny’s celebrated anecdote about a painterly competition between Zeuxis and Parrhasius (in which Zeuxis only realizes the extent of Parrhasius’ virtuoso skill when he instructs him to draw back the panel’s painted surface).28 In other Hellenistic and Roman scenarios, we find authors knowingly mocking the belief that touch might negate or confirm an image’s “living” ­status. In Herodas’ fourth Mimiamb (probably written in third-century bce ­Alexandria), Kokkale’s reliance on touch seems to flag the naivety of her own “­feminine” ­art-­critical response to paintings within the Coan sanctuary of Asclepius: “If I were to scratch (κνίσω) this naked boy, would it not leave a wound?”, Kokkale asks before a purported picture by Apelles; “for the flesh that covers him pulses like hot springs on the panel!”29 It is in the context of discussing statues that the classical topos of touching came into its own. By occupying the same three-dimensional space as its viewers, sculpture differs from painting in its ontological relationship with the beholder: as Slaney discusses in the following chapter, the probing verifications of touch would subsequently prove all the more critical in responses to statues. Ancient authors repeatedly exploit tactile engagement to play out the ambiguous “as if” that underlies sculptural “imitation” or mimēsis: it is only by touching Myron’s sculpture of a cow, as a late-antique epigrammatist puts it, that one might distinguish between artistic verisimilitude and its “natural” state as lifeless bronze. 30

26 On such play with two- and three-dimensionality in classical funerary contexts, see Platt (2017) on Roman sarcophagi, and Squire (2017) on Attic grave stelai. 27 See Korsmeyer (2012). On the actual “touchstone” (basanos), and its use for testing metal alloys (in Theophrastus, On Stones 46–7 and Pliny, Natural History 33.126), see Oddy (1983: 55–8); Healy (1999: 293–8). 28 Pliny, Natural History 35.65; among numerous discussions, see e.g. Bann (1989: 27–40); Bryson (1990: 30–2); Elsner (1995: 16–17, 89–90); Carey (2003: 109–11). The role of the artist’s hand is crucial to Pliny’s narratives of art-making (Apelles, for example, is famously praised for knowing “when to take his hand away from the picture” [manum de tabula sciret tollere], 35.80): for further discussion, see Platt (forthcoming a). 29 Herodas, Mimiambs 4.59–62, with discussion in Zanker (2009: 104–8, 116–17 ad loc.). On the play with art-critical discourses see e.g. Goldhill (1994: 216–23); Skinner (2001); Männlein-Robert (2007: 261–301). On touch as the means by which painterly illusion is dissolved, see Hopkins (2000); Kenaan (2014). On the tactile qualities of the pulse, see Flemming (this volume). 30 Palatine Anthology 9.738.3–4: see Purves in the Introduction (comparing also 9.796); cf. more generally Bacci (2014) on the collapse of sculptural illusion under physical contact.

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Figure 5.6  Wall painting from the Synagogue at Dura-Europos, showing Ezekiel and the “Valley of Life” – with the “Hand of God” emerging from the frame, second quarter of the third century ce (© Art Resource, NY).

In cultic contexts, too, the ritual act of touching statues of the gods could be harnessed both to affirm and problematize the material presence of the deities that they instantiated. By offering an opportunity for mortal hands to reach into the realm of the gods, touch provided an opportunity to make tactile contact with the divine, reinforcing an understanding of the statue as divinity.31 No less importantly, the act of touching could also de-substantiate a statue, turning its visual embodiments back into mere matter. Throughout the longue durée of Graeco-Roman antiquity, thinking about touch helped to shape attitudes towards both images and the gods that they (re-)presented. Related ideas would also re-surface amid Judaeo-Christian theological debates about the legitimacy of depicting God (albeit now in the context of two-dimensional images rather than free-­standing statues): among numerous examples, consider the “Hand of God” that protrudes from the frames of the Old Testament wall-paintings in the third-century ce synagogue at ­Dura-Europos (e.g. Figure 5.6) or the tessellated hand that reaches into the golden sixth-century apse of the Basilica of Sant’Apollinare in Classe (Figure 5.7).32 In both cases, the hand points to divine intervention as something anthropomorphic, substantial and tangible. As a hand devoid of body, however, the motif also functions as a sign of

31 Note e.g. the role of touch in Dio Chrysostom’s Olympian Oration (12.61): see Klauck (2000); Betz (2004); Platt (2011: 227–35). 32 On the “Hand of God” in early Jewish and Christian art, see Hachlili (1999); on the Sant’Apollinare in Classe mosaics in the context of late antique Ravenna, see Deliyannis (2010: 259–73) and Jäggi (2014).

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Figure 5.7  Apse in the Basilica of Sant’Apollinare in Classe – with detail of the “Hand of God” (upper centre), sixth century ce. (© Scala/Art Resource, NY).

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absence: the promise of tangible corporeality is at once suggested and problematized; the visual appeal to touch renders the Judaeo-Christian God in one sense graspable, and yet in another sense as lying perpetually beyond our earthly reach.33 To demonstrate how these themes played out in the context of classical image-making, one might look back to our opening statue (Figure 5.1), a physical representation of a female divinity who embodies the sensuousness of corporeal desire. Every effect of the “Lely Venus” – from chiselled form to polished (and likely once painted) surface – excites and depends upon the viewer’s haptic imagination. Observe, for example, how the “Crouching” goddess is perpetually poised in self-embrace: from the left elbow delicately resting on Venus’ left knee, to the swelling calves pressed against her thighs (or the undulating rolls of her stomach, strikingly set against the lean stretch of her back), this Venus appeals to the eyes through her tactile layerings. Like other embodiments of the goddess, the “Lely Venus” both invites and resists the possessive gaze of an external male voyeur.34 In order to open her crouched form and “reveal” Aphrodite fully, the viewer must go through the mental motions of straightening her limbs and torso, performing a process of imaginative “handling” that is as potentially transgressive as it is erotic. At the same time, the statue’s emphatic corporeality resists any such manipulation: the goddess’ most intimate parts are concealed within the very layerings of polished stone that make her so tangibly “present” to her viewers. Yet the sculpture also invokes a quite differently gendered haptic regime. A self-­touching feminine form, this “Crouching Venus” appeals to a mode of tactile consciousness that resides within the bodily self-knowledge (and, implicitly, the erotic pleasure) of its female viewers. Fittingly, a version of the same type in the Louvre still bears the remains of a tiny hand on her back: as a reminder that this goddess was touched by Desire itself, in the form of her son Eros, the hand alerts us to the diverse forms of touch (both willing and unwilling) that female bodies give and receive as they shift between the roles of mother and lover or indeed between subject and object (Figure 5.8).35 Venus’ act of crouching facilitates the touch of an infant who both signifies the desirous touch of the male beholder (as a personification of Desire) and embodies its logical outcome (as Venus’ own progeny). Together, Venus and Eros generate a circle of touching and being touched that echoes the rounded forms of the goddess; at the same time, this pairing hints at modes of inner touch – sexual and reproductive, intimate and affective – that are intangible for the external viewer yet essential to life itself. Understanding the haptic workings of such complex and ambivalent statues as these requires some further historical contextualization. As second-century ce creations, both the British Museum and Louvre versions of the “Crouching Venus” seem to respond to an earlier Hellenistic model (sometimes attributed to the sculptor Doidalsas of Bithynia).36 Whatever that “original” statue (usually dated to the third

33 As explored by Conybeare (Chapter 10). 34 For an introduction to the gender dynamics at work in this tradition, see the essays in KoloskiOstrow & Lyons (1997). For a reading of the “Crouching Venus” that is focalized exclusively through the gaze of the desirous yet contemptuous male viewer, see A. Stewart (1997: 222–4). 35 “Aphrodite accroupie”: Paris, Musée du Louvre, inv. Ma 2240. 36 For Doidalsas’ association with a “bathing Venus” (controversially identified as the “Crouching Venus” type), see Pliny, Natural History 36.35 (cf. Kansteiner et al. 2014: 4.659–60, no. 3481). On the history of the type and its variants, see Lullies (1954) and Havelock (1995a: 80–9, 110–12).

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Figure 5.8  Statue of a “Crouching Venus”, with the traces of the hand of Eros on the back, ­second century ce. Marble, 0.96 m. Paris, Musée du Louvre: Ma 2240 (­photograph by V. Platt).

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century bce), the “Crouching Venus” also engaged with an earlier prototype: Praxiteles’ celebrated statue of Aphrodite, installed at Knidos (on the southwest coast of modern-day Turkey) around 360 bce, and again known through later “copies” (e.g. Figure 5.9).37 Ancient authors made much of the Knidia’s appeal to touch. In particular, they delighted in apocryphal tales of the statue’s subjection (and indeed resistance) to the tactile advances of amorous male beholders. 38 Fundamental to these stories of agalmatophilia (“love of statues”) is the naturalistic promise of the Knidia, no less than the fantasy that she feeds – namely, that artistic invention might merge into penetrable reality.39 Amid these stories of attempted sexual assault, the Knidia’s inviting tactility also works at once to confirm and undermine the potential of the statue to embody the goddess: through direct contact, desirous beholders must confront the hard fact that visual appearances can deceive.40 Stories about the Knidia – as indeed responses to the “Crouching Venus” type – stage the tension that statues can generate between tactile flesh and hard stone, or between naturalistic promise and mimetic failure. Yet occasionally we find ancient authors fantasizing how this tension might be resolved. Foremost among such stories is that of Pygmalion, most familiar in the version told by Ovid.41 The story of a sculptor whose beloved statue comes to life (thanks to an intervention by Venus) works in direct contrast to accounts of the Knidia’s stony resistance. Much has been written about the paradigmatic role played by the Pygmalion myth in Western culture’s “dream of the moving statue”.42 For our purposes, though, it is enough to touch on the prominence of tactility in Ovid’s narrative of cognitive verification:­

37 Figure 5.9 shows the “Colonna Venus” – a Roman marble copy now in the Museo Pio-­Clementino of the Musei Vaticani (inv. 812), and considered one of our closest approximations of Praxiteles’ original: see Pfrommer (1985). On the Knidian Aphrodite and her successors, see Havelock (1995a); A.  Stewart  (1997: esp. 97–106); Ridgway (2004: 713–25); Corso (2007: 2.9–186); Pasquier & ­M artinez (2007: 130–201); Osborne (1994, 2011: 209–10); Squire (2011a: 88–114). On the original statue’s context of display within a cult to “Aphrodite Euploia”, see Ridgway (2004: 713–25) and Montel (2010); on the cult, see Sandberg (1954); Havelock (1995a: 28–9); For relevant ancient texts, see ­Kansteiner et al. (2014: 3.51–79, nos.1855–88), along with Platt (2002); Squire (2011a: 69–114); Haynes (2013). 38 On such tales, see e.g. Bussels (2012: 161–70). For references to assaults on Venus statues, see e.g. Pliny, Natural History 36.21; (Pseudo-)Lucian, Amores 15–17; Philostratus, Life of Apollonius of Tyre 6.40; Athenaeus, Deipnosophists 13.605f4–10; Clement of Alexandria, Exhortation to the Greeks 4.51. On agalmatophilia as a psychosexual “syndrome”, see Scobie & Taylor (1975); White (1978). 39 For a feminist reading of the Knidian Aphrodite’s provocations, see Salomon (1997). On the gendered relationship between male artists and viewers and their “female” materials, see Candlin (2014). 40 Authors are nonetheless careful to maintain the fantasy that the Knidia might instantiate divine form: do her lovers fail (and even meet a grisly end, as in (Pseudo-)Lucian, Amores, 16) because she is “mere” stone, or is their fate premised on the fact of a (literally!) impenetrable goddess? On such tension between materiality and divinity, see Platt (2002; 2011: 180–8) and Squire (2011a: 96–102). 41 Ovid, Metamorphoses 10.243–97. See also the Introduction to this volume, and the chapter by Slaney. On the enduring power of the Pygmalion myth, see Gross (1992); Jenkyns (1992: 115–42); Essake (2001); Stoichita (2008); Hersey (2009: 90–131); Moshenska (2014: 92–100); cf. also Slaney (this volume) on the relevance of the story to Winckelmann and Herder. For close readings of Ovid’s text, see especially Elsner & Sharrock (1991); Hardie (2002: 173–226); Elsner (2007: 113–31). 42 We allude here to Gross (1992), who offers an extensive treatment of the Pygmalion myth – and its Western critical reception.

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Figure 5.9  “  Venus Colonna”, second-century ce Roman version of Praxiteles’ Knidian ­Aphrodite (from the mid-fourth century bce). Marble, 2.04 m. ­Vatican, Musei Vaticani: inv. 812 (© Vanni Archive/Art Resource, NY).

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Pygmalion’s act of “womanufacture” exploits touch not only to test his frustrated desire, but also to pinpoint that magical moment when image turns into reality.43 From an art-historical viewpoint, the choice of medium in Ovid’s account is particularly revealing. Unlike the marble of the Knidian Aphrodite, Pygmalion’s image is sculpted from “snowy ivory” (niueum … / ebur, 10.247–8). As an organic substance derived from living bodies, ivory is an inherently tactile material that warms to the touch.44 When employed as a sole medium in antiquity (as opposed to its use with gold in composite “chryselephantine” statues), ivory was most often used for smaller objects, such as statuettes of deities or articulated toy dolls (e.g. Figure 5.10, discovered in a Roman tomb).45 Whether carried or cradled in the arms – and whether venerated, cherished or played with – the very medium of Pygmalion’s mythical creation seems designed to suggest a dynamic, haptic mode of engagement.46 It is quite fitting, then, that having fallen for his ivory maiden, Pygmalion exploits various forms of touch to “test out” her form (temptare: 10.254, 282, 283, 289). As Pygmalion kisses, holds and presses the statue’s limbs, he simultaneously probes the verificatory – ­albeit simultaneously disenchanting – potential of tactility, employing the faculty of touch to probe the boundaries between simulation and reality. Ovid carefully traces Pygmalion’s own questioning of this cognitive process: in his account of Pygmalion’s “thinking” (putat, 10.256) and “believing” (credit, 10.257) that he senses the active response of his sculpted creation, Ovid’s language evokes the logical process of assent outlined by the Stoics, whereby a subject determines whether the empirical perceptions of sense-impressions (phantasiai) are true or false.47 As Pygmalion slowly becomes aware of changes in texture, temperature and consistency, he metaphorically and literally “grasps” the truth, converting his subjective sensory impression into rational knowledge (corpus erat: “It was flesh!” 10.289). While the statue had remained the passive object of his testing hands and mouth, Pygmalion was said to have done the touching. Yet as Ovid’s metamorphosis gains momentum, the touched object touchingly transforms itself into a touching subject – the girl herself is said to feel

43 On Pygmalion as a paradigm for thinking through the relationship between touch and the medium of sculpture, see Kenaan (2014); Paraskos (2014). On the myth as an expression of “womanufacture”, see Sharrock (1991). 4 4 On the role of ivory in Ovid’s Pygmalion, see Caubet (1989). On the qualities and significance of ivory in antiquity, see Lapatin (2001: 7–19; 2015: 171–9), who notes (2001: 16) that it was frequently compared to the most beautiful human skin (e.g. Iliad 4.141–5, Odyssey 18.190–6). Perhaps owing to a pun on the Greek terms for “ivory” (elephas) and the verb to “deceive” (elephairomai), ivory was particularly associated with the deceptive power of images (as in the Homeric ivory gates through which false dreams pass, Odyssey 19.562–67): see Elsner (2007, 125–9), who sees this association as critical to a reading of Ovid’s Pygmalion. 45 Rome, Palazzo Massimo alle Terme, inv. 262725; the doll was discovered in a marble sarcophagus of a woman who had served as a vestal virgin for 66 years and is dated to the late second or early third century ce; cf. Battaglia (1983: 124–8, cat. 13) and Lindner (2015: 36–7). On such “dolls”, see Elderkin (1930); Dörig (1958); Cavalier (1988); Reilly (1997); cf. also Stoichita (2008: 11–13, who relates the tradition to Ovid’s Pygmalion). On the use of ivory together with gold for large-scale chryselephantine cult statues, see Lapatin (2001). 46 On the tactile qualities of small-scale, anthropomorphic statuettes, see below, 95–8. 47 For a summary of Stoic theories of perception, see Annas (1992: 71–85), with Gutzwiller (2004) on their relevance to Hellenistic and Roman ekphrastic literature.

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Figure 5.10  R  oman ivory doll (with gold necklace, bracelets and anklets) from the sarcophagus of Cossinia at Tivoli, late second century or early third century ce. Rome, Museo Nazionale Romano (Palazzo Massimo alle Terme): inv. 262725 (© Scala/ Art Resource, NY).

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the kisses bestowed upon her (dataque oscula uirgo / sensit, 10.292–3): the fantasy of union, in short, is dependent on both parties at once touching and being touched. What does all this mean for “getting to grips with classical art”? Two overriding points strike us as important. The first concerns cultural ideas about touch as a benchmark of cognitive reliability. By providing an opportunity to test out visual verisimilitude, touch was understood to serve as an extension of the eye: as the mechanism by which beholders and things beheld were thought to come together, touch confirms the fact that subject and object occupy the same physical space (even as it enforces ontological distinctions between the “true” and the “true-to-life”). Within the cultural frameworks of ancient mimēsis, touch consequently plays a fundamental role in both thwarting and reinforcing the impressions of visual make-believe: ideas of haptic engagement probed that tension between corporeal immediacy and ontological difference – between enchantment and disillusion – that so fascinated ancient thinking about artistic representation. This leads to a second observation. For cultural discourses about sense perception and representation were themselves bound up with the very stuff of ancient visual culture. The nexus of Greek and Roman ideas about seeing, touching and knowing that we have traced here did not emerge from a visual vacuum. Instead, these ideas responded (and in turn gave rise) to the material objects created by ancient artists: the story of Pygmalion’s artistic fantasy only makes sense against the backdrop of ancient sculptural forms like the “Knidian Aphrodite” and the “Lely Venus”. In this sense, the tactility of ancient art forges a sensory bridge between the ancient and modern worlds: for all its prohibitions, the museological instruction “Please do not touch!” responds to something inherent in extant artworks themselves.

Manipulating miniatures Ovid’s account of the Pygmalion myth is highly attentive to the tactile properties of the sculpted medium: premised on the transformation of representational object into living subject, his tale goes hand in hand with a tactile probing of cold ivory turning into warm flesh. Yet one simile in Ovid’s account strikes us as particularly revealing. As Pygmalion’s beloved passes from unyielding surface to supple softness, Ovid compares this increasingly malleable form to beeswax from Mount Hymmetos in Attica: the statue’s animation is likened to the way in which “Hymettian wax softens in the sun, moulded by the thumbs, pressed into many shapes” (ut Hymettia sole / cera remollescit tractataque pollice multas / flectitur in facies, 10.284–6).48 What should we make of this analogy? As an organic, pliable medium, beeswax was a substance that would have featured prominently in the haptic experiences of Ovid’s readers, being applied to wooden stylus tablets as a surface for writing as well as employed for the stamped impressions of seal stones.49 Wax rarely survives in the archaeological record: as Roberta Panzanelli has observed, “the history of wax is a 48 On the role of wax here, see Bloom (2003: 37–55); Hecker (2008: 136–7). For another example of the association between wax and the sense of touch, cf. Conybeare (Chapter 10) on Avitus’ sixth-century comparison between God’s creation of man and a craftsman moulding wax beneath his fingers. 49 On the use of wax tablets for writing in antiquity, see Small (1997: esp. 129–30); cf. Rouse & Rouse (1989a, 1989b); Lalou (1992); Camodeca (1999). On the media-­archaeological and meta-­literary

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history of disappearance”.50 But wax nevertheless played an invaluable role in ancient image-­production: one might consider the “lost wax technique”, so key to the creation of bronze sculptures; encaustic painting, in which pictures were formed from mixing wax with coloured pigments; the practice of ganōsis, whereby wax pigments were encaustically applied to the surfaces of marble statues; or the wax imagines said to have been used as masks in Roman funeral processions.51 As Georges Didi-Huberman comments, wax “presents a disconcerting multiplicity of physical properties”: this range of capacities – to receive, hold and transmit multiple forms, to be solid or liquid, impermeable or soluble, brittle or malleable – makes wax the medium par excellence of transformation.52 As a natural “living” substance that can imitate human flesh in both form and feel, wax also affords extraordinary mimetic precision and variety, entering (as Sharon Hecker has observed) into “a relationship, a responsive dialogue, with the artist or viewer with whom it engages via touch or sight, physically or visually”.53 Due to its pliant organic nature, wax features prominently in the tactile consciousness of ancient makers and viewers. In Ovid’s account of Pygmalion’s beloved, it is the propensity of this medium to become workable – its combined warming and softening through contact with the human body – that seems to have made wax such an effective simile: just as the very act of touching wax makes the medium soft and pliable, so too does Pygmalion’s statue grow softer under the heat of his testing fingers. One particular way of making sense of Ovid’s analogy is in connection to wax seal impressions, whereby an image, or tupos, was transmitted from engraved stone to heated wax through the stamping action of the hand. Within the ancient cultural imaginary, the practical and ubiquitous function of wax as a surface for writing and sealing made it inseparable from a class of objects that must be key to any discussion of the role of touch in ancient visual culture: engraved finger-rings, or daktulioi (cf. below, Figures 5.13a, 5.13b and 5.14). Whether made of precious or semi-precious stones, gold, bronze, or glass paste, incised finger-rings served as personal identificatory devices and were employed for sealing letters, signing legal documents and as emblems for personal security.54 As such, they were worn on the body, manipulated by the hand and even licked in order to produce clearer impressions; no less importantly, daktulioi could be stamped into wax, plaster or clay as markers of personal presence and authority that were closely bound to the identity of their individual owners.55

significance, see McCarthy (1998: 182–4); Roman (2006); S. Butler (2011: 108; 2015: 41–5); Platt (forthcoming a). 50 Panzanelli (2008: 1). 51 On the “lost wax technique”, see Mattusch (1996: 10–31). On encaustic painting: Dioxiadis (1997, on Egyptian mummy portraits); Koch (2000: 41–4); Kakoulli (2009: 11–14, 35–7). On ganōsis: von Bothmer (1951); Brinkmann (2007: 210–15); Marconi (2011); Bourgeois (2016). On Roman imagines (for which the evidence is rather controversial): Flower (1996); Bettini (2005); Pollini (2007); Crowley (2016a); Turner (2016: 147–9). 52 Didi-Huberman (1999: 64); see also Didi-Huberman (2008a; 2008b); Bloom (2003: xii–xvi). 53 Hecker (2008: 136) (her italics). 54 On the function and significance of engraved gems in antiquity, see (from a vast bibliography) Bonner (1908); Boardman (1970); Spier (1992); Henig (1994); Plantzos (1999: 18–41); Wagner & Boardman (2003); Platt (2006). 55 On the personal dimensions of seals and their capacity to “stand for” their owners, see Platt (2006); on the licking of seals to ensure that the impressed wax separates cleanly from the stone, see e.g. Ovid,

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In the remainder of this chapter, we explore the cognitive affordances of the seal-impression in more detail, above all as a figure for the haptics of Graeco-Roman visual culture. Before we do so, however, it is worth saying something about the aesthetic properties and phenomenological effects of engraved gems and other miniature objects. Where life-size statues such as the “Lely Venus” may stimulate the haptic imagination and even invite direct touch (Figure 5.1), we have noted how any attempt to move from visual to tactile engagement risks compromising the illusionism of the image (as in foiled assaults on the Knidian Aphrodite): the act of touching the statue risks undermining the very relationship that its tactile appeal invites between statue and beholder. The case with smaller objects – whether figurines, engraved gems or cameos – is quite different: miniature forms rely upon acts of handling in order to elicit affective modes of response. In their games with scale, such objects reconfigure the relationship with the beholder. Moreover, the perceptual agency of the viewer’s touch becomes all important: as Stephanie Langin-Hooper has observed of smallscale Hellenistic figurines from Babylonia, the human hand has the power to “bridge the perceptual distance between real-life and small-scale worlds”. 56 The role played by the hand in the production and aesthetic experience of miniatures was also a topos of Hellenistic ekphrastic poetry. Posidippus’ third-century bce epigram on a tiny chariot and charioteer sculpted by the famed Archaic miniaturist Theodorus plays with the relationship between hand and scale in a particularly graphic way: “How great was the labour of the Theodorean hand (τῆς Θεοδωρείης χειρός)!”, Posidippus exclaims; “for you will see bands, reins, the ring for the horse’s bit, the bit’s axle, the charioteer’s eye and the fingertips of his hands (ἄκρα χερῶν)”.57 Here the sculptor’s handiwork – that is, the sculpture’s status as a miniature marvel – is made especially manifest in the tiny charioteer’s tiny fingertips, as he grasps his horse’s reins: reader-viewers are invited not only to use their own hand as a means of measurement, but also to consider the tactile finesse through which such miniscule acts of handling are wrought. The epigram thus invites an intimate mode of examination, as if Theodorus’ described miniature were actually held in the hand of the (be)holder; at the same time, the reference simultaneously alerts us – not least through Posidippus’ textual mediation of the object described – to the technical and perceptual limits of our own bodies (including the potential clumsiness of our own vast fingertips), as we sensorially navigate the virtuosity, fragility and alterity of its world-within-a-world.58 While Theodorus’ tiny charioteer alludes to the limits of touch in its apprehension of the minute, statuettes made of bronze, terracotta and stone are often scaled to a size that explicitly invites an explorative tactile process. Take, for example, a bronze figurine inspired by the same iconographic type as the “Lely Venus” (Figure 5.1) – a “Crouching Venus” just 20 cm high, originally discovered in Rome but now in

Amores 2.15.15–19; for the kissing of signet rings, see Rush (2012: 64–6), on Chariton, Chaereas and Callirhoe 4.1.10–2. 56 Langin-Hooper (2015: 3); see also Stewart (1993: 46), with Bailey (2005, 2014), on the tactile phenomenology of prehistoric figurines. 57 Posidippus 67.2–4 A-B: for the most recent discussion (and a bibliographic guide), see Seidensticker (2015: 272–6). On the “Theodorean hand”, see Squire (2011b: esp. 283–91, with further bibliography). 58 On phenomenological experience of miniatures, see Stewart (1993: 37–69); the special issues of World Archaeology (2015, no. 47.1) and Art History (2015, no. 38.2) are also relevant, and survey some of the more recent bibliographies.

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Figure 5.11  B  ronze statuette of the “Crouching Venus” type, first century bce (height 20 cm). Copenhagen, Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek: inv. 2004 (© Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek; photograph by Ole Haupt).

Copenhagen (Figure 5.11).59 Rather than staging an illusion of “presence” within the visual and spatial sphere occupied by the human viewer, small or miniature objects 59 Copenhagen, Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek, inv. 2004: see Poulsen (1951: 60–1, no. 51); Bartman (1992: 22). On miniature reproductions of well-known statue types, see Bartman (1992: esp. 22–6, on the use of bronze for statuettes) and Settis, Anguissola & Gasparotto (2015). On the iconography of Aphrodite in the so-called “minor arts”, see Kondoleon (2012). For miniature images of the “Crouching Venus” in other media, see e.g. a ­second-century bce terracotta figurine 17.5cm high in the Louvre (inv. Myr 18); compare also a striking rock crystal version – just 8.5cm high – now in the Getty Villa (inv. 78.AN.248), and discussed by Krug (1982), Lapatin (2015: 260) and Crowley (2016b).

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draw us into alternative worlds ordered according to their radically different scale. The Copenhagen Venus’ (be)holder may not venture into the illusionistic absorption prompted by the Knidian Aphrodite and her sisters. Nevertheless, the viewer is invited to cup, cradle and even caress the Copenhagen figurine between the hands: to turn it over and examine its convex curves and concave spaces with both finger and eye; to feel the textural contrasts between the smoothly modelled back and thighs and the striated ridges of the goddess’ carefully coiffed hair. While the life-size “Crouching Venus” invites audiences to walk around the sculpture – to follow its complex diagonals and explore the figure’s concave spaces by means of the haptic imagination – the Copenhagen bronze figurine prompts us to discover her secrets through a tactile absorption enabled by the hand. In such encounters between subject and object, the hand functions as a sensory “orifice” (in Pamela Gilbert’s term), facilitating a channel of communication between the inner and outer worlds.60 What is sacrificed in terms of illusionistic potential is gained through tactile intimacy: as the figurine’s bronze gradually warms under the touch of our hands, the beholder is sensually drawn into the enchanted erotic realm of its subject. The games of scale involved in such interaction have a very tangible effect. As LanginHooper observes, small figurines can lead their human viewers to feeling “enlarged and empowered by comparison”; indeed, one can imagine how tactile-visual examination of the Copenhagen Venus generates a sense of mastery and possession that works to enhance the (be)holder’s own awareness of erotic agency – whether understood as domination, seduction or identification.61 From this perspective, it is perhaps unsurprising that small figurines should feature so prominently in ritual acts of communication between the human and divine in antiquity.62 Statuettes of deities may not prompt the same sense of miraculous epiphanic encounter that life-size or monumental cult statues might elicit, yet they compress divine power into a powerful material package.63 As objects that can be easily carried by individuals, transported in acts of pilgrimage and presented in acts of dedication, they testify to (and in turn reinforce) a devotional relationship with the divine that is highly dependent upon touch, as well as vision. Such acts of tactile communication both express and strengthen bonds between worshipper and deity, affording an intimacy of engagement that extends beyond the performative spectatorship of large-scale ritual events such as festival processions. This holds particularly true of statuettes and other media that replicate the iconography of cult images less accessible to tactile encounter (with the exception of privileged individuals such as cultic personnel): by making the object of cult both portable and tactile, such objects enabled a form of distributive divine agency that, in miniaturizing and reproducing authoritative divine forms, also transmitted and magnified the status and influence of the deities they instantiated beyond the boundaries of identifiably sacred space.64 60 Gilbert (2014: 1). 61 Langin-Hooper (2015: 62); see also Bailey (2005: 33), along with Squire (2011b: esp. 1–25 and 247–302) on the early Imperial Tabulae Iliacae. 62 On archaeological evidence for the use of figurines in cult practice, see Alroth (1988, 1989); van Straten (1981, 1992); Muller (1996); Kaufmann-Heinimann (2000); Barrett (2011: 386–7, 2015b). 63 On the “epiphanic” effects of cult statues in antiquity, see Platt (2011, 2016), with extensive bibliography. 64 On the notion of distributed agency, see Gell (1998: esp. 133–53). On the replication of cult statues, Gaifman (2006) – and on tactile contact with them, see above (85).

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As a result of their portability, accessibility and tactility, small-scale figurines of gods and heroes are found in both public sacred spaces and more private domestic contexts, providing invaluable evidence for the (ever shifting and elusive) relationship between civic cult and the religious lives of individuals.65 In line with this functional flexibility, figurines (and with them other miniature objects such as engraved gems) also occupy the sphere of activity we associate with “magic”.66 As embodiments, compressions or repositories of divine power that can be handled and manipulated, and that encourage a sense of both intimate engagement and domination, miniaturized forms feature prominently in the prescriptions of the Greek Magical Papyri, for example (especially those that relate to the “binding” of a desired love object).67 Here the practitioner’s power to shape and act upon such figures – to be, in effect, a Pygmalion – works to assert control over (and often erotic possession of) their living referents.68 Such manipulations facilitate a form of touch by proxy, making tangible and available bodies that – whether pertaining to a deity, love object or mortal ­enemy – are otherwise elusive, distant and inaccessible. The magical potential of the miniature returns us squarely to engraved gems and daktulioi.69 As replicative devices that can be manipulated to “stamp” their images into the receiving medium, sealing devices are themselves infused with the potential for “magical” effect. Like figurines, seals are miniaturizations (often of deities and other supernatural beings) that establish a close relationship between object and body, especially when set into finger-rings, threaded on cords and chains, or carried on the self in pockets or pouches. As in prescriptions for the manufacture of figurines, the act of stamping a magical gem into wax or clay involves a tactile process that casts the practitioner as a maker of images, as well as a handler of objects.70 When the negative image “cut into” the gem’s surface (the in-taglio) is stamped in positive form into a pliable material, this action reproduces the gem’s visual matrix in a performance of authority and ratification that echoes and parallels the use of seals in official legal contexts, where it is the production of the sealing by means of bodily gesture and tactile manipulation that attests to the presence and agency of the signatory. The binding force of such acts of replication is powerfully demonstrated by gems incised with incantations evoking or reproducing the names 65 On the slippage between cultic and domestic contexts in the display of terracotta figurines, see B ­ arrett (2015a); on the domestic display of sacred figurines in Pompeii, see Coralini (2001); Giacobello (2008). More generally on the role of the individual in ancient religion, see Rüpke (2013). 66 On the complicated relationship between “magic” and “religion” in antiquity, see Fowler (1995). 67 E.g. Papyri Graecae Magicae (PGM) 4.296–303 (prescribing the creation and manipulation of figurines of Ares and Aphrodite), translated in Betz (1992 ad loc.): see Graf (1999: 137–45); Faraone (1991; 1999: esp. 12–15, with further bibliography). On the manipulation of figurines in Greek magic, cf. Collins (2008: 64–103). 68 On magical practitioners in the Graeco-Roman world, see Dickie (2001). 69 On ancient “magical” (traditionally referred to as “gnostic”) gems, see Bonner (1950); Delatte & Derchain (1964); Zwierlein-Diehl (1992); Faraone (2011); Nagy (2012); Barrett (2015b). On the relationship between “magical” and “non-magical” gems (which often depends on function and context rather than iconography), see Michel (2004: 16–34); Platt (2007). 70 The Greek Magical Papyri also include prescriptions for making and consecrating engraved stones for use in spells, such as the “Sword of Dardanus” papyrus (PGM 4.1716–1870): see Betz (1992: ad loc.), with Delatte & Derchain (1964: 233–8); Platt (2007); for further examples, cf. Barrett (2015b).

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Figure 5.12  Rock crystal amulet engraved with the words Iaō eulamō Abrasax, first to fifth centuries ce. Ann Arbor, Kelsey Museum of Archaeology (University of Michigan): inv. KM 26050 (© Kelsey Museum of Archaeology).

of spiritual entities such as ABRASAX (a Graeco-Egyptian solar deity) and IAŌ (a form of JHWH, the Hebrew God): here the manual transfer of the text constitutes a form of summoning or activation, stamping the deity into pliable material in a verbal–visual speech-act that makes the deity’s power present and accessible to the practitioner (Figure 5.12).71 Objects like these are not only talismanic, protecting the owner-wearer through their material properties and proximity to the body; they also have potential reproductive power (dunamis), so that the seal’s impressions can extend the body’s influence beyond its natural reach by means of material surrogates.72 71 University of Michigan, Kelsey Museum, inv. KM26050. The gem is made from rock crystal, inscribed with the words Iaō eulamō Abrasax, and engraved with a lion and star: see Bonner (1950: no. 237), who refers to the word eulamō as a typical vox magica with unknown meaning. On the name and possible iconography of Abrasax, see Bonner (1950: 123–39); Merkelbach & Totti (1990–92); Michel (2004: 239–50); Barrett (2015b). 72 On the medical properties of gems in their relationship to the body, both “magical” and “medicinal”, see Faraone (2011) and Dasen (2014). On the materiality of gems, “voodoo dolls” and other objects in ancient magic, see the essays in Boschung & Bremmer (2015).

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One challenge in getting to grips with “magical” miniatures, and especially engraved gems, lies in their modern museological framing. As we noted at the beginning of this chapter, museums recondition our experience of ancient artefacts. But the instruction “Please do not touch!” is particularly anathema to the sensory experience of miniature sealstones. Since the early modern period, finely carved intaglios such as Figure 5.13a have typically been displayed in glass cases or “finger-ring cabinets” (daktuliothekai): protected from light-fingered visitors and encased alongside other examples, they have been valued for their precious materials and virtuoso craftsmanship. This mode of viewing might be necessitated by the institutional demands of the museum. But it seriously distorts the ways in which gems have been historically experienced. To see a tiny intaglio device properly, identify its material and iconography and appreciate its workmanship, one must be able to hold it at various distances from the eye, turning it to and fro in the light. This form of tactile-visual engagement establishes a close somatic relationship between (be)holder and object – a position of privileged access that maximizes knowledge and understanding. Such careful manipulation is also fundamental to the incised stone’s potential function as a seal device – its capacity to be activated by the hand so that its image could be impressed into another medium. Indeed, the museological convention of displaying engraved gems alongside their plaster impressions (cf. Figures 5.13a and 5.13b) itself acknowledges the fact that details incised in negative form into the stone are often difficult to see until they are re-produced in positive form in another medium. The act of stamping an intaglio is in this sense an act not only of production, but also of revelation, whereby the operations of the hand facilitate a fuller visual encounter. To understand this process, let us look more closely at the “Crouching Venus” and Cupid incised into semi-precious sard (a kind of carnelian) in Figure 5.13a.73 On the gem itself, the figures are seen in concave form: they are experienced as a material “absence”, their forms extracted from the stone and felt by the fingertips as an indent within the smoothly polished surface. By contrast, the act of stamping their imagery into wax, plaster or clay produces mother and son in convex relief (­Figure 5.13b). To press the sard into a malleable material is to make its divine subjects materially manifest; indeed, the initial warmth and pliability of the receiving medium itself ­approximates the qualities of represented flesh. In striking the impression, viewers are also struck by another revelation. As a mirror-image of the iconography on the gem, the stamped impression (Figure 5.13b) reverses the arrangement of the composition (­Figure 5.13a): by facing to the right rather than the left, with the right knee bent towards the ground, the goddess now takes on the orientation of life-size marble “Crouching Venus” statues – such as those in the British Museum and the Louvre (Figures 5.1 and 5.8), as well as the Copenhagen figurine (Figure 5.11). If we can assume that the intaglio’s iconography emulates a well-known Hellenistic statue, it is worth observing that the impression (rather than the gem itself) is visually prioritized as the miniature version of a m ­ onumental prototype: the image produced by the hand of the gem’s

73 Boston, Museum of Fine Arts, inv. 03.1015, dated to the first century bce and set into a modern gold bezel. On the replication of statue types in glyptic form, see Gagetti (2009).

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Figure 5.13a  Sard oval gem, engraved with a “Crouching Venus” and Cupid, first century bce, in a modern gold setting. 12 mm (height). Boston, Museum of Fine Arts: inv. 03.1015 (© [2018] Museum of Fine Arts, Boston).

Figure 5.13b  P  laster impression of the same gem (© [2018] Museum of Fine Arts, Boston).

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bearer is the one that carries an authoritative image of the goddess, as it circulates beyond (and acts as a surrogate for) its owner.74 Like Theodorus’ miniature statuette in Posidippus’ epigram (p. 95), the tiny scale of engraved gems limits the fingers’ potential to detect information about iconography or inscriptions, especially when they are incised in shallow relief. Yet their communicative power is facilitated through acts of manipulation that bind them closely to the human body and its perceptual processes. Indeed, in depicting a vignette of Venus embracing Cupid, Figure 5.13a (like its life-size equivalent in Figure 5.8) thematizes the act of touch within its iconographic form, celebrating the familial caresses of mother and son whilst stimulating a desire for erotic touch through the sensuous curves of the goddess’ body. At the same time, Venus holds within her hand one of Cupid’s arrows: has she just taken it from her naughty son (in an effort to curb his powers), or is she about to throw the arrow herself (thereby demonstrating the combined power of Venus and Cupid to arouse erōs in the beholder)? Whatever we decide, every replicative stamp performs Venus’ ability to act within, upon and between material bodies, motivating our desire to touch (and in turn be touched by) the seal’s impression. The questions about sensory experience, touch and perception raised by such intaglios become all the more significant when we remember the role played by daktulioi in Graeco-Roman discussions of sense perception. The ability of the seal to transmit its tupos from one material entity to another offered Aristotle and the Stoics a metaphor for expressing the action of sense impressions (phantasiai) upon the soul (psuchē); Aristotle’s talk of an “impression” (tupōsis) likewise looks back to the account of memory in Plato’s Theaetetus, in which Socrates declares that memories are formed by impressions stamped into the wax “imprint-receiving device” (ekmageion) of the mind.75 For Aristotle, the power of the daktulios to transmit form haptically, without transferring matter, makes it such a useful metaphor in his account of the senses.76 At the same time, the uncanny, almost metaphysical properties of wax figure the ambiguous status of the human psuchē as a malleable medium that is at once corporeal and conceptual, capable of receiving and storing information that is acquired through sense perception and converted into something far less tangible.

74 Note that this also holds for most inscriptions on Hellenistic and Roman intaglios: the script reads from left to right in the impression, and in retrograde form in the gem – see Platt (2006: 243). 75 Plato, Theaetetus 191c–d: “If there’s anything we want to remember … we hold it under the perceptions and conceptions and imprint them on it, as if we were taking impressions from seal rings (ὥσπερ δακτυλίων σημεῖα ἐνσημαινομένους)”. Cf. Cicero, On the Orator 2.353–4, comparing the mnemonic techniques attributed to Simonides with impressions on wax tablets; for discussion, see Elsner & Squire (2016: 186–7). 76 Aristotle, On the Soul 2.12.424a19: “Sense is that which can receive perceptible forms without their matter, as wax receives the imprint of the ring without the iron or gold (οἷον ὁ κηρὸς τοῦ δακτυλίου ἄνευ τοῦ σιδήρου καὶ τοῦ χρυσοῦ δέχεται τὸ σημεῖον), and it takes the imprint which is of gold or bronze, but not qua gold or bronze”. For Stoic appropriations of this metaphor, see e.g. Diogenes Laertius, Lives of the Philosophers 7.45–6 (Zeno): “A phantasia is an imprint on the soul: the name having been appropriately borrowed from the imprint made by the seal-ring upon the wax (ἀπὸ τῶν τύπων τῶν ἐν τῷ κηρῷ ὑπὸ τοῦ δακτυλίου γινομένων)”. For discussion of the seal-ring metaphor in the philosophy of sense perception, see Platt (2006); Rudolph (2016: esp. 52 – on Democritus); and Nightingale (2016: 62–3).

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Figure 5.14  Carnelian intaglio of a hand pinching an ear, with the Greek inscription ­“Remember!” (MNHMONEYE), second century ce. 9 × 7 mm. London, ­Victoria and Albert Museum: inv. 576–1871 (© Victoria and Albert Museum, London).

*** Whether or not the engravers and handlers of ancient gems were aware of their role in shaping ancient epistemological frameworks, it is striking how the communicative power of touch and the role of the hand are repeatedly thematized in their iconographic devices. From divine figures and personifications holding attributes (which communicate identity and convey the interests and affiliations of their owners), to acts of writing, engraving, painting and carving, the seal’s ability to transmit information through acts of manipulation is everywhere at play. With that in mind, we end this chapter with one final case study (Figure 5.14). The overriding aim of our short survey has been to get to grips with the synaesthetic appeal of ancient visual culture – not just its workings within ideas about sensory vision, but also its multifaceted appeals to touch (themselves premised on the tactile associations of seeing). Our closing intaglio, dating from the second century ce, brings together some of these broader themes. On this Roman carnelian (just one of many gems and cameos that depict such devices), we find a hand tugging an ear, framed with an inscribed circular Greek instruction that the beholder should “remember!” (MNHMONEYE).77 In figuring speech through the touch of the hand, the

77 London, Victoria and Albert Museum, inv. 576–1871 (from the collection of Edmund Waterton, 1830–81). See also Henig (1994: 176, no. 384 – a similarly engraved jasper in the Fitzwilliam

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intaglio makes visible a perception of sound, folding sight and hearing into a single sensory whole. No less importantly, the inscribed instruction is predicated on the manipulable object’s own ability to transmit its message by tactile means: its yielding of impressions that are formed through touch and are thereby circulated beyond the physical sensorium of the gem’s (be)holder. “Memory” – of the gem from which each impression is forged; of the owner (or indeed the bestower) of that stone; and especially of the sensations of bodily presence – is thus facilitated by a daktulios that performs the very act of impressing, which underlies philosophical models of memory and knowledge-acquisition. Like the “Crouching Venus” and her progeny, this engraved gem demonstrates how the manufactured materials of ancient art could at once contemplate and embody the sensory processes that they stimulate: these objects combine invitations to touch with sophisticated visual reflections about the nature and affects of tactility itself. Scholars of classical art would do well to heed the carnelian’s imperative: to remember that ancient “visual” culture appealed to – and was indeed shaped by – a much larger, more complex, and wholly more synaesthetic sensory economy.78

Museum, Cambridge) and Platt (2006: 248–9, with further examples). For the notion that the seat of memory resides in the ear, see Pliny, Natural History 11.103 who comments that “we touch [it] when we summon a witness to depose upon memory to an arrest”. On the practice of “plucking the ear”, see Vergil, Eclogue 6.2-3, with further examples in Otto 1890: 48 (s.v. auris). 78 We are grateful to Alex Purves and the series editors for their helpful comments and suggestions on an earlier version of our contribution; Michael Squire also gratefully acknowledges the generous support of the Leverhulme Trust (which facilitated his research for the chapter through the award of a Philip Leverhulme Prize).

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6 I n t he body of t he beholder Herder’s aesthetics and classical sculpture Helen Slaney ὥστε ἡ ψυχὴ ὥσπερ ἡ χείρ ἐστιν … The soul is like a hand … (Aristotle, On the Soul 3.8.432a1)

As we have seen in the Introduction to this volume, the Pygmalion trope had particular conceptual currency in the latter half of the eighteenth century.1 Although in Ovid the statue is fashioned from ebur, ivory, contemporary depictions including a sculptural realisation by Étienne-Maurice Falconet (Figure 6.1) showed her in marble, referencing the dominant medium associated with antiquity at the time. Following the lead of Winckelmann, contemporary conceptions of classical Greece were regularly shaped around a canon of sculpture. 2 A host of historians, critics and philosophers embraced the pure beauty, the Schönheit, which classical sculptures appeared to embody.3 Among them, Johann Gottfried Herder paid particular attention to the aesthetic mechanisms by which such beauty was perceived. Platt and Squire in the previous chapter examined the tactile appeal of sculpture in antiquity, a sensuality that may likewise be found in Herder’s approach to three-dimensional artwork. Although typically placed among the visual arts,4 it is only through touch, according to Herder, that sculpture is fully appreciated: as music appeals to the ears and painting to the eyes, sculpture, as die schöne Kunst des Gefühls (“the fine art for touch”), corresponds to “the sense which perceives things in depth”. 5 Herder does not mean that it is necessary to make physical contact with the artwork in question, and indeed implies that this would short-circuit the work’s effects. Rather, by attending scrupulously to the sensations occurring in your own body as a result of its proximity 1 On Galatea as eighteenth-century icon, see Joshua (2001: 31–51); on the use of the motif by ­Condillac, see Gaiger (2002: 13). 2 See Pearce (1992) on the synecdochic function of museum objects as representatives of their source culture. 3 Sculptural metaphor played a significant role in the idealising construction of ancient Greece, from Winckelmann and Lessing to Goethe, Schiller, A.W. Schlegel and Hegel. See Malsch (1990) on ­Herder’s place in this tradition. On other aspects of German philhellenism at this time, see e.g. Butler (1935); more recently, Marchand (2003); Güthenke (2008) and Billings (2014; 2016). 4 Candlin (2010a); cf. Boden (2000) and Chapter 5, this volume. 5 Kritische Wäldchen 4 (Fourth Critical Grove) 2.3 (Moore 2006: 216). All translations of Kritische Wäldchen 4 are from Moore (2006) unless otherwise indicated.

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Figure 6.1  É tienne-Maurice Falconet, “Pygmalion at the foot of a statue that comes to life, also called Pygmalion and Galatea”, 1761. Paris: Musée du Louvre, RF2001 (© RMN-Grand Palais (Musée du Louvre); photograph by Michel Urtado).

to the artwork, you can tune into and cultivate the haptic frisson activated by encountering any three-dimensional form.6 As I will show in this essay, ­Herder’s theory of fühlende Einbildung, or the “feeling imagination”, anticipates current neurocognitive 6 As Moore (2006: 15) observes, “Herder does not mean to suggest that we best appreciate sculptural form by groping the marble with our eyes shut. … [T]he mind imaginatively recuperates the threedimensionality of the object on the basis of ideas such as mass and extension originally furnished by touch”.

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models of haptic perception. Of particular relevance are the findings of Marc Jeannerod concerning the neural processing of pragmatic affordances, or the action-­ centred properties of objects. According to Jeannerod and others, perceiving an object visually has been shown to activate simulations of potential kinetic engagement.7 This simple act of activation may be pleasurable in itself, 8 but Herder is particularly concerned with what constitutes Schönheit (“pure beauty”): what it consists of, how to recognise it and what to do with it when it confronts you.9 To this end, his essays Plastik: einige Wahrnehmungen über Form und Gestalt aus Pygmalions bildendem Traume (Sculpture: Some Observations on Shape and Form from Pygmalion’s Creative Dream) and Kritische Wäldchen 4 (Fourth Critical Grove) concentrate on the sculptural forms considered at the time to epitomise artistic perfection, namely the collections of anthropomorphic Graeco-Roman statues on display in Florence and Rome. Herder had not yet visited Italy when he wrote these essays, whose insights into the interdependence of the senses are supposedly predicated on direct contact with peerless masterpieces. On the contrary, it was via casts and copies that Herder developed his theory of touch as the sense through which we access the plastic realisation of beauty. Kritische Wäldchen 4, although it remained unpublished until after Herder’s death, was written in 1769, and its implications for sculpture developed more fully over the succeeding decade to be published in 1779 as Plastik. It was not until 1788 that Herder, in emulation of his friend and colleague Goethe, set out for Italy, ardent for a cultural consummation that remained elusive.10 Plastik’s manifesto represents a response to contemporary aesthetic theory refracted through ­Winckelmann as much as it represents phenomenological experience.11 Nevertheless, it also represents a critical moment in the reception of classical sculpture and a self-­reflexive treatment of the sensory engagement this art-form invites. *** Every sculpture is an installation of sorts, and installations solicit performative participation from their attendees. Do you “attend” a sculpture? You would certainly attend to a sculpture, or in Herder’s version, attend to its co-presence in your kinaesphere, the area you can potentially encompass by moving. Although touch is commonly regarded as involving skin-to-surface contact with objects or environments, particularly through the hands and fingers, this is only one aspect of haptic perception. As well as registering pressure, temperature and pain in the cutaneous receptors, the somatosensory system also processes a range of data from around the

7 See discussion below (113ff). 8 Engaging with sculpture is a “psychotropic mechanism” as defined by Smail (2008): a deliberate modification of behaviour resulting in neurochemical change. 9 Defining beauty was the central project of eighteenth-century aesthetics, but Herder’s innovation was to focus not on the characteristics of the object but the process of observation itself. See discussion in Norton (1991). 10 Knoll (1990). 11 The seminal works of Johann Joachim Winckelmann, “Thoughts on the imitation of Greek works in painting and sculpture” (1755) and History of the Art of Antiquity (1764) established Greek art as the ideal paradigm. Herder was also aware of Lessing’s response in Laocoön (1766). On Herder’s reception of Winckelmann, see Harloe (2013: 205–43).

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body. This includes proprioceptive information concerning the position of joints and muscles, and the closely related sense of kinaesthesia or one’s own movement.12 In conjunction with vision, haptic awareness enables an organism to judge object properties such as proximity, velocity, and mass in order to perform complex sensorimotor operations like crossing a busy road, or carving marble, or catching a ball. Because any action, even an act of perception, involves synthesising sensorimotor data with input from other modalities, the isolation of one “sense” from another is somewhat artificial.13 The profound contribution of touch to human experience has only recently been recognised, however, particularly in comparison to the longstanding fetish for vision dominating philosophical and critical discourse, and therefore re-engaging with haptic aesthetics offers a valuable counterweight.14 For this reason, I have chosen to refer to the “beholder” of sculpture throughout because the term’s formality imparts more structure to the transaction than the less active role of “viewer”, which also carries unwelcome ocular-centric connotations; moreover, the (etymologically related) beholder holds the object in his field of awareness, much as the German Begriff (concept) is “grasped” (begriffen). Herder’s definition of touch incorporates factors now recognised as integral elements of haptic perception: spatial dynamics, object affordances, kinaesthesia and motor memory. Touch, as Herder realised, spreads throughout the entire body and suffuses every living moment. It also informs cognitive processing. Plastik opens with a summary of Diderot’s “Letter on the blind for the use of those who can see” (1749), a defence of the sense of touch against the prevailing association of vision with abstract thought and “higher” reasoning. Like Herder, Diderot subscribed to the empiricist position that human knowledge was acquired through sense experience, rather than generated by a disembodied faculty of reason.15 Diderot’s contention was that congenitally blind individuals conceptualise the world using tactile and motor r­ epresentations that function like mental “images” but differ in their modal c­ ontent. He uses this hypothesis to address what is known as “Molyneux’s Q ­ uestion”, first posed in a letter to John Locke in 1688. Molyneux had asked whether a man blind from birth who had regained his sight as an adult would be able to distinguish a cube from a sphere by vision alone, or whether he could only tell which was which by  ­handling  them. Diderot, like Herder (and Locke), reached a negative

12 It also includes the vestibular system, responsible for maintaining balance and measuring acceleration, and the usually imperceptible regulation of body chemistry. See Damasio (1999), Berthoz (2000) and Millar (2008) on the components of the somatosensory system. For definitions of touch incorporating all haptic senses, see Paterson (2007: passim) and Candlin (2010a: 5); Sheets-Johnstone quoted in Gallagher (2005: 7, n. 3). 13 Millar (2008: 43, 113) on spatial intermodality; Berthoz (2000: 5) on kinaesthesia. See further Butler & Purves (2013) on cross-sensory experience in the ancient world. 14 There is a growing interest in touch in sensory history, e.g. Classen (2012). This is not confined to modernity; as Porter (2010: 8) argues, “Materialism is an essential component of aesthetic reflection in antiquity from its earliest origins”. 15 For contextualisation of Herder’s thought in eighteenth-century aesthetic and empiricist philosophy, see Norton (1991: esp. 155–232); Moore (2006: 1–30); Gaiger (2002: 6–15).

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conclusion: touch and sight register different properties, and “it is by experience alone that we learn to compare our sensations with what occasions them”.16 Herder sets out in Kritische Wäldchen 4 (KW4) to develop an inductive theory of aesthetics, refuting the position expressed in Riedel’s Theorie der schönen Künste (Theory of the Fine Arts, 1767) that the human mind possesses an innate sense of what is beautiful. On the contrary, Herder argues, beauty is an acquired taste, and taste “a habitual application of our judgement to objects of beauty”.17 Judgement is the product of long-term repeated exposure to a range of comparable stimuli, until the process of sensual apprehension becomes so abbreviated that the beholder is no longer aware it has taken place and attributes his resulting aesthetic preferences to a non-existent faculty of rational, natural discrimination.18 Such preferences can only be developed by making intensive, extensive comparisons between the objects in a given category (such as anthropomorphic marble sculpture/s) and extrapolating criteria for ranking these comparisons. Taste takes practice; practice makes both perfect and imperfect, as these values do not precede the studied application of perception. Your ability to perceive beauty, then, requires cultivation, and the instrument recommended by Herder as a tool for cultivating this sense within the body, carving it into the psyche, is antique sculpture, “the works of Phidias and Lysippus”.19 The habit of aesthetic discrimination can be developed to the point of becoming “second nature” (wird Fertigkeit, wird Gewohnheit, wird Natur)20 because of the way in which our senses learn to grasp the world and convert its maelstrom of stimuli into meaningful data. This is the crux of Herder’s association of sculpture with touch. The medium’s intrinsic properties, those which distinguish it from other art forms (and in particular from painting), its volume and depth, solidity and mass, contour and curvature, its alteration of the space it occupies and the pressure its presence exerts on the matter around it, are held in common by all three-dimensional objects; but we are only aware that these properties exist because we have previously experienced their tactile effects on our bodies. “It is only by a habitual abbreviation (Verkürzung)”, Herder writes, “that we see bodies as surfaces and fancy that we recognise through sight what in childhood we properly learned very slowly, only by way of touch”.21 Shaun Gallagher has shown that Diderot and Herder were right, but for the wrong reasons. The assumption that infants cannot interpret their visual field until they corroborate it tactually is incorrect;22 however, “continued visual experience after

16 In the original: C’est l’expérience seule qui nous apprend à comparer les sensations avec ce qui les occasionne (Trans. Adams = Diderot [1749] 1999). 17 KW4, 1.6 (Moore 2006: 199). 18 Ibid. 1.5 (Moore 2006: 196–7). 19 Ibid. 2.12 (Moore 2006: 281). 20 Ibid. 1.5 (Moore 2006: 199). 21 Ibid. 2.1 (Moore 2006: 209). In the original: Es ist bloss eine gewohnheitsmässige Verkürzung, dass wir Körper als Flächen sehen, und das durch das Gesicht zu erkennen glauben, was wir würklich in unserer Kindheit, nicht anders als durchs Gefühl und sehr langsam lernten. Compare the more synaesthetic elision of vision and touch discussed in Chapter 5, this volume. 22 Imitation of facial expressions occurs from birth: Gallagher (2005: 74–5); the infant may have no choice but to imitate the expression, if development of mirror neurons precedes that of the inhibitory reflex. Cf. Jeannerod (1994: 200).

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birth is necessary for the proper and continued development of neurons in the visual cortex … [and] deprivation of experience through the critical period would cause degradation of that initial structure”. 23 In other words, the infant is born with all the equipment for intermodal perception, but if vision is not exercised in conjunction with other senses at each stage of development, their integration will not be sustained. Moreover, while infants can recognise objects without prior tactile contact, 24 their comprehension of these objects’ use-value is acquired by practising the associated motor skills. 25 The haptic properties of objects (temperature, volume, hardness, texture, weight and finally shape) become “salient” to infants at different stages of their development, depending on the degree of motor ability required to execute different types of “exploratory procedure” ranging from “static contact” to more complex interactions. 26 Herder’s central premise, then, holds true; although vision and touch are in fact neurologically integrated from birth, without experiential application to reinforce the connection, they will drift apart. It appears, however, that the critical factor in learning to process the material world in early childhood is not tactile contact, but movement. 27 Originally reliant on empirical experiments with reaching and grasping, dropping and fumbling, clutching and pulling – and, although Herder does not mention relationships to architecture in this context, climbing and slipping and scrambling and tunnelling – we begin progressively to assess material attributes such as function, scale and proximity through vision alone, without the need to confirm our assessments tactually. Nevertheless, it is important not to mistake abbreviation for substitution. Touch has not been supplanted, but rather reconfigured as embodied knowledge, a complex latent memory reactivated as the unrealised anticipation of movement: if I grip the cup, if I lower myself onto the chair, if I were to embrace this figure or clench these muscles or slide down this colossal limb … The regressive impulse to follow through on these promises of kinetic interaction is likewise at work in the fantasy of Pygmalion. Described sensually by Ovid, 28 it is the sculptor-amator alone who actually touches. Whereas Pygmalion exercises the craftsman’s prerogative and lays proprietary hands on his work, the pleasure of beholding sculpture in the context of the public gallery, as in Herder’s account, resides in an indefinite deferral of the imagined action. It has been suggested that we only become conscious of an anticipated movement if the movement itself remains “covert”, i.e., unperformed. 29 Ongoing resistance to performing the movement therefore etches it into the beholder’s consciousness with the acid clarity of frustrated compulsion. Yet,

23 Gallagher (2005: 165). 24 Experiments have shown that while infants habituated to a tactile stimulus can recognise the same object when it is presented visually, “the reverse is not true”: the newborns tested did not appear to recognise by touch a three-dimensional solid with which they were visually familiar. Streri (2005: 334, 338–9); cf. Gallagher (2005: 65–85, 153–61). 25 See Jeannerod (1994: 197–9) on the difference between “semantic” and “pragmatic” perception of an object. 26 Bushnell & Boudreau (1991). 27 Sheets-Johnstone (2011). 28 See also Introduction; Chapter 5. 29 Jeannerod (1994: 190).

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as Daniel Smail has shown, we take pleasure in deliberately setting off any such neurochemical transactions.30 When the properties of three-dimensional matter have been organised into sculpture, it is then that this process of aesthetic response is allowed to telescope down (having undergone Verkürzung [“abbreviation”]) into the apparently unmediated and disembodied recognition of Schönheit proposed by Herder’s opponent Riedel, who dispenses with the intermediate haptic filter. In Plastik, Herder applies his theory of sensory synthesis to its ideal subject, classical sculpture. “That statues (Bildsäulen) can be seen, no one doubts”, he concedes, “but we are entitled to ask whether the originary determination of the notion of beautiful form can in fact be derived from the sense of sight”.31 He continues: The living, embodied truth of the three-dimensional space of angles, of form and volume, is not something we can learn through sight (Raum, Winkel, Form, Rundung lerne ich als solche in leibhafter Wahrheit nicht durchs Gesicht erkennen). This is all the more true of the essence of sculpture, beautiful form and beautiful shape, for this is not a matter of colour, or of the play of proportion and symmetry, or of light and shadow, but of physically present, tangible truth (dargestellte, tastbare Wahrheit). … Sight destroys beautiful sculpture rather than creating it; it transforms it into planes and surfaces (Ecken und Flächen), and rarely does it not transform the beautiful fullness, depth, and volume of sculpture (das schönste Wesen ihrer Innigkeit, Fülle und Runde) into a mere play of mirrors. (Plastik 1.3 [Gaiger 2002: 40–1]) The essential attributes of sculpture, its Wesen, are given here as Innigkeit (depth, interiority), Fülle (fullness, plenitude, voluptuousness), and Runde (roundedness, convexity). Also essential, and key to the palpable difference between sculpture and painting, is sculpture’s delivery of dargestellte, tastbare Wahrheit (“physically present, tangible truth”). Related in one sense to the contemporary view that Nature and the artisans of ancient Greece were in identical possession of unselfconscious formal integrity, this observation also expresses Herder’s conviction that co-presence with a three-dimensional solid triggers a sensory, hence aesthetic, response fundamentally different to that which is triggered by a flat surface, however beguilingly decorated. The sculpture possesses substance, requiring negotiation as a mutual occupant of space. “A sculpture before which I kneel can embrace me”, Herder insists. “It can become my friend and companion: it is present, it is there”.32 Unlike a painting, which offers images of a subject matter that is, by definition, absent, the sculpture presents an intervention into the physical environment of the beholder; even if it is not touched, it could be, and into this chasm between actual and potential surges the suspended energy of a curling wave: the embrace performed again and again in unbroken stillness, never closing, the endless “companionship” undissolved. In his 30 Smail (2008). See n. 6 above. 31 Plastik 1.3 (Gaiger 2002: 40). All translations of Plastik are by Gaiger (2002) and all emphases original, unless otherwise noted. 32 Plastik 1.4 (Gaiger 2002: 45).

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one-sided devotion, the beholder resembles Pygmalion adding yet another carnelian, another carnation, pressed against the creamy fleshless bone. Herder’s imagined orientation, on his knees as if anticipating a caress – and kneeling, not standing, implying veneration – contributes profoundly to the way in which his chosen sculpture is permitted to affect him. The physical attitude adopted by the beholder in relation to the artwork creates a pas de deux experienced not via the gaze of a spectator but via the internal proprioception of the performer: stirring the haptic depths, not glancing off visible surfaces. *** So if one has the opportunity to exercise this sensory faculty, once one is conscious of its operation, how should one make the most of the encounter? How, for instance, in a gallery, constrained by both convention and physiology, might one conduct oneself to maximise the haptic rapport? Herder has a few suggestions. Painting’s illusion of perspective can be enjoyed by the viewer who occupies a single standpoint, typically front and centre at a distance sufficient to take in the whole canvas at once. Sculpture of the type treated by Herder, however, offers no such optimal standpoint and can only be absorbed if the beholder is prepared to incorporate movement into his appreciation of the artwork. He “circles restlessly”, moving around so as to take in every possible perspective. The angles from which a freestanding sculpture can be absorbed are infinite, and the most infinitesimal adjustments in the beholder’s orientation can produce entirely new configurations. Herder’s Liebhaber (art lover) performs his circuits “sunk deep in contemplation” (tiefgesenkt), alert to nuance, cultivating kinetic engagement as a deliberate alternative to static inertia. 33 Once this freewheeling, mobile point of view has been attained, establishing what Zuckert terms a “nonperspectival grasp” of the artwork, 34 something more is needed to convert the resulting fragmented visual images into a composite haptic entity. “When I have described the whole circumcircle, I have perceived nothing more than a polygon composed of many small sides and angles”, Herder observes.35 Each individual facet might be very pretty, but the unintegrated compilation lacks cohesion, the very Innigkeit (interiority) and Fülle (fullness) that make sculpture a sensual medium. In order to synthesise this series of optical snapshots, the beholder must apply embodied knowledge to generate a three-dimensional compound based on sense memories of touch. It is perhaps in this phase that Herder’s beholder, cast in the role of Winckelmann contemplating his beloved Belvedere Apollo, ceases his circling. Although he seems to be standing still, his inner sense of movement continues to flow (Er scheint auf einem ewigen Punkte zu stehen, und nichts ist weniger):36 He adopts as many viewpoints as he can, changing his perspective from one moment to the next so that he avoids sharply defined surfaces. To this end he gently glides only around the contours of the body (gleitet er nur in der 33 Ibid. 1.2 (Gaiger 2002: 41). 34 Zuckert (2009: 288). 35 KW4, 2.3 (Moore 2006: 217). 36 “He seems to stand in a fixed position, but nothing could be further from the truth”.

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Umfläche des Körpers sanft umhin), changes his position, moves from one spot to another and then back again; he follows the line that unfolds and runs back on itself (er folgt der in sich selbst umherlaufenden Linie), the line that forms bodies and here, with its gentle declivities, forms the beauty of the body standing before him. (KW4, 2.3 [Moore 2006: 218–19]) Movement through space, which liberated the beholder from a fixed position and showed him the sculpture as a body whose constant rotation mirrors his own, has given way to a virtual traversal of the statue’s topography. The gaze and the proprioceptive self, the kinaesphere, are elided: he glides (gleitet), he flows effortlessly all around the elegant contours of the figure before him. The performance of movement has been succeeded by the sensation of movement, as flight succeeds take-off, creating a giddy discrepancy between how the beholder appears to an external observer – pale and frozen, like a statue of himself – and the inward dance that sweeps him around the frictionless bodyscape of stone. He avoids sharp edges (scharfe, bestimmte Fläche) that might occasion a sudden skid or drop. Scale becomes warped as he traverses the sculpture in kinaesthetic close-up at odds with the limiting frame of the rational gaze. Architecture provides Herder with a life-sized apparatus for exercising the same haptic faculties. Having absorbed the constituent components of a building, “from the elementary and simplest column to the richest diversity of its parts”, Herder’s beholder begins to experience the familiar vertiginous slide into virtual traversal: “You will ascend from the symmetry of two columns to their arch and from there to the palace in its entirety (alsdann von der Symmetrie zweener Säulen zu ihrem Bogen hinaufsteigen und von da zum Pallaste in seinem ganzen Bilde)”, Herder predicts, “then glide down facades and rows of columns (dann Seiten und Säulenreihen fliegen)”.37 Although not mentioned in this context, the soaring “glide” around the columns must surely be predicated, as in the case of sculpture, on a kinetic impression of the palace’s dimensions acquired through the contemplative action of walking and turning. Herder’s formulation is affirmed by the observations of Marc Jeannerod concerning neural activity during “object-oriented action”. When humans and other primates are presented with graspable objects, we perceive these objects not only in terms of their semantic identity (“That is a spoon / a coconut / Apollo”), but rather in terms of their pragmatic affordance (“Grip it / smash it / adore it”).38 What Jeannerod’s experiments demonstrate is that the same areas of the brain, such as the pre-motor cortex, show identical patterns of activation during the actual (“overt”) performance of a motor task and the imagined (“covert”) performance of these tasks. In both cases, Jeannerod proposes, we are seeing the necessary neurochemical preparation for movement taking place, whether it is followed through into performance or inhibited before reaching the muscles: “Covert actions are in fact actions, except for the fact that they are not executed”.39 The significance of Jeannerod’s theory for Herder is twofold. First, if sculpture (like any other three-dimensional object) is perceived not just as representational 37 KW4, 2.12 (Moore 2006: 280). 38 Jeannerod (1994; 2001); cf. Gallagher (2005: 8) for comment. Boden (2000: 295) applies the concept of affordances to sculpture (and painting). 39 Jeannerod (2001: 103). Cf. Berthoz (2000: 17–24).

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but as the goal of various kinetic affordances, the art form’s haptic quality resides in its instigation of these covert actions. Second, as mentioned above, Jeannerod suggests that we become conscious of motor imagery only when the action is not carried out; otherwise, the preparatory simulation is discharged and awareness transferred to the movement itself.40 Sculpture can stimulate a perpetual oscillation of actions anticipated and inhibited. I suggest that if the beholder’s somatic attention is focused on cultivating this oscillation, the result is Herder’s sense of virtual movement. *** Shifting from the mechanisms of perception to the instruments used to train them involves discriminating between artworks on the grounds of their haptic effectiveness, and not surprisingly, the ancient Greeks were judged superior. For Herder, as for Winckelmann, classical sculpture meant white marble. Whiteness signified purity, simplicity and commitment to form without the optical interference interposed by colours. “The essence of beauty consists not in colour but in shape”, asserts Winckelmann. “As white is the colour which reflects the greatest number of rays of light, and consequently is the most easily perceived, a beautiful body will, accordingly, be more beautiful the whiter it is”.41 The polychromy of ancient Greek statues is now a well-known fact, that these warriors and goddesses were picked out in scarlet and gold, their eyes inlaid, their robes brightly patterned, their flesh blooming. Roman portrait statues were likewise painted, and coloured marble became a popular material in both sculpture and architecture during the early empire. It has recently been argued, however, that Greek bronze prototypes tended to be reproduced at Rome from unpainted white marble,42 and it is these reproductions which Winckelmann claimed as the substantiation of his ideal Greece. For eighteenth-century historians, the supposed preternatural whiteness of ancient sculpture was incontrovertible, and ideologically indispensable. Herder explores the aesthetic implications of the assumption that colour was a distraction alien to sculpture in its most perfected state. Unlike shape, dimension and weight, colour (he maintains) is a property that cannot be perceived haptically;43 therefore it should not affect the beholder’s judgement of a sculpture’s Schönheit. Becoming prescriptive, Herder’s argument approaches circularity: if sculpture only (properly) appeals to touch, touch is then the only way to recognise proper sculpture, and sculpture if properly done therefore suppresses all extraneous visual factors. Herder’s ideal, however, rested primarily on the chalky matt maquillage of plaster casts, and the Roman galleries behind them; antiquity stripped of its motley, muted to white.

40 Jeannerod (1994: 190). 41 Irwin (1972: 118). 42 Bradley (2009) and Østergaard (2008) argue for ubiquitous polychromy, although as Østergaard (2008: 50) admits, “next to nothing has been published on the polychromy of Roman marble copies”. Hägele (2013: 102) states that “as far as Roman copies of Greek statuary are concerned, white marble was used”, artists exploiting texturing techniques such as polishing and drilling instead of paint to create chromatic effects. According to Jockey (2013: 66) “L’éffacement des couleurs originelles par les copistes romains … constitue un premier pas décisif dans ce glissement progressif de la réception de l’art grec vers un ‘achromie’ qui préfigure son blanchement futur”. 43 For an alternative view, see Bradley (2013) on “colour as an object-centred experience” (132).

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Garments likewise interfere with Herder’s preferred haptic response to the representation of human figures. This again derives from Winckelmann’s ascription of nudity in classical sculpture to the free and uninhibited lifestyle enjoyed by the inhabitants of democratic Athens, an argument that is given an aesthetic spin in Plastik. Clothing renders the human body inaccessible, confounding attempts to follow the form of the figure beneath and smothering physiological correspondences with sartorial idiosyncrasy. Modern dress, with its buckles and braid and corsets and hoops, presents an especially gross impediment. The only covering appropriate ­ edium – incongruous in depictions of contemporary individuals, and hence to the m appropriate only to the productions of antiquity – is what Herder refers to as “wet drapery” (nasse Gewänder). This technique maintains the figure’s contours, ensuring that “the essence of sculpture remains the slender body, the rounded knee, the smooth hip, the swelling grape of the youthful breast”.44 Nudity and drapery, on the other hand, are less suited in Herder’s view to the modern medium of painting, where drapery stiffens into pompous archaism, and nudity lolls around in pornographic lechery. Despite Herder’s concern to quarantine sculptural nudity from sexual overtones and protect its sunlit integrity from prurient insinuations, there are undeniably erotic aspects to his treatment of ancient artworks. One particularly florid passage concentrates on the Sleeping Hermaphrodite (Figure 6.2): Whoever … has stood before the celebrated Hermaphrodite and has not felt in every curve and turn of the body, in everything that he touches and does not touch, a Bacchic dream (bacchischer Traum) of hermaphroditism; whoever has not been tortured by sweet thoughts and by a pleasure that courses through the entire body like a gentle fire; whoever has not felt or perceived (fühlte und in sich gleichsam) an involuntary resonance and echo of this same music ­(Saitenspiel) in himself – such a person cannot be made to understand.45 (Herder, Plastik 4.1 [Gaiger 2002: 80–1]) In this instance, it initially appears that the beholder experiences the Hermaphrodite as a desirable other, rather than pursuing the sense of identification Herder describes elsewhere. The figure vibrates in the beholder like a plucked string, the Saitenspiel of its attitude awakening complementary echoes and the possibility of dreaming the same bacchischer Traum, but the sweet shock of arousal and the slow burn of desire suggest an autoerotic fantasy indulged at the expense of the slumbering figure. The Hermaphrodite depends precisely on a “nonperspectival grasp” for its effects; approached face-on (that is, from the rear), a coy corkscrew twist of the spine conceals its intersex characteristics, but if curiosity compels the beholder

4 4 Plastik 2.1 (Gaiger 2002: 50–1). 45 Wer je am berühmten Hermaphroditen stand und nicht fühlte, wie in jeder Schwingung und Biegung des Körpers, in allem, wo er berührt und nicht berührt, bacchischer Traum und Hermaphroditismus herrschet, wie er auf einer Folter süber Gedanken und Wollst schwebt, die ihm, wie ein gelindes Feuer, durch seinen gazen Körper dringet – wer dies nicht fühlte und in sich gleichsam unwillkürlich den Nach – oder Mitklang desselben Saitenspiels wahrnahm, dem können meine nicht und keine Worte es erkläran.

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Figure 6.2  “Sleeping Hermaphrodite”, Roman replica from an original created around the middle of the second century bce, mattress executed before 1620 by Bernini (1589–1680). Ancienne collection Borghèse. Paris: Musée du Louvre, inv. MA231 (© RMN-Grand Palais (Musée du Louvre); photograph by Hervé Lewandowski).

to follow the slope of the knee around to the front of the body (the back of the head), his attempt to resolve this teasing question of gender, and hence gauge the propriety of his own reactions, is playfully thwarted. Herder’s prose revels in the ambiguities: whose is the body in which the Bacchic dream is felt, that of the figure or of the beholder? And whose the body lapped by lambent flames? In displacing his own pleasure onto the figure, the beholder invokes Pygmalion’s creative dream of anticipated reciprocity. But whereas Pygmalion’s desire is for an unattainable Other, the hermaphroditic bacchischer Traum liquidates difference, confounding the boundaries between the sexes, between sleeping and waking, self and other, image and imagination. An alternative to approaching the sculpture as if it were Pygmalion’s bride, as a companion to be embraced, is to experience it as a replica of oneself; or rather, to feel oneself taking on the attributes of the sculpted figure. What Herder in a passage alluding either to the Belvedere Torso or the Farnese Hercules (we are not sure which) calls the “feeling imagination” (fühlende Einbildung) enables the sufficiently sensitised beholder to “feel Hercules in his whole body and this body in all its deeds” (da fühlet sie den Herkules immer in seinem ganzen körper und diesen Körper in allen seinen Taten, KW4, 2.3 116

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[Moore 2006: 219]).46 It is not only “the mighty contours of [Hercules’] body” that swell the muscles of a sympathetic beholder, but all the labours of which this present muscularity is merely the superficial record. We could go deeper. Interiority now comes to signify not only the figure’s three-dimensional firmness, but also the well of mythological memory it taps. To an extent, of course, these memories belong to the beholder, and the sculpture simply triggers them, but the “feeling imagination”, according to Herder: … has no limits, knows no bounds. It has put out its eyes, as it were, so that it does not merely depict a dead surface; it sees nothing of what lies before it but instead gropes its way as if in the dark, is enraptured by the body that it touches, travels with it through heaven and hell and to the ends of the earth (wird begeistert von dem Körper, den sie tastet, und durchzeucht mit ihm Himmel und Hölle und die Enden der Erde). (KW4, 2.3 [Moore 2006: 220])47 As a beholder begins to infer from the hero’s craggy weariness the battles that moulded it, its visible surfaces dissolve; captivated, he merges and sinks into kinetic reverie. To travel with the body of Hercules: does this mean alongside him, like a blind obsessive sidekick, or within him, as his inseparable haptic shadow? The beholder’s immersion in Hercules’ physiological history suggests the latter, but Herder’s syntax again permits both possibilities to co-exist. It has been demonstrated that observing the actions of others prompts a motor simulation similar to that which is prompted by object affordance. “Each time an individual sees an action done by another individual”, explain Rizzolatti and Craighero, “neurons that represent that action are activated in the observer’s pre-motor cortex. This automatically-induced motor representation of the observed action corresponds to that which is spontaneously generated during active action”.48 Although anthropomorphic sculpture depicts arrested action, its illusion of a moving body may produce similar effects. Herder’s contention that haptic apprehension is enhanced by prior tactile or kinetic experience also finds support in experiments conducted on dancers in which it was found that mirror neurons fire more readily in individuals who had themselves learned to perform the skilled movements they were shown.49 Originally acquired through conscious, repetitive practice, the dancer’s complex motor schemata could then be activated, like the haptic responses of Herder’s beholder, by visual exposure alone. The representation of movement triggers kinetic (“muscle”) memory,

46 Herder’s description of the figure in question, including its Arme, die den Löwen erwürget, suggests the latter. But if the Torso, then the phrase “in his whole body” may refer to the fragmentary condition of this artwork, which consists of the trunk and upper thighs of a mature male. Both works were celebrated in the eighteenth century; see Haskell & Penny (1981: 229–32) (Farnese) and (1981: 311–14) (Torso). The Torso receives detailed attention from Winckelmann ([1764] 1964: 292–3). 47 The conceit that sculpture can be perceived in the dark recurs throughout both Plastik and KW4. See Richter (1992: 113, 121) on Herder’s consistent characterisation of Gefühl as dunkel (dark). 48 Rizzolatti & Craighero (2004: 172). It should be noted that while mirror neurons have been used to explain other psychological phenomena such as theory of mind and empathy, the original studies concerned only motor responses. For a survey of theories concerning internal responses to movement in relation to dance, see Foster (2008). 49 Calvo-Merino et al. (2005).

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which is another term for Jeannerod’s “motor imaging”. 50 Both the recall and anticipation of movement present as a neural simulation of its trajectory. While idealised figures inspire kinaesthetic emulation, the opposite occurs for identical reasons when the beholder is confronted by sculptural depictions of ugliness, death, monstrosity or even realism. Like clothing and colour, repellent subjects such as corpses can exert a perverse appeal in the medium of painting, which holds them at a visual distance in a similar fashion to Aristotelian mimesis. Herder uses his theory of haptic absorption to explain why the same subjects realised three-dimensionally inspire not fascination, but revulsion: But a sculpture requires that I slowly and blindly feel my way forward, until I register a gnawing at my flesh and bones and the shudder of death along my nerves. … [Such subjects] are repugnant when encountered by the feeling hand as it advances. Instead of encountering ideas, it encounters horror, and instead of the imitation of things that are, it encounters the terrible degradation of that which is no more. (Plastik 2.3 [Gaiger 2002: 56–7])51 Just as the gnarled physique of Hercules draws the beholder through the Labours and up to the very threshold of Olympus, the liquescence of decomposition sickens him as he feels his own flesh rotting on the bone. It is as if a form of contamination has occurred, as if the representation of death in this most tactile medium has brought the beholder into visceral contact with his own unstable materiality. 52 It does not appear that Herder had any particular sculpture in mind at this point, although it could be pointed out that celebrated works in Herder’s own canon such as “Paetus and Arria” and the Pasquino group do depict corpses. 53 Such works may be powerful, and their potency may indeed derive from something like the aesthetic process outlined in Plastik, but by Herder’s definition they cannot be beautiful. Death might be no less effective in arousing the haptic senses, but instead of hypnotically unfurling a Bacchic dream or dispatching you on a heroic quest, the same slow perusal of sculpted nightmares makes the skin crawl and the stomach revolt, like realising your hand has rested on something decayed. Decay, moreover, is soft and implosive, whereas for

50 Fuster (1994: 208). 51 Examples include “A ravaged, ugly, or distorted form, Itys torn to pieces, Hippolytus in Euripides’ play, Medea contorted with rage, Philoctetes in the worst convulsions of his illness, someone in the throes of death, or a decomposing corpse struggling against the worms …” Plastik 2.3 (Gaiger 2002: 57, italics original). Richter (1992: 127–30) discusses the paradoxical fear of the body’s materiality, hence its mortality, in Herder’s aesthetic theory. On the sense of touch and the aesthetic experience of watching bodies in pain on the Greek tragic stage, see Chapter 2, this volume. 52 On contamination and touch see Chapter 7, this volume; on the abject properties of living matter, Grosz (1994) and Kristeva (1982). Concerned only with subject matter, Herder does not mention the potentially comparable effect of beholding anthropomorphic statues that are broken, mutilated or defaced. 53 “Paetus and Arria” is now more commonly known as “The Gaul and his wife”. On the eighteenthcentury identification of this group, see Haskell & Penny (1981: 282–4).

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Herder the essence of beautiful sculpture, or sculptural beauty, is tautness and wholeness, the kinetic surge that sustains its Fülle, its Innigkeit.54 For the same reason, Herder condemns realism in sculpture. Knuckles and kneecaps, interrupting sinuous limbs like bulbous outcrops, cause the sweeping gleitflug (“glide”) to stumble. Likewise, frizzy hair and prominent veins should be erased, leaving nothing but smooth contours.55 Veins, in particular, cause Herder to shudder with graveyard disgust, as “the silent sense of touch that feels things in the dark will register the veins as wriggling worms” (Plastik 2.2 [Gaiger 2002: 54]). No reminders of mortality should spoil the ride or disrupt the intimacy, and no irregularities should warp the haptic senses to yearn for anything but harmony. That Greek sculpture (or those works which at the time were classified as Greek sculpture) appeared to embody such harmony most fully was justification, in Herder’s view, for affirming its centrality to an aesthetic education. *** Beholding sculpture in such a way as to cultivate haptic responses takes effort and practice. Herder’s method of reception via touch involves an initial period of ­approach during which the sculpture is scrutinised from every possible angle in order to set the beholder’s body in motion – a kind of warm-up – and to create a sense impression liberated from a fixed-point gaze. This is followed by a period of stillness in which motion is suspended but the kinetic patterns developed continue to flow. From this state of awareness stem various affective possibilities: the beholder either identifies proprioceptively with the sculpted figure, as with the Hercules, or perceives it as a desirable other whose embrace is forever deferred. Alternatively, he may attempt to recover the bodily sensations of the sculptor responsible for hewing such a figure from the stone (Plastik 1.3 [Gaiger 2002: 41]). Although this leads Herder to draw prescriptive conclusions about the optimal type of sculpture to use for practice, the process he outlines may be applied to any three-­ dimensional object. If an object is approached with heightened somatic attention, it may be possible to dilate the moment indefinitely by repeating the pulses of covert motor response. Opposing Hogarth’s contention that the S-shaped curve is inherently beautiful, Herder writes that the “line of beauty” is meaningless unless it occurs in a solid body: Even if they only appear on a corset or a saucepan, at least they appear on something and so are accessible to another sense, that is to say, accessible first to a sense other than the eye. I fully understand that a flickering flame of fire or the surge of the sea as it rises in each wave cannot be grasped as something solid. But this does not mean that such things cannot be grasped or touched by the soul (daβ unsre Seele sie nicht umfasse, nicht taste). (Plastik 3.1 [Gaiger 2002: 64])

54 However, twentieth and twenty-first century artists – Dieter Roth, for example – have incorporated decayed or decaying objects into their work. 55 Plastik 2.2 (Gaiger 2002: 54–5). This is typical of Herder’s period. A generation later, the Parthenon marbles would be extolled for precisely this reason, that they incorporated bones and veins into heroic physiology.

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In falling back on metaphysical vocabulary, Herder struggles to articulate what it is that operates behind the gaze, the sensory faculty that enables touch to be felt in the absence of touch: Pygmalion’s sense. The Seele also had particular currency in German philhellenism as the site of the Liebhaber’s longing to be (re)united with the unattainable perfection of Ancient Greece.56 In the delirious moment when the Liebhaber (“beholder”) grasps a sculpture in its non-perspectival entirety, “his soul speaks to it, not as if his soul sees, but as if it touches, as if it feels” (nun spricht sie [die Seele], nicht, als ob sie sehe, sondern taste, fühle, Plastik 1.3, 41). There is also perhaps an oblique reference here to Aristotle’s On the Soul. For Aristotle, ὥστε ἡ ψυχὴ ὥσπερ ἡ χείρ ἐστιν, “the soul is like the hand” in that the hand manipulates tools in the same way as the intellect handles ideas, and each sense presents to the soul an εἶδος, an idea or “form” of the objects it senses.57 As discussed by Steiner Goldner in Chapter 3 of this volume, Aristotle prioritises touch as the sense without which no living creature could exist, and the sense by means of which all other senses operate: τὸ γὰρ σῶμα ἁπτικὸν τὸ ἔμψυχον πᾶν, “every ensouled being is a haptic body” (435a14). Herder’s soul could also be called his kinaesphere. He is perceiving sculpture as the memory and the possibility of movement. In the moment of haptic reception, stone becomes flesh, and Pygmalion learns to dance.

56 Billings (2016). 57 ὥστε ἡ ψυχὴ ὥσπερ ἡ χείρ ἐστιν· καὶ γὰρ ἡ χεὶρ ὄργανόν ἐστιν ὀργάνων, καὶ ὁ νοῦς εἶδος εἰδῶν καὶ ἡ αἴσθησις εἶδος αἰσθητῶν (On the Soul 3.8.432a1–3).

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7 Con ta m i nat i ng touch i n t he Rom a n world Jack Lennon

When discussing Rome’s earliest religious institutions in his Divine Antiquities, the great Republican antiquarian M. Terentius Varro revealed that it used to be customary for Romans to take hold of the altar when offering a sacrifice. Centuries later, this statement was discussed by Macrobius, who reasserted the commonly held view that the gods would not give favourable omens to anyone unless the dedicator also took hold of the altar.1 Touching the altar as part of the sacrificial process may not have been universally practised, but Macrobius implies that by the early fifth century ce it was at least well known among antiquarians. The possibility of such a custom is especially interesting when viewed in light of a small inscription on the base of an altar at Lanuvium, dedicated to a god identified as Romulus Quirinus: MAVORTIO SACR. HOC SIGNUM A SERVO TANGI NEFAS EST. Sacred to Mavortius [Quirinus]. It is impious for this image to be touched by a slave.2 The supposedly unusual nature of the inscription initially led some scholars to question its origin and authenticity.3 However, in numerous other contexts Roman society saw danger in physical contact with objects or persons deemed to be sacred, and the touch of a slave might be especially problematic. Any form of touch that was considered threatening could be described or understood using the language of dirt and contamination and might result in pollution. In fact, when a person became polluted in ancient Rome, it was predominantly as a result of physical contact with some form of impurity. Many sights, smells and sounds are considered unpleasant, offensive or disgusting, but it is always through physical contact that the final barrier is transgressed between the individual and the polluting substance or person.4 Once this

1 Macrobius, Saturnalia 3.2.7; Varro, fragment 66. Cf. Vergil, Aeneid 4.219–21. 2 Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum 14.4178. On the identification of Mavortius with Romulus Quirinus, see Bücheler (1884: 412–13); Wagenvoort (1947: 138–9). Cf. Vergil, Aeneid 6.777; Petronius, Satyricon 1.123. All translations are my own unless otherwise indicated. 3 Wiedemann (1988: 63–4). 4 Gelardini (2016: 220). Macrobius, Saturnalia 6.8.14 raises the possibility that Aeneas might have been polluted by the sights or sounds of the Underworld (Vergil, Aeneid 6.273), but this case is ambiguous and elsewhere we do not usually see instances where sight, sound or smell results in full-scale pollution.

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occurs, the offending object becomes far more threatening. 5 This idea is apparent in Latin language, since the Latin word contagio originally referred to the act of physical touch.6 Yet the dangers of touch in Roman society straddled a wide range of contexts, and our sources for contamination cover a similarly wide chronological and literary expanse. This paper will be loosely divided into two halves, which are encapsulated by our opening example. The first involves the threat posed by touch to the sacred, while the second deals with the social consequences of the supposedly contaminating touch, f­ ocusing specifically on the potential for actions or professions to make one’s touch socially unclean in Rome. The chapter will begin by discussing ways in which touch might bring the risk of contamination to the sphere of religion. Images, altars or spaces designated as sacer in Roman religion were often viewed as somehow separate from the profane world and had to be treated accordingly.7 Equally, those men and women who served as religious officials could not always be touched without threatening their ritual purity or physical integrity. In certain cases, specific religious offices required their holders to avoid contact with particular people or substances. The rules might vary according to context, but the sacred might be at once threatened and threatening, with touch serving as the most potent means of crossing this divide. Anything classified as sacred in Roman religion could potentially be required to be kept separate from daily life and protected. Touch allowed such barriers to be crossed, often dangerously so, threatening established notions of “order”. The concept of o ­ rder has underpinned the study of dirt, pollution and impurity for the past half-century. Dirt is a powerful and (crucially) socially defined idea that, when necessary, can be applied to anything that threatens the shared sense of order.8 Dirt always begins with the organic, and its leading source is the human body. At the same time, the body is especially susceptible to contamination, once again making physical touch a particularly dangerous means by which contamination can be carried, transmitted and received.9 This complements the theory proposed by William McCorkle in his study of corpse disposal rituals, in which he emphasised the central role of external agents within the process of contamination: [W]hen an agent is involved … this is a much more salient representation for contagion/disgust to be activated … A leper (agent) will almost always trigger more contagion-avoidance/disgust to an individual than a dirty glass of water. ­Humans may be more predisposed to respond … to situations that involve agents.10 Such a view sits well with the theory of an evolutionary imperative underlying acts of avoidance and the application of stigma against certain groups or individuals who are thought be potential carriers of dirtiness and disease.11 But whereas some forms

5 Curtis & Biran (2001: 18, 21). 6 Wagenvoort (1947: 132). 7 Gaius, Institutes 2.1–10; Attridge (2004: 72–3). 8 Douglas (1966: 142). 9 Cf. Valeri (2000: 61–83); Bradley (2012a: 11–18); Lennon (2014: 4–9) (with bibliography). 10 McCorkle (2010: 97). 11 Kurzban & Leary (2001: 187–208); Curtis et al. (2011: 389–401). Cf. McCorkle (2010: 93–103).

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of dirt pose only a physical threat, others are thought to go further, posing a threat to religious and ritual integrity, and so cross over into the territory of religious pollution. In a recent study of purity and pollution as concepts within the ancient world, Andreas Bendlin demonstrated convincingly that these terms are not opposites of one another, but that both represent states that are separate from “normality”. In order to interact safely with the divine it was necessary to “step outside” the rules and boundaries of the everyday world.12 Acts of purification may be as basic as a token act of washing or cleansing or changing into clean clothes, which signals the separation of one’s actions from the normal activities of the everyday.13 Some of the best-known examples of contaminating touch in ancient Rome come from our evidence relating to religion, but the dangers of inappropriate or unclean touch were, in fact, far more extensive. In both religious and non-religious contexts, the idea of dirtiness can be used to reinforce boundaries, hierarchies and structures. Therefore, the second half of this paper will focus on a series of case studies that illustrate the contaminating touch in non-religious contexts, considering the implications of contaminating touch at a social level. Ancient writers refer to many instances in Roman life where certain forms of touch (or the touch of certain groups or individuals) were considered dangerous and polluting. Such forms of touch were typically associated with those people from the lowest social classes, or those who were engaged in the most reviled types of profession. Often these people were one and the same. In such cases, the power of the contaminating touch as a social concept lay in its ability both to reinforce culturally engrained notions of superiority amongst the elite and, more generally, to reinforce shared notions of cleanliness and acceptable behaviour in Roman society.

Touching the divine One of the most famous cases from Latin literature that illustrates the danger of the contaminating touch occurs during Aeneas’ rescue of his family from the sack of Troy. Aeneas demonstrated his pietas not only by carrying his elderly father out of the city, but also by his refusal to touch the images of his household gods while stained with the blood of his enemies: Father, take the sacred emblems and our country’s household gods in your hands; it would be impious for me to touch them (attrectare nefas), having come from so great a battle and recent slaughter, until I cleanse myself in a running stream.14 (Vergil, Aeneid 2.717–20) Religious spaces and objects in ancient Rome were in constant danger of contamination, and all were potentially threatened by the prospect of being touched by the wrong person or at the wrong time. While stained with the blood of battle it remained 12 Bendlin (2007: 178–9). Cf. Osten (2011: 222–3). 13 Livy 1.45; Festus s.v. pura vestimenta. 14 Aeneas’ act of piety may be intended to mirror Hector’s refusal to offer a libation to Zeus while similarly stained with the marks of battle at Homer, Iliad 6.263–9.

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impious (nefas) for Aeneas to touch the images of his household gods, even in the attempt to save them from the flames.15 No matter how pious and loved by the gods Aeneas may be, he could not touch the sacred images until he had washed himself clean from the marks of battle. In stark contrast to this, the character of Hercules, as an early symptom of his madness in Seneca’s Hercules, demonstrates a marked lack of respect for the gods by preparing to offer sacrifice while still stained with the blood of his enemy Lycus. The hero is only narrowly prevented from carrying out the sacrifice by the intervention of his father Amphitryon, who begs him not to commit a grave act of impiety by offering sacrifice while his hands are still dripping with the blood of his enemy.16 These two prominent examples concern heroic figures, both of whom interact frequently with the gods, yet they are bound by the same rules as everyone else with regards to the customs surrounding religious impurity. Sacred things had to be protected from the threats of the outside world, and even seemingly innocuous contact might pose a potential threat to their sanctity. Nor did rules about physical contact apply only to human touch. The sanctuary of Vesta was famously cleansed each year with water taken from a running spring, and once the water was drawn, it was not allowed to come into contact with the ground. If it did, this represented a piaculum, a potentially dangerous affront that might damage the sanctuary if unaddressed.17 The condition of the earth did not matter – the water was intended for divine usage only, and any contact with the earth immediately made it unsuitable.18 In a wider discussion of religious sanctuaries and the way in which they should be treated, the miscellanist and antiquarian Aulus Gellius stated that temples had to be approached with purity (castitas) and should not be profaned (volgo) by common usage of any sort.19 Similar views were expressed by Cicero in the Laws, where he instructed all citizens of his hypothetical society to “approach the gods with purity” when engaging in any form of interaction with the divine. 20 In some cases, touch might be unavoidable, but the danger still had to be addressed. In Tacitus’ description of German customs, the historian describes a sacred chariot that was kept on an island and could only be touched by a single priest. Once a year it was cleaned by slaves who were subsequently drowned, either to correct or to contain the danger that resulted from their touching of the sacred object. 21 In the case of both Aeneas and Hercules, however, the potential threat of contamination did not

15 Such a scene may be compared to Appius Claudius’ blinding during his rescue of the sacred images from a fire at the temple of Vesta. As a man, he was forbidden to see or handle the objects housed within the temple: Seneca, Controversiae 4.2. 16 Seneca, Hercules 918–23. 17 Servius, Commentary on the Aeneid 7.150. More generally on the Vestals, cf. Beard (1980; 1995); Saquete (2000); Parker (2004); Wildfang (2006). 18 Cf. Tibullus 2.1.14. Similarly, water jugs used in religious ceremonies and processions might be held in a carefully arranged way, using the toga to ensure no physical contact with the vessel; Beard et al. (1998: II.5.6d). 19 Gellius, Attic Nights 4.9.9. 20 Cicero, Laws 2.23. Cicero’s discussion of this point implies that physical purity was the primary concern, despite his efforts to stress the equal importance of the citizens’ spiritual purity. 21 Tacitus, Germania 40. Cf. Glinister (2000) for an excellent discussion of ways in which religious danger might be contained during acts of disposal.

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come from either the unique status of the religious icons or an inherent impurity attached to their persons. In both cases, their touch became contaminating as a result of being stained with human blood. As a result, with the correct acts of purification the situation could be remedied. Were they to make contact with the sacred objects in their polluted state, as Hercules actually intended to do, the act of pollution would be compounded by the fact that it was done knowingly, a distinction that appears to have mattered a great deal. Varro implies that acts of pollution and sacrilege that were done deliberately were inexpiable. 22 Pollution and the body Various substances (usually human in origin) were thought to make a person ritually unclean in ancient Rome. In fact, this reflects a far more widely recognised view that has been noted by anthropologists; Mary Douglas focused especially on bodily emissions as sources of danger for religion and other humans. The danger of physical contact has remained central to subsequent theoretical approaches to the subject because of the various implications that arise once contact has been established. 23 Fear of accidental (or even deliberate) ingestion of “impure” substances, especially those that originate from other human beings, appears to be a recurring concern with regard to classifications of unclean matter.24 We see this in the allegations of impious sacrifices, which are invariably made against Rome’s enemies. For example, both the conspirators of Catiline’s revolution and those involved in the plot to restore the last king of Rome, Tarquinius Superbus, were alleged to have sealed their pacts by touching or tasting human entrails – an act that at once implies both human sacrifice and cannibalism.25 One of the most common sources of bodily impurity noted by scholars of all disciplines, which also appears to have been common in ancient Rome, was the religious and social pollution that could be caused by sexual intercourse. Ritual abstinence was required for a variety of occasions across the religious calendar, again serving as a means of keeping the world of the sacred separate from mundane activities. 26 A curious example of this appears in the work of the Augustan writer Tibullus, in his famous poetic description of an agricultural festival celebrated at a country estate. There is a particular emphasis on ritual purity throughout Tibullus’ description of the proceedings, which require clean clothes, hands and water for the lustration of the farm and crops. Tibullus adds a further instruction that those who have had sex

22 Varro, On the Latin Language 6.30; Cicero, Laws 2.36–7; Macrobius, Saturnalia 1.16.10; Burriss (1929: 105–10); Scheid (1981: 121). Tellegen-Couperus (2012: 151) notes that such acts of impiety might result in social exclusion. Caesar, The Gallic War 6.13 shows a similar practice for Gallic criminals who are excluded from sacrifices and classified as sceleratus, leading to their touch being shunned due to fears of contagio. 23 Douglas (1966: 142). See also n. 9 above. 24 Meigs (1978: 310–13); Rozin & Fallon (1987: 23–41); Valeri (2000: 103–5). Cf. Vergil, Aeneid 3.225–8 and the polluting touch of the Harpies, who contaminate food through their bodily excretions; Felton (2013: 405–18); Lowe (2015: 124–37). 25 Sallust, The War with Catiline 22; Plutarch, Life of Cicero 10.4; Life of Publicola 4.1; Cassius Dio 37.30.3; Burkert (1983: 36–7). 26 Parker (1983: 91); Lennon (2012: 49–50).

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the night before should keep away from the altars. 27 While we must be on guard against accepting Tibullus’ work as a description of a specific ritual, it seems unlikely that the idea behind such an instruction would be alien to his audience. The implication is that those involved in the ritual would come in contact with the altar; hence, the instruction that those polluted by sex must keep away. Thus, this literary example overlaps with our opening example of the altar from Lanuvium, which chooses to focus on slaves as the primary group to be excluded. Given that such festivals aimed to encourage agricultural fertility, it is possible that these ceremonies were thought to be especially vulnerable to damage from sexual impurity. 28 This idea is similarly emphasised in Juvenal’s sixth satire, in which the narrator provides a scathing attack on the chastity of women (or lack thereof), at one point asserting that nowadays “few women are worthy to touch the bands of Ceres”. 29 The satirical context of the statement obviously must be remembered, but the idea that sexual impurity (in this case caused by female promiscuity) resulted in one’s touch being contaminating to religion was once again clearly an idea that Juvenal expected his audience to understand. Religious officials in Rome were often required to maintain a more rigorous degree of ritual and bodily purity and to avoid actions or substances that might hinder them in their religious duties. Physical sores inhibited their ability to perform rituals. Seneca described such men as somehow incomplete (non integri), suggesting that they were shunned as ill-omened, while Plutarch described such physical blemishes as a miasma.30 In the case of the priest of Jupiter (the flamen Dialis), the office came with an exceptional and extensive number of rules and regulations, including a variety of objects that the flamen could not touch without damaging his office. These included ivy, beans, goats, leavened bread, uncooked meat and dead bodies.31 Although the flamen Dialis was the most prominent office to be hindered by so many ritual restrictions and obligations, the wives of flamines might be similarly restricted, even those from outside Rome. We see an example of this from an inscription from Narbo in Gaul which records the oath sworn by the flamen, which also includes the instruction that his wife should not touch a corpse.32 Protecting the sacred Priests were always at greater risk from ritual pollution. This was one of the reasons why, according to Macrobius, their approach was made known by a herald who could warn members of the public who might need to remove themselves. 33 At the same

27 Tibullus 2.1.5–16; Bremmer (1993: 177–81). On the uncertain origin and nature of this festival, see Pascal (1988: 523–36). 28 Lennon (2014: 63–4). 29 Juvenal, Satires 6.50 (paucae adeo Cereris vitas contingere dignae). Cf. Gellius, Attic Nights 4.3.3, which specifies that concubines were not permitted to touch (tangere) the temple of Juno. Any such touch had to be rectified by the offering of a lamb as a piaculum. 30 Seneca, Controversiae 4.2; Plutarch, Roman Questions 73; Rose (1924: 199). 31 Gellius, Attic Nights 10.15.12–13, 19, 24. In the case of uncooked meat, Plutarch (Roman Questions 110) suggests that this is caused by its resemblance to a fresh wound. 32 CIL 12.6038. The inscription is fragmentary, but may also indicate a prohibition of the flaminica touching ash from funeral pyres. Beard et al. (1998: II.253) highlight the key difference between the Roman and the provincial flamines, namely, that the Roman flamines served for life. 33 Macrobius, Saturnalia 1.16.9.

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time such lictores were employed to move members of the public aside and to protect priests and priestesses from inadvertent pollution.34 The potential for contamination was particularly apparent in the case of the Vestal Virgins, whose chastity was integral to the survival of the city, and whose religious function, according to Wildfang, was entirely concerned with matters of purification. 35 Respect for this priesthood allowed the general Appius Claudius to celebrate a triumph without the consent of the senate because his daughter, a Vestal Virgin, rode alongside him in the triumphal chariot and no one dared to impede them as a result. 36 A more telling example concerns the famous condemnation and live inhumation of the Vestal Cornelia by the Emperor Domitian. Pliny the Younger’s account of her final moments stresses her continuing regard for her own purity: Whether she was innocent or not, she certainly appeared to be so. Moreover, when she was taken down into that underground chamber and her robe caught as she descended, as she turned to free it the executioner offered his hand to her; but she drew away in disgust and thrust his loathsome touch (aversata est et resiluit foedumque contactum) from her pure and spotless person (a casto puroque corpore) as if by a last act of chastity. (Pliny the Younger, Letters 4.11, trans. Radice 1963, adapted)37 Two points of significance may be raised here. First, Cornelia chooses to avoid the contamination that will apparently inevitably ensue from contact with the executioner. The care and attention paid to maintaining her physical purity and ritual sanctity is taken by Pliny to be an indicator of her innocence and compounds the view of Domitian as impure. The second point concerns the executioner himself because, while the fact that the carnifex posed a danger to a priestess is relatively unsurprising, fears about the impurity of those involved in this profession extended well beyond the concern for religious and ritual integrity.38 As we shall see in the following section, widespread concern about the impurity of groups such as executioners had a significant impact at a social level in Roman culture. Much of our evidence on the subject of physical contact with religious space, icons and officers in Roman society supports the view that they were guarded by stringently observed rules that protected all things designated “sacred” from the profane touch of the everyday world. However, while such ideas are integral to our understanding of the Roman concept of religious impurity, it is worth noting that, in reality, some degree of physical interaction with divine images and objects appears to have been common in Roman ritual and religious life. While our opening example of the altar from Lanuvium suggests that slaves could not touch the altar this instruction, combined with cases such as Tibullus’ instruction for those polluted by sex not to approach the

34 Seneca, Controversiae 1.2.3. Ibid. 1.2.7 notes that lictores specifically removed prostitutes from the path of priests and priestesses. 35 Wildfang (2006: 6–33). 36 Cicero, On Behalf of Caelius 34; Valerius Maximus, 5.4.6; Suetonius, Tiberius 2; Beard (2007: 204). 37 Cf. Pigoń (1999: 206–13). More generally on the crimen incesti, see Cornell (1981: 26–37); ­Mustakallio (1992: 56–63); Schultz (2012: 122–35). 38 Cicero, On Behalf of Rabirius 11; Lindsay (2000: 159–60).

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altars, serves to reinforce the point that under ordinary circumstances citizens could do so and probably did. Physical interaction with altars and statues occurred every day in the ancient world.39 In his prosecution of Verres, the rapacious former governor of Sicily, Cicero described a bronze statue of Hercules, stolen from Agrigentum, whose hands and lips had been noticeably worn by the repeated touches and even kisses of the local populace. Lucretius made similar reference to the wearing-down of roadside statues that were touched by passers-by hoping for luck or fortune.40 Different rules were applied in different contexts. It is important that these instances of touch not be overlooked, but neither must they be taken to indicate that there was no danger in physical interaction with the sacred. They serve to demonstrate how easily and frequently contact might be made with religious space or property, and as Platt and Squire (this volume) have emphasised, this made the rules for interacting with religious images and objects all the more important.

Social contagion Dirt is a social construct. As such, concepts of dirt and impurity serve as tools by which society may single out groups or individuals who, because of their supposedly unclean status, may be excluded or marginalised. Touch is vital to many important forms of social interaction and so the label of “unclean” serves to create barriers that can perpetuate hostility or aversion towards those afflicted. We have already seen examples of exclusion from the sphere of religion, whether from partaking in certain rituals or coming into physical contact with religious officials or images, but the stigma of impurity often had a far wider impact on the perception and treatment of individuals across Roman law, literature and society. This is far from being an exclusively Roman phenomenon.41 Denigration often serves as an ideal weapon with which to marginalise members of a society, especially those from lower classes or professions, and often serves to justify and maintain the status quo. This led Valeri to emphasise its importance within the process of marginalisation, because it represented an especially powerful and universally understood form of social sanction.42 When we speak of lowly or unclean groups or classes in ancient Rome, we do so because we are following the opinions offered by the literary and aristocratic elite of Roman society – those who made frequent use of these groups’ services but would not stoop to perform such tasks themselves. By labelling groups or professions as unclean, members of the elite were able to reinforce their own, superior position and to justify the social, political and legal marginalisation of those whom they perceived as beneath them. The language of dirt also served to reinforce social values, highlighting and condemning forms of unacceptable behaviour, as well as helping to condemn criminal actions or, in the case of legal rhetoric, criminals themselves. A key concept

39 See Chapter 5, this volume. 40 Cicero, Against Verres 2.4.93; Lucretius, On the Nature of Things 1.317–18; van den Hengel (2009: 339); Weddle (2010: 162–3); Rutledge (2012: 109). 41 See, in particular, Moore (2007: 94–116). K. Stewart (1999: 11–13) stresses the lasting effect of ­Roman ideas, which were used by medieval societies to mould and define their own notions of social contagion. 42 Valeri (2000: 72).

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in this regard is scelus (crime/wickedness), a term with wide-ranging implications in the Latin language, and which was closely tied to ideas of contagion.43 Bloodstained hands Corpse-handlers and executioners were a particularly prominent case of a profession that was entirely defined by their polluted status. Contact with corpses always brought the risk of pollution in ancient Rome, and whereas the threat to family members was limited and dissipated after an appropriate period of mourning, those who perpetually exposed themselves to such impurity (and for monetary rewards) received a far greater degree of stigmatisation.44 Whereas the status of many groups was perceived as ambiguous in ancient Rome, the undertaker was always an unwelcome sight, and for the executioner, as Bodel notes, “the Roman verdict on his status was unequivocal and unanimous … he was both physically abhorrent and religiously dangerous”.45 The threat posed to religious officials (especially Vestal Virgins such as Cornelia) by those whose occupation brought them into constant contact with death and bloodshed, is understandable, but references to the physical dirtiness of corpse-handlers, torturers and executioners are common across Latin literature. Their profession required them to be in constant physical contact with dead bodies, and so they existed in a perpetual state of contamination. The danger of their unclean status was publicly demonstrated in various ways. They were forced to live outside the boundaries of the city, most likely around the area of the Esquiline Hill, which, according to Varro, was the traditional dumping ground for corpses collected within the city.46 Executioners were also associated with the Carcer, an underground place of execution renowned for its filth and impurity.47 The famous law code found at Puteoli gives us a number of insights into the regulation of these professions and the degree to which they were kept separate from the rest of society whenever possible. As well as living outside the city limits, they could only come in on official business, and when they did, they had to be clearly recognisable by their bright clothing and had to ring a bell as they went to alert people to their presence. They were not even permitted to bathe at certain times of the day.48 We have already seen that priests were accompanied by heralds to warn of their approach, and this may help to explain the need for death workers to warn of their own impending presence. Such measures only make sense if physical contact with these men was considered plausible and undesirable or dangerous. Those who worked around death and corpses were not only a threat to religious purity; contact with death was 43 [Suetonius] Differentiae verborum s.v. “Sceleratum” (“One who is sceleratus has been contaminated by their own crime, or else has been made polluted and infamous by some other contagion” (sceleratus est suo aliquo scelere contaminatus vel aliqua contagione pollutus et infamis)). Roth (1875: 318). More generally, on scelus, cf. Lennon (2014: 39–41) (with bibliography). 4 4 On undertakers seeking profit, see Valerius Maximus, 5.2.10; Suetonius, Nero 39. 45 Bodel (2000: 144). 46 Varro, On the Latin Language 5.25; Plautus, Casina 354; Pseudolus 331–2; The Braggart Soldier 359; Wiseman (1985: 7–8); Allara (1995: 76); Bodel (2000: 145). 47 Sallust, The War with Catiline 55.3–4; Bradley (2012b: 112–15); Lennon (2014: 117). 48 L’Année Epigraphique (1971) no. 88; Bove (1967: 22–48); Bodel (1994: 72–80); Hinard (1995: 205–12).

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considered especially threatening to pregnant women or those preparing to marry.49 The general aura of pollution that surrounded death workers resulted in numerous references to the executioner’s hands and the potential contamination they carried with them. Teachers of rhetoric such as Calpurnius Flaccus and Seneca the Elder repeatedly made use of the image in legal controversiae, where special pleas were made by condemned men seeking to avoid the hands of the carnifex (executioner), suggesting that the idea was well known and thought to have a strong, persuasive effect on audiences.50 To members of the social elite, exposure to the touch of the executioner represented a further degree of social degradation that was an additional punishment in and of itself. References to the impure, and especially the bloodstained, hands of a person were also especially useful as a means of assigning guilt or culpability in cases of murder. When defending his client, Milo, from charges of inciting public violence and the murder of Publius Clodius, Cicero deliberately made references to Clodius’ bloodstained (cruentus) hands to emphasise to jurors that Milo had acted in self-­ defence.51 Similarly, writers who dealt with the subject of civil war, such as Tacitus in the ­Histories and Lucan in the Civil War, often refer to the polluted hands of various figures who were condemned for inciting civil war, murder and mutiny. 52 In Lucan’s account of the seizure of Rome by Gaius Marius, the poet described how the only hope of safety lay in kissing Marius’ polluted (pollutus) hand, demonstrating not only ­Marius’ ­pollution, but also his contamination of other citizens. 53 By using the imagery of dirt and emphasising the contaminating touch of these men, each instance serves to identify the wider danger they posed to society. Sexual pollution The danger resulting from the “wrong” sort of sexual contact represented a far more widespread concern for Roman society. A strong indicator that a person was thought to have engaged in “impure” sexual acts was that their kisses became contaminating, shunned and described as unclean (os impurum).54 According to Richlin, the source of os impurum was oral intercourse (specifically affecting the passive partner) or contact between the mouth and any other bodily orifice. 55 Frequent references were made to this phenomenon in Latin poetry, particularly in the works of Catullus and Martial.56 However, it also served as a powerful tool in rhetorical polemic. Perhaps the most notable target was Sextus Cloelius, whom Cicero constantly attacked for his 49 Seneca, Controversiae 4.1. A comparable danger appears to have been recognised in Greek literature. Cf. Euripides, Iphigenia in Tauris 1226–9; Parker (1983: 49). 50 Calpurnius Flaccus, Declamations 24 (with Sussman 1994: 168); Seneca, Controversiae 1.3.1, 2.3.19, 2.5.2, 9.2.3. See also Cicero, Against Verres 2.5.113; Ovid, Ibis 165; Valerius Maximus 6.9.13, 7.2 ext.1, 9.1.1. 51 Cicero, On Behalf of Milo 20. 52 Tacitus, Histories 1.44, 1.83, 4.49; Lucretius, On the Nature of Things 3.135–6. For a contrasting image of Cato’s hands as pure of the stain of civil war, cf. Lucan, Civil War 2.286. 53 Lucan, Civil War 2.114. 54 Bradley (2015b: 136–7). 55 Richlin (1992: 26–7). 56 Catullus 78–80, 97; Martial, Epigrams 2.10, 2.12, 2.21–3, 11.95; Juvenal, Satires 6.O4–6.

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impure mouth, allegedly the result of his passive sexual relationship with the sister of Publius Clodius, his patron. 57 This insult was included wherever possible by Cicero. Even in discussing the whereabouts of Cloelius during a speech, Cicero suggested that he could be found hiding himself at Clodia’s house “with his head down”. 58 The significance of os impurum for our present study is the emphasis placed on kissing as a form of greeting in Roman culture.59 By identifying an individual’s kisses as dangerous, this automatically led to a degree of both physical and social exclusion. Richlin stresses that, since the mouth can be used for sexual practices, “its ambiguity is a source of concern when it must be used for other non-obscene social functions, like talking or kissing ‘hello’, or when it touches communal eating utensils or public water at the baths”.60 Once again, we see one of the key dangers of impurity is the threat of unwanted or accidental ingestion, and this is especially emphasised in relation to sexual impurity in Roman culture.61 Columella urged those who worked around food, such as cooks, bakers and servers, to remain chaste and not to engage in sexual activity, or, if they did, to ensure that they had purified themselves before touching food again.62 Fears about the transmission of sexual contagion are especially evident in references to prostitutes. Sharing food that they touched or dining spaces that they occupied is described in terms of being exposed to their pollution. When, in Petronius’ Satyricon, one of the guests at Trimalchio’s dinner wished to pour scorn on the host’s wife and the fact that before her marriage she worked as a prostitute, he said to his neighbour, “you would not take bread from the hand of that woman”.63 Yet within the context of the meal at Trimalchio’s house, the comment is deliberately ridiculous. The ungrateful guest, by sitting at Trimalchio’s table and sharing his food, is in fact doing the very thing he swears he would not do. By attending the meal, he is eating from the same plates, drinking from the same cups and sharing the same social space as his host’s wife. According to Juvenal, this is just the sort of action that leads to the unwitting pollution of others. The satirist mocks the foolish husband of an unfaithful wife, joking that her sexually impure lovers pollute (violare) the table, leaving the ignorant husband drinking from a cup that would now be refused by even the most disgusting of prostitutes.64 The sharing of food or drink (especially from the same vessel) creates a strong degree of social intimacy, but it also raises the possibility of contamination through the accidental ingestion of foreign matter that can only come about through the shared touching of utensils or vessels.65 Other senses, such as taste and smell, often cannot detect the presence of such matter and so this makes the avoidance of 57 Cicero, On his House 25–6, 47; On Behalf of Caelius 78; Richlin (1992: 99); Kaster (2006: 411); Lennon (2010: 441). Cf. Butrica (2002: 507–16). 58 Cicero, On his House 83 (invenient hominem apud sororem tuam occultantem se capite demisso). 59 Richlin (1992: 26–7). 60 Ibid. 69. 61 See n. 22 above. 62 Columella, On Agriculture 12.4; Burriss (1931: 92). 63 Petronius, Satyricon 37 (noluisses de manu illius panem accipere). Petronius’ guests show a similar anxiety about sharing dining spaces with death workers, although once again these anxieties take second place to their desire for Trimalchio’s friendship: Ibid. 38. Cf. Seneca, Controversiae 9.2.22. 64 Juvenal, Satires 6.O1–16; Lennon (2014: 78). 65 Cf. Barrett (2008: 155).

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touch even more important as a physical and social defence mechanism. Furthermore, whom one dined with in ancient Rome was thought to reveal a great deal about one’s own position. While Petronius’ Satyricon sees frequent mocking references to the low origins of some of the guests at Trimalchio’s banquet, he is also pouring scorn on those who think they are superior yet find themselves at the banquet nonetheless.66 One of the most revealing and extensive examples of the dangers of social contagion appears in Seneca the Elder’s Controversiae 1.2, which imagines the case of a woman kidnapped by pirates and sold into slavery to a pimp. She escapes by murdering a man who tries to rape her, and the debate centres on whether such a woman, whose chastity is only guaranteed by her own oath, can stand for election to a religious office. Various arguments are made against her candidacy, but it is not only her suspected lack of virginity that is said to bar her claim – the company she has been forced to keep leaves lasting social contamination. The fact that she has shared kisses with those in the brothel is repeatedly cited as proof enough of her contamination.67 Once again, we see emphasis placed on the fact that, during her time at the brothel, the victim must, at some point, have shared food and a table with the other occupants; as Romanius Hispo stresses, “she has taken food with impure people”, which Richlin argues, “must relate to the tainting of her mouth”.68 Another juror chooses to focus on the fact that none of the witnesses to these events (pirates, pimps, etc.) would be permitted to enter sacred precincts, further emphasising the social and religious exclusion of these groups.69 Such exclusion might continue even after death, with some graveyards specifying that no one who had ever practiced an unclean (spurcum) trade could be buried there, thus protecting those who were not marked by such infamy, even in death.70

Conclusion Why, then, did the idea of a contaminating touch matter in ancient Rome? Whether we choose to focus on religious or non-religious contexts, it is clear that the ideas and language surrounding dirt, impurity and contamination played a significant role in Roman society, and of the various senses to be threatened by dirt, it was through touch that the dangers were most clearly transmitted from one person to another. It is unsurprising that Romans, like so many others, found the human body and its various excretions to be a particular source of impurity.71 Because of this, the act of touching always came with a degree of potential danger and so was important as a signal of trust and intimacy, or a lack thereof. Both Douglas and Valeri have highlighted the role of dirt as form of sanction that can be used to enforce social conformity and as an accusation against which Valeri argues there can sometimes be no appeal.72 In matters of religion, as we have seen, there were many occasions on which Romans came into contact with religious icons,

66 E.g. Petronius, Satyricon 38. 67 Seneca, Controversiae 1.2.1, 5, 7, 10, 16. 68 Ibid. 1.2.11, 16; Richlin (1992: 28–9). 69 Seneca, Controversiae 1.2.5 (non refello, dum scias clausa esse testibus tuis templa). 70 CIL 11.6528; Aigner (1988: 207–9); McGinn (1992: 278; 1998: 65); Kyle (1998: 161). 71 For comparable Greek attitudes to bodily excreta cf. Parker (1983: 102). 72 Valeri (2000: 72).

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precincts or officials. In these circumstances, shared ideas about purity and impurity allowed such interactions to be controlled to some degree. Efforts were made to keep the sacred safely separated from aspects of the everyday world, especially the taint of death, bloodshed or sexual activity, all of which could be transmitted through direct physical contact. Mythical exempla such as Aeneas and Hercules helped to reaffirm ideas about “correct” behaviour by praising or condemning certain actions, while the fact that physical (and especially sexual) purity features so prominently in the poetic works of the late Republic also highlights that these ideas were widely understood and, to some degree, shared by contemporary audiences. The belief that certain social groups were in some way inherently unclean or polluting, however, served an additional purpose in ancient Rome – one that helped to hold the fabric of Roman society together and contributed significantly to the formation of Roman cultural identity. In such cases, the language and concept of social impurity served as a means of reinforcing the low social status of those involved in sordid professions. Their supposed impurity could serve to justify their exclusion from public spaces or the curtailing of their legal rights or status. This was ultimately made all the more explicit by the idea that the touch of these groups might be somehow unclean, an idea that was perpetually circulated and reinforced, but always by those on the other side of the social divide.

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8 T he touch of poetry i n t he C armina Priapea Elizabeth Young

The touch of poetry? What does it feel like to touch a well-known person’s body – to run your hand along its familiar features, like Euryclea searching out Odysseus’ scar?1 What does it feel like to touch a statue made of bronze – or to extend this haptic process along the line of sight as you scan a voluptuous marble Aphrodite?2 What does it feel like to touch a poem – to probe a dactyl with your finger, to let a strophe brush against your cheek? It is likely that most can answer the first two of these questions, while having a good deal of trouble with the third. It is not natural to speak of poetry’s “touch”. Indeed, of the many forms of tactility featured in this volume, the touch of poetry is uniquely problematic. As has already been observed, touch is a sense “particularly resistant to language” and yet language, rather than marble or bronze, is poetry’s medium. 3 Poetry is logically linked to both hearing (when oral) and vision (when written), but the tactility of poetry is inherently elusive. At the same time, as every reader knows, a poem can affect our bodies in a way that approximates – or even replicates – touch. Both ancient and modern discussions of poetry tend to figure this elusive tactility through discussions of texture. Among modern theorists and critics, such formulations typically refer to a poem’s distinctive verbal patterning. Russian Formalists, New Critics and modern scholars of poetry alike often use the word “texture” to designate the poem’s formal linguistic properties – the “materiality” of its often inescapable signifiers. As Wellek and Warren long ago declared in Theory of Literature, “the Romantics and most modern critics never tire of stressing the particularity of poetry, its ‘texture’, its concreteness”. Fondness for this usage continues today.4 This use of texture to describe “the particularity of poetry” derives from the R ­ omans themselves, who used the word texere (“to weave”) to describe the act of composing a poem.5 The Romans took this abstract discussion of texture one step further to specify the tactile quality associated with specific poets and poems. Ennius, for instance, had the dubious distinction of being considered “rough” (rudis) and “hairy” (hirsutus): 1 See Chapter 1, this volume. 2 See both Chapters 5 and 6 in this volume, on the tactility of sculpture. 3 See the Introduction (2). 4 Wellek & Warren ([1942, 1947] 1949: 9). For instance, Roberts (2010) speaks of the “density of texture” that results from typically Late Latin varieties of “verbal patterning” (27). See Stockwell (2002) for a piece that approaches poetic texture not simply as a stylistic but a “cognitive matter” (85). 5 See Scheid & Svenbro (1996: 131–56).

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Ovid calls him a poet of “rough/clumsy skill” (rudis arte, Tristia, 2.424) and Propertius bids him to bedeck his words with “a shaggy crown” (hirsuta … corona, 4.1.61).6 Callimachean poets, in contrast, strove for “smoothness”, an idea best known from Catullus 1, which describes his libellus (“little book”) as “just now polished up with dry pumice” (arida modo pumice expolitum 1.1), a well-recognized programmatic statement about the stylistic elegance of the poems themselves. This idea was taken up among the Augustans through reference to the meticulous limae labor (“work of the file”), or stylistic refinement, that Horace famously posed as an essential feature of the poetic process (Ars Poetica, 291). As many have pointed out, these textural figurations of poetic style were a way of discussing the tensions inherent in the Roman conception of their own literary history, which they viewed as moving away from rough-hewn primitivism only to veer perilously into an effete and depilated Hellenism.7 True as this may be, it is important to recall the haptic quality of these metaphors’ vehicles. Discussing a poet’s words in terms of polish or shagginess presents poetry as having a striking tactility. This language of roughness and smoothness suggests that poems can register directly as sensation on the skin. In fact, neuroimaging suggests that processing such textural metaphors activates a brain region central to the physical sensing of texture.8 The implications of these findings are startling: when Ovid, for instance, asserts that nothing is “shaggier” (hirsutius) than Ennius’ Annales (Tristia, 2.259), our brains respond as though our fingers are actually running through an unkempt beard. The rest of this essay takes as its focus the Carmina Priapea, a collection of ancient epigrams that pose the touch of poetry in even more dramatic terms. As we shall see, these poems go well beyond the textural notion of poetic tactility to suggest that the haptic quality of poems extends beyond the surface of the body and into its depths. The touch of poetry, this collection repeatedly suggests, is not about surface effects, but profound bodily incursions that probe beneath the skin to touch us to the core. This collection’s insistence on the profundity of poetry’s touch obliges it to confront what I term the haptic paradox inherent in all poetic reading: we experience poems through the distal senses of sight and hearing rather than the proximate senses of olfaction, taste or touch. Yet these sensorially remote verbal constructs have haptic effects, going so far as to enter our bodies and brains, “moving” us emotionally and producing concrete bodily changes (flashes of heat, shivers down the spine, trembling, gasping, etc.). How can an immaterial conglomerate of words remain at an aloof distance while making our skin goose-pimple or crawl? Time and again, the Carmina Priapea confronts its reader with this question – forcing an ongoing awareness of the tactile conundrum of poetic reading.

Priapus’ garden The Carmina Priapea (hereafter the CP) is an anonymous collection of early Imperial Latin epigrams that centre on the comically menacing figure of the god Priapus.9 6 See Goldschmidt (2013: 7) for a good, brief overview of ancient discussions of Ennius’ shagginess. 7 See e.g. Goldschmidt (2013: 7) and Leigh (2001: 4–5). 8 Lacey et al. (2012). 9 There is a great deal of controversy over the attribution and date of this eighty-poem epigram collection. Though, to my view, these questions have not yet been resolved, I am inclined to believe that it

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A preposterous deity with a hugely outsized phallus, Priapus appears in this collection in two distinct guises: as a cult statue enjoying his worshippers’ attentions and as a scarecrow figure who fends thieves from his garden by threatening them with rape. This minatory scene surfaces again and again throughout the collection, either explicitly or implicitly structuring nearly half its eighty poems.10 This comes as no great surprise, for such sexualized stewardship was this god’s primary function in Latin literature. In Roman texts, Priapus is typically presented as a crudely phallic watchman figure, “a god who terrorizes thieves with either his sickle or his sex” (Ovid, Metamorphoses 14.640).11 The Priapic garden scene might be summarized as one of reciprocal transgressive contact. The trespassing thief stretches out a hand to pluck another’s fruit; the guardian god thrusts his retaliatory erection into the thief’s body. The strangeness of this scene dissipates somewhat when we recognize it as partaking in the same discourse of contaminating touch discussed in the previous chapter: at Rome, both the social and physical world were rife with invisible boundaries that must be vigilantly policed against the threat of polluting contact.12 Priapus’ garden represents this idea of a special or sanctified space that must be kept pure of contaminating touch. But the fact that the object of worship here is the phallic god troubles this standard framework of purity and contamination. The male member’s associations with bodily effluvia, as well as the sex act itself, rendered it a polluting object par excellence. The symbolic doubleness of the phallus renders his garden a paradoxical space. This is a place designated to celebrate the contaminating objects and acts that Romans normally sought to keep at bay. In this sense, all objects within Priapus’ sanctum share a double identity: they are both sacred and profane, pure and polluted, vulnerable to threat and, themselves, a source of imminent danger.13

was written by a single author some time during the early Imperial period. See Callebat (2012: xxvi– xxvii), Richlin (1992: 141–3) and Goldberg (1992: 28–36) for useful summaries of these debates. Buchheit (1962), O’Connor (1989), Parker (1988: 32–61) and Biville et al. (2008) offer useful starting points for general discussion of the corpus. Callebat (2012), one of several new editions, includes a detailed introduction and substantial up-to-date bibliography (41–57). Hooper (1999) is the best available translation into English. On Priapic poetry in Latin beyond the CP itself see Richlin (1992: 116–27) and O’Connor (1989: 30–8 and 66–89). 10 By my count these garden scenario poems (thirty-four in total) are: 3, 5, 6, 7, 11, 13, 15, 17, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 28, 30, 31, 35, 38, 44, 51, 52, 54, 56, 58, 59, 64, 67, 69, 70, 71, 72, 74, 76, 77. This list includes all poems where Priapus threatens the addressee with sexual punishment, even if the garden setting is not specified. Some of these poems offer variations on the standard scene: e.g. CP 23 (in which the god curses thieves with unquenchable erections), CP 26 (in which he is haggard from so much sexual activity) and CP 70 (in which he threatens to rape some local dogs). There are additional poems that might also be put in the “garden scenario” category depending on one’s interpretation (e.g. CP 47 and 47.1). Richlin discussed this Priapic garden scenario as a metaphor for the workings of obscene Roman invective and, especially, satire (1992: 57–63). Her work has been essential to bringing modern scholarly attention to the Carmina Priapea and her seminal discussion of Roman sexual humour is the necessary starting point for Roman thinking on obscenity (1992: 1–31) and on “the area of obscenity in Latin literature” (13) more specifically (she discusses the CP in particular at pp. 9 and 29). 11 The lewd Priapus found in the CP and throughout Latin literature differs from most Greek versions of the god. See Parker (1988: 75) on CP 5 (the first poem of the collection in which the god explicitly assumes this role) and Parker (1988: 1–31) for a detailed comparison of this Latin Priapus to his Greek counterparts. P. Stewart (1997) insightfully discusses the formal crudity that characterizes the Roman Priapus in both the visual and verbal arts. Herter (1932) remains the best resource for general information on the god. 12 See Chapter 7 in this volume, on contaminating touch. 13 CP 14 plays on the idea that sacred objects and spaces ought not come into contact with bodily fluids considered especially potent pollutants. Speaking to potential worshippers who fear entering his

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Within the CP, this garden scene of reciprocal transgressive contact serves a special purpose: it allegorizes the act of reading Priapic poetry itself. Craig Williams, among others, has shown that “phallic personification” of poems and their readers is common throughout the history of Latin epigram.14 The CP ups the ante on this common form of personification by identifying the epigrams it contains with the phallic god himself. The obscenely phallic Priapus embodies the lewd verse he utters, iocosa carmina (“jesting verses”, Martial 1.35.10) that, as Martial puts it, “are not able to please without a prick (sine mentula)” (1.35.5). The reader, meanwhile, is positioned as a thief who invades this poetic collection to harvest its fruits only to be confronted with the most outrageous sexual violence. (This identification hinges, in part, on an etymological connection: in Latin, the verb legere means both “to read” and “to pick”):15 Ne prendare cave. Prenso nec fuste nocebo, saeva nec incurva vulnera falce dabo: traiectus conto sic extendere pedali, ut culum rugam non habuisse putes. Beware of being caught. I’ll not harm you, once caught, with my stick, nor will I dole out savage wounds with my curved sickle: but, pierced by my foot-long pole, you will be stretched out to such a degree you would think your asshole never had a wrinkle.16 (CP 11) Viewed allegorically, poems such as this offer a strikingly corporeal presentation of the act of poetic reading. To run one’s eyes over a line of verse becomes, in this figuration, a form of reciprocal bodily contact: the reader enters this garden of verse to pluck its fruits; the poems then thrust themselves on the reader with the force of a massive mentula (“prick”). The parts of the reader’s body implicated in this metaphor are not, as we might expect, the eyes or the ears. Instead, the focus is on organs that are sensitive to touch: the “rapacious” or “shameless” hand (manum rapacem, CP 52.1; proterva … manu, 31.1) as it reaches out for the fruit; the “swollen cock” (mentula tenta, 20.6) that rears up in retaliation; the anus that is pierced by Priapus’ “foot long pole”, and “stretched out” to such a degree that it is no longer wrinkled. To pose the reading of poetry as a visceral scene of reciprocal violation is to suggest that a poem does not maintain a safe distance from its reader. Poems, this figure implies, go beyond entrancing the ears with sounds or the eyes with patterns of lines arrayed on the page. Instead, they grab and enter and pummel the reader with such force that the body is utterly transformed.

sanctum (sacellum, 2) because they spent the night with a puella (“girl”, 3), Priapus explains that this protocol only applies to “stern” or “serious” gods (caelitibus … severis, 5). Anyone, he announces, is invited to enter his shrine, even if fresh from the brothel (10). In Priapus’ garden the standard rules governing religious and social life do not apply. 14 Williams (2002: 164, n. 58); See also Hallett (1996). On personification of the phallus in Roman literature more generally, see Richlin (1992: 116). 15 The CP puns on this double meaning from time to time as when, at CP 68.2, the speaker proclaims, “I don’t read (lego) books, I pick (lego) apples”. On this pun in the CP see Hallett (1996: 341). 16 I use Parker’s (1988) text for all poems from the CP. Unless otherwise noted, all translations from the Latin are my own.

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It would be easy to explain away the tactile emphasis of the CP’s internal metaphor of reading as a sensory by-product of genre or an extension of the collection’s frank eroticism. Latin epigram ranked notoriously low on the generic hierarchy: as Martial declares, “what could be paltrier?” (12.95.9).17 This degraded genre mires itself in degraded language and themes, revelling in disreputable content not admitted by epic, lyric and the like.18 Ranked, since Aristotle, as the lowest of the senses, touch was the sensual corollary of this proudly debased genre.19 Given this shared ignominy, it makes good sense to find touch featuring prominently in this collection’s self-reflexive scene of reading. The CP’s comedic enshrinement of a god associated with sex offers another obvious explanation for this haptic emphasis. Because touch is so central to human sexuality, it tends to be allied with the erotic. As Elizabeth Harvey explains, “The judgment about where touch belongs in the sensory echelon has much to do … with definitions of love and lust, the value of eroticism, and the place of the material or the fleshly” (2002a: 4). In the judgement of the CP, lust conquers all – and touch ascends to the top of the sensory echelon accordingly. When we enter these poetic gardens, we enter a space of inverted values where crudity triumphs over refinement, lust over decency, touch over vision and Priapus over all. To explain the garden metaphor’s focus on touch in terms of genre or erotic content is certainly accurate but by no means exhaustive. I will be pursuing another explanation here, one that links the CP’s treatment of touch to the phenomenology of poetic reading. The garden scene’s strikingly haptic figuration implies that the act of reading poetry is a fully embodied experience that emotionally – and physically – touches us to the core. But the fact that this scene is, ultimately, no more than a metaphor problematizes this palpability: despite the physicality this garden scene implies, we emerge from reading these poems with our assholes happily wrinkled. This tension provokes an acute awareness of the haptic paradox inherent in all poetic reading: how, exactly, can a poem pierce, pummel or grab – or, perhaps, pleasure – its reader when it is made up of something as intangible as words? The CP threads this question throughout its eighty poems in a meditation that extends well beyond the garden metaphor. As we shall see, touch is a sensory obsession in this epigram collection, an obsession tightly linked to reading and consistently mired in paradox. On the one hand, the CP is marked by a strong thematic focus on this particular sense, from an unrelenting emphasis on sex to the outrageous tactility of its ithyphallic protagonist, but this thematic fixation is something of a tease, holding out the promise of prurient contact that is ultimately denied. Time and again, these poems offer enticing suggestions of a tactile fulfilment that never arrives. I propose that this ongoing push and pull of thematic tactility is meant to provoke awareness of the haptic paradox inherent in all poetic reading and vividly inscribed in the

17 Martial 12.95 is poem is about writing in various genres that moves progressively down the generic scale in five couplets from “epic” (epos, line 1) to “epigram” (epigrammata, line 9). 18 Watson ([2005] 2007: 203). 19 Aristotle ranked the senses as follows: vision, hearing, smell, taste, touch. Touch ranks lowest because it is a requisite for mere existence (rather than for “well-being”: On the Soul 3.11.434b20–1) and because humans share it in common with all other animals (on this commonality see On the Soul 2.3.414b2–17; 3.12.434b10–24; 3.13.435b19–20). For a detailed discussion of Aristotle’s view of touch, see Chapter 3 in this volume.

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CP’s garden metaphor. 20 The language of which poems are made will never brush against our skin, and we cannot reach out and touch a poem’s content, no matter how vividly it is described. At the same time, poems are insistently – at times inescapably – palpable. The CP invites us to investigate how this could be so.

Touch in the Carmina Priapea Touch is the privileged sense throughout the Carmina Priapea, foregrounded to an absurd and often disturbing degree. This sensual fixation begins with Priapus himself, a relentlessly – indeed, preposterously – haptic deity. Priapus’ associations with touch are grounded in his physical being. His is a grotesquely humanoid form that is obstinately tactile. Like the Olympians to whom he favourably compares himself throughout the CP (e.g. CP 9, 20, 36 etc.), Priapus is an anthropomorphic god endowed with a human body. But his is a grotesque parody of the human form that Apollo, Venus and the rest inhabit to such perfection. His body has been stripped of all features and organs aside from the “swollen cock” (mentula tenta) that, as he claims, makes him “formidable” (terribilem) (CP 20.6). It is clear from the content of his monologues – and from the fact that he utters words at all – that this Priapus is able to speak, as well as see and hear. But the poems rarely allude to any physical features – including organs of sensation – beyond his ever-present phallus.21 At times, it seems to be made of wood (e.g. CP 6.2, 25.1–2 and 43.1), at other times of flesh (e.g. 48). But whatever its degree of animation, it is huge and inescapable. What we learn in the very first poem about the god’s physical being is, by and large, the only information we are granted throughout the collection: Priapus is “better endowed than normal” (membrosior aequo. CP 1.5) and refuses to cover it up. The few other details mentioned about his physical being are mostly either somatic or symbolic extensions of this phallus (his testicles and pubis, e.g. CP 25.7; his sickle and cudgel, e.g. 11.1–2). As described in this collection, Priapus is not a fully formed human but a single, insatiable organ that wants one thing and one thing only: to make sexual contact with other bodies. Constantly threatening to thrust itself between the buttocks of thieves, this overactive phallus is a grotesque synecdoche for touch itself.22 As has been mentioned before in this volume, touch is unique among the senses for having no specific organ on which it depends.23 Yet, certain organs are more closely aligned with touch than others, either because they are especially sensitive to touch or because they are more prone to reaching out and inviting a haptic response. With its copious nerve endings and five grasping fingers, the hand is frequently associated with touch.24 Indeed, as has also been noted, the term “haptic” itself derives from the Greek verb meaning “to lay one’s hands upon” 20 On the role of the senses in poetic reading more generally, see Keilen (2013) on Chapman’s imitation of Ovid’s Art of Love. 21 Intriguingly, the poems where the god is presented with physical descriptors beyond his phallus are ones where a weakened and less menacing Priapus wallows in his own impotence and vulnerability (e.g. CP 33.6 [manus, “hand”], 63.5 and 6 [capillos … nostros, “my hair” and barba, “beard”], 76.1–2 [canis / cum barba caput albicet capillis, “the hair on my head and beard is growing white”]). 22 On further correspondences in Latin literature between phallus and hand, see Chapter 1, this volume. 23 Aristotle discusses this aspect of touch in On the Soul 2.11.422b19–23. See Harvey’s (2002a: 4) discussion of touch as a sense that is “both everywhere and nowhere”. See also the Introduction and Chapter 3. 24 Stewart (2002: 162). See also Harvey on the emergence of the hand as a “rationalizing synecdoche” for touch in the early modern period (2002a: 18, 2002b).

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(haptesthai).25 But in the CP, the thief’s grasping hand is always parlayed by a thrusting penis, and many poems contrast these two body parts by moving in quick succession from the overreaching manus to the retaliating mentula.26 Such persistent refocusing from hand to penis transforms the mentula into a comic variant on that more common tactile synecdoche. Within these gardens of Priapus, tangere (“to touch”) always boils down to pedicare (“to sodomize”) – or some other variation on penetration.27 It makes sense that, in these poems, the sensation of touch is consolidated in the form of a huge phallus. Priapus is, at base, a fertility god and both he and his worshippers fixate on sex, by definition a profoundly haptic activity. The phallic god logically views nearly everyone who approaches his garden in crudely sexual terms. Visitors are hailed as either enticing sexual targets or revoltingly unfit for his mentula’s attentions. These addressees are themselves highly sexualized creatures who generally come to him in the hopes or the wake of a sexual encounter. An abridged list includes: a toothless hag “as old as Hecuba” who asks that she never be without a cock (CP 12); Quintia, an erotic dancer who prays that she always give her audience hard-ons (27); a sexually adventurous couple intent on running through the entire sex manual of Philaenis (63); a cinaedus (a man who takes pleasure being penetrated by another) who steals an apple on purpose, in hopes of being fucked (64). This cast of sex-crazed characters with their prurient preoccupations sets up this collection’s running obsession with sexual contact. The CP is constantly tantalizing its reader with the suggestion of sexual scenes, whether they feature withered old ladies, smooth-skinned boys or nubile dancing girls. Yet in the end, the poems refuse to represent any such consummation. The closest we come to witnessing sexual contact here is CP 70’s description of a dog “worshipping” the god all night by licking a sacrificial offering off his swollen member (70.7–8). Beyond this crudely parodic scene, the fondling, groping, rubbing and stroking of sexual activity is persistently suggested but always deferred. The “unchaste words” (impudica verba, 8.2) of these poems are constantly teasing the reader with the absence of the sexual acts with which they are obsessed. In the end, these “wanton dalliances in disheveled song” (1.1) are less about sexual contact than its frustration – less about tactile gratification than its persistent deprivation. We can see this withholding of touch at work in the garden scene itself, which hinges on the threat of a sexual assault that never actually happens. The extreme physical violence intimated by these poems is always couched in a hypothetical future that holds the promised thrust of the mentula at an inaccessible distance. “Take care that you are not seized” he warns a thief in CP 11, launching a threatening four lines cast entirely in the future tense. (nocebo … dabo … extendere … putes; 1, 2, 3, 4). “Boy, I warn that you’ll be sodomized (percidere); girl, you’ll be fucked (futuere): / a third punishment awaits (manet) a bearded thief” reads the whole of CP 13. All the garden poems thrust themselves into a similarly deferred future, never showing the god in the act of the sex acts he describes (e.g. CP 6, 22, 28 and 74). 25 See the Introduction. 26 E.g. CP 15.1–3, 31.1–3, 51.1–4, 69.2–4. 27 In fact, the one time the verb tangere (“to touch”) appears in these poems, it is as a euphemistic variation on irrumare (“to sodomize”): In CP 28, Priapus vows to sodomize anyone who cannot refrain from plucking his fruits or, if that assault is not successful, “touch (tangam) even higher” (i.e. mouthfuck or irrumate, 28.5).

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The endless deferral of the god’s persistent threats points to a curious paradox underlying the garden scenario: In his role as guardian of gardens, Priapus was meant to prohibit the incursions of the thieves whose bodies he craves. In his position as glorified scarecrow protecting his master’s plot, Priapus’ raison d’être was to keep thieves at bay: “Priapus, attentively guard my orchard; menace thieves with your ruddy penis”, his master commands in CP 72 (1–2). If he is successful at this job, thieves will never lay a finger on the tempting fruit he guards – and his “ruddy penis” will never enter their bodies in retaliation. This ceaselessly randy god is, ideally, meant to spend his days in total isolation, deprived of any form of sensual fulfilment. The fact that his craving for touch is never relieved is displayed for all to see by his eternal hard-on. The ironic deprivation this hard-on implies becomes a dominant theme as the collection continues. The latter half of the book is marked by a progressive weakening of Priapus’ minatory tone as well as his ability to fulfil his threats of sexual retaliation.28 It also focuses increasingly on Priapus’ unwilling separation from the thief and his essential imprisonment in the garden over which we thought he was lord (e.g. CP 77). Such poems make it clear that Priapus’ enclosure was never, in fact, a garden of earthly delights where the god enjoyed others’ bodies in orgiastic ecstasy. All along, it was more of a sensory deprivation chamber where the god lived out his days like a “fibulated lyre-player” (clusus citharoedus; CP 77.14), denied the tactile gratification for which his mentula ached. 29 This focus on the sensuous limitations of Priapus’ garden is yet one more indication that this collection’s ultimate concern is less with tactile fulfilment than with tactile deprivation.

Seeing, touching, reading The withdrawal or absence of touch that features so prominently in the CP is persistently linked to the act of poetic reading. In fact, the very first piece in the collection connects the theme of tactile withholding to the experience of reading the book we have just begun: Carminis incompti lusus lecture procaces, conveniens Latio pone supercilium. Non soror hoc habitat Phoebi, non Vesta sacello, nec quae de patrio vertice nata dea est, sed ruber hortorum custos, membrosior aequo, qui tectum nullis vestibus inguen habet. Aut igitur tunicam parti praetende tegendae, aut quibus hanc oculis aspicis, ista lege. You who are about to read these wanton games of dishevelled song, set aside the disdain appropriate to a man of Latium. It is not Phoebus Apollo’s sister [Diana] who inhabits this shrine, nor is it Vesta, 28 This transformation begins in earnest in CP 56 where the god declares himself a “wretch” (3) because his mentula is only made of wood and admits he must call upon his “master” (5) to fulfill his threats. This weakening of the god continues intermittently in poems such as CP 63, 76 and 77, which all present variations on this enfeebled Priapus. 29 The fibula was a clasp attached to the penis either to preserve the high pitch of a young man’s voice or to prohibit copulation (Parker 1988: 191; Callebat 2012: 300).

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nor the goddess born from the head of her father [Minerva], but the ruddy guardian of gardens, better endowed than normal, whose loins are not covered up by any clothing. Therefore, either pull the tunic over the part that must be covered, or read these lines with the same eyes you use to gaze at this cock. (CP 1) CP 1 is addressed to the reader, who is modest and wanton in turn. The opening line takes figurative language often applied to poetic texts (carmen, incomptus, procax) and foregrounds the fact that these terms invoke a wide range of sense experience. Though carmen (“song, spell, poem”) had long been normalized in its transferred sense as a written poem, its primary meanings refer to something taken in with the ears, not the eyes. Though an epigram can be procax (“insolent, bold”), this term is more properly applied to a person inclined to inappropriate forms of bodily contact. Though a verse can be incomptus (“artless”), this adjective more literally signifies the lack of adornment or unkemptness of a body or space and so registers a lack of attention to what something looks like. The literal meaning of these three words suggests an array of sense experiences unavailable to someone reading a line of verse on a page: the sound of a song, the touch of a harlot, the alluring disarray of a woman with “dishevelled” hair.30 This sensory cornucopia is being, simultaneously, offered to and withheld from this poem’s future reader who, CP 1 suggests, can only absorb these lines with her eyes. Though texts in antiquity were frequently read and recited aloud, the reader of CP 1 is associated with pure ocularity, as the poem’s closing couplet makes clear. Here, the reader is posed as someone who takes things in with the eyes, whether Priapus’ swollen mentula or the Priapic verse that describes it. The only three lexical words in this line all refer to the reader in terms of vision: oculi (“eyes”), aspicere (“to gaze at, behold”) and legere (“to read”). Appearing, as it does, as the last word in this ocular tricolon, the “reading” here described can only refer to the visual internalization of a written text. But these lines also tease this insistently ocular reader with the possibility that she might be able to reach her hand straight into the scene described. While the pentameter insists on vision, the hexameter offers a contrary directive: “pull the tunic over the part of me that must be covered …”. This is something the reader could only do if she could extend her hand into the poem to make contact with its obscenely phallic speaker. The joke hinges on the fact that she cannot, which leaves her with only one option among this false set of alternatives: she must open her eyes wide and read – ista lege, as the last two words command. The next poem in the collection that hails a reader directly is marked by a similar play between ocular reading and frustrated tactility: Matronae procul hinc abite castae: turpe est vos legere inpudica verba. Non assis faciunt euntque recta: nimirum sapiunt videntque magnam matronae quoque mentulam libenter. 30 The allure of women with disheveled (incomptus) hair is a topos of erotic poetry in Latin (e.g. Ovid, Metamorphoses 4.260–1; Propertius 1.15.11).

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Chaste matrons, go far from here: it is foul for you to read immodest words. But they don’t care – they come right up: clearly matrons too are wise and gleefully gaze at a huge cock. (CP 8) CP 8 hinges on a play between proximity and distance – and the apparent incompatibility of the ithyphallic Priapus and matronae … castae. These “chaste matrons” are addressed as readers in the first two lines where they are warned against perusing the CP’s “immodest words” (8.2). Rather than heeding this warning, these matronae come forward without hesitation, an eager approach that leads our presumably Priapic speaker to the conclusion that they are smart enough to take pleasure in ogling his mentula. In the course of these five lines, the matrons have undergone an impossible shift, going from readers, perusing the “immodest words” of Priapic poems to viewers revelling in the physical presence of the god’s immodest member. This shift happens in the third line, seemingly sparked by the wanton power of these matrons’ immodesty: “They don’t care; they come right up” – and suddenly they are no longer reading about (legere) but gazing upon (vident) the huge cock the rest of us readers can only imagine. In fact, the wording of these lines suggests that these matronae’s newfound proximity to Priapus may be more wide-ranging still, encompassing not just sight but touch and even taste. The verb that marks their shift from modest readers to lewd participants in a Priapic scene (euntque recta, “they come right up”) is used in a later poem in reference to the rhythm of sexual intercourse (“this randy watchman, with alternate coming and going (alternis et eundo et exeundo), will lay you open wider than a door” [52.3–5]). What’s more, sapere can mean not just “to understand” but also “to sense” or even “to taste”. These alternate meanings open up a far cruder formulation of the closing lines: “Clearly matrons too gleefully / see and suck on a huge cock”. Taking the sapiunt of these lines as referencing oral sex might be a stretch if the logic of both the poem and the collection did not goad us in that direction. Part of the callous fun of the CP as a whole is that the god’s salacious preoccupations surface in the most inappropriate places (for instance, in the midst of catalogues of the Olympians whom Priapus habitually adorns with phallic attributes).31 Part of the callous fun of CP 8 in particular is the way it transforms its matronae from prudes to sluts in the course of just five lines. While the words that launch the first and final verse are identical (matronae/ matronae), the sexual ethics of these women could not be more distinct. In fact, by the end, the chaste matrons of the beginning have all but disappeared, a departure proleptically flagged by the opening abite (“go away”), which might also be taken as a directive that the matronae “disappear”. This tiny poem has a presto-change-o quality where the Priapic speaker waves his phallic wand and, suddenly, chaste matrons dissolve into harlots. Reading the sapiunt as “they taste” would launch these newly debauched matronae into what was, to the Romans, the crudest and most sensually immersive of sexual acts, an idea that heightens the transformation that is, in the end, the point of this poem.32

31 See Vallat (2008) on this cycle of poems about the Olympians (CP 9, 20, 36, 39, 75). 32 CP 66 hinges on a similar shift from modest turning away to wanton desire for penetration.

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By the end of CP 8, the sheer force of these matronae’s indecency seems to have projected them through the scrim of language and into the god’s lurid presence. They have gone from being “chaste” readers to being gleeful participants in the sex acts Priapus’ rigid mentula implies. No longer “far off”, at a modest distance from the “immodest words” of the poem, these erstwhile readers “come right up” and enter the “immodest” scene, directly “sensing” – or, even “tasting” – and, by extension, touching – the god’s prodigious mentula.33 This sensory bonanza is unavailable to everyday readers who, however lascivious, can never effect such a shift. You and I will remain forever “far off” from the “here” of CP 8, forced to remain “chaste” even if we might prefer to be otherwise. This poem holds out to the reader the hint that her experience of the poem might become something more than the forced “chastity” of ocular reading – then shuts down that possibility in the same five lines. Like CP 1, it ultimately negates its own suggestion that the reader might immerse her body in the contents of the poem. These two poems link the CP’s ongoing theme of frustrated tactility to the act of reading poetry in particular. This connection suggests that this collection’s swiftly retracted tactile come-ons are designed to provoke awareness of the haptic paradox outlined above: that poetic language bypasses our body’s external tactile receptors, even as it mysteriously touches us to the core. As CP 1 and 8 make clear, a reader is only a voyeur peering, with her mind’s eye, into scenes where others revel in shared embodiment. When we reach our hands into a book, we cannot feel the words – let alone the objects, people and places those words describe. At the same time, we read poems as fully embodied beings, our senses enlivened by the scenes and images we find there. Poems “touch” us profoundly, in the figurative sense of “kindling affect”.34 But they touch us literally as well, entering our bodies and rousing emotions that are, themselves, somatised.35 What’s more, new research in cognitive science shows that the somatosensory cortex responds to verbal descriptions of tactile experience – even purely metaphorical ones.36 The brain does not make an absolute distinction of the feel of a polished slab of marble brushed by the fingers, a verse description of a marble statue “polished by the hand of Phidias” (CP 10.3) and a figurative discussion of a “polished” poem.37

In Situ epigram The CP’s meditations on the haptic paradox of poetic reading are intensified by its insistent invocation of ancient epigram’s dual status as both a book-based and a sitebased form. The fully embodied experience of in situ epigram hovers as an ever-­ present suggestion throughout this book, making the reader’s inability to physically enter these scenes all the more palpable. Though Latin epigrams were often circulated

33 On taste as a subset of touch in Aristotle, see On the Soul 2.10. 34 Harvey (2002a: 2). 35 Nummenmaa et al. (2014), for instance, show that emotions such as happiness, sadness, fear and anger can trigger sensations throughout our physical being. 36 Lacey et al. (2012). 37 E.g. Catullus’ famous description of his libellum … pumice expolitum (“little book … polished with pumice”, 1.1–2).

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in books, ancient epigram had never been a purely literary affair.38 Such poems would have been well known to every Roman from an array of non-literary contexts that engaged the reader/viewer in-the-round. 39 Whether inscribed on a statue inside a temple complex or on a tombstone along the Via Appia, such contextualized epigrams hailed the reader as far more than a set of eyes. Instead, they confronted her with an array of stimuli that enveloped her whole body. In such robust in situ contexts, the inscription itself was so small a part of the overall experience that some scholars hesitate to call this viewer a “reader” at all (and, of course, some such viewers would not have known how to read).40 In such a multi-sensory reading environment, the consumption of poetry becomes an all-over bodily affair, accompanied by the smell of smoke, the sound of nearby crowds or the brightness and heat of the Italian sun. Such familiar in situ scenes of epigrammatic reading are the imaginary backdrop for all ancient literary epigram, whose form alone is enough to evoke such robustly ­immersive contexts. As James Porter puts it in a discussion of the Hellenistic epigram that so influenced the Romans: “the premise of the literary epigram is one of a physicality and immediacy that is being revived whenever the poem is being re-experienced by a reader” (2010: 482).41 Many literary epigrams evoke such in situ contexts thematically as well by posing a tombstone, say, or a dedicated object as the site from which the words of the poem emerge. The CP uses this technique frequently, insisting on its status as a written collection while also conjuring an array of in situ epigrammatic scenes. The poems of the CP are very much in the book-bound Latin epigrammatic tradition – “brief, witty poems with a sting in the tail” (O’Connor [1989: 101]). This variety of epigram was first popularized by Catullus and later perfected by Martial, neither of whom let readers forget that his poems are collected in libelli. The CP’s opening poem conjures this tradition of epigrammatic books, referring, as we have seen, to a reader who is absorbing these couplets with the eyes (quibus … oculis, 8). The fact that we are readers of these lines is drawn out by the mention of reading in the first and final lines (lecture, 1; lege, 8) – and the framing of the poem with the pairing of carminis (“poems”, “verses”, 1), as its opening word, and lege (“read”, 8)

38 On the Latin epigram in general, see Watson ([2005] 2007). For a discussion of the CP’s place within the tradition of ancient epigram, see Callebat (2008: 27–31). For a generic analysis of the CP as skoptic epigram, see O’Connor (1989: 100–81). 39 For an excellent overview of Latin epigraphy, including discussions of the many contexts in which Latin inscriptions (some metred, some not) appeared, see Bruun & Edmondson (2015). On Latin verse inscriptions, see Schmidt (2015). Courtney (1995) combines an assortment of these Latin verse inscriptions with an informative introduction and a useful bibliography. On metered graffiti and the “literary landscape” of Pompeii see Milnor (2014). 40 On debates about the degree to which ancient readers actually read inscriptions on statuary and the like, see Burrell (2009: 70 and references in n. 10 on the same page). See Johnson & Parker (2009) for various perspectives on ancient literacy in general. 41 For more on the “situatedness” (482) of ancient epigram and the ambiguities inherent in how Hellenistic literary epigram evokes in situ contexts (whether actual or imagined), see Porter (2010: 481–90). See also Höschele (2007) on how Roman epigram books figure the lector as a viator, replicating in his journey through the book the original, peripatetic context of ancient epigram. This association of poem and monument is not relegated to epigram alone, as Porter reveals in his discussion of the ongoing “convergence of poetry and objects” (2010: 453) in the ancient poetic tradition. He traces this “materialist sensibility” (456) all the way back to Homer and the eighth-century cup of Nestor from Pithecusae, noting that both “the ekphrastic and epigrammatic traditions are exfoliations of the same phenomenon” (456).

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as its last. This poem’s hailing of its reader in an incipient future as one “about to read wanton dalliances in dishevelled song” (1) establishes CP 1 as an introduction to all the Priapic poems that follow. It is clear from this line alone that we are about to delve into an entire book of wanton verses, not an isolated poem. Indeed, the poem’s request that the reader “set aside” his or her “pride” (pone supercilium, 2) follows a pattern found in other books of indelicate Latin epigrams.42 CP 1, then, makes it clear that the poems we are about to read are, like Martial’s epigrams, contained within a book. What we will find, as we read further, corroborates this sense – for the CP follows the structural patterns typical of Latin epigrammatic books.43 But even as CP 1 frames what follows as a poetic collection, it disrupts this vision of book-bound reading with an intimation of the in situ scenes to come. Its third line shifts the context of reading dramatically with the statement that neither Diana nor Vesta “inhabits this shrine” (hoc habitat … sacello, 3). This transformation of the book we have, presumably, been unscrolling into a habitable “shrine” wrenches us into an in situ tableau that is logically incommensurate with the description preceding it. With the exception of its final line, the rest of the poem continues to develop this new scenario in which the erstwhile reader might be imagined as a viewer in a temple now coming face to face with an image of the god. Within this new context, we are invited to imagine the words of CP 1 as lines inscribed upon this temple’s walls, or perhaps on the statue of Priapus itself.44 We have already seen how the last lines of this poem play on the reader’s inability to actually reach out and pull the crass god’s tunic into place. The poem’s closing transformation of the book we’ve just begun into a three-dimensional shrine makes even more palpable our tactile estrangement from what this poem describes. What at first seems an intimate invitation to peek inside an X-rated text ends up morphing into a tantalizing readerly conundrum. The very space of the poem has become a 3D virtual reality that mimics real world epigrammatic spaces the ancient reader would have known. The poem thus activates a fully embodied experience of epigram in the reader’s memory even as it bars him or her from ever entering this particular poem. CP 1 is followed, rather oddly, by a second introductory poem that likewise blurs the line between book-bound and in situ epigrammatic reading.45 Here, the collection’s auctor poses himself as a scriptor who has written these verses as an offering to the Phallic god: Ludens haec ego teste te, Priape, horto carmina digna, non libello, scripsi non nimium laboriose. Nec musas tamen, ut solent poetae,

42 E.g. Martial 1.4; Ausonius, Bissula 9.2. 43 For a brief overview of the standard structural features of Latin epigram collections, see Fitzgerald (2007: 4–5). For more in-depth discussions of Roman epigram books alongside their Hellenistic counterparts, see Hutchinson (2008). For discussions of the CP that key into some of these common structural features of the epigrammatic libellus, see Höschele (2008) and Vallat (2008). 4 4 Parker (1988: 69) notes that in both poems 1 and 2 “the book is imagined as a shrine of Priapus, and the pages inside are conceived to be the temple walls hung with dedicatory verses”. See Höschele (2007: 334) for further discussion of this epigrammatic topos of presenting the reader as a visitor to a temple or art gallery. 45 On this double preface, see Callebat (2012: 59–60) whose discussion includes references to the essential bibliography on the topic.

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ad non virgineum locum vocavi. Nam sensus mihi corque defuisset, castas, Pierium chorum, sorores auso ducere mentulam ad Priapi. Ergo quidquid id est, quod otiosus templi parietibus tui notavi, in partem accipias bonam, rogamus. At play, Priapus, and with you as my witness I have written these poems – less suitable to a book than to a garden, nor did I work hard on them. Nonetheless, I have not called the Muses, as poets usually do, to this unvirginal place, for I didn’t have the heart to lead those chaste sisters – the Pierian chorus – to Priapus’ cock. Therefore, whatever it is which I have idly marked upon your temple walls I ask that you accept it as very well intentioned. (CP 2) The language of the opening sentence reinforces the idea of book-bound reading, with the mention both of writing (scripsi, 3) and of the “little book” (libello, 2) in which Latin epigrams often appeared. The mention of this libellus in hendecasyllabic meter also recalls a very specific book-bound epigrammatic context: the libellus memorably mentioned in Catullus 1. The glut of Catullan keywords included in these opening lines strengthens this association (ludens, libello, laboriose). This first sentence cues us to think of the poem we are reading as solidly ensconced within a “new and charming little book” (Catullus 1.1). Perhaps this book has been “polished up”, like Catullus’ own, “with dry pumice” (Catullus 1.2). Perhaps it is made of luxurious papyrus, decorated with elegant end-nobs and meticulously ruled with lead like the unreadable book of Suffenus (Catullus 22.6–8). Whatever the details, this Catullan interference recalls the particular materiality of poetic books that was so vividly evoked in several of that author’s poems. At this juncture, the tactility of the Priapea we are about to read is circumscribed in a very particular way: we can touch them inasmuch as we can lay our hands on the book that contains them.46 The impalpable poem has been bound within a tactile container that allows it to “be opened or closed, hidden or revealed, as a physical object” (Stewart 2002: 161). But as CP 2 continues, the idea that these lines are contained within a book gives way to the suggestion that they themselves constitute a three-dimensional space, a non virgineum locum (5), which the Muses ought not enter. In the final lines, this space is further specified, when the scriptor speaks of “whatever it is” he has inscribed “on the walls of your [i.e. Priapus’] temple”. The rebarbative mentula of Priapus now occupies hallowed ground, contained within a temple with verses on its walls. This space represents, as Amy Richlin (1992: 9) notes, the space of the obscene, a circumscribed area where normally off-limits content can have free reign. It also points to something

46 This idea of book-bound poems expecting the touch of their readers’ hands was treated by Catullus himself in the now-fragmentary poem 14b.

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more tangible and less symbolic: an actual temple where one might, in fact, encounter inscribed poems. Once more, we find ourselves within an in situ scene of poetic reading, confronting poems associated with a three-dimensional space. Curiously, this mention of inscribing poems in a shrine is couched in language that allusively draws us back to Catullus’ little book. Quidquid id est recalls Catullus’ quidquid hoc libelli (1.8), and the detail that the scriptor is writing these lines “at leisure” (otiosus) evokes the leisurely scene of writing showcased at Catullus 50.1 (otiosi). This movement in and out of different scenes of reading makes it unclear where, exactly, these poems have been inscribed – in a garden (horto, 2), in a book (libello, 2) or on the walls of Priapus’ shrine (templi parietibus tui, 10)? In the end, CP 2 is an ambivalent tease of a poem that refuses to let us decide. CP 1 and 2 forcefully evoke our first in situ scenes in a book of literary epigrams that continually call to mind non-literary epigrammatic contexts. Sometimes these Priapic poems are posed as accompanying objects dedicated to the god (CP 27, 34, 37, 40); sometimes they are pictured as graffiti scrawled on his temple walls (49); sometimes they are presented as verses tied to the branches of an apple tree (61). Whatever the specifics are, such internal presentations of real-world epigrammatic details foreground the tactile impoverishment of book-based reading by reminding the reader of more fully embodied alternatives.

The reader’s animating touch Time and again, the poems of the CP goad their readers to reach out and grab them, only to remind us that we are just voyeurs. This essay has argued that such tactile tantalization prompts an awareness of the haptic paradox inherent in all poetic reading: the fact that poems enter our bodies to provoke profound physical and mental effects, despite the inherent intangibility of the language from which they are made. But this is not the end of the story: even as it launches us into this quandary, the garden metaphor offers a way of resolving this paradox by foregrounding the fact that poems become palpable through the fleshly medium of their readers’ bodies. As we have seen, the garden scene hinges on an act of mutual touching where the reader-thief enters the phallic god’s precinct to pluck his fruits and Priapus/Priapic poetry enters this reader’s body in retaliation. This allegorisation of reading as reciprocal bodily contact gets at a psychological truth about the experience of poetic reading that is otherwise hard to describe: poems, like touch itself, have a way of blurring the boundary between subject and object, effacing the border between “interiority and externality”.47 Like touching, poetic reading is “a threshold activity” where “subjectivity and objectivity come quite close to each other”.48 Poetry’s problematization of the subject/object divide is on vivid display in the CP’s garden scene. As has already been mentioned in this volume, the touch of the hand is commonly associated with “agency”, “action” and subjectivity.49 The thief’s hand in the garden scene conforms to this view, through its associations with the act of stealing itself. This human thief also enjoys a degree of freedom and mobility that 47 Stewart (2002: 178). 48 Ibid. 49 See the Introduction.

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our wooden Priapus, permanently fixed in his garden, can never hope to achieve. What’s more, this thief is the metaphorical stand-in for the reader, which would seem to confirm our assumptions about where the agency lies: with the living, breathing, touching, seeing, thinking and feeling reader. Yet in these gardens of Priapus, the god’s mentula is far more prominent than the thief’s hand – and the phallus itself is, in many ways, the dominant actor. In its hulking massiveness, this formidable phallus seems capable of fending off the thief simply by virtue of its presence. The phallus need not leave the garden’s confines to stop the thief in his tracks. Its power apparently extends to action at a distance. 50 This sense of agency finds a parallel in Priapus’ privileged position as speaker. This god’s ongoing threats give voice to the mentula – and attest to its unexpected subjectivity. The reader-­thief, in contrast, is consistently put in the role of an agentless victim, submitting to his heckling in anonymity and silence. Priapus himself is these poems’ primary subject and protagonist – and his phallus the primary haptic emblem of subjectivity. When viewed as a metaphor for poetic reading, this phallic agency has startling implications: it suggests that reading poetry blurs the subject-object divide, bestowing language itself with an unusual degree of agency. Such intermingling of subject and object is true of all literature but especially of first-person poems, which ask us to internalize the voice of another as we read. As Jesper Svenbro memorably observed of Greek epigram: To be read is to take control of somebody else’s vocal apparatus, to exercise power over the body of the reader … The writer who is successful in getting himself read makes use of the internal organs of someone else, even from beyond the grave. (1993: 142) Though Svenbro made this comment specifically about Greek epigram prior to the advent of silent reading, his observation can be applied beyond that particular context. Svenbro poses epigrammatic reading as a kind of demonic possession, but the reader is not entirely helpless here. In fact, by this formulation, the reader’s animate body is necessary to unleash the power of the poem. This power is exercised not just “over” but through the reader. Until the reader gives its rhythms and cadences fleshly form, a poem remains unrealized, unsuccessful, inanimate – it is a dead thing lying quiet and inert inside its grave. Unlike a painting or a statue, both of which have a concrete material presence in the physical world, the poem has only an incipient material existence until it is acted out upon its reader’s body. In order for the poem’s own phenomenal existence to be fully realized, readers must offer themselves as the corporeal ground that animates the poem. In this way, the poem is re-animated by each new instance of reading, as it is taken in with a reader’s eyes and, perhaps, passed out again through the lips after playing upon the sensuous canvas of his or her particular corporeality. Without the groping hands, tender limbs and beating heart of this fleshly reader, the CP’s Priapus would remain a lifeless statue trapped in a garden of words. Priapus and his mentula may symbolize mankind’s ability to bring new beings into the world, but it is, in the end, the reader’s animating touch that brings the CP’s Priapus to life.

50 There is a symbolic parallel here with the power the phallus was believed to have to ward off the evil eye.

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9 I n touch, i n lov e Apuleius on the aesthetic impasse of a Platonic Psyche Giulia Sissa Once upon a time, a beautiful woman, so beautiful that Aphrodite herself felt envious, found herself in the most unexpected situation.1 Her parents had exposed her on the slopes of a mountain, so that a monster would abduct her. Apollo had uttered this ominous oracle, in Delphi. The woman was lying there, in terror, but, all of a sudden, a cool breeze transported her into an enchanting palace. Not a living soul was in view, but gentle voices were floating in the air, music played, while exquisite food was served. Welcomed, pampered and tired, the young woman enjoyed a delightful supper and went to bed. In the dark, a most agreeable lover came and joined her. They made love, she lost her virginity and they fell asleep. Before dawn, he slid away. These mysterious visitations continued, night after night. Two bodies became accustomed to lie together, embrace, caress, kiss and have sex – all in the dark. The charming lover remained utterly invisible. And he must remain so: “Do not try to see me!” he said most emphatically. His beloved should never, ever make the mistake of trying to discover his face. We know the story: it is the literary and philosophical myth of Cupid and Psyche, Desire (Latin Cupido) and Soul (Greek, Psuchē), in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses, 2 and we know how it ends. Psyche falls prey to the envy of her unattractive sisters, listens to their slanderous intimations and grows increasingly anxious to catch a glimpse of her husband. While he is peacefully sleeping, she kindles a lamp and finally contemplates Desire in person, in his male and youthful splendour. The very instrument of her indiscretion, the oil that burns in the lantern and brings the unseen body to light, spills onto the god and scalds his delicate skin. Cupid wakes up. Hurt and indignant, he flies away. Now Soul longs for Desire more strongly than ever before: as soon as she sets eyes on him, she lays a hand on his arrows, gets stung and falls in love. She will have to accomplish a number of painful and seemingly unmanageable labours before reuniting with him. They get married on Mount Olympus. Pleasure (Voluptas) is born.

1 I presented versions of this article at the University of Chicago and at the Maison française at Oxford. I am grateful to Will Sullivan, Kenneth Yu, Elisabeth Asmis, Shadi Bartsch-Zimmer, Cristina Viano, Terence Irwin, Carlo Natali and Anna Marmodoro, for their questions and comments. 2 Through the conventional translation of the title (Cupid and Psyche), the reader ought to “hear” the Latin word for “desire” (cupido) and the Greek word for “soul” (psuchē). The text of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses is from Zimmerman et al. (2004).

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We know the plot, and we cannot fail to be surprised that it should revolve around one, striking inability: that of identifying a human forma, through any sense other than vision. More to the point, Apuleius’ text lingers upon the sensuous, sensual and synaesthetic intimacy of Cupid and Psyche, in bed.3 Soul knows that fragrant, pendulous curls crown Cupid’s forehead (cinnamei et undique penduli crines), that his cheeks are as smooth and round as her own (tenerae et teretes) and that his chest is somehow warm (nescioque calore fervidus).4 She must have acquired a tactile map of his physique, a perception made up of haptic qualities (softness, smoothness, curved lines, temperature), but also of morphological features (hair, face, cheeks, trunk). Sometimes, she even talks to him deictically, on behalf of “this hair that hangs here and there”.5 These are the parts of a body that she must be indicating, detailing and stroking knowingly. How could she compare his cheeks to her own, if not feeling their texture and contours? How could she know that his skin is warm? And she can even smell his perfume: cinnamon. Through her senses, all of them except vision, Soul collects quite a bit of information. Yet, when her invidious sisters insinuate that her beloved must actually be a huge snake – a coiling monster that creeps into her bed, the neck swollen with poison and the mouth wide open6 – Psyche begins to doubt. Again: Psyche has repeatedly recognized Desire’s anthropomorphic features. Yet, when her sisters claim that they know for sure, and thus indulge in a horrific, hyper-realistic description of the imaginary bestia, Psyche’s own awareness, or memory, vacillates. She believes them – not her hands, not her lips, not her nostrils, not even her ears.7 Her entire body has been in contact with his; she has felt lovingly the limbs and the skin, the volume and the surface of a young, male, human body. She is acquainted and accustomed to them. Yet she begins to fear that such a gracefully shaped youth might be a faceless, limbless, drooling and crawling beast.8 There are, of course, some unusual parts sticking out of Cupid’s body: the wings, which Psyche could hardly have missed. She might marvel, therefore, at the hypothesis that her husband could be a flying boy – a hybrid, comedic bird, perhaps. But a snake? Of all animals, a snake – or, at least, the one the sisters describe – is the least differentiated. It does not fly. How could she fear something like that? This doubt will lead her to bring everything into full light. Literally, she will kindle a flame and spy on her husband while he is asleep, as if only her naked eyes, not any other of her senses, could bear witness to his human form. The storyline, let me insist, hinges on the quest for an “ocular proof”, as Shakespeare put it in Othello.9 Without this quest, and its unintended consequences, Soul and Desire would have been happy in the dark, forever after. This is the logic of the

3 In order to measure the oddity of such aesthetic impasse, see Purves (2013a). 4 Apuleius, Metamorphoses 5.13.3. 5 Ibid. 6 Ibid. 5.17.3–18.3. The sisters say: “We cannot hide from you that a huge snake crawling with its multi-­k notted coils (immanenm colubrum multinodis voluminibus serpentem), bleeding harmful poison from the neck, and gaping with its deep throat (hiantemque igluvie profundam), secretly sleeps with you, at night.” All translations are my own unless otherwise noted. 7 Ibid. 5.5.1; 5.6.1. 8 Ibid. 5.19.2; see also Johnson (2006). 9 Shakespeare, Othello 3.3.366.

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narrative. But it is a disingenuous logic. First, the ghastly sisters present the Soul with a visual portrait of the Beast, as if that were its actual form, and as if only eyesight could detect such form. They, in order to unsettle their beautiful sibling, establish a treacherous, crude, binary opposition between the superior credibility of vision and the other senses. Psyche, who is very simple-minded, believes them. The sisters, however, do not call the shots. What seems to be an obvious appeal to the truthfulness of sight is just the beginning. As soon as she sees Cupid, Psyche goes back to touching him. If the plot were meant to highlight the supremacy of seeing, then Psyche’s eyes would have the last word. If the eyes were supposed to be the most discriminating among the sense organs, they would fully enjoy the epiphany of Desire. This would be the end of the story, and we would be in familiar Platonic territory. But, surprisingly, this is not the case. Let us read closely, and follow the twists and turns of Cupid’s sudden appearance. The dim, flickering light reveals to Psyche’s enchanted gaze her husband’s contours. Psyche looks at “the charming mane of the golden head, dripping ambrosia”; she stares at “the masses of hair, beautifully entangled (some hanging in the front, some in the back) wandering on the milky neck and the rosy cheeks”.10 The rest of the body is hairless, and radiant. Psyche can now view exactly what she has been touching already, in their lovemaking: the tufts of hair hanging here and there, the head, the face, the cheeks and the skin – but in colour. By retracing the haptic perception of those particular parts, Psyche’s eyes do not discover a novel, unpredictable beauty that would be accessible only to sight. All the eyes add are the wings (so improbably missed), the arrows, the bow – and a touch of colour. This is the forbidden shape (forma) of her husband: the same body and the same face, but in pink.11 Will the Soul contemplate true Desire, in awe? Not really, because, as soon as she sees the sleeping beauty, she cannot keep her hands off him. She starts playing with the arrows, which results in a fatal wound. She does not know yet who this winged creature is, but she falls in love. She desires Desire. She loves Love. This is literally love at first sight, we might be tempted to say. But it is her impulsive, clumsy, feverish manipulation of Cupid’s weapons that causes the accident. “She investigates and explores with her hands and she admires the weapons of her husband” (rimatur atque pertrectat et mariti sui miratur arma).12 Her curiosity guides her eyes, and her hands, in a tentative yet thorough inspection, which is not a pure enjoyment of beauty. ­Psyche wants to know. Will to know is wish to touch. She touches, and she is stung. And once she has been hurt, more than ever, she craves touching. She goes on kissing, feeling, caressing. But all this carnal intimacy, which was so easy and pleasant before the epiphany, becomes now frantic, hopeless and, soon, impossible. The mysterious lover who was so close, so present, so there, at hand, is now gone. Cupid is someone newly discovered whom Psyche will have to conquer, painfully, all over again. To identify Desire is to lose him. It/he has now to be desired from a distance, beyond an absence. The text is so conceitedly focalized on the shift from optical to tactile perceptions, that even the lamp is animated by the same trouble, and the same impatience to get

10 Apuleius, Metamorphoses 5.22.1. 11 Ibid. 5.6; See also 5.16 on the prohibition to see the form (forma) of her husband. 12 Ibid. 5.23.

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physically close to that handsome male body. First, because of Cupid’s splendour, the light of the lamp vacillates13. And then that lamp, either out of very bad maliciousness, or out of noxious envy – or because she herself was drawn to make a gesture, in order to touch and almost kiss such body (sive quod tale corpus contingere et quasi basiare et ipsa gestiebat) – the lamp vomited (evomuit), from the tip of her flame, a drop of burning oil onto the right shoulder of the god.14 No detection of forma; no recognition of a complex physique, be it a human anatomy, in an immortal version; no discovery of a very peculiar appendage, the wings. Touch was blind. And yet, vision will arouse an even stronger desire to lay hands on its very object. The erotic experience, in sum, takes the soul from touch to more touch. From a nocturnal eroticism shrouded in mystery, Psyche turns to a full sight, eyes wide open, of what was merely palpable. This sudden sight is aesthetic, longing, admiring. Which means that it is even more tactile than touch. The vision of a beautiful body arouses the eagerness to approach that flesh. There is no way out of touch. Sex is sensuality. This is what Apuleius’ myth tells us. It also helps us understand eros and cupido, from within classical erotic cultures and in their own language.

Plato’s shadow Apuleius was a Platonist. We might be tempted to read the myth as a philosophical allegory. This begins in antiquity, with Plotinus, and continues with Fulgentius and Martianus Capella.15 Modern scholars follow through. Edward Kenney sees Apuleius’ narrative as a struggle between two versions of Aphrodite, whom Pausanias distinguishes and opposes in Plato’s Symposium: the pandēmos (popular) and the Uranian. In his Apology, Apuleius summarizes Pausanias’ speech and evokes a vulgaria Venus (vulgar Venus) who presides on popularis amor (popular love), as well as a celestial Venus, who inspires an optimal love. Kenney insists that this must be the key to the novella. The two deities, he argues, “contend” for Psyche. Although Apuleius fails to integrate the Platonic dichotomy into the story “with perfect smoothness”, he claims, “this battle is what the story is really about”.16 But this cannot be right. The myth has absolutely nothing to do with two divinities and two experiences of love. There is one Venus and only one Cupid. Psyche is not torn between two kinds of love or even between two kinds of senses – one earthly and material (touch), the other superior and distant (vision). On the contrary, the embodied Soul does nothing but touch the body of Desire, from beginning to end, before and after the epiphany – and, once she discovers the spectacle of his magnificent forma, she does so even more sensually than before. 13 Ibid. 5.22: et ipsum lumen lucernae vacillabat. 14 Ibid. 5.23. 15 Relihan (2009: XV and 58–67). 16 Kenney (1992: 19–20). On Apuleius and Plato: O’Brien (2007). Fletcher reconstructs in detail Apuleius’ allegiance to Plato in the Apology and Florida but pays passing attention to our fabula (2014: 203–204; 271).

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There is no ascent, furthermore, from that beautiful form to the form of beauty itself, as has been argued.17 There is no longing for a union with the divine, either, as Costas Panayotakis has claimed, in his attempt to interpret the myth via the “importance of vision as a means for Psyche to approach the light of truth and vision, and to achieve the longed-for union with the divine”18 Panayotakis argues that, from the awe she experiences on her first visit to the enchanted palace, Psyche feels “an ardent desire for the divine light”.19 Later, this same “ardent desire” pushes her to want to see her husband. This curiosity must be explained as “the continuous struggle of the soul to view divine light, from which truth and all other good things stem”. 20 Psyche, however, fails to “grasp the real essence of her husband’s nature”, and this is due to “her poorly focused vision”. 21 Quite the opposite, I will counter-argue: Psyche, as the fictional character in an old woman’s tale, hesitates between the multisensory impressions she has acquired in her lovemaking with a humanly shaped body, on the one hand, and the nagging suspicion that this body might be that of a beast, on the other. She is at a loss. She does not know what to think. Only retrospectively could we attribute to the Soul the wish to contemplate a god; this would require obliterating the rhetorical purpose of a tale that is told to a distressed young woman, Charite, in order to distract her. The story is supposed to amuse her, not to edify her. 22 We would also ignore the narrative motion of a palpitating adventure that takes its designated listener, and then its first readers, from suspense to surprise, as Jack Winkler rightly noticed many years ago. 23 A philosophical, mystical reading, I will add, misses the focalization of the plot on all the senses – hearing, smelling, tasting and touching – not just on vision and light.24 Desire’s body is tridimensional. Touch is all you need to identify and enjoy a sculpture. 25 For the same reasons, I cannot share the conclusions of Ken Dowden, when he claims that “Cupid is the passion which draws man to god, as we can see from his name and Psyche’s feelings towards him”. 26 This is another interpretation that looks for a systematic Platonism and for an intellectual allegory. Desire becomes just a part of the human soul. The erotic and carnal storyline is forgotten. Following an opposite line of thought, John Penwill has argued insistently that the fabula narrates not an ascent, but a fall: that of the soul, into earthly attachments. 27 An even more disenchanted scholar, Donald Lateiner, questions “the meaning and relevance of the inset Psyche-canvas”. Told by a senile, rambling woman, the fable

17 Tilg (2014: 79). 18 Panayotakis (2001: 576–7). 19 Ibid. 578. 20 Ibid. 577. See Slater (1998) on Actaeon and Diana, described as ekphrasis; de Smet (1987). 21 Panayotakis (2001: 577). 22 On the narrative function of the fabula, see Graverini (2006: 103). 23 Winkler (1985). 24 As Graverini rightly points out, eyesight and hearing contribute to the complex interaction of the characters and in the involvement of the novel’s reader: “Reading a novel … generates a virtually multimedia experience that involves both viewing and listening” (2007: 151). 25 As discussed by Slaney in this volume. See also Johnson (2006: 63–4); Driscoll (2011: 107–14). 26 Dowden (1982: 352), who argues that Cupid is the personal daimon, or noos, in the character of man (a character divided among Cupid, Psyche and the Sisters). 27 Penwill (1975: 49–82); Moreschini (2016: 135–6).

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is meant to reinforce the parody of romance that runs through the entire novel and to convey Apuleius’ “grim view of ordinary terrestrial pleasures and institutions”. 28 We do not have to choose between two mutually exclusive allegories, imbued with Neoplatonic or Christian symbolism. We have to follow the logic of the fabula, literally. A sensual and credulous girl, Soul, discovers that what she enjoys so much already is, really, to make love with Desire. But, because of Venus’ revengeful plot, their forbidden affair should have remained a secret. Desire did not want to be unmasked, and, once this happens, he takes off. By flying away on his feathery wings, he does what erotic desire – be it called Cupido or Amor – does all the time. But Psyche, having touched the tip of one of Cupid’s arrows, has now fallen in love and irresistibly so. She has to learn her lesson: how to long for, and then recover, the object of her own rekindled and much more intense cupido – Cupid himself. The only true revelation, therefore, is that of Desire not in his anthropomorphic shape (which Psyche had sensed, although in haptic black and white), not in a theological abstraction (which Psyche blissfully ignores), but in his volatile, mythological, literary nature. This is the beauty of the text. Plato is at the horizon. But which Plato? Not Diotima’s voice, when Socrates makes of Eros a triumphant guide in the ascent toward Beauty in itself, in the Symposium; not even the theorist of the sudden manifestation of Beauty and the other Forms, in the Phaedrus, but another Plato: the writer who establishes a metaphorical back-andforth between vision and touch. To see is made possible by a kind of contact, that of a stream/beam that emanates from the eyes and touches the objects. As Shadi Bartsch has shown, the tactility of vision is pervasive in Plato’s language.29 Reciprocally, the language of touch infuses Plato’s metaphors of knowledge.30 This Plato is also the philosopher of eros as epithumia, an “appetite” that supposes lack. This Plato is attentive to the negative, to the non-being inherent in the experience of desire. This Plato is right there, in Apuleius’ novel and in an inset novella that is told not by an earnest priestess from Mantinea, but by a garrulous old woman, 31 an anti-Diotima.

To love and to desire In On Plato and his Doctrine, Apuleius puts the reality that can be seen through the eyes and touched by hand (quae videri oculis et attingi manu possit) opposite a completely different kind of reality: what comes to mind and is thinkable and understandable (quae veniat in mentem, cogitabilem et intelligibilem).32 Psyche remains entrapped in the former experience of knowledge: that which combines the eyes and the hands, vision and touch. From beginning to end, she fumbles, gropes, caresses and, when she finally gets to see her husband, she cannot take her eyes – and, again, 28 Lateiner (2003: 236). See also Morwood (2010: 109–11) on the unsatisfactoriness of determining presence in a relationship by the hands and ears only. The meaning of the story is that Cupid (not Psyche, as was the case for Kenney [1992] and Dowden [1982]) has to become an adult. 29 Bartsch (2006: 63–4). 30 Brill (2013: 25–32). 31 A scholar sensitive to Apuleius’ irony, wit and irreverence vis-à-vis the Platonic tradition is Kirichenko (2008a, esp. 95). 32 Apuleius, On Plato and his Doctrine 1.9.16–21. Panayotakis (2001) quotes this passage, but in order to corroborate his argument about two visions.

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her hands – off him. That awesome epiphany does not prompt her to move anywhere else, neither upward, nor downward. She stays right there: in bed. Psyche keeps loving Love, only more so. That god is not any old god, let alone “the divine”, but one very particular member of ancient polytheism: Cupido, Desire. Psyche handles him exactly as one should: by hand. Psyche gets to know Platonic love, meaning: desire, Cupido. 33 Psyche discovers one of the essential qualities of the amorous experience: insatiability. She is so curious that she “investigates and thoroughly palpates, and admires her husbands’ weapons”. She does so, with an “insatiable soul” (insatiabili animo, 5.23.1). This inquiry, which is emphatically visual and tactile (rimatur atque pertrectat), causes the maladroit manoeuvring with Cupid’s arrows, the fatal wound, and a renewed, avid amor for Amor. Let me insist: this inquisitive frenzy has one cause: Psyche’s “insatiable soul” (insatiabilis animus). This is an essential point. In Plato’s Gorgias, aplēstia, insatiability, is the distinctive attribute of epithumia, desire. The part of the soul where epithumiai are located is compared to a leaky jar, into which the Danaids are condemned to pour water, carrying it in a sieve. People who indulge their appetites, Socrates explains, conduct their lives in an analogous fashion: insatiably (aplēstōs).34 In the Republic, those who enjoy a life of earthly pleasures … never looked up or were never carried up, ascending from this toward what is truly superior. Neither were they ever really filled with real things, nor ever did they taste stable and pure pleasure, but, like cattle looking always down and bent forward toward the soil and toward their dining tables, they graze feeding themselves and copulating. In view of excessive greed (pleonexia) for these goods, they slay each other by kicking and butting with their iron horns and their hoofs, because of insatiability (aplēstia) – as if they were filling the part of themselves that is not (real) and is not sealed, with things that are not (real). (Plato, Republic 9.586a–b) Apuleius might appear to echo Cicero’s Tusculan Disputations, where a Platonizing character, conventionally called “M.”, describes the intellectual energy of an “insatiable soul”, aspiring to knowledge.35 If there is an allusion, it consists of a parodic reversal: Psyche’s insatiability is pure sensuality. As a preliminary conclusion: desire is eagerness to make, or remake, contact. ­Desire is desire to touch – and to stay in touch. This is what Psyche discovers, when she recognizes Desire himself. Apuleius’ personification of Desire as a flying creature – that kind of sweet and delightful monster – resonates with Plato’s representations of epithumia. If there is a Platonic resonance, therefore, it is with a theory of eros as an insatiable drive, moved by lack and indigence. The narrative takes Psyche from a mindless sensuality, to uncertainty and doubt and finally to a wiser sensuality that includes the experience of loss. Her achievement, in this sense, is the birth of Pleasure, certainly not a mystical initiation to the revelation of the Form of Beauty. One has to be tone-deaf to irony and narratological cues to project those Platonic suggestions 33 For a variety of contributions on desire in the ancient novel, see: Futre Pinheiro et al. (2012). There is no discussion of the theory at work in Apuleius’ Cupid and Psyche. 34 Plato, Gorgias 493b1–494d10. 35 Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 1.19.

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on this novel within the novel, 36 which does not imply that we should read a piece of literature unencumbered by philosophy. The fabula follows a Platonic logic but is not a remake of Diotima’s speech. It rather exposes the limitations of a Soul in love, and in touch, with Desire. Psyche basks in the pleasure of the senses, and yet she cannot make sense of her own sensations. She does not know what exactly she has been feeling. She is incapable of comparing her husband’s corporeal scheme with her sisters’ sinister fantasy. At face value, this failure is Platonically plausible. The senses are deceptive. Only the intellect can counteract their fallacy. But, in the Metamorphoses, Psyche’s learning experience goes from blind sensuality to even more sensuality. Again, it is Platonically plausible that Desire should be unmasked for what it is – unquenchable longing. But in the Metamorphoses, Psyche will end up surmounting the disappointments of an “insatiable soul” (insatiabilis animus) and getting full satisfaction. Thanks to her inexhaustible drive, she will obtain exactly what she craves: to be reunited with Cupid, triumphantly, on top of Olympus. Desire is fully satiated. Pleasure is born, and this is supremely good. Hedonism is the philosophical key to this love story.

An Aristotelian interlude Psyche learns something Platonic, therefore, but her success, as a character in a novella that ends happily, cannot be mapped onto the ethical values of Plato’s metaphysics. Quite the contrary. Her Platonic moments are catastrophic: she discovers insatiability, and she proves aesthetically incompetent. Her feats are exclusively erotic. She is the mother of Pleasure. In this narrative arc, Psyche must be very simple-minded, simplicissima (as she is called at 5.24.3), in the first place. She is indeed a caricature of epistemic ineptitude. Now, if she is meant to be a Platonic soul, and this is what happens to her, Apuleius must be joking: he must be playing with Plato, perhaps, rather than conveying a serious, deferential, didactic message.37 We have been warned, by the way, from the very beginning: “Reader, do get the point! You will be pleased!” (Lector, intende! Laetaberis!).38 Apuleius appears to be chiselling a philosophical and literary fable, which is intended to entertain anyone who might be listening or reading. In such an amusing programme, Plato might be perhaps less univocal than expected. There is something missing in Apuleius’ simplicissima Psyche. What might this be? To understand better, let us conduct a thought experiment. Let us ask ourselves what it would take, for a Greek soul, to prove less impervious to perception. I suggest that we look at a different theory of the senses, that of Aristotle. Rebecca Steiner Goldner’s essay in this volume offers a detailed discussion of such theory. 39 The reader will be

36 Conte & Solodow (1994: 565) have noticed the naïveté of attributing “a simplistically positive value” to the storyline. An idealized Platonic or Neo-Platonic reading appears to be incongruous, especially when we look at the ending. 37 This interpretation of Cupid and Psyche resonates with the approaches to Apuleius of Luca Graverini, Alexander Kirichenko, Gian Biagio Conte, Joseph Solodow and Stephen Tilg (as discussed above). On the comical aspects of ancient novels, see Brethes (2007). 38 Apuleius, Metamorphoses 1.1. 39 See also Steiner Goldner (2011).

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able to rely on her thorough contribution, but a few, brief considerations will help us at this point. The first has to do with excess as opposed to insatiability; the second concerns the cognitive potential of perception and the third allows us to acknowledge the synaesthetic power of the soul. Excess For Aristotle, sensation is a form of knowledge: ἡ δ’ αἴσθησις γνῶσίς τις.40 Sensation (aisthēsis) defines animals in opposition to plants. Plants are insensitive and, therefore, ignorant and utterly incapable of any awareness of their surroundings. Now, among the senses, touch and taste are the most basic of all: even the most elementary animals, such as shellfish or crustaceans, can feel that way. This minimal communality makes the feeling of tangible and palatable things less valuable in regard to others, such as smell or sight. In comparison with anaesthesia, death or mere non-being, however, to be able to feel at all is highly desirable.41 Taste and touch, as Rebecca Steiner Goldner shows in this volume, define nothing less than the threshold of animal life, actively so: they are its condition of possibility. It is through nutrition that life can be maintained; it is through procreation that it can be extended beyond mortality. We need to eat, drink and have sex. In order to wish to do so, we have to like such activities.42 Pleasure is an incentive to live and to give life. Yet, it threatens a truly good life, based on excellence. Consistently, Aristotle places taste and touch at the core of his moral theory. Our ability to resist the appeal of pleasure (and to endure pain) is put to the test, first of all, by the delights of the flesh: food, drink and sex. “Why are men called ‘incapable of mastering oneself’ (akratēs) if they indulge to excess in the pleasure connected with touch and taste?”, asks one of the Pseudo-Aristotelian Problems. The question implies that we blame those who become slaves to the lowest, worst kinds of pleasures.43 The reply resonates with the Nicomachean Ethics. We call “incapable of mastery” (akratēs) those who, against their own best judgement, pursue in excess the bodily pleasures linked to thirst and hunger, heat and cold, “touch and taste”.44 We call “uninhibited” (akolastos) those who embrace those same pleasures, not because, although they fight them, they feel overwhelmed, but because they positively like them. In Aristotle’s language, “touch and taste” mean, to be sure, the consumption of food/drink and “the use of Aphrodite’s things” (τὴν τῶν ἀφροδισίων χρείαν), two gratifications that are corporeal and, indeed, necessary (ἀναγκαῖα μὲν τὰ σωματικά).45 We need to eat and drink in order to survive; therefore, we experience desire (epithumia) for them. This, the replenishment of what we lack, is natural appetite (ἀναπλήρωσις γὰρ τῆς ἐνδείας ἡ φυσικὴ ἐπιθυμία).46 Likewise, we experience sexual arousal as a normal expression of youthful health. “The young and the vigorous” (ὁ νέος καὶ ἀκμάζων) 40 Aristotle, Generation of Animals 1.731a33–4. 41 Ibid. 42 Hunger is pain, thus longing for the intense pleasure of ingesting food (Ps.-Aristotle, Problems 28.6). 43 Ps.-Aristotle, Problems 28.7. 4 4 Aristotle, Nichomachean Ethics 7.3.1147b–4.1148a. 45 Ibid. 7.4.1147b24–9. 46 Ibid. 3.11.1118b18–19.

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feel lust, in Homer’s words,47 but there can be too much of these good things, whenever one “pursues the excesses of those pleasures” (τῶν ἡδέων διώκων τὰς ὑπερβολάς).48 This is, precisely, all the man who is incapable of mastering himself (akratēs) does. Equally “hyperbolic”, but utterly remorseless, the uninhibited man (akolastos) exaggerates in the unbridled enjoyment of the same pleasures.49 The point is not aplēstia (insatiability), as was the case for Plato, but huperbolē (excess).50 Touch and taste are vital: only their excess degrades us to slavish (andrapodōdēs), beastly (thēriōdēs) beings. 51 Discrimination As a sensation (aisthēsis), touch is a form of knowledge. It is, again, the most widely shared among living beings, including the lowest one. Aisthēsis, however, is not phronēsis (“understanding”). “It is evident that sensing and understanding (phronein) are not the same”, Aristotle argues, “for all animals have a share in the former but only a few in the latter” (On the Soul, 3.3.427b7–8). A fortiori, touch should be at odds with practical intelligence. Yet, Aristotle claims, human beings’ most powerful sense is precisely touch. Whereas other animals excel in vision, or hearing, man distinguishes himself in the ability to discriminate tactfully. We are the most intelligent of animals (phronimōtata), thanks to our tactile sensitivity. The reason is that touch is a matter of the flesh. Those who are endowed with a soft flesh are more intelligent than those who have a harder flesh.52

47 Ibid. 3.11.1118b8–12. 48 Ibid. 7.4.1148a6–7. 49 Ibid. 3.10.1118a26–32: “Moderation (sōphrosunē) and lack of inhibition (akolasia) have to do with those pleasures that are common to all the other animals, hence the fact that these people appear to be slavish and beastly (ἀνδραποδώδεις καὶ θηριώδεις). Those pleasures are touch and taste. They seem, by the way, to use taste very little or not at all: since taste is the judgement of flavours, as wine tasters and cooks do. They, or at least those who are un-inhibited, do not enjoy these (the flavours) at all, but they enjoy the gratification (apolausis) that comes through the contact (haphē) in food, drink and the so-called ‘things of Aphrodite’.” A hedonist would wish to have the longer (makroteros) neck of a crane, in order to linger on the contact of food (ibid. 32–4). 50 As van Riel puts it (2000: 70), “So, for Aristotle, pleasure is not excessive in se. Excess is possible only in the pleasure in movement; moreover, excess is not inherent in the nature of pleasure itself”. In contrast, see Hill (2011: 43–62), who emphasizes the similarities between Plato and Aristotle, on gluttony, not the conceptual difference. 51 Aristotle, Nichomachean Ethics 3.10.1118a26–32. On excess, see also 7.4.1148a22–9; 7.7.1150a 16–21; 7.13.1153a33–5. See in particular: 7.14.1154a16–19: “There can be excess (huperbolē) of bodily goods; and the bad man is such because he pursues that huperbolē, and not necessary pleasures, for everybody enjoys savory food, wine and sexual pleasure somehow, though not everybody as it should be”. Aristotle goes as far as to explain excess as a kind of self-medication. Pleasure “knocks out” (ἐκκρούειν) pain. Now, “because of the excesses (huperbolai) of pain, people seek the pleasure that is in excess (τὴν ἡδονὴν διώκουσι τὴν ὑπερβάλλουσαν), and bodily pleasure generally, as if it were a cure (ὡς οὔσης ἰατρείας)”. 52 Aristotle, On the Soul, 2.9.421a20–6, as quoted in the Introduction (5). See also Johansen (1997: 178–225); Chapter 3, this volume.

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The connection between touch and knowledge is crucial. “At the higher end of the spectrum of touch sensitivity Aristotle locates human beings (DA 421a20–3; PA 660a11–14)”, writes Cynthia Freeland. “He even goes so far as to maintain that it is because of our superior touch sensitivity that we humans are the most intelligent of all the animals (421a22–3),” she adds. 53 Our human body is meant to be able to touch better that any other living body. Synaesthesia and common sensibility Aristotle analyses the senses, with a keen attention to their proper, specific objects. Sight perceives colour, not sweetness. He also admits, however, a “central sense faculty” that depends upon “a single bodily organ, the heart”. 54 This crucial argument appears in the Rhetoric, Sense and Sensibilia and On Sleep. While advising on elegance and precision, Aristotle explains that if one is speaking of the words “sound and colour”, then the verb “to see” is not appropriate because it is not common to them (τὸ μὲν ἰδὼν οὐ κοινόν), but “perceiving is” (τὸ δ’ αἰσθόμενος κοινόν).55 “There is some one faculty in the soul with which the latter perceives all its percepts, though it perceives each different genus of sensibles through a different organ”. 56 There is “one sensory function”, therefore, the specifications of which are the different perceptions, such as sight, hearing, smell, etc. This one common power allows us to perceive that we perceive, and it subsists, crucially, “in association chiefly with the sense of touch” (τοῦτο δ’ ἅμα τῷ ἁπτικῷ μάλιστα ὑπάρχει).57 Furthermore, and even more crucially for our argument, Aristotle claims that certain qualities can be perceived through all of the senses, or through more than one sense. These common perceptibles are movement (kinēsis), rest (ēremia), number (arithmos), magnitude (megethos) and figure (schēma). For example, “movement can be perceived through touch and sight” (καὶ γὰρ ἁφῇ κίνησίς τίς ἐστιν αἰσθητὴ καὶ ὄψει).58 The same is true of shape. Whereas colour can only be seen, sweetness can only be tasted, smoothness can only be touched and sounds can only be heard, the morphological structure of an object, its size, its movement, its unity are felt synaesthetically. This synaesthesia is of the highest importance.59 It allows the soul to overcome the specialization and one-sidedness of each individual sense. If we did not have the ability to operate this synthesis – if, e.g., we had one special sense, dedicated to movement – then we would be able to perceive that an animal is running, only by using that hypothetical sixth sense. In contrast, our perception of movement, shape, and the other common sensibles is made possible by a koinē aisthēsis, a “common sensibility, which enables us to perceive them non-incidentally”.60

53 Freeland (1995: 234). 54 Sorabji (1971: 57). 55 Aristotle, Rhetoric 3.5.1407b20–1. 56 Aristotle, Sense and Sensibilia 7.449a9–11 (translated by J.I. Beare in Barnes 1984). 57 Aristotle, On Sleep 455a13–27, 23. 58 Aristotle, On the Soul 2.6.418a19–20. 59 On the complexities of synaesthesia, see Butler & Purves (2013). 60 Aristotle, On the Soul 3.1.425a14–29. To have a dedicated sense of movement would allow us to perceive movement only with that sense. That sense would perceive the shape of the moving object, by

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Now, this form of aisthēsis is certainly an important cognitive tool, for Aristotle. “Even if the nature and location of the faculty of common perception (κοινὴ αἴσθησις) in Aristotle is a matter of dispute today”, writes James Porter, “what this theory points to is the intrinsic complexity of all aesthetic perception”.61 Such complexity minimizes the chance of misapprehensions. Although one sense never errs on its own specific object (sight is right in perceiving a colour), Aristotle argues, it might be wrong “as to what it is that is coloured or where that is”.62 Once again, the eyes are neither self-sufficient nor omnipotent. In contrast, the common sense that allows us to perceive movement, rest, number, magnitude and figure can hardly go completely wrong. If four or five senses concur to perceive something (or someone) shaped in a certain fashion, of a certain size, moving or lying in a certain way, then the margin of error is infinitely smaller than that of only one special sense. Koinē aisthēsis is highly efficient. It is a “common power”, in Anna Marmodoro’s account of Aristotle’s theory of perception. Such power facilitates “a cooperation between the senses, giving rise to a perceptual faculty whose ability transcends those of each sense”.63 Whereas the special senses perceive the common sensibles partially, when they work together and “operate as one”, i.e. as common sense, they “have additional perceptual power”. They are capable of perceiving not only the qualities that affect objects, but also the objects themselves, as such.64 To conclude our detour via Aristotle, let us say that, since touch is the sense that keeps us alive, there must be a good use of touch as there is a good conduct of life. Moderation in the delights of food, drink and “the things of Aphrodite” is one excellent use of our haptic potential. Tactual knowledge is another. For Aristotle, in sum, touch makes us intelligent, thus capable of discriminating attributes. Finally, touch cooperates with the other senses in the perception of common perceptibles, such as shape and movement. This koinē aisthēsis is not a higher faculty of the soul, separate from specialized perceptions: it is still aisthēsis, only operating in a collaborative and synergic mode, so to speak – in one word: synaesthetically. Both sight and touch allow me to perceive movement, size, number and shape.

Simplicissima Psyche This brings us back to Psyche and Cupid. We can now ask a very explicit counterfactual question. What if the narrator of the fabula were speaking from an Aristotelian standpoint? This speculative conjecture is not absurd. Apuleius was a Platonist, but he must have been familiar with Aristotelian thought – so much so that a translation into Latin of the Pseudo-Aristotelian On the Universe (De Mundo) was attributed to him. It is reasonable to speculate that he knew Aristotle’s ethics and epistemology, including his views on pleasure and perception. If one were to share Aristotle’s conception

accident – as it is the case with “our present perception of what is sweet by vision”. When we look at something that, by the way, happens to be sweet, we are aware of two simultaneous perceptions. 61 Porter (2010: 45–6). On koinē aisthēsis, and the controversies in question (especially its identity with apperception), see Hamlyn (1968: 195–209); Modrak (1981); Gregoric (2007). 62 Aristotle, On the Soul 2.6.418a15–16. 63 Marmodoro (2014: 206). 64 Ibid. 174.

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of touch and taste as absolutely vital, unless they are enjoyed in excess, one would not focus on lack, absence and insatiability. If one were to include a koinē aisthēsis within the range of aisthēsis, then Apuleius’ Psyche would appear to be a caricature of perceptual impairment. She would be deprived not of a special intellectual faculty, but rather of the basic sensory power to perceive an object in its entirety, in movement or at rest, in its singularity or plurality, and above all, as a complex body, endowed with a certain form. Such power resides not in our eyes exclusively, but in our sense organs. Once again, we can sense movements and shapes by seeing and touching. Let us focus for a moment on this hypothetical coherence. Let us assume that we share Aristotle’s premise that aisthēsis is a kind of intelligence and, more to the point, that we are equipped with koinē aisthēsis. We could hardly imagine a story whose Greek protagonist, aptly called Psyche, would be so numb, obtuse and dense that she would fail to combine, join, harmonize the kindness of the voice, the softness of the skin, the roundness of the cheeks, the smell of cinnamon in the curls, the heat of the chest of her Latin lover. By hearing, kissing, caressing, smelling, thus using four of her senses, an Aristotelian Psyche would be able to rely on all these sensations at once, which would result in her koinē aisthēsis. A synaesthetically able Psyche would have a pretty good idea of the overall size, the possible movements and, crucially, the structure and silhouette of her lover’s body. She would know that, for all his mysteriousness, what she feels could not possibly match the visual ekphrasis of a huge, crawling and, above all, tubular monster. Her lover has a warm chest and a smooth face, delicate hands and wavy hair. He makes love to her. There is plenty to gather from this constellation of qualities and assemblage of limbs. Psyche would not need confirmation from an ocular proof, either, as if her curly, fragrant, round-cheeked, speaking, caressing and obviously anthropomorphic husband could ever look like the bestia graphically depicted by the odious sisters.65 How could she suspend her belief on the testimony of her own flesh? Aristotle would not permit that, but Plato does. Initially, Psyche’s inability to detect her husband’s forma resonates with the wellknown Platonic argument that the senses are cognitively weak. This is true of all of them, including sight. Sight can be revealing, but also misleading. The passage quoted above, from Republic Book 9 (586a–b), offers a good example of the metaphorical ambivalence of vision. We can look up, but also down, and thus spend our entire life in feasting and having sex, being captivated by colours and shadows, eidola and skiagraphiai. Along the same lines, in Book 5 of the Republic, Socrates distinguishes “the lovers of sounds and sights”, who “delight in beautiful voices and coloυrs and shapes and in everything that art fashions out of these”, on the one hand, and those who are able “to see the nature of the beautiful in itself, and to appreciate it”, on the other.66 Both the former and the latter use the eyes. It is not the opposition between vision (truthful) and the other senses (deceitful), therefore, that might explain Psyche’s predicament. We have to acknowledge that what is lacking, in Psyche’s bedroom, is not light. Psyche’s deficiency has rather to do with not being good at synthesizing. Psyche is bereft of koinē aisthēsis. Aristotle is extremely helpful, therefore, inasmuch as he

65 In Sense and Sensibilia 1.437a5–16, Aristotle claims that, by perceiving colours, sight is particularly apt to collect distinctive qualities and to perceive the common sensibles, such as figure, magnitude, motion, number. But this ability is not exclusive. Hearing makes us more intelligent than vision. 66 Plato, Republic 5.476b–c.

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draws our attention to this very particular flaw. Now, this blind spot is characteristic of Plato’s theory of knowledge. A Platonic Psyche, we should specify, is not outfitted with common sensibility. We can realize this if we read Apuleius’ fabula not only against the background of Plato’s dialogues on love, the Symposium and the Phaedrus but also in light of his dialogue on knowledge, the Theaetetus. In his refutation of Theaetetus’ claim that perception is knowledge, and knowledge perception, Socrates argues that each sense organ perceives independently. There is no synaesthesia.67 Only the soul herself is able to handle different perceptions. “The soul overviews by itself, and through itself, what all things have in common”.68 It understands common features such as being and non-being, likeness and unlikeness, identity and difference, unity and plurality.69 It does so, by “establishing connections in itself” (ἀναλογιζομένη ἐν ἑαυτῇ).70 This is a superior ability, of which “the soul itself through itself” (αὐτὴ δι’ αὑτῆς) is capable, as opposed to the disconnected perceptions it can acquire through the sense organs, therefore through corporeal faculties (τὰ δὲ διὰ τῶν τοῦ σώματος δυνάμεων).71 Socrates sets the soul (capable of cognition) in contrast to the body (a source of potentially misleading impressions). The mind, he argues, receives input from the senses, but it then processes the heterogeneous bits of information it has collected – red, fragrant, sweet, melodious – by comparing and contrasting. Once again, Plato’s Theaetetus insists on psuchē itself (αὐτὴ), acting by itself (δι’ αὑτῆς) thus performing a purely intellectual operation, which, at that point, does not require any feedback from the “faculties of the body”. In Latin, this crucial argument appears in Cicero’s Tusculan Disputations: the soul (animus) is the only judge of what the five senses report to him.72 This is very different from Aristotle’s argument that we must have a common sensibility, a koinē aisthēsis, in order to be able to perceive shapes and movements.73 For Aristotle, as I mentioned, this kind of aisthēsis is still aisthēsis. To quote again Anna Marmodoro on what is at stake in this discrepancy, We perceive modally complex objects. An alternative position available to Aristotle, and indeed endorsed by Plato, would have been to argue that we grasp modally complex objects of perception by involving a higher cognitive faculty than the senses. This is Plato’s stance in the Theaetetus, where he draws a distinction between our perception of basic sensible qualities, and the cognitive process of grasping ‘common features’ (such as sameness and difference), which Plato assimilates to thinking.74 67 This claim does not contradict Ralph Rosen’s subtle reading of the Symposium and Republic V (2013) or his use of the expression “synaesthetic abstraction”. This alludes to Socrates’ sensual language and corroborates my argument that Plato’s writing plays metaphorically with language, thus blurring the lines of metaphysical distinctions. What is missing in Plato’s epistemology is the attribution to aisthēsis of the ability to synthetize. 68 Plato Theaetetus 185e1–2. 69 Ibid. 185c6–d1. 70 Ibid. 186a10. 71 Ibid. 185e6–7. 72 Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 1.20. 73 On the discrepancy between Plato and Aristotle, on the common perceptual capacity of the soul, see Gregoric (2007). 74 Marmodoro (2014: 162).

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Koinē aisthēsis still involves the body. It deals with perceptible qualities and manners of being in the world (modalities), which affect bodies, such as movement, size and, more importantly, shape (schēma). For Plato, on the contrary, common attributes are abstract, disembodied notions, such as being and not being. They can only be “overviewed”, once the soul ceases to use the sense organs. Connections and oppositions are beyond the reach of aisthēsis. This is the case for each individual sense.75 This is true, a fortiori, for the coordination of different senses.76

“Reader, do get the point!” Psyche’s predicament fits what Stanley Cavell calls a “tragedy of scepticism”.77 Like Othello, Psyche grows suspicious, cannot bear her doubts and wants to bring everything into full light. The will to know fuelled by envious characters (be it ­Shakespeare’s Iago, or, here, the sisters) clashes with the fragility of trust. In Psyche’s case, credulity is made even more absurd by her first-hand experience of her husband’s body. Comedy lurks. The individual identity of her partner is unknown, to be sure, but she cannot possibly expect that he might look like the snake her sisters depict. Why can she not disregard their preposterous slander and simply laugh? Lacking not only common sensibility, but also a sense of humour, Psyche is not amused, but we are. The discrepancy between the sensuous perception of Cupid’s body and the nasty portrait of the Beast is ridiculous, and literally so. It is incongruous, and we know better.78 Yet the comic potential of Cupid and Psyche has startled only a few scholars. One is Joel Relihan. “Are we witnessing some stage in the history or development of whatever it is that Psyche represents?”, he asks. Psyche, he points out, can feel Cupid’s body … and smell his hair and so knows his human shape, yet her sisters convince her that he is a snake, and she never managed to feel his wings and their feathers for all the time that she embraced him. Is Psyche an idiot? Is the author just engineering the dramatic visual scene of the revelation of Cupid and so is indifferent to plot and plausibility? Or are we being asked to consider what is the true nature of what Cupid represents?79 That of Cupid and Psyche, Relihan replies, is just a “frightening story”, about a maiden who discovers sexuality: a husband is not a monster. This is the meaning, and it is Jungian.80 In the language of psychoanalysis, this is yet another allegorical interpretation. It misses the point of a text that speaks about the destiny of erotic desire. Cupido does not mean “love”, in general. It means, literally, Desire, and desire

75 Theaetetus 186b. 76 Ibid. 184d–85e. See Cooper (1970); Burnyeat (1990: 52–61). 77 Cavell (1979: 27–43). 78 On the Incongruity Theory of laughter, already held in antiquity by Aristotle and Cicero (On the Orator 63: “The most common kind of joke is that in which we expect one thing and another is said; here our own disappointed expectation makes us laugh”), see Morreall (2013). 79 Relihan (2009: 69). 80 Ibid. 75.

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is longing, yearning, craving, for an object that eludes us. That this unstable object should be nothing but Desire embodied and personified is what Soul has to find out, through the painful experience of loss. Another scholar who took notice of Psyche’s insensitivity is Jack Winkler, who pauses and meditates: The husband is loving, evidently superhuman, and his identity is withheld from her. Could he have been an unbearable appearance, a loving heart imprisoned in a snaky body, from which he might be delivered by the love of a good woman? If we emphasize to ourselves that she can feel him when they make love (his long hair, his soft feminine cheeks, his strangely warm breast (4.13) – though even these might be serpent features misinterpreted as human), we may think instead of an anthropomorphic god condemned to a snaky appearance only by day. There is mystery about his appearance and his identity.81 This is a clever question. We are in a world full of metamorphoses, where things might be other than what they seem to be. An ass could be a young man, for instance. Psyche might wonder whether her husband keeps shifting from a reptilian shape (outside) to a human one (in bed), and vice versa, but if she were to make this inference, she would either spy on her husband when he is walking/creeping into the bedroom, or she would follow him, out of the bedroom. Instead, she puts him to the test while he is right there, in bed with her – handy. Psyche is not interested in catching a shapeshifter. She is merely incapable of feeling a shape. So far, we have discussed the philosophical implications of Psyche’s lack of common sensibility, but, if we want to emulate the “Model Reader” of the Metamorphoses, we have to listen to the narrator’s voice. The entire novel, he says, will be but a “charming whisper” (lepidus susurrus) and a collection of “charming narratives” (lepidae narrationes) meant to cheer up the audience.82 “Reader, do get the point! You will be amused!” (Lector, intende: laetaberis!) Let us comply, then: let us try to be smart and to enjoy this Milesian rhapsody, full of entertaining charm.83 Twice the storyline seems to take a tragic turn: first, when Psyche is exposed on the rock and, later, when she loses Cupid, tries to commit suicide, and suffers Venus’ harassment. Twice a felicitous intervention (by Cupid himself) redirects her toward joy and gratification. At the end of the fable, Psyche and Cupid prevail upon obstacles and hurdles and ultimately reunite. Voluptas is born, and, without her, there would be neither love nor a novel. Sensuality and fiction outsmart Diotima’s imperatives. Plato’s psychology is a matter not of allegorical edification but of amusement and philosophical parody.84

81 Winkler (1985: 91; see also 124–5 on skepticism). 82 Apuleius, Metamorphoses 1.1.1; 4.27.8. 83 For a detailed, enlightening discussion of the semantic field of lepos and lepidus, charming, pleasant entertainment, and on the erotic and meta-literary meaning of the word, see Tilg (2014: 45–52). For an approach to the Metamorphoses that does justice to the comic, see Kirichenko (2007, 2008a, 2008b). 84 For an intimation that Apuleius “plays” with Plato, see Hunter (2012: 223–55).

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Conclusion The fable of Cupid and Psyche narrates the calamities of being beautiful, and the discovery of what desire really is, for a very simple soul. It is a fable meant to lift your spirit. It is also filled with sophisticated allusions to Plato’s philosophy of love and knowledge. The plot hinges on Psyche’s sensuality and, paradoxically, on her insensitivity. She can feel in all sorts of ways, but she has no idea what she is actually feeling. It is Platonically plausible that a beautiful Psyche, if she were not very bright, might find herself at a loss when she has to compare and contrast different perceptions. This is the case of Cupid’s wife: she is, precisely, simplicissima. Now we know what simplicity means. It is the opposite of complexity. Literally, this sensual Psyche can only use her sense organs one by one, and therefore she perceives one thing at the time. Soft. Round. Fragrant. Warm. Cheek. Curl. Chest. Voice. But then she comes to a standstill. These fragments do not add up to an object. In the temporal sequence of the story, for months, night after night, Psyche has been caressing, smelling, hearing, tasting a humanly shaped body, but she cannot put together the structural, formal order (schēma) that would encompass all these perceptions. She cannot reconcile the evidence, provided by four of her senses, with the visual, vivid, detailed ekphrasis of a coiling, creeping, mouth-gaping, drooling serpent. She is not blind. She simply cannot coordinate. This can only happen in a Platonic scenario. Plato sets aisthēsis – which relies upon the sense organs, thus located in the body – in contrast to the superior, thinking faculty of the soul, as if they could be disconnected. Being really, really simple, Apuleius’ Psyche is able to receive multiple corporeal impressions, therefore, but she is unable to compare them and to gather their overall interconnection. She lacks the ability to “think by herself”. She is alien to synthesis. Since Apuleius seems to build a lighthearted, happy-ending comedy around this unflattering clumsiness, we can speculate that the story exposes precisely the ludicrous consequences of Plato’s dualism. If we were to need a distinct cognitive faculty just to unify scattered physical feelings into one object, then we could easily imagine a psuchē who might fall short. Aristotle helps us appreciate this hypothesis. In Aristotle’s theory of perception, aisthēsis itself is capable of grasping the shape (schēma), the size, the singularity and the movement of a body. This power is called “common sensibility” (koinē aisthēsis). Touch’s exceptional strength in this regard enables us to know not only that this cheek is soft, but also that this is a cheek, not the jaws of a beast. This chest is warm, and it can only be a chest, not the scaly, viscid section of a reptilian cylinder. Touch is the power to know a lot of what we might as well learn through our naked eyes. According to Aristotle, only colour belongs exclusively to sightedness, as Apuleius’ Psyche reveals: sleeping Cupid looks exactly like what she had felt already, but in colour. An Aristotelian psuchē could hardly lack common sensibility. A synaesthetic perception of a well-shaped, agile, affectionate husband would be incompatible with the ridiculous depiction of a crawling fiend, and that would be more than enough for her to be able to rule out a snake.

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10 Noli me tangere The theology of touch Catherine Conybeare Jean-Luc Nancy wrote about ten years ago, in a little essay on touch, “in a certain sense, nothing and no one is untouchable in Christianity, since even the body of God is given to be eaten and drunk. … [I]n a certain sense, Christianity will have been the invention of the religion of touch”.1 This is not a commonplace in writing about Christianity. Traditionally, far more emphasis has been placed on sight: in the earlier volume of this series that deals with the topic, Jane Heath shows how readily belief in Christ’s resurrection was structured round “the unprecedented sight of the resurrected Jesus” and traces the subsequent fruitful tension in the gospels between sight and insight, corporeal and spiritual seeing. 2 Not surprisingly, as Christianity became more established and the literal sight of Christ or those connected with him was no longer possible, an emphasis on spiritual seeing supplanted the corporeal. Augustine of Hippo, the most brilliant intellect of early Christianity, wrote movingly in the early fifth century de videndo deo, “on seeing God” (Letter 147), exploring the limits of the bodily eyes and the eyes of the mind; it was he, too, who insisted on turning inwards the contemplative gaze adopted from Aristotelian theōria or Platonic contemplation of the metaphysical forms and declared “don’t go outwards, return into yourself” (noli foras ire, in te ipsum redi, On True Religion 39.72). Truth was to be found in the gaze fixed upon the inner self. Thinking about the relationship of Christianity to sight, we may reach yet further back to consider the biblical story of creation. It derives, of course, from the Hebrew scriptures, but was appropriated wholesale by the Christians and read in complicated intertext with the first chapters of John, “In the beginning was the Word”.3 (This connection was enabled by the assimilation of John’s “Word” to the Platonic logos – and again, therefore, encouraged a contemplative gaze.) The story of creation in Genesis seems to turn around sight, which is routinely treated as the most exalted of the senses. At each stage of creation, “God saw that it was good”, and as the narration unfolds, the delights of paradise are laid out for Adam and for the reader to see. When the fall comes, it is prompted by the temptation of acquiring a new kind of sight – “then your eyes shall be opened, and you shall be as gods, knowing good and evil” (Genesis 3:5) – and, as we know, the desire for sight goes woefully awry. Adam and Eve see that they 1 Nancy (2008: 14). 2 Heath (2016); quote from 235. 3 English translations of biblical passages are from the King James Version, except where otherwise noted.

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are naked and hide from the sight of God. Humankind is condemned to pain and death because of its desire for godlike vision – not for a transgressive touch. There is only one brief reference to touch in the first three chapters of Genesis. Yet some of the biblical exegesis of late antiquity makes a bold argument for ­Christianity being the “religion of touch”, and this is what I would like to trace here. I argue that touch, in fact, enjoys a special status within the theology of the first few centuries of Christianity. The anomalous nature of touch among the five senses – noted as far back as Aristotle, and well explored by Steiner Goldner in this volume – makes it a privileged site to explore the paradoxes and peculiarities of the incarnation, God made flesh. P ­ recisely because touch cannot be situated in a specific sense organ; precisely because of the problems that analysis of touch engenders – this makes it a “Christian” sense in ways that reach even beyond the “religion of touch” gestured towards by Jean-Luc Nancy. My starting point is a mode of biblical exegesis that is now almost unknown but that was enormously popular in its own time. It is not conventional prose commentary on the Bible, nor sermons glossing particular passages, which by the fourth century ce were well established as exegetical strategies in both the Greek East and the Latin West. Instead, it falls into the genre of biblical epic, poems in epic hexameters that retold biblical narratives.4 Biblical epic was also a site of exegesis, though as the Middle Ages drew on it became increasingly rare, as fewer and fewer people had the training or the inclination to recast the Bible in the language and metres of the classical world.5 This particular poem was composed in the early sixth century by Alcimus Ecdicius Avitus, who was bishop of Vienne in the South of France; as we shall see, it richly reveals a theological preoccupation with touch.6 Avitus’ biblical epic is entitled, with cunning oxymoron, De spiritalis historiae gestis (On the Deeds of Spiritual History).7 Written when he was already bishop, as we know from its brief prose preface,8 it encompasses five books of Latin dactylic hexameters of Vergilian inspiration. The first three books are tightly linked: they tell the story of the creation of the world, the origin of sin, and the expulsion from paradise of Adam and Eve. The two other books are more loosely related, and it is sometimes doubted whether the books are meant to be read as a whole; however, the later books are clearly connected to the earlier ones by similar thematic preoccupations and some lexical echoes. The fourth book tells the story of the flood and Noah’s ark, cleaving closely to the biblical account; the fifth moves to Exodus, to tell the story of the plagues in Egypt, the flight of the Jews and the engulfment in the Red Sea of Pharaoh’s pursuing army.

4 Sedulius, himself a writer of biblical epic, famously explained in a prose preface to his twin works, the Opus Paschale (in prose) and the Carmen Paschale (in verse), that the reworking of the biblical material in verse would sweeten the wormwood of the prose, as well as being far more memorable. The image, of course, is drawn from Lucretius. 5 See Roberts (1985) on the genre of biblical epic, and – for a wider chronological view – the collection of essays by Otten and Pollmann (2007); Green (2006) discusses specifically New Testament biblical epicists. 6 An epigram by the seventh-century encyclopaedist Isidore of Seville testifies to Avitus’ status: when one is bored of reading Vergil, Horace or Ovid, it suggests, one should turn instead to Prudentius or the “learned poem of eloquent Avitus” (facundi studiosum carmen Aviti), Poem 11. 7 I have included the available editions of Avitus in the Bibliography; I use the text of Peiper (1883). Translations of all Latin texts are my own, unless otherwise noted. On Avitus, see Gärtner (2000); Wood (2001). 8 See Roberts (1980).

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Even on a superficial reading, Avitus’ De spiritalis historiae gestis (SHG) is striking for the special status it gives to sense perception. The senses are, of course, pre-­ eminent in the creation story, but equally striking is Avitus’ intense visualization and recreation of sensory experiences throughout the work. There is, however, a special dimension to Avitus’ treatment of sense and sensation. Though he is indeed interested in sense perception as a whole, in his account of the creation and the fall, he especially privileges one sense: the anomalous sense of touch, tactus.9 For example, consider Avitus’ treatment of the creation of man. There are two not entirely compatible accounts of this in Genesis. Avitus passes over the simpler one, “God created man in his own image” (Genesis 1:27), in favour of the more elaborate version: Formavit igitur Dominus Deus hominem de limo terrae, et inspiravit in faciem eius spiraculum vitae, et factus est homo in animam viventem. And the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils [literally, “face”] the breath of life; and man became a living soul. (Genesis 2:7)10 Avitus, who spends only thirty lines of his poem describing the creation of the rest of the universe, does rather more with the creation of man. When God has approved of his handiwork, he celebrates with a speech of twenty lines declaring his intention of creating a being in his own image who will rule the rest of creation and look upwards to worship his maker: “now let a man be formed, whom the image of the highest divinity might touch” (nunc homo formetur, summi quem tangat imago / numinis, SHG 1.56–7). Avitus continues: Haec ait, et fragilem dignatus tangere terram temperat umentem consperso in pulvere limum orditurque novum dives sapientia corpus. Non aliter quam nunc opifex, cui artis in usu est flectere laxatas per cuncta sequacia ceras et vultus implere manu seu corpora gypso fingere vel segni speciem conponere massae: sic pater omnipotens victurum protenus arvum tractat et in lento meditatur viscera caeno. Hinc arcem capitis sublimi in vertice signat septiforem vultum rationis sensibus aptans olfactu, auditu, visu gustuque potentem. Tactus erit solus, toto qui corpore iudex sentiat et proprium spargat per membra vigorem.

9 Avitus seems to have been an important source for the more renowned biblical epic of Milton, Paradise Lost. Avitus’ emphasis on touch, therefore, lends additional interest to the discussion of touch in Milton’s Eden by Moshenska (2012). 10 I quote from the Latin Vulgate Bible.

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He speaks, and generous Wisdom deigns to touch the fragile earth, mingles damp mud with scattered dust, and arranges a new body. Just like a craftsman now, whose practised art bends malleable wax through all its variations and fills out faces with his hand, or forms bodies of clay, or imposes beauty on the inert lump: so too the all-powerful father handles the earth that will live from now on, and plans out limbs in the glutinous mud. Here he marks out the peak of the head on the very top, equipping with rational senses the seven-holed face, giving it power through smell, hearing, sight, and taste. It will be touch alone that has the sense of discrimination throughout the body, and disperses its particular power throughout the limbs. (SHG 1.73–86, emphasis added)11 Avitus proceeds to give a detailed account (almost thirty more lines) of how exactly the limbs are fitted together and how the nervous system relates to the spine, and of the respiratory system and the internal organs (we shall see the importance of this later). This is remarkable in its own right: but for now, consider the way in which he has transformed the Bible’s simple phrase formavit … dominus deus hominem de limo terrae (“And the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground”). The way in which Avitus dwells on the sensation of touch speaks for itself, from the simile of the craftsman with his tactile lumps of wax and clay to the details of God’s own artisanal technique. But there is more: look at the way in which God, in the initial moment of his creation of man, is named through one of his most abstract and metaphysical titles, as Wisdom: so we have the paradoxical image of Wisdom getting its hands dirty as a creative potter. Almost as paradoxical is the image of omnipotence localized and dabbling in mud. Avitus is using touch to bridge the divide between the divinely metaphysical and earthy materiality. By way of contrast, consider his marvellously succinct description of the way in which the rest of creation was formed: “and [simply] to have willed it was the seed” (et semen voluisse fuit: SHG 1.27). Then, note the equally paradoxical phrase, rationis sensibus, which I have translated as “with rational senses” – literally, “with the sensations of reason”. Since when were the senses the home of reason? Finally, note that touch is cast as iudex, judge or discriminator, throughout the whole body – unlike the other senses, with their specialized points of entry. Both these last may recall the observations of Aristotle in On the Soul, when he actually links the human capacity for touch directly to human status as an animal rationale; in On the Soul, he observes that While in respect of all the other senses we fall below many species of animals, in respect of touch [haphē] we far excel all other species in exactness of discrimination. That is why man is the most intelligent [phronimōtaton] of all animals. (On the Soul 2.9.421a, emphasis added)12

11 Peiper (1883), but reading cui for quibus [line 76] and segni for signi [line 79] with the text of Nodes (1985). Peiper is a critical edition, Nodes the transcription of a single manuscript, so in general I prefer the readings of Peiper. 12 See the discussion in Chapter 3, this volume.

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We have not yet pinned down the causal relationship between those two statements; but connecting touch, discrimination and intelligence anticipates the notion of the “rational senses”, sense perceptions that somehow feed into or contribute to the rational powers of the human being. The next crucial instance of touch in Avitus’ text anticipates Eve in Genesis 3:3, when she reports to the serpent, “of the fruit of the tree which is in the midst of the garden, God hath said, Ye shall not eat of it, neither shall ye touch it, lest ye die”. When the God of Avitus warns Adam and Eve to avoid the tree of knowledge, he does not tell them not to eat from it, but says: Est tamen in medio nemoris, quam cernitis, arbor notitiam recti pravique in germine portans: huius ab accessu vetitum restringite tactum. Nec vos forte premat temeraria discere cura, quod doctor prohibet: melius nescire beatis, quod quaesisse nocet. Now, in the middle of the grove, there is a tree (which you can see) which carries in its seed the knowledge of good and evil: hold back your forbidden touch from approaching it; do not let the rash desire to learn what the teacher forbids oppress you: for the blessed, it is better not to know what it is harmful to have sought. (SHG, 1.310–15, emphasis added) Merely to touch the fruit, it seems, will cause the fall from grace,13 and, when the fall comes – as it must – that is the way in which it is described.14 The fall is prefaced by a long exchange between Eve and the devil in his serpentine form, who says: Ut tamen una contineat liber dulci super arbore tactus, scire velim; quis dira iubet, quis talia dona invidet et rebus ieiunia miscet opimis? I would like to know how your unencumbered touch holds back from just one sweet tree; who commands such terrible things? Who begrudges such gifts and mingles hunger with abundance? (SHG, 2.157–60) Note especially the “unencumbered touch”, liber tactus. The phrase is surely meant to recall the notion of free will, liberum arbitrium, which is what – theologically speaking – created the possibility of the fall from paradise. But liber is a most unusual adjective to apply to touch. We may talk of a touch being gentle or rough, but do we – as here – ascribe ethical properties to it?

13 Compare the epigrammatic sentence written of Psyche in Chapter 9 in this volume: “Will to know is wish to touch” (152). 14 For a reading of this episode with rather different emphasis, see Hecquet-Noti (2007).

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Eve responds to the serpent, in words that closely recall God’s instructions: “Only this one tree (which you can see) in the middle of the grove is forbidden for food; only these fruits is it not permitted to touch (tangere)” (SHG, 2.175–7). The serpent, warming to his theme, says, No no – take my advice, apply your mind to lofty things, strain your senses right up towards the heavens. This forbidden fruit, which you are afraid to touch (tangere), will allow you to know whatever secrets the father is hiding. Now, don’t hold back your doubtful touch (suspensos … tactus); don’t let a rule hold your pleasure hostage for long. For when you taste the divine flavour with your mouth, soon your eyes will be cleansed, and will make you equal to the gods in your own sight. (SHG, 2.194–202) Finally: Ille ut vicino victam discrimine sensit, atque iterum nomen memorans arcemque deorum unum de cunctis letali ex arbore malum detrahit et suavi pulchrum perfundit odore. Conciliat speciem nutantique insuper offert nec spernit miserum mulier male credula munus; sed capiens manibus pomum letale retractat. When he sensed that she was overwhelmed by her impending decision, mentioning once again the name and abode of the gods, he selected one fruit from the tree of death and drew it down and suffused it with a sweet smell to make it beautiful. He commended its beauty and offered it to the hesitating woman  – and she, woefully trusting, did not spurn the wretched gift, but took the deadly fruit in her hands and held onto it. (SHG, 2.208–14, emphasis added) Not until another twenty lines have passed does Eve actually bite into the fruit; but it is clear from the way that Avitus has set up the entire episode – which includes his innovation of having the serpent pick the apple and hand it to Eve, instead of her helping herself to it – that as soon as Eve has touched the apple, she is lost. We could adduce other instances, but by now it is clear that the sensation of touch plays a crucial role in Avitus’ telling of the creation and fall. But, we may ask, why should this be so? If Avitus chooses to emphasize touch over sight or taste, does it matter? What makes touch so preternaturally important? The answers, as we shall see, carry broad theological import. Let me turn to one of Avitus’ sources for his account, a more conventional mode of biblical exegesis: the commentary on Genesis composed in the early fifth century ce by Augustine of Hippo, The Literal Meaning of Genesis (Gen. ad Litt.). In book 7 of the work, he is elucidating Genesis 2:7, the account of man’s creation, which I cited above: Augustine has a slightly different text, but like the Vulgate it ends, et factus est homo in animam viventem (“and man became a living soul”). 172

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Quamvis omnis caro terrenam soliditatem in promptu gerat, habet tamen in se et aeris aliquid, quod et pulmonibus continetur et a corde per venas, quas arterias vocant, diffunditur; et ignis non solum fervidam qualitatem, cuius sedes in iecore est, verum etiam luculentam, quam velut eliquari ac subvolare ostendunt in excelsum cerebri locum, tamquam in caelum corporis nostri. Although all flesh apparently has an earthly solidity, yet it contains also in itself some part of air, which is held in the lungs and is diffused from the heart through the veins, which [doctors] call arteries; and also some part of fire, not only its quality of warmth, which resides in the liver, but also its quality of illumination, which is clarified and elevated to the very top of the brain – as it were, to the heaven of our body. (Gen. ad Litt. 7.13) Augustine shows how this relates to the other sense perceptions, and then continues: … ipsumque tangendi sensum, qui per totum corpus est, ab eodem cerebro dirigi per medullam cervicis et eam, quae continetur ossibus, quibus dorsi spina conseritur, ut inde se tenuissimi quidam rivuli, qui tangendi sensum faciunt, per cuncta membra diffundant. … and even the sensation of touching, which occurs throughout the whole body, is directed from that same brain through the neck and the spinal cord, so that from there incredibly fine little rivulets [of fire], which create the sensation of touching, diffuse themselves through all the limbs. (Gen ad Litt. 7.13, emphasis added) Because of its very aspecificity, touch seems to have a fuller potential (in both an Aristotelian and a more aspecific interpretation15) than the other senses: it has the power to become something, to transform. The sensation of touch, diffusing itself through the limbs with air and fire, becomes an expression of being in the body – of the completeness and simultaneity of embodied and ensouled experience. For it is through this air and brilliant fire that the senses not only function, but also report back to the soul, and “just as knowing should be prior to doing, so feeling [sentire] is prior to moving” (sicut autem prius esse debet nosse quam facere, ita sentire prius est quam movere, 7.15). So, when Genesis 2:7 says factus est homo in animam viventem (“and man became a living soul”), this means that man “begins to have feeling in his body” (sentire coepit in corpore, Gen. ad Litt. 7.16). Before that moment, there was already a sort of life in the body – the sort that gives the spontaneous motion of growth, of hair, of nails, of the body itself – but that is like the spontaneous motion of sap rising in a tree, not an indication of the living soul, anima vivens. Feeling, says Augustine, is the firmest indication 15 I take my notion of “potential” from Agamben (1999), who himself derives it from Aristotle, Metaphysics 9.1046a.30–1: “all potentiality (dunamis) is impotentiality (adunamia) of the same and with respect to the same”.

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that the flesh is animate. God breathes anima vivens onto the face because all the sense organs are distributed on the face16 – “except the sensation of touch, which is diffused throughout the body” (excepto tangendi sensu, qui per totum corpus diffunditur, 7.17). Even the tangendi sensus (“sensation of touch”) goes back, as Augustine has said before, to the spinal cord (ad medullam spinae) and so to the brain.17 For Augustine, the animation of the senses (not the presence of a living body as such) proves there is a living soul in the human being, This two-stage notion of c­ reation – first life, then soul – is clearly the one that Avitus follows, for he writes, “when the ­entire man is adjusted to living in his completed limbs, and his innards are fully ­ embris / ­totus warmed up, they await the soul alone” (ubi perfectis consuescit vivere m homo et fumant calefacta ut viscera, solam / expectant animam, SHG 1.121–3). That is when God breathes “a light breath” into him, and Adam himself begins to breathe. So the importance of the senses as the mediators between body and soul – and indeed as external proof of the existence of a living soul within the body – is richly present to Augustine. But while Augustine is at pains to demonstrate that even though touch is not registered through the seven orifices of the head, it still relates directly to the brain, the soi-disant heaven of the human being, he does not otherwise single out touch for special treatment or status. So where does that come from? What is its significance? To establish that, we have to move closer to home – Avitus’ home, that is – both chronologically and geographically. Claudianus Mamertus was active in Vienne about a generation before Avitus; he may even have been Avitus’ teacher.18 In response to a plea from Faustus of Riez, asking for advice on how to counter Arian teaching on the nature of the soul, Mamertus composed a treatise in three books, On the Substance of the Soul (De statu animae), and in the course of arguing energetically that the soul is incorporeal, he also addresses the status of the senses. His argumentative coup de théâtre comes towards the end of book 3, when he asks “whether the human soul can see corporeal things all by itself, without a body” (utrumnam corporea per se possit humanus animus videre sine corpore, 3.11). In response, Mamertus scornfully challenges his imagined interlocutor: Intende in viscera tua … nobisque dicito, quibus modis quove situ triformitas cerebri coeat, iecoris massa iaceat, regula lienis haereat … Look into your own vitals … and tell me how and in what position the tripartite brain comes together, how the mass of the liver is situated, how the model of the spleen fits together … (On the Substance of the Soul 3.11)

16 Remember Avitus’ “seven-holed face”, the septiforem vultum, above. 17 I am concentrating here on Latin sources, but there is an important section on touch in the late fourth-century treatise in Greek by Nemesius of Emesa, On the Nature of Man (De natura hominis). On the relation between touch and life, he makes a complementary argument to Augustine: “when most of the sense-organs are destroyed an animal is in no way vitally impaired, whereas if touch perishes the animal perishes with it” (On the Nature of Man 8; translation from Sharples & van der Eijk [2008]). Although Nemesius draws widely on Aristotle, this argument seems to be original to him. 18 See Wood (2001).

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The specific anatomical list continues – Mamertus’ argument being, of course, that if the soul is within the body and has corporeal eyes, it should be able to open its own eyes and see the body that purportedly encloses it.19 Even if it were not for the proximity of the two writers, we could be fairly sure that Avitus knew this work, because the unusual phrase regula lienis – which I have just translated as “the model of the spleen” – is repeated verbatim in his detailed description of Adam’s physiology (which continues the passage, cited above, in which God is visualized as a potter forming clay). But there are much richer points of contact. The “tripartite brain” (triformitas cerebri) echoes the Augustinian physiology whereby the senses are the mediators between body and soul, which Mamertus has spelt out earlier in the work: Aliud est ergo membrum per quod sentimus, et sensus aliud quo sentimus, quia inter invisibile incorporeum et corpus visibile est illud invisibile corporeum, quod in nobis visus, auditus, odoratus, gustus et tactus est. The physical part through which we feel is one thing, and the sense by which we feel is another, because between the invisible, incorporeal part and the visible body is that invisible corporeal thing, which in us is sight, hearing, smell, taste, and touch [in that order]. (On the Substance of the Soul 1.6) Indeed, the differentiation between membrum and sense is explained with reference to touch: Nec hoc idem manus et tactus. Igitur tactu calentia frigentia que discernimus, ipsum vero sensum tangendi non tangimus. Aeternum … tangeremus, si se ipsum tangeret tactus. Hand and touch are not the same thing. And so by touch, we distinguish between hot and cold things, but we do not touch the actual sense of touching … for if touch could touch itself, we would constantly be touching (On the Substance of the Soul 1.6) Then Mamertus gives a physiology of the senses themselves. They are made up of the four elements: sight of fire or light, hearing of aether, or fiery, rarefied air (hence the purest air gives the best hearing!), smell of aer, taste of water – and finally, with reference to touch, “I don’t think it can be doubted that this is closest to the lowest of the elements, that is, to earth” (dubitari non aestimo imo elementorum, hoc est terrae esse simillimum, 1.7).

19 Compare Augustine’s treatment of this issue in his Confessions, when he is discussing the flaws that vitiated his early work On the Beautiful and the Fitting (De pulchro et apto): “I turned my tremulous mind away from incorporeal reality towards outlines and colours and swelling mass and, because I could not see those things in my soul, I thought that I could not see the soul”. Confessions 4.14.25; see Clark (1995: ad loc.) for useful commentary.

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How this fits in with Mamertus’ notions of the corporeal is spelled out only in his Epilogue. There he tells us (systematizing what is only hinted at in Augustine’s Gen. ad Litt.) that there are three types of body: one that lives and feels (vivit et sentit), one that lives and does not feel (vivit et non sentit) and, finally, one that neither lives nor feels (nec vivit nec sentit) – this last being the elements, earth, water, fire and air. So Adam’s creation as told in Avitus brings him up through these three stages – starting from the very lowest part of the lowest stage, the element earth, which nec vivit nec sentit. So we return to the clay from which Adam was formed, and to Avitus’ fixation on the process of his formation. We are now in a position to think more fully about the grounds for Avitus’ fixation: about why, at key stages of the creation story, he insists on the importance of touch. The senses are the mediators between soul and body, the central part of the “tripartite brain”. Touch is the sense associated with clay or earth, the lowest of the elements; Adam was made from clay; so in terms of its composition, touch is the lowest sense. 20 At the same time, touch has a special status. (In his conclusions, Mamertus has a special sub-heading for touch, alone of the senses.) For interpreters from Aristotle forward, touch is the least localizable sense. It has no specific sense organs associated with it. So the whole soul feels the touch, even though the touch tends only to be experienced in part of the body. Because this sense is unlocalized (sensus inlocalis est), therefore the soul is incorporeal (incorporea est anima, On the Substance of the Soul 3.1621). Touch is used to explain the immateriality of the soul. So touch is simultaneously the lowest and the highest of the senses: the one associated with the basest material; the one that proves the existence of the soul. It is the sense that – harking back to Aristotle – makes the human being “most intelligent” (phronimōtaton), that links together mud and mortality with the immortal, if changeable, soul. This makes touch the perfect sense with which to try to encompass the hazards of creation. It shows God’s greatness, that he can animate the basest of the elements. It shows how far there is to fall – back to that basest of elements, dust to dust. Yet emphasizing touch also addresses the mystery of corporeality before the fall. Adam and Eve had bodies – but what did that mean, before corporalia were symptomatic of distance from God? In emphasizing the working of the senses, Avitus emphasizes the bridge between corporalia and the divine; just as in Augustine, the senses connect the external world with the “heaven of the body”, the brain. In emphasizing touch in particular, Avitus examines the least localizable of the senses, the one that – in his own taxonomy – is closest to the properties of the immortal soul. He is thinking about the sense that most encapsulates the body’s fragility yet constitutes its potential for immortality. God touches the mud; Eve touches the fruit. The whole soul feels the touch; and in Eden, before the fall, before bodies were suspect and sinful, the whole body did too. There was no gulf between the animating and the earthly. Taking the apple becomes the first res gesta of Avitus’ spiritual history: it is the moment at which body and soul become divisible, wedded to divergent eschatologies;

20 As already discussed by Purves in the Introduction; Lennon (Chapter 7) is also relevant. 21 The full text here is item corpus in parte sui tactum ibi sentit, ubi tangitur, animus autem per non totum corpus, hoc est per partem corporis totus sentit, huius modi vero sensus inlocalis est et omne inlocale incorporeum est: incorporea ergo est omnis anima.

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it sets in motion the desire for reunion and return. Tactus is liber, touch is free, for the last time until perfection is restored to the body. What, then, of the biblical moment that anticipates reunion and return: the moment of Christ’s resurrection? Then, if ever in the biblical narrative, we see the possibility that body and soul might mysteriously once again be united – truly harmonized. It is the moment after Mary Magdalene discovers that Christ’s tomb is empty: she sees Christ and mistakes him for a gardener (John 20: 15–17). It is only when he speaks her name that she sees him for who he is and acknowledges him, Rabboni: and he says, “Don’t touch me” – Noli me tangere – “for I am not yet ascended to my father”. If I am correct that the sensation of touch, for early Christian interpreters, encapsulates both the body’s fragility and its potential for immortality, what are we to make of this injunction? Augustine sees the problem clearly. In one of several sermons that he preaches on this passage of John, he asks, “She was forbidden to touch him when he was on earth, and was able to touch him when he was sitting in heaven?” (In terra positum tangere prohibebatur, et eum tangere poterat in caelo sedentem?, Sermons 244.2). In another, he asks, “So what does it mean, Don’t touch me? Don’t believe. Don’t believe what? That I am only what you see [i.e. just a man, and not God]” (Quid ergo est, noli me tangere? Noli credere. Quid noli credere? Quia hoc solum sum quod vides, Sermons 245.2). The injunction not to touch forfends against mistaken belief: now that Christ is risen, he should no longer be touched as a man. Yet the very prohibition of touch acknowledges the power of touching, the way it will link the earthly to the heavenly. Indeed, the question arises: are we supposed to think that Mary Magdalene has already touched Christ? Noli me tangere may serve just as well as an injunction after the fact as a prohibition before it. A hand may already have been extended and withdrawn: a caress proffered, divinity elided. The episode falls in stark contrast with the one later in the same chapter of John (20: 26–8), in which Christ invites the doubtful Thomas, “reach hither thy hand, and thrust it into my side”, and Thomas responds simply, “My Lord and my God”. 22 Does Thomas test the corporeality of Christ with an outstretched hand – or is the simple invitation enough to secure his belief?23 Another of Augustine’s sermons glosses Noli me tangere as follows: Noli hoc usque credere, noli in homine figi: est aliud maius, quod non intellegis. Vides me humilem in terra: tangis me, et remanes in terra. Altiorem me tange … Tangere autem corde, hoc est credere; nam et illa mulier, quae fimbriam tetigit, corde tetigit, quia credidit.

22 Note the detailed and sympathetic reading of Most (2005: 28–68, especially, for touch, 39–41 and 57–62), who sees the two episodes as two halves of a sumbolon, the divided tokens that, once reassembled, formed a guarantee of identity for fearful early Christians. Most emphasizes that Thomas never actually touches Christ; however, he does not observe that Thomas is invited to touch, not a body, but a space: the hole in Jesus’ side. Heath (2016: 223) tells the story in terms of seeing. 23 Clearly, there were those in Augustine’s congregation who thought that the question of who was allowed to touch Christ was perfectly straightforward. “Someone is going to say, he wanted to be touched by men, and not by women” (aliquis dicturus est, tangi a viris voluit, a mulieribus noluit). Augustine has an answer for them: “f woman disgusted him, he would not have been born from a woman” (i feminam horreret, non nasceretur ex femina, Sermons 244). Elsewhere, he simply dismisses the theory as nonsense (insipientia).

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Don’t believe [only] up to this point, don’t be fixated on the man; there is something greater, which you don’t understand. You see me humbled on the earth: touch me, and you remain on earth. Touch me when I am exalted … To touch with the heart is to believe – just as that woman, who touched the hem [of Christ’s garment], touched with the heart, because she believed. (Sermo Guelferbytanus 14.2) As Nancy writes of this moment: “Noli me tangere is the word and the instant of relation and of revelation between two bodies, that is, of a single body infinitely altered and exposed both in its fall and in its raising”. 24 Almost every time that Augustine preaches on noli me tangere, he links it to the miracle of the woman with the issue of blood – now less attended to, perhaps, but a very common image in late antique iconography and exegesis. 25 There could hardly be a better image of how touch links the earthly to the spiritual: the woman who has been bleeding for twelve years touches the hem of Christ’s garment in the midst of a jostling crowd and is instantly healed, for he has detected her touch. In late antique iconography, the woman is always shown approaching Christ from behind and (of course) below: he turns back and down to bless her. Augustine makes the touch even more cogent: “she said in her heart, if I touch the hem of his garment, I shall be well. Simply to say this was already to touch” (dixitque in corde suo, si tetigero fimbriam vestimenti eius, salva ero. Hoc ipsum dicere, iam tangere fuit, Sermon 245.3, emphasis added). This claim looks at first like a dematerialization of touch; but once again, I think, it simply makes clearer the link between the material and the spiritual. In anticipation of the touch, the body is already (in Nancy’s words) “altered and exposed”; the heart is already open. This is, we may note, an interpretation not afforded by the Greek version of the phrase Noli me tangere, which is mē mou haptein; for the verb haptein may denote grasping or clinging, as tangere does not. (Even the relationship of the verb with its object is different: for haptein takes the genitive case, whereas tangere governs the accusative). Mere human touch always contains the seeds of its withdrawal: without withdrawal, touch becomes transformed into its extended Greek sense, clinging or grasping; or it becomes simply unmarked unremarkable contiguity. Christ’s injunction noli me tangere dramatizes his impending departure (“I am not yet ascended to my father”) and prepares the way for a different – a paradoxical – touch, a sort of eternal caress. Touch, so profoundly associated with the body, is of all the senses the one most readily converted to the spiritual. 26 This is an impertinent claim to make after centuries of association of the spiritual with sight. 27 But the way in which touch is not localized in a specific sense organ simplifies its bridging effect. So does its spread 24 Nancy (2008: 48). 25 The episode is related in all three of the synoptic gospels; Mark’s is the most extensive account. See Matthew (9: 20–2), Mark (5: 25–34), Luke (8: 43–8). 26 Compare the observation of Steiner Goldner in Chapter 3 that for Aristotle, “touch … best manifests the moment where phusis erupts into psuchē” (50). 27 This goes back further, of course, to the “scopophilic” tradition of Western philosophy remarked upon in Chapter 3.

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over  the whole body. Augustine concludes one of the sermons that conjoin Mary Magdalene and the woman with the issue of blood: Sic credite, et tetigistis. Sic tangite, ut haereatis: sic haerete, ut numquam separemini, sed cum illo permaneatis in divinitate, qui pro nobis mortuus est in infirmitate. Believe like this, and you have touched. Touch like this, that you may cleave: cleave like this, that you may never be separated, but may remain in godliness with him who died for us in weakness. (Sermo Guelferbytanus 14.2) Not the mere sight of God, but touch so profound that it makes one inseparable from God, should be the spiritual aim of the believer. In any case, as Nancy writes, “What is seeing if not a deferred touch?”28

28 Nancy (2008: 49). This paper was delivered as a talk in three different versions and three different places: at the “Classics Renewed” conference at Brown University; at the University of California at Davis; and at the University of Kent at Canterbury (England). My thanks to the audiences for their engaged responses, and especially to Catherine Chin, Karla Pollmann and Mark Vessey.

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11 Losi ng touch Impaired sensation in Greek medical writings Rebecca Flemming Galen of Pergamum, the great physician of the Roman Empire, declared touch “to be the most accurate” (μάλιστά … ἀκριβοῦσθαι τὴν ἁφήν) of the senses, echoing Aristotle before him.1 Skin, human skin, is best placed to make any number of qualitative assessments about other humans, including those of practical utility to doctors, because it is perfectly balanced, most importantly in terms of hot and cold and soft and hard. From its ideal median, all divergences can be discerned and evaluated. The human hand, especially the skin on its inside, is thus the prime means of assessing all perceptible objects. It has been made by nature as an instrument of touch fitting for the most intelligent of living creatures. And, while hard hands excel in respect to the other main manual function – grasping and holding things – soft hands are best for haptic precision. This general assessment of the qualitative status of a patient’s body, whether it is, for instance, too hot or too dry, is, moreover, only one of the ways ancient medicine deploys touch. All the senses have a role in medical examination, as is explicitly stated in several Hippocratic texts, the foundational works of learned Greek medicine. 2 Sight, touch, hearing, smell, taste and reasoning all produce knowledge about the patient, and there are more specific instructions to palpate, press and feel particular somatic locations.3 The main use of the physician’s hand, however, is in relation to the pulse. Already mentioned in various Hippocratic writings, pulse-lore blossomed in Hellenistic Alexandria and continued to flourish in the Roman Empire.4 Galen’s seventeen surviving books on the subject – four each on the typologies and causes of, and diagnosis and prognosis from the pulse, and a single summary and introductory volume (On the Pulse for Beginners) – claim to encompass and exceed this already elaborate tradition: to put all the correct views together in a complete and coherent

1 Galen, On Mixtures 1.9 (37.12 Helmreich 1969). Aristotle is a general presence in this text, but not directly cited on this point; though see the Introduction and Chapters 3, 4 and 9 in this volume. Galen’s works are cited as listed in Hankinson (2008: 391–7), which also provides a general introduction to the man and his works, and other relevant essays. 2 In the Surgery 1, Epidemics IV 43, Epidemics VI 8.17 (III 272; V 184 and 350 L). 3 Jouanna (1999: 291–2 and 295–9); also Nutton (1993). 4 The development of medical pulse-lore is most closely associated with Herophilus and his followers, so see von Staden (1989, esp. 262–88, and 445–8). For an overall narrative, in a rather modernising frame, see Harris (1973) and, from a rather different (more touch focused) perspective, the discussion in Kuriyama (1999, esp. 17–108).

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whole.5 The relevant point here is that all medical practice in relation to the pulse involves, for Galen, knowledge, understanding and skilful, sensitive fingers: both intellect and touch must be appropriately trained for success in this area.6 Then both the quantitative and qualitative features of the pulse can be detected and interpreted, its rhythm and timing, which includes a judgement about the interval between the two movements of pulsation – diastole and systole (dilation and contraction of the artery, respectively). Galen strongly asserts that expert touch can discern the pause between the two, against the view of other major medical authorities of the time that it was impossible to perceive the systole itself, let alone the space between it and the diastole.7 Galen, indeed, has general physiological interests in touch and claims to be able to explicate all sense perception, as well as discussing these more practical diagnostic and prognostic points. So it is hardly surprising that various pathological manifestations of losing touch take their place with other (more obvious) sensory impairments, such as blindness and deafness, in his systematic exposition of disease types and all the causes and symptoms associated with them. Indeed, the medical importance of the haptic is further emphasised by the ways it operates within the body, engendering a special relationship with pain. This raises the possibility that damaged sensation might, in this respect, be beneficial. Loss of touch may operate in the domain of the therapeutic as well as that of the nosographical. Seneca the Younger certainly suggests that numbness is the benevolently crafted body’s response to severe pain: an internal feedback mechanism that brings necessary respite from acute distress.8 Physicians tend to concentrate on pathology, but other dimensions will be kept in view in this discussion. Focusing on the three terms, the three conditions, which will feature in Galen’s most programmatic taxonomy of tactile impediment – narkē (numbness), paralusis (paralysis), and haimōdia (perhaps the “on edgeness” of teeth) – a rough history of the understanding of impaired sensation in ancient medical discourse will be sketched out here, from erratic Hippocratic beginnings through to Galenic systematisation.9 Various factors driving, or more loosely shaping, that development will be analysed, and their wider ramifications explored, within this broader medical historical frame.10 As thematised in this volume, however, touch is resistant to systematic analysis of this kind, and its impairments are equally hard to pin down with precision. Numbness and paralysis, for instance, flourish as metaphors beyond the confines of medicine and extend into emotional and cognitive realms as well as the more physical domain of somatic function. It is then the generalised sense of contact with the outside world that is lost, or damaged, rather than touch more particularly, and relations between thought and movement are more vaguely disrupted. A well-known example

5 This is discounting the synopsis of the pulse, which is transmitted in the Galenic Corpus, but may be a later summary, and the lost books of commentary on Archigenes’ On Pulses. On ­Galen’s pulse-lore see Harris (1973: 397–431) and the different approach of Barton (1994: 152–63). 6 Galen, On the Pulse for Beginners 12 (VIII 478 K). 7 Galen, Differences of Pulses 1.3 and e.g. 1.6 (VIII 500 and 509–10 K). 8 Seneca, Letters 58.7–10. 9 Haimōdia is a curious, and hard to translate, condition, a minor but persistent feature of medical discourse in this area, as will become clearer below. 10 For the broader frame, an exposition of general medical developments over this period, which generally share in this systematising trajectory, see e.g. Nutton (2013).

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from Plato’s Meno illustrates the point, emphasising the flexibility and intricacy of the notions involved.11 Early in the discussion of what constitutes aretē – that is, “virtue” or “excellence” – Meno claims that Socrates’ questioning has had the same effect on him as touching a sting ray or torpedo fish (narkē): his mind (psuchē) and mouth (stoma) have been numbed; he is unable to formulate any response on the subject. Socrates is willing to embrace the idea of a numbing touch, to agree that he resembles the narkē, as long as it works through its own numbness, not the reverse, and as long as numbness can be considered a form of aporia.12 He himself lacks knowledge of, is baffled about, what aretē is and has spread that bafflement to Meno through their contact, though the latter’s aporia is more a form of mental blankness, a lack of coherent thought capable of articulation.

Losing touch: the development of a medical taxonomy It is, of course, hard to find any precise current English term for impaired touch. This is partly because modern medicine has largely replaced “touch” with the more explicitly encompassing notion of “somatic sensation” – including awareness of touch/pressure, temperature, joint-position and pain – but also because bodily sensory impediment of this kind is hard to disassociate from impeded mobility. Thus, definitions of “numbness” usually emphasise the loss, or diminution, of sensation but also often include the loss of movement with causes such as cold or shock suggested. By contrast, definitions of “paralysis” would tend to prioritise the inability to move, with the absence of feeling secondary and implicit causal overlap, too. As mentioned, ancient discussions of touch give it a similarly broad somatic remit, if less explicitly and without the possibility of disaggregating the perceptive components involved; this will become clearer as this chapter proceeds. The issue of whether sensation or mobility is the main bodily activity at stake in the conditions that appear in medical texts will also be explored, allowing for the possibility of both definitional dispute and change over time, as well as ongoing uncertainty. There is a general move towards pathological standardisation after the initial explosion of Greek medical writing – the vigorous emergence of Hippocratic ­medicine – in the late fifth and early fourth century bce, but this development is also characterised by plenty of debate about both fundamental concepts of disease and particular details in respect to specific conditions. In addition, understandings of the human body, its parts and functioning, also shift over this time, though in quite an uneven and often contested way. Before Galen The terms narkē and haimōdia, and close cognates of paralusis, along with para- and apo- plēxis, appear reasonably regularly in the diverse writings of Hippocratic medicine but in a scattered and largely casual fashion. These are signs and symptoms of illness listed along with many others in a range of nosographical accounts, prognostic

11 Plato, Meno 79e-80d; see also e.g. Fine (2014: 69–74). 12 Politis (2007).

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statements and therapeutic directions, without much comment or explication. There is a certain clustering around diseases of the head, and conditions associated with seizures – apoplexies – of a convulsive or stroke-like kind, but this is by no means total. The treatise Diseases II, for example, outlines one ailment characterised by “numbness” (narka) of the head and urinary difficulties; another in which chills, pain and fever beset the head, movement produces vomiting, and haimōdia of the teeth is joined by numbness; but also includes somatic numbness in describing the course of events caused by erusipelas (a type of surface inflammation) in the lungs.13 Coan Prenotions advises that those whose numbness (narkōdes) is accompanied by heaviness (and those who have acute headaches) are likely to become “convulsive” (spasmodes); that numbness and “non-sensation” (anaisthēsia) in those unaccustomed to such conditions signify imminent apoplexy; but also simply that numbness moving quickly from side to side is bad.14 In what exactly any of these things consists is unclear, however, though some connections and suggestions can be made reading across these texts. Even paralusis and paraplēxis are surprisingly slippery and overlap with apoplēxis, in referring to both temporary and more long-standing, sudden or more gradual, partial or total, loss of somatic control.15 The most extensive discussion of numbness in the Hippocratic corpus occurs, somewhat unexpectedly, in the short text On Diseases of Young Girls.16 If girls of marriageable age remain unmarried then menstrual blood is liable to collect in their wombs. Unable to leave their body, as the mouth of the womb is closed, the accumulating blood starts to move up the somatic cavity, taking its excess into the diaphragm and the heart. ὁκόταν οὖν ταῦτα πληρωθέωσιν, ἐμωρώθη ἡ καρδίη, εἶτ’ ἐκ τῆς μωρώσιος νάρκη, εἶτ’ ἐκ τῆς νάρκης παράνοια ἔλαβεν. When these parts are filled, the heart becomes sluggish, then, from the sluggishness, numb, and, from the numbness, the girls lose their minds. (On the Diseases of Young Girls 1.17–19) This then leads to rage, fear and serious self-harm. The author offers an explanatory analogy. The situation is similar to when someone has been seated for too long, thus forcing the blood from the hips and thighs down into their feet, producing numbness, and “on account of the numbness the feet become useless for walking” (ὑπὸ τῆς νάρκης ἀκρατέες οἱ πόδες ἐς ὁδοιπορίην γίνονται, 1.21–2). This, though, is easily recoverable, whereas blood in the heart is harder to remove and return to where it should be. Build-up of blood, or another bodily fluid such as phlegm, is associated with these symptoms in other Hippocratic texts too, and while inability to walk may emphasise loss of mobility, loss of sensation is clearly also implied. Walking requires a range of bodily perceptions as well as muscle control and function.

13 Diseases II 12, 16 and 55 (VII 18–20, 28–30 and 84–6 L). 14 Coan Prenotions 167, 466 and 56 (V 620, 689 and 597 L). 15 See e.g. Prorrhetic I 118 (paralusis and paraplēxis: V 550 L), Prorrhetic II 14 and 38 (apoplēxis: IX 40 and 68 L). 16 For text, translation and introduction see Flemming & Hanson (1998); lines 10–27 are the relevant ones.

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The many developments in learned Greek medical discourse over the Hellenistic period are both manifest and hard to trace with precision, since almost all the actual texts have been lost.17 In the pathological treatises that survive from the early empire, however, and come in increasingly standard form, following these wider changes in the medical landscape, paralusis has established itself as a disease of impaired movement and/or sensation, while numbness remains a sign or symptom of disease more distinctly associated with the latter. A more technical vocabulary – of anaisthēsia and dusaisthēsia (lack of and flawed sensation, respectively) – has become more prominent, and haimōdia has faded from view. This general pattern of standardisation as it includes conditions implicating touch can be illustrated from an anonymous, synoptic, work on acute and chronic diseases, probably composed in the late first or early second century ce, that will stand here for a wider set of synthetic texts of the same era.18 More richness and complexity will then be introduced through a detailed analysis of the longer discussions of paralusis in the treatises on acute and chronic affections by Aretaeus the Cappadocian, whose dates, like much else about him, are somewhat uncertain but most likely similar to the material mentioned thus far.19 This new pathological pattern emerged against a background in which the ontological and epistemological relationship between diseases and their signs or symptoms was now a considered and contested one, a point emphasised by some and rather glossed over by others; but the diseases themselves have gathered together and settled into a broadly shared, recognisable group, classified primarily as acute or chronic and then ordered roughly from head to toe. 20 The human body is now understood in a different way as well. Considerable internal detail has been added and the space of the somatic interior conceptually transformed through the systematic human dissection and vivisection undertaken in early Ptolemaic Alexandria by the physicians Herophilus and Erasistratus. 21 Most relevant here is their “discovery” of the nerves: the physical and functional separation of nerves from veins, arteries, ligaments and tendons is one of the achievements of Hellenistic anatomy. 22 Herophilus, Erasistratus and others after them further distinguished “sensory” (aisthētika) from “voluntary” (prohairētika) or “motor” (kinētika) nerves. Both shared a basic structure – a stable outer tunic contained a more labile substance, pneuma, warm air, which has become integrated into the somatic economy and operates as a medium of communication in that system – and were organised in somatic networks centred on the “ruling part” (hēgemonikon) of the soul, located by the two physicians in the brain. This is the site of general cognitive activity, thinking and feeling, deliberating and reflecting, and it is linked to the organs of perception by the sensory nerves and to muscles by their motive counterparts.

17 For summaries see e.g. Flemming (2003) and Nutton (2013: 130–59). 18 Usually known as Anonymus Parisinus (AP) from the location of the main manuscript. See on date and genre Flemming (2000: 186–95) and the introduction to the edition by Ivan Garofalo (1997). 19 On Aretaeus see Flemming (2000: 186–8). 20 The first-century bce methodic physician Themison is reportedly the first to dedicate a treatise to chronic diseases, after Hippocratic physicians had concentrated on the acute (Caelius Aurelianus, On Chronic Diseases 1. Pr. 3: CML VI.1 426.25–428.7), laying the foundation for the standard organisation to come. 21 On Alexandrian anatomy, see e.g. Lang (2013: 243–66); von Staden (1989, 1992). 22 See Solmsen (1961) and von Staden (1989, esp. 155–61, 247–59).

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In the anonymous nosographical treatise referred to above, paralusis is a chronic disease essentially characterised by the loss, or impairment, of mobility in the whole or a part of the body. 23 Other signs are pallor, shivering, cold and a weak, slow pulse. If the condition deteriorates, insensitivity (anaisthēsia) even to fire follows, as well as the failure of various natural functions; the lips go into rictus, and the sufferer drools and dribbles. The position of this chapter suggests that the disease is considered to be seated in the head, or brain, and the causes offered are ones that focus on damage to the origin, faculty and instruments of voluntary motion. In two of the three possible explanations provided, attributed to Erasistratus and (rather anachronistically) to Hippocrates, this specifically implicates the nerves, while things are left rather vague and phlegmatic in the third (attributed to the fourth-century bce physicians Praxagoras and Diocles).24 Nervous impairment also links the series of related diseases that come after general paralusis in the pathological sequence: that is paralysis of “olfaction” (osphrēsis, pertaining to the faculty of smell), of “swallowing” (kataposis), and “cynic spasm” (the distorted freezing of half of the face). 25 In all cases, including the first, it is with the nerves that the problems lie, for different reasons; there is, for example, no damage to the nose itself. Moving on from paralysis, anaisthēsia is also a feature of some kinds of epileptic seizures, and apoplexy; while narkē can affect the arms in kephalaia – severe migraine-like headaches – and various parts of the body in cholera (which shares its symptoms with its modern counterpart), all acute ailments.26 Returning to the domain of the chronic, the feet become “numb” and dusaisthētoi in the build-up to attacks of gout, giving the false sensation of walking on olive stones, amongst other misdirections. 27 Aretaeus opens the chapter on “paralysis” in his first book on the causes and signs of chronic diseases with the assertion that: ἀποπληξίη, παραπληγίη, πάρεσις, παράλυσις, ἅπαντα τῷ γένει τωὐτά. ἢ γὰρ κινήσιος, ἢ ἁφῆς, ἢ ἀμφοῖν ἐστι ἔκλειψις, κοτὲ καὶ γνώμης, κοτὲ καὶ τῆς ἄλλης αἰσθήσιος. Apoplēxia, paraplēgia, paresis and paralusis are all the same in kind. They are all failures of movement, or touch, or both, and sometimes also of cognition, sometimes another sense too. (Aretaeus, On the Causes and Symptoms of Chronic Diseases 1.7.1 [CMG II 44.5–7]) The definitions can be made more precise, though they remain overlapping. 28 So, apoplēxia is paralysis of the whole body, loss of sensation (aisthēsis), intellect and movement and is the worst case scenario. Paraplēgia is paresis (perhaps “impediment”) of 23 AP 21.2 (124.10–126.2 Garofalo). 24 Ibid. 21.1 (122.18–124.9 Garofalo): these authorities (“the four”) are consistently cited on aetiological matters through the text; see van der Eijk (1999) for discussion. 25 AP 22, 24 and 23 (130.19–132.18, 136.2–138.8 and 132.19–136.1 Garofalo). 26 Ibid. 3.2.1–2: epilēpsia; 4.2.1: apoplēxia; 5.2.2: kephalaia; 13.2.3: cholera (20.8–24; 26.10–16; 32.6–10; 90.11–14 Garofalo). 27 Ibid. 50.2.1: unfortunately the text is lacunose (250.10–16 Garofalo). 28 Aretaeus, On the Causes and Symptoms of Chronic Diseases, 1.7.2 (CMG II 44.7–21).

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touch and movement, in a part of the body, the hand or leg. Paralusis is the paresis of movement and activity alone, while if it is only touch that fails – a rare occurrence – then it is called anaisthēsia rather than paresis. To complete the catalogue, “cynic spasm” refers to a disrupted motion in the face, while a folding of the knees, a temporary loss of sensation, numbness, swooning and collapse is termed “lipothumia”. The separability of sensation and mobility is thus stressed, though also their association. Emphasised too is that, in these broad somatic contexts, sensation is basically touch or touch is sensation. Aretaeus’ rather vague, archaising physiology means that the aisthēsis/kinēsis division does not map onto distinctions between nervous networks, though nerves and muscles (and tendons) are all mentioned in explanatory frames. 29 Wounds, blows, cold, immoderation in eating, drinking or sex can all generate problems in respect to bodily function and control, as can excessive affections of the soul (pathea psuchēs), such as shock, fear, poor spirits, great joy or unrestrained laughter.30 These are the originating causes that produce a severe chilling of the body’s “innate heat” (emphuton thermon), sometimes accompanied by further complications and exacerbations, which will help determine how life threatening the situation is. If nerves have been severed, for example, the outlook is bleak. There is a brief collocation of these symptoms and issues of pain, as they are further described, and ordered, in more detail. Loss of movement and of sensation in relation to hot and cold are particularly obvious signs, as are indifference to hair pulling, itching and being touched.31 Pain is rare and no more or less indicative of recovery than absence of pain (aponiē). This latter is a condition that appears elsewhere in Aretaeus, too, crossing paths on occasion with the more widespread symptom of “numbness”. 32 Their conjunction in the discussion of the treatment of ileos, an acute and, at its worst, excruciatingly and humiliatingly lethal disease of the gut, is especially suggestive.33 The pain kills in this affection, so various extreme measures are permissible in response, such as bleeding the patient to the point of collapse (lipothumia) so that painlessness (aponiē) might be achieved; numbness become insensitivity (anaisthēsia). There are other contexts too in which numbness and loss of sensation are more directly therapeutic. Aretaeus states, for instance, that narkē and cold cure saturiasis (acute, painful and continuous tension of the genitals).34 The full story of pathological developments involving touch over the Hellenistic period would include the views of other physicians too. Praxagoras (the teacher of Herophilus), Erasistratus and Themison (the first-century bce founder of the “method” [methodos] in medicine) are all reported by the late antique medical author Caelius Aurelianus to have written extensively on paralusis.35 Caelius’ treatise on acute and

29 This is one of the problems with his dating, but the structure of the text and the intrusion of some Hellenistic medical vocabulary place it in the early imperial period. 30 Ibid. 1.7.8 (CMG II 46.8–17). 31 Ibid. 1.7.9 (CMG II 46.17–20). 32 Found in some of the same places as in the AP (e.g. epilēpsia: On the Causes and Symptoms of Acute Diseases 1.5.2) and a few extra (e.g. gonorrhoea: Aretaeus, On the Causes and Symptoms of Chronic Diseases 2.5.2). 33 Aretaeus, On the Therapeutics of Acute Diseases 2.5.1 (CMG II 133.1–13). 34 Aretaeus, On the Causes and Symptoms of Acute Diseases 2.12.3 (CMG II 35.1–2). 35 Caelius Aurelianus, On Chronic Diseases 2.50–59 (CML VI.1 574.6–578.26). On the medical methodikoi see Tecusan (2004).

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chronic diseases is a Latin adaptation of an original Greek work on the same subject by the great physician of the “methodic school”, Soranus, who pursued a successful medical career in Rome under the emperor Trajan. 36 All of these past authorities would apparently agree with Caelius’ characterisation of paralusis, presumably taken pretty directly from Soranus: it can be either of sensation (sensus) or motion (motus) or both; it can affect part, parts, or the whole of the body, and, indeed, the mind too.37 All would also class the condition as chronic, but, beyond that, precise descriptions, calibrations, causal explanations and therapeutic packages vary. This description might include “numbness” as a symptom, confirming also that narkē (or torpor in Latin) has become a milder version of impaired sensation and/or movement: more widespread, but less deep-seated or severe.38 Galen Galen provides the most elaborate and developed discussion of haptic injury surviving from antiquity, as in so many other areas of medicine. All of the resources of Hellenistic anatomy, and of his own extensive practice of animal vivisection and dissection (part of a wider Roman imperial revival of the enterprise), are brought to bear on the topic, in a systematic and integrated way. Recent debates on the definition of disease and the nature of pain are all taken account of, engaged with and, of course, improved upon. The works of Archigenes, a noted contemporary of Soranus, loom particularly large on Galen’s horizons in these respects, as also on matters relating to the pulse. 39 The first, fundamental, move Galen makes is to insist that sensory impairments are all “symptoms” (sumptōma), not diseases. The distinction between the two is an important one. Symptoms are the bodily dysfunctions and other contrary to nature (para phusin) bodily conditions that follow disease.40 Disease is the underlying condition that damages functionality and has other effects and that itself has complex causes. Galen then has a whole taxonomy of symptoms into which sensory failures fit. The healthy, according to nature (kata phusin), working of the body can be ­impeded or missing under two main headings: of nature (phusis) and soul (psuchē).41 ­Nature is implicated in lower-level somatic operations – such as those associated with ­nutrition – while the operations of the soul are divided into those relating to movement, sensation and the ruling part (the hēgemonikon). Further distinctions follow, at least for the latter two categories, while motion is a singularity. This is a division between the damage pertaining to each of the five senses, on the one hand, and to the three relevant activities of the hēgemonikon, on the other: that is those connected to imagination (phantastikon), reason (dianoētikon) and memory (mnēmoneutikon).

36 On Soranus, including his “methodism” and his relationship with Caelius, see Hanson & Green (1994). 37 Caelius Aurelianus, On Chronic Diseases 2.1–2 (CML VI.1 544.9–17). 38 Ibid. 2.3: paralusis; and see also e.g. On Acute Diseases 3.50: apoplēxia (CML VI.1 544.21–31 and 322.11–14). 39 See Harris (1973: 251–9) for Archigenes (vs. Galen) on the pulse and, more generally, Flemming (2000: 195). 40 Symptoms are defined, in distinction to diseases and causes, at Galen, Differences of Symptoms 1 (VII 42–55 K); see also e.g. MM 2.1 (X 78–81 K). 41 Galen, Differences of Symptoms 3 (VII 55–6 K).

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Under the heading of the soul, then, globally speaking, sensory symptoms involve either anaisthēsia – absence of sensation – or dusaisthēsia – abnormal sensation – with the last coming in two kinds: poor and false.42 The vocabulary is most developed in the case of sight and hearing, but Galen insists that for taste, touch and smell, too, the same possible symptoms obtain. However, touch is a special case, in relation to the symptom of pain (odunē).43 In respect to the other senses, pain is only externally generated, but in respect to touch it can also be internally produced, from the conditions in the body itself, often with devastating effects. Thus, for example, while bright lights and loud noises can hurt the eyes and ears, inflammation of these same organs is more painful and pertains to the haptic, not visual or auditory, sense. Itching (knēsia) is this kind of symptom, too, that involves touch wherever it is located.44 Galen completes his outline of sensory symptoms with reference to “insomnia” (agrupnia) and “coma” (kōma), which both implicate the “primary sense”, common to all the senses: that is that part of the brain which sends any sensory faculty down the nerves to the appropriate organ and can be pathologically affected in its own right.45 Roughly the same classification – between absent and abnormal function, then weak and misleading performance – also holds for symptoms of movement and the hēgemonikon. In this latter case, a form of “paralysis” is evoked as signifying the absence of phantasia (imagination) or dianoia (reason).46 Despite his claims, Galen has some difficulties delivering the full panoply of symptomatic sensory impairment in relation to touch as he substantiates this taxonomy further in his treatise Causes of Symptoms. The first division is a threefold one, between symptoms in which the primary “instrument” (organon) of sense, some other part which serves it, or the sensory faculty (dunamis) is affected.47 This is easy to illustrate for sight.48 The primary instrument is the lens (krustalloeides) of the eye, served by the opening in the choroid, parts of the cornea and so forth, while the sensory faculty comes from the brain through the relevant nerve. A range of generic disease types are known to afflict the lens, the brain and the nerves. More specific pathological conditions beset the ancillary structures, but they can be enumerated too. Which of these ailments can cause blindness (tuphlotēs), various forms of impaired vision (ambluōpia) and false visual impressions (parōrasis) is reasonably straightforward to map out. The same pattern is then outlined, much more briefly, for hearing, taste and smell.49 However, in moving from the senses occurring in particular parts of the body to that which is common to all perceptions – that is “touch” (haphē) – the system breaks down.50 No primary instrument of sense is named, no supporting cast or sensory faculty mentioned. Touch it seems is quite different from the other senses in its healthy organisation and its impairment.

42 Ibid. 3 (VII 56 K). 43 Ibid. 3 (VII 56–8 K). 4 4 Ibid. 3 (VII 58 K). 45 Ibid. 3 (VII 58 K). 46 Ibid. 3 (VII 60–2 K). 47 Galen, Causes of Symptoms 1.1 (VII 86 K). 48 Ibid. 1.2 (VII 86–101 K). 49 Ibid. 1.3 (hearing: VII 102–4 K) and 4 (taste and smell: VII 104–8 K). 50 Ibid. 1.5 (VII 108 K).

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Three tactile symptoms are described nonetheless and placed in a broad causal context, associated with certain underlying disease or damage. These are haimōdia, narkē and paralusis. The first is located in the mouth, something that particularly affects the teeth, after eating sharp, acidic foods.51 Narkē, “numbness”, on the other hand, is a condition of the whole body, especially the limbs, that consists in a combination of disrupted sensation and movement (dusaisthēsia and duskinesia) and mostly arises from cooling and compressing the nerves, or touching the sea creature of the same name, or, indeed, an idle lifestyle and the build-up of various thick and viscous substances in the body.52 Paralusis, “paralysis”, is a more serious version of the same situation. If the nerves are ligatured, or put under heavy pressure from inflammation, for example, or by displaced bone, the numbness will be followed by complete loss of feeling (anaisthēsia) and immobility (akinēsis).53 If the injury is to the brain, all nerves are affected and death follows, as breathing will cease; if to the spine, then depending on position and severity, numbness and/or paralysis occurs in the relevant limbs.54 The point can be illustrated with one of Galen’s favourite case histories, involving Pausanias the sophist, who suffered a carriage accident on the final part of his journey from Syria to Rome. The story appears twice in On Affected Parts, the major work in which Galen expands on and substantiates the basic theoretical framework set out in the treatises on symptoms (amongst other things).55 Pausanias took a blow to his upper back on falling, but despite the bruised area healing reasonably quickly, he began to lose sensation in the two smallest fingers and half the middle finger of his left hand, a process exacerbated by the application of medicaments prescribed by rival physicians. Once Galen had extracted all the details, though, and the point of treatment was shifted to the seventh cervical vertebra, feeling was restored, much to the amazement of the patient and other doctors. These fellow practitioners were not just impressed by Galen’s therapeutic brilliance, his ability to pinpoint the origin of the relevant nerves, but also puzzled by a situation in which only sensation and not movement was impaired. Galen seized the teachable moment. Sensation (aisthēsis) is a passive process, he explained, whereas movement is active, requiring a greater dunamis, so this latter is the first to go if any injury is sustained. Voluntary motion requires both nerves and muscles (of various kinds), while perception only requires the former; there are different kinds of connections between parts of the body, which can all suffer damage: ἐὰν μὲν οὖν τὰ τῶν μυῶν νεῦρα πάθῃ, τὴν κίνησιν ἀπολλύουσιν οἱ δάκτυλοι· τῶν δ’ εἰς τὸ δέρμα παραγινομένων παθόντων ἡ κατὰ τὴν ἁφὴν αἴσθησις διαφθείρεται. So, the fingers lose their movement when the nerves of the muscles are affected; but when it is the nerves extending to the skin that are affected, the sensation of touch is disabled. (Galen, On Affected Parts 1.6 [VIII 60 K])

51 Ibid. 1.5 (VII 108 K). 52 Ibid. 1.5 (VII 108–9 K). 53 Ibid. 1.5 (VII 110–11 K). 54 Ibid. 1.5 (VII 108 K). 55 Galen, On Affected Parts 1.6 and 3.14 (VIII 56–9 and 213–14 K). It also appears elsewhere in his oeuvre, see Mattern (2008: App. B. nos. 3 and 347, and more generally).

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Paralusis, which Galen here says refers primarily to the loss of movement, implies, therefore, loss of sensation, but anaisthēsia, as this loss is properly called, can exist by itself. Various definitions and references in On Affected Parts do suggest more generally that the skin might count as touch’s “primary instrument of sense”, served by its nerves carrying the appropriate faculty; though the notion of pain as internal (and so skinless) touch is also present. The point is not entirely explicit, but Galen strongly aligns pain with the perception of pressure exerted inside the body, usually on neighbouring vessels, flesh, muscles or other parts, by swelling, stretching, hardening, inflammation, movement and so forth, as well as with a more abstract somatic awareness of, and response to, problematic changes of internal composition and equilibrium. 56 It is also in this context that Galen covers narkē and haimōdia in this treatise, arguing against Archigenes’ alleged view that both are forms of pain. Numbness is neither sensation nor pain, states Galen, rather it is a “condition” (diathesis) caused by cold.57 It can, indeed, relieve pain, in moderation, though more extreme cold, produced by some drugs (pharmaka) or winter travel can result in total loss of sensation and movement and even the mortification of some bodily extremities. Haimōdia also, though “impossible to explain in words” (ὃ μηδὲ ἑρμηνεῦσαι λόγῳ δυνατόν ἐστι), is definitely not like the pain of membranous bodies, but something more local and peculiar. 58 Unless haimōdia’s mystery involves actual misdirection, however, there seems to be no haptic equivalent in any of these treatises to seeing or hearing things that are not there. Nor does touch receive much attention in discussions of itching and various other places Galen has suggested, or indeed, promised, that it should. 59 Still, both narkē and paralusis are notions that are deployed more widely across the nosographical domain, as has already been indicated. Both feature, for example, in the coverage of symptoms associated with the primary sense and of symptoms associated with mobility itself. They signify loss or impairment, with an emphasis on movement or sensation respectively, across the board. So, in relation to the primary sense, numbness is the least severe of three false, contrary to nature (para phusin) versions of sleep, caused when an excess of cold and wet – either pharmacologically generated or the product of disease – is brought to bear on the brain as it needs to close down perception and awareness.60 Kōma (coma), karos (torpor) and narkē (numbness) substitute unconsciousness and insensibility for the rest and recuperation of real sleep, for any actual release from pain. In relation to voluntary movement, paralusis is the main player, taking its place with “spasm” (spasmos) and “tremor” (tromos) as the key types of impairment, with numbness cast simply as “mild paralysis”.61 There is also some crossover with various diseases of seizure at this point, though Galen generally keeps the different pathological types apart, but “apoplexy is paralysis, and epilepsy spasm, of the whole body” (ὅτι δὲ καὶ ὅλου τοῦ σώματος ἡ μὲν ἀποπληξία παράλυσις, ἡ δὲ ἐπιληψία σπασμός ἐστιν, Causes of Symptoms 2.2 [VII 151 K]).62

56 Ibid. 2.3–5 and 8 (VIII 75–86 and 90–110 K). 57 Ibid. 2.2 (VIII 70–4 K). 58 Ibid. 2.6 (VIII 86–8 K). 59 Galen, Causes of Symptoms 2.6 (VII 196–8 K) on itching. 60 Ibid. 2.2 (VII 149–54 K); see also On Affected Parts 2.10 (VIII 130–1 K). 61 Galen, Causes of Symptoms 1.8 (VII 143–4 K). 62 See also Ibid. 1.8 (VII 144 K).

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Conclusions Touch emerges from all of these discussions as something quite encompassing, certainly more than the perception of pressure, however complexly construed. Awareness of temperature and pain are also part of the picture. This is a broad “somatic aisthēsis”, if not quite “somatic sensation” in the modern manner, and it can be variously lost and compromised, in itself, or in conjunction with voluntary movement. Whether thought of as a disease or symptom, both or neither, “paralysis” is about the absence of the ability to move, an ability that depends on sensation; “numbness” is about the impairment of sensation, on which controlled motion depends, and haimōdia is a peculiar feeling of the teeth. There is, in the first two conditions, a greater level of generality, and inclusiveness, than in, for example, “deafness” or “partial sight”. Not that variation of cause, and exact manifestation, is not contained in all these categories, but a certain openness in the sense of touch itself, a diffuseness, is inevitably reflected in the corresponding pathological problems. If Galen, medical system-builder extraordinaire, vocal proponent of categorical consistency, of correct division in all things, cannot quite make touch and its discontents fit into the same typological framework as the other senses and their failures, then it probably cannot be done. The final point to make is about the relationship between conceptions of touch, its impairment and anatomical knowledge. It might have been thought that the “discovery” of the nerves would make a dramatic difference here, in medicine and beyond, but though it did make a difference, it was hardly dramatic. Dissection did not drive the radical revision of any fundamental ideas about how bodies work, in health and sickness, and the passage between the two. Anatomy, rather, provided resources for existing models, for their increased elaboration and differentiation as part of a general trend towards systematisation in medicine, as it expanded and solidified in the centuries after the first flourishing of Greek medical writing. The nerves feature in later explanations of both perception and the damages it can suffer, but not decisively or in a way that is very distinct from the role that might be played by vaguer somatic formations of pores and connective tissues. The main causal work is done by notions of cold, excess phlegm or physical compression. Shock and fear can make a person numb, for instance, and an immoderate or indolent lifestyle lead to paralysis. These processes will involve the nerves, affecting them as part of the sequence of changes in the body, which eventually impedes sensation and movement. They do not incite that process, however, or give it particular form; that is decided elsewhere. This is then a story of both continuity and change, on many levels, in which perhaps most striking is the way in which the collaborative diffuseness of touch corresponds with the holistic and dynamic understanding of the human body and its workings that characterises classical medicine. The many and varied failures of sensation can be held within the medical frame even as they defy visions of complete systematisation. Everything does stay in touch.

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abjection 14, 17, 37, 39, 40n, 41n, 44, 47–9, 118n Adam 167–8, 171, 174–6 Aeneas 121n, 123–4, 133 Aeschylus 14n, 24 aesthetics 16, 20, 79; Herder’s theory of 18, 105–20; Riegl’s theory of 79–81; and tragedy 17, 34–49; see also beauty affect 3n, 14, 17, 29, 34–40, 42–5, 48–9, 59–60, 80, 87, 95, 104, 119, 144; see also disgust/revulsion, emotion agalmatophilia (“love of statues”) 14n, 89 Agamemnon 38, 43 air 3, 57, 59n, 60, 68, 150, 173, 175–6; aer (“air”) 175; aether (“upper air”) 60n, 175; pneuma (“warm air”, “breath”) 65n, 81, 184 aisthēsis (“sense,” “sensation”, “perception”) 1, 19, (24), (28n), 35n, 49, 51, 52n, 56–7, (58), 66, (120n), 158–64, 166, 185–6, 189, 191; see also anaisthēsia (“lack of sensation”), koinē aisthēsis (“common sense”), synaesthesia aisthētika, ta; see object (of senses) Ajax 34, 38, 40, 42–4 amphaphān (“to touch”, “to handle”) 21, 25 Amphitryon 124 Anacreon 3 anaisthēsia (“lack of sensation”) 52, 183–6, 188–90; see also numbness animals 1, 4–5, 21, 28, 50, 52–3, 55–6, 58, 62–3, 138n, 151, 158–60, 170, 174n, 187; anemones 56n; birds 7, 42, 151; cows 6, 7, 84; dogs 16, 24, 27–8, 33, 136n, 140; gnats 4; snakes 19, 151, 164, 166; sponges/ ascidians 1; testaceae 56n; worms 118n, 119 Anticlea 27n, 32n, 82 Antigone 22, 46, 48 Apelles 84

Aphrodite/Venus 89n, 96n, 98n, 134, 139, 150, 153, 155, 158, 159n, 161, 165; Colonna Venus 89n, 90; Copenhagen Venus 97; Crouching Venus 87–9, 95–7, 100–1, 104; Knidian Aphrodite 18, 89–91, 93, 95, 97; Lely Venus 75–6, 82, 87, 93, 95; miniature images of 100–2, 104 Apollo 113, 139, 141, 150; Apollo in the Forge of Vulcan 78; Belvedere Apollo 112 Apollonius of Rhodes 21 Appius Claudius Caecus 124n, 127 Apuleius 19, 151, 153, 155–7, 161–3, 165n, 166; Apology 153; Florida 153n; Metamorphoses 19, 150, 151n, 152n, 157, 165; On Plato and his Doctrine 155; On the Universe 161; and Aristotle 157–66; and Plato 153–7, 161–6; see also Cupid, Psyche Archigenes 181n, 187, 190 Aretaeus of Cappadocia 184–6 Argus 16, 24, 27–9 Aristophanes 15 Aristotle 1–3, 5, 6n, 10, 17–18, 23–4, 50–63, 102, 120, 138, 157–66, 168, 174n, 176, 178n, 180; Categories 53n; Generation and Corruption 53–5, 58n; Generation of Animals 47n, 55n, 60n, 158n; History of Animals, 1nn, 2–3, 56n; Metaphysics 52, 56, 173n; Nicomachean Ethics 63n, 158; On Memory and Recollection 1n; On Sleep 160; On the Soul 1nn, 2–3, 5, 17, 50–2, 56, 56–63, 102n, 105, 120, 138n, 139n, 144n, 159, 160nn, 161n, 170; On the Universe 161; Parts of Animals 1nn, 3n, 5n, 55n, 61; Physics 53–4; Poetics 24, 47; Politics 5n; [Problems] 158; Rhetoric 160; Sense and Sensibilia 1n, 2n, 3n, 5n, 51n, 61, 160, 162n; on common perceptibles 160–2; on special perceptibles 2, 56–9, 160–1; see also animals, koinē aisthēsis (“common sense”), medium (of senses), object (of senses), organ (of senses), plants, soul, touch

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art/arts; see aesthetics, funerary monuments (stelai), gems, intaglios, painting, Pliny the Elder, sculpture Asclepius 84 Athenaeus 14n, 89n Athena/Minerva 24, 29, 142 Athens 15, 46, 115 atoms/atomism 1, 2, 59, 67–9, 71–4; see also Democritus, Lucretius Auerbach 16n, 23n, 26–7 Augustine of Hippo 19, 65n, 167, 172–9 Avitus 16, 19, 93n, 168–77 Babylonia 95 basanos (“touchstone”) 5, 84n beauty 41n, 75, 91n, 105, 107, 109, 111, 113–14, 118–19, 150–6, 162, 166, 170, 172, 175n Bible 85, 168, 170; Exodus 168; Genesis 1n, 19, 21, 167–9, 171–3; Vulgate 169 Biblical epic 168, 169n; see also Avitus blindness 4n, 21–2, 37, 39, 46, 49, 78, 80n, 81, 117, 124, 153, 157, 166, 181, 188; Molyneux’s Problem 4, 108; and sculpture (78), 79–80, 118 brain 8, 28n, 82, 89–93, 95, 134n, 135, 144, 158; Aristotle 55–6, 161, 163; Augustine 173–4, 176; Avitus 174–6; Cyrenaicism 64–5; Galen 188–90; Greek medicine 184–5; Plato 162–3, 166; ancient theories of 6n, 17, 51, 65n, 77, 181; modern theories of (neuroscience) 2, 3n, 4, 18, 35n, 106–7, 109n, 110–11, 113, 117, 135; see also cognition, language Caelius Aurelianus 184n, 186–7 Caesar 125 Calpurnius Flaccus 130 caress 1–2, 7, 11, 32–3, 78, 97, 102, 112, 150, 152, 155, 162, 166, 177–8 Carmina Priapea 18, 134–49; see also epigram Catiline 125 Catullus 130, 135, 144n, 145, 147–8 Charite 154 Christ; see Jesus Christianity 19, 167–79 Cicero 3, 32n, 64–5, 102n, 124–5, 127–8, 130–1, 156, 163–4 clay 1, 82, 94, 98, 100, 170, 175–6 Clodia 131 Clodius 130–1 Cloelius, Sextus 130–1 cognition 17, 28n, 35n, 51, 55, 65, 77, 163, 181, 185; see also brain, language

cold; see temperature colour 6n, 7, 10–11, 64–5, 67, 152, 162, 166, 175n; absence of (transparency) 57, 59–61; in works of art 94, 111, 114, 118; see also object (of senses) Columella 131 comedy 5n, 14n, 15, 164, 166 Condillac 2, 8, 19, 105n contamination 18, 118, 121–33, 136; see also dirt, pollution Cornelia (Vestal Virgin) 127, 129 Creon 37–8, 45–6 Cupid 19, 100–2, 150–7, 161, 164–6; see also desire, Eros Cyrenaics 64–7 daktulioi (“finger rings”) 94, 98, 100, 102 Danaids 156 death 28, 32, 40–1, 107, 118, 129–33, 158, 168, 172, 189 Deianeira 41 Delphi 150 Democritus 1, 51, 68n, 102n Descartes 9 desire 9, 11, 14, 14n, 19, 36n, 39, 47, 62, 79, 81–2, 87, 91, 98, 102, 115–16, 120, 131n, 143n, 150–68, 171, 177; see also Cupid, Eros dexiōsis (“handshake”) 83 Diana 141, 146, 154 Diderot 108–9 Diocles 185 Diogenes Laertius 102 Dionysius of Milan 73 Diotima 155, 157, 165 dirt 18, 121–3, 128–30, 132, 170 disease 19, 40, 43, 122, 181–91 disgust/revulsion 37, 47, 118–19, 121–2, 127, 131, 177 Doidalsas of Bithynia 87 Domitian 127 dryness; see moisture ears 3, 21–2, 25, 27–8, 32, 70, 82, 105, 137, 142, 151, 155n, 188; see also memory Egypt 6, 79, 94n, 99, 168 ekphrasis 154n, 162, 166 Electra 24 embodiment 18–19, 34–6, 38, 40–1, 47, 49, 55, 78, 84–5, 87–9, 98, 104–5, 111–12, 119, 138, 144, 146, 148, 153, 173; somatosensory system 108, 110, 117, 144, 184; see also haptic system, kinetics/ kinaesthesia, memory, proprioception, touch emotion 2–3, 14, 24, 29n, 30, 33n, 35–6, 44, 46, 48, 135, 138, 144, 181; see also affect, disgust/revulsion

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Empedocles 1n, 51 Encolpius 30–1 Enlightenment 4, 75 Ennius 134–5 epic 17, 21, 22n, 31, 34n, 138, 168, 169n; see also Apollonius of Rhodes, Biblical epic, Ennius, Homer, Ovid, Vergil Epicureans/Epicureanism 16, 64–9, 72, 73nn Epicurus 65, 67, 71–4 epigram 6–7, 18, 84, 95, 102, 135, 137–8, 142, 144–9, 168, 171; see also Carmina Priapea, Greek Anthology, Martial, Posidippus epimaiesthai (“to grasp”, “to lay hold of”) 27, 30 Erasistratus 184–6 Eros 87–8, 155; see also Cupid, desire erotics 20, 31, 87, 97–8, 102, 115, 138, 140, 142, 153–7, 164–5; see also caress, desire, kiss, sexual intercourse Esau 21 Eumaeus 23, 27–8 Euripides 14n, 22n, 39, 45n, 48n, 118n, 130n Euryclea 16–17, 22–33, 134 Eurynome 29 Eurysakes 42–3 Eustathius 24–9, 31n Eve 19, 167–8, 171–2, 176 Exodus; see Bible eyes 3, 10, 22, 25–6, 29, 32–3, 37, 42, 45, 48, 51, 57, 67–8, 70, 73, 81–2, 87, 105–6, 114, 117, 137, 142, 145, 149–53, 155, 161–2, 166–7, 172, 175, 188 face 3, 27, 30–1, 150–2, 162, 169–70, 174, 185–6 Falconet 105–6 Faustus of Riez 174 feet 4, 7, 20, 23–5, 27, 29n, 30–3, 37, 40, 43–4, 183, 185 fingers 4–5, 7–11, 18, 21, 27, 93n, 94, 97–8, 100, 102, 107, 134–5, 139, 141, 144, 181 189 fire 10, 32, 51, 54–5, 65–6, 69–71, 73–4, 115, 117, 119, 124n, 173, 175–6, 185 flamen Dialis 126 flavour 57, 68, 159n, 172; see also object (of senses) flesh 1, 2n, 3, 5, 7, 9, 11, 18, 35n, 47, 52, 56n, 58, 60–2, 65, 67, 84, 89, 91, 94, 100, 112, 114, 118, 120, 138–9, 148–9, 153, 158–9, 162, 168, 173–4, 190 Fulgentius 153 funerary monuments (stelai) 82–4 Galatea 8, 11–12, 105n, 106n Galen 5–6, 17, 19, 81n, 180–1, 187–91

Gellius, Aulus 124, 126nn gems 18, 82, 94n, 95, 98–104 gender 23n, 87, 89n, 116 Genesis; see Bible genitalia 4, 186; see also penis/phallus Giton 30–1 God 85–7, 93n, 99, 167–72, 174–7, 179 Goethe 105n, 107 gold 9–11, 14, 85, 91–2, 94, 100–2, 114, 152 graffiti 145n, 148 Greek Anthology 6–7, (84n) Greek Magical Papyri 98 hair 21, 42, 48, 97, 119, 134, 139n, 142, 151–2, 162, 164–5, 173, 186 hands 1–9, 11, 14–19, 21–33, 41–8, 55n, 56n, 62, 69, 75–105, 107, 110, 115, 118, 120, 123–5, 127–31, 134, 136–40, 142, 144, 147–56, 162, 164, 170, 172, 175, 177, 180, 186–7, 189 haphē (“touch”, “touching) 1n, 5, 14n, (51n), 54, 56, (58), 64, 65n, 66, 72, (120), 159n, 160, 170, 180, 185, 188–9 haptesthai (“to touch”, “to grasp”, “to lay hold of”) 2, (6), 6n, 25n, 27, 30, 48, 51n, 52n, 53–4, 140 haptic system 3; see also embodiment, proprioception, touch hardness; see pressure Hawthorne 10, 13 hearing; Aristotle 2, 5, 56–60, 138n, 159–60; Avitus 170; Galen 188, 190; Hippocratic corpus 180; Lucretius 67–8; Mamertus 175; Philodemus 67; Plato 162; and touch 2, 5, 16, 22, 29, 57–60, 67–9, 104, 134–5, 154, 159, 166; and recognition 16, 22, 24–5, 27, 29, 31, 33; and tragedy 34, 38, 45–6; see also ears, medium (of senses), object (of senses) heart 3, 20, 40, 61, 147, 149, 160, 165, 173, 178, 183; see also touch, organ (of senses) heat; see temperature heaven 117, 172–4, 176–7 Hebrew scriptures; see Bible Hecuba 39n, 140 Hegel 79, 105n hēgemonikon; see soul Helen 24, 26n Heracles/Hercules 39–45, 117–25, 128, 133; Farnese Hercules 116, 117n Herder 8n, 18, 38n, 77, 79n, 89n, 105–20 Hermaphrodite; see Sleeping Hermaphrodite Herodas 84 Herodotus 26n, 73n

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Herophilus 180n, 184, 186 Hippocrates/Hippocratic corpus 2n, 16, 19, 81n, 180–5 Homer 16, 46n, 145n, 159; Iliad 91n, 123n; Odyssey 21–33, 82, 91n; see also Argus, epic, Euryclea, Odysseus, Penelope Horace 135, 168n Hyllus 40–1, 43n Iago 164 ice/frost 14, 55, 69–71, 73–4 impression 8, 14, 25, 34, 93, 113, 119, 163, 166, 188; in clay/ivory/plaster/wax 18, 93–5, 99–102, 104; phantasiai (“sense impressions”) 18, 67, 91, 102, 154; tupos (“impression”) 94, 102 internal touch; see touch intimacy 17, 27, 32–3, 44, 82, 97, 119, 131–2, 151–2; see also caress, kiss, sexual intercourse intaglios 100–3; see also gems, impression, seals, wax Isaac 21 Ismene 21–2, 46n, 48 ivory 1, 7–9, 11, 14, 18, 91–3, 105 Jacob 21 Jesus 21, 167, 177 John (Evangelist) 21, 167, 177 Julian Prefect of Egypt 6 Juvenal 126, 130–1 kinetics/kinaesthesia 3, 107–8, 110, 112–14, 117–19 kiss 7–8, 22, 71, 91, 93, 95, 128, 130–2, 150, 152–3, 162 koinē aisthēsis (“common sense”) 1, 19, 65, 160–4, 166 Laertes 26 language 2, 25, 80; of contamination 121, 128, 132–3; Greek 53; haptic qualities of 134–5, 139, 142, 144; Latin 122, 125, 129; of touch; see touch; see also metaphor, simile Lessing 105n, 107n Lichas 30–1 lips 2n, 4–5, 128, 149, 151, 185 Locke 4n, 108 Lucan 130 Lucretius 4, 17, 64, 66–74, 128n, 130n, 168n Lycus 124 Lysippus 109 Macrobius 121, 125n, 126 magic 98, 99n Mamertus, Claudianus 174–6

Marius 130 Martial 130, 137–8, 145, 146n Martianus Capella 153 Mary Magdalene 19, 177, 179 Mavortius 121 medicine 6, 16, 180–91; see also Hippocrates/ Hippocratic corpus, Galen, numbness, physicians medium (of senses) 3, 59–60; hearing [=air] 3, 59–60; sight [=air/water] 3, 57, 59–60; smell [=air] 59; touch [=flesh] 3, 9, 57–61 memory 22n, 104, 117, 120, 146, 151; Galen 187; Plato 102; Pliny the Elder 104n; damnatio memoriae 79; and the ear 104n; motor/muscle 108, 113, 117–19; and recognition 24, 26–7, 32; through the senses 34; smell 21; touch 21, 26–7, 32, 39, 49, 110 Menelaus 38, 42 Merleau-Ponty 4, 8–9, 11, 14n, 35n, 62, 80n metaphor 18, 39n, 73n, 105n, 136n, 149; relating to sight 73n, 80n, 155, 162, 163n; relating to touch 8n, 11, 14n, 55n, 79n, 80–2, 91, 102, 135, 137–9, 144, 148–9, 155, 163n, 181 Midas 9–11, 13–14 Milo 130 mimesis 35n, 36n, 37, 39, 93, 118 Minerva; see Athena/Minerva moisture 2; dryness 6, 16, 47n, 58, 60n, 135, 147, 180; wetness 6, 16, 115, 190 Molyneux 4, 108 motion 17, 51–4, 56–7, 58n, 59, 61–2, 119, 154, 162, 173, 177, 185–7, 189, 191; kinēsis (“motion”) 53–4, 160, 185–6, 189 mouth 3, 4, 11, 68, 91, 130–2, 151, 166, 172, 182–3, 189; see also kiss, lips, sexual intercourse, taste, tongue Muses 147 museums 15, 75–8, 80, 82, 87, 99–101, 103, 104n, 105n; British Museum 15, 75–7, 82, 87, 100; Parthenon marbles 75, 119n; prohibition against touching in 75–8, 93, 100 Myron 6–7, 84 Neoptolemus 39, 43–4, 46 neuroscience; see brain noli me tangere (“do not touch me”) 19, 177–8 nose 3, 185 novel 17, 31n, 152–7, 165; see also Apuleius, Petronius numbness 9n, 11, 19–20, 180–93 object (of senses); 56–7; hearing [=sound] 2, 56–9, 69, 160; sight [=colour] 2, 57–9, 69, 160–1, 162n, 166; smell [=aroma]

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160; taste [=flavour] 57, 160; touch [no single object] 58–9, 69, 160; see also Aristotle Odysseus 16, 21–33, 38, 39n, 43–4, 63, 82, 84, 134 Oedipus 21–2, 24, 37–40, 45–9 Old Testament [Hebrew bible]; see Bible Olympians 139, 143 Olympus 118, 150, 157 omens 121 Orestes 24 organ (of senses) 59–61; problem of locating, for touch 9, 17, 55n, 57–61, 65–7, 139, 168, 176, 178; see also ears, eyes, hands, fingers, flesh, heart, mouth, nose, palms, penis/phallus, tongue Othello 151, 164 Ovid 1n, 6n, 8, 10–11, 14n, 89, 91, 93, 94n, 105, 110, 130n, 135–6, 142n, 168n; Amores 95n; Art of Love 139n; Ibis 130n; Metamorphoses 1n, 8, 10–11, 14n, 89–94, 136, 142n; Tristia 135 Pacuvius 16, 22, 31–3 Paetus and Arria (The Gaul and his Wife) 118 pain 19, 55, 107, 118n, 168, 182, 191; Aretaeus 186; Archigenes 190; Aristotle 3, 62, 158–9n; Cyrenaics 64–5; Galen 181, 187–8, 190; Hippocratic corpus 183; Lucretius 71; Seneca the younger 181; depiction of in tragedy 17, 34–49, 118; see also medicine, numbness, physicians, violence painting 23, 75, 77–8, 79n, 80n, 84–5, 94, 103, 105, 107n, 113n, 149; Herder on 8n, 109, 111, 115, 118; illusory quality of 7, 84, 112; see also Apelles, Parrhasius, sculpture, Zeuxis palms 1n, 4, 27 Parrhasius 7, 84 Parthenon marbles/frieze 75, 77, 119n; see also museums Pasquino group 118 Pausanias (Platonic character) 153 Pausanias (Greek sophist) 189 Penelope 23, 24–7, 29, 31, 33n penis/phallus 31, 136, 137n, 139–41, 149, Petronius 16, 22, 30–1, 33, 121, 131–2 phantasiai (“sense impressions”); see impression phenomenology 4, 14, 20, 35n, 60, 62, 95, 107, 138 Phidias 109, 144 Philoctetes 34, 36–40, 43–4, 46, 118 Philodemus 66, 69–70 Philoetius 23

philosophy; see Apuleius, Aristotle, atoms/ atomism, Cyrenaics, Democritus, Empedocles, Epicureans/Epicureanism, Lucretius, Plato, Pre-Socratics, Socrates, Stoics/Stoicism Phineus 21 phusis (“nature”) 6, 41, 50, 72, (158), 178n, 187 physicians 6, 180–1, 184–7, 189; see also medicine plants 1, 24, 53, 55–6, 63, 158 Plato 16, 19, 50–2, 68, 81, 152–7, 159, 161–6, 167, 182; Gorgias 156; Meno 182; Phaedrus 6n, 155, 163; Republic 156, 162–3; Symposium 153, 155, 163; Theaetetus 52, 102, 163–4; Timaeus 51–2, 65; see also memory, Socrates, soul pleasure 10, 36, 52, 63, 71, 107, 111, 115–16, 138, 155–7, 158–9, 161, 172; and aesthetics 18, 110; bodily/sensual 19, 69, 87, 140, 143; see also erotics; and pain 14, 55, 62, 64–5; tragic 37; see also affect, emotion, Voluptas Pliny the Elder 1, 5, 7, 10, 84, 87, 89, 104 Pliny the Younger 127 Plotinus 153 Plutarch 72n, 73n, 125n, 126 pollution 37, 45, 121–33, 136; see also contamination, dirt Polyphemus 21 Pompeii 98n, 145n Posidippus 6n, 95, 102 Praxagoras 185–6 Praxiteles 89–90 Pre-Socratics 1, 50–2, 59, 81; see also Democritus, Empedocles pressure 2, 6, 9, 107, 109, 182, 189, 190–1; hardness 5–6, 8, 10–11, 16, 42, 51, 58, 60, 66, 70, 89, 94, 110, 159, 180 190; malleability 1, 7–8, 14, 93–4, 100, 102, 170; softness 5–6, 8, 16, 51, 58, 66, 70, 159, 180 Priapus 18, 134–49 Priscian of Lydia 51 proprioception 3, 18, 112–13, 119 prostitution 18, 127, 131 proxemics 36, 39, 44–6, 48–9 psauein (“to touch”, “lay hands upon”) 6n, (21), (43), 45–6, 48 psēlaphān (“to feel”, “to grope about”) 21, 25–6 Prudentius 168 Psyche 19, 150–66, 171 pulse 6, 8, 19, 84, 119, 180–1, 185, 187 pupils 57, 60–1; see also eyes Pygmalion 1, 7–14, 18, 77n, 89, 91, 93–4, 98, 105–7, 110, 112, 116, 120

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rape 132, 134–49 reading 18–19, 135–8, 139n, 141–9, 154n, 157, 164–5 recognition scenes 16, 21–33 Riegl 79, 80n, 81 Romanius Hispo 132 Rome 15, 95, 107, 114, 121–3, 125–6, 128–30, 132–3, 136, 187, 189 Romulus Quirinus; see Mavortius roughness; see texture Rousseau 8 Sallust 125n, 129n sculpture 2, 9n, 12–14, 17, 19, 34, 75–97, 100, 102, 105–20, 134n, 136, 145–6, 149, 154; bronze 6, 7n, 84, 94–7, 114, 128, 134; contrasted with painting 7, 8n, 77, [78], 79n, 84–5, 112–13, 118; Herder on 8n, 18, 77, 79n, 89n, 105–20; illusory quality of 6, 81, 84, 116–18; ivory 1, 7–9, 11, 14, 18, 91–3, 105; kinetic appeal of 113–14; marble 8, 75–7, 79–80, 82–3, 87–91, 94–5, 97, 100, 105–6, 108–9, 113–16, 118–20, 134, 144; miniature 81–2, 91, 93, 95–8, 102; relief 75, 77, 79, 82–3, 119n; tactile appeal of 14, 18, 77, 107, 110–12, 115–16, 128; Winckelmann on 18, 89n, 105, 107, 114–15; see also Lysippus, Myron, Praxiteles, Pygmalion seals 17, 82, 93–5, 98–100, 102–3; see also impression, intaglios, wax semiotics 35n, 36–7, 39 Seneca the Elder 124n, 126n, 127n, 130, 131n, 132 Seneca the Younger 124, 181n senses; see hearing, koinē aisthēsis (“common sense”), medium (of senses), object (of senses), organ (of senses), sight, sixth sense, smell, synaesthesia, taste, touch sentire (“to feel”, “to sense”, “to perceive”) 14, 64, 173 sexual intercourse 14n, 31, 47, 79, 87, 125–7, 130–1, 133, 136, 138–41, 143–4, 153, 158, 159n, 162, 186; oral 130, 140n, 143; see also caress, erotics, rape Shakespeare 35, 151, 164 sight; Aristotle 3, 5, 24, 50–2, 56–61, 67, 138n, 160, 161, 162n, 166; Augustine 175, 179; Avitus 19, 170, 172; Christianity 167–9; Eustathius 24–5; Galen 188; Hippocratic corpus 180; Lucretius 67–9, 70n; Mamertus 175; Plato 16, 52, 162; Pliny the Elder 5; Stoicism 68, 81n; and touch 2, 4, 14n, 37, 61, 68, 77, 80–1, 97, 103, 108–10, 155, 159, 168; and recognition 26–31; and tragedy

34–49; see also blindness, Diderot, eyes, medium (of senses), Molyneux, object (of senses) simile 93–4, 170 sixth sense 28–9. 33, 160; see also koinē aisthēsis (“common sense”) skin 3, 5, 6n, 8–9, 11, 14, 15n, 20–2, 25n, 32, 47, 56, 60n, 91n, 107, 118, 135, 139, 140, 150–2, 160, 180, 189–90 slaves 5, 18, 30, 36, 121, 124, 126–7, 132, 158 sleep 26n, 44, 116, 150–2, 160, 166, 190 Sleeping Hermaphrodite 115–16 smell; Aristotle 2, 24n, 57, 59–60, 131n, 138, 160, 164, 166; Avitus 170, 172; Eustathius 28; Galen 188; Hippocratic corpus 180, 185; Lucretius 67–8, 70n; Mamertus 175; Pliny the Elder 2; and animals 28, 33, 56n; and pollution 121, 131; and recognition 21, 24n, 28, 33; and touch 2, 5, 28, 56, 154, 175, 180, 188; and tragedy 43n, 44n; see also medium (of senses), nose, object (of senses) smoothness; see texture Socrates 5, 6n, 52, 102, 155–6, 162–3, 182 softness; see pressure Sophocles 14, 17, 21–2, 34–49; Ajax 43–4, 45n; Antigone 45n; Electra 22n; Niptra (The Washing) 31–2; Odysseus Acanthoplex (Odysseus Wounded by the Spine) 32; Oedipus at Colonus 21–2, 34, 38–9, 45n, 46–8; Oedipus the King 22, 24, 34, 37, 39, 40n, 45–9; Philoctetes 34, 37–40. 43–4, 46; Trachiniae 39–41, 43n, 44–5; see also Ajax, Heracles/Hercules, Odysseus, Oedipus, Philoctetes, tragedy Soranus 187 soul 17, 19, 50–63, 71, 82, 102, 105, 119–20, 150–66; anima/animus (“soul”) 71, 156–7, 163, 173–4, 176; hēgemonikon (“ruling part” of soul) 184, 187–8; psuchē (“soul”) 50, 82, 84, 102, 105, 120, 150, 163, 166, 178, 182, 186 sound; see hearing, object (of senses) Stoics/Stoicism 18, 65, 68, 81, 91, 102 Suetonius 127n, 129n supplication 2, 15, 78n sweetness 46, 54, 65, 67, 160, 161n, 163, 168n, 171–2 synaesthesia 19, 103–4, 109n, 151, 158, 160–3, 166 Tacitus 124, 130 tactus (“touch”, “touching”) 5n, 17, 19, 64, 65n, 67–73, 169, 171–2, 175, 177

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tangere (“to touch”) 10, 14, 19, 126n, 140, 167, 169, 172–5, 176n, 177–9 Tarquinius Superbus 125 taste; Aristotle 2n, 5n, 56–7, 59, 63n, 138n, 144n, 158–9, 162; Avitus 170, 172; Galen 188; Hippocratic corpus 180; Lucretius 68; Mamertus 175; Philodemus 67; and touch 2, 34, 49, 57, 59, 63n, 68, 135, 143, 158–9, 162; see also medium (of senses), mouth, object (of senses), tongue Tecmessa 38, 42 Telemachus 28–9 temperature 2, 5, 9, 60, 66, 69n, 91, 107, 110, 151, 182, 191; cold 6, 10–11, 14n, 51, 54, 55n, 58, 66, 70, 74, 93, 158, 175, 180, 185–6, 190–1; heat 3n, 6, 7, 51, 54, 58, 65–6, 69–70, 74, 94, 135, 145, 158, 162, 175, 180, 186; warming 11, 32n, 66, 91, 93–4, 97, 100, 151, 162, 165–6, 173–4, 184; see also fire, ice/frost Teucer 42–4 texture 2, 9, 15, 23, 32, 36n, 69n, 78–9, 91, 110, 134–5, 151; roughness 51, 60, 69, 134–5, 171; smoothness 7n, 32, 51, 68–9, 97, 100, 115, 119, 135, 140, 151, 153, 160, 162 Themison 184n, 186 Theodorus 95, 102 Theophrastus 51, 68n, 84n Theseus 46–8 thinganein (“to touch”, “to handle”) 14, 21, 43, 53n Thomas (Doubting) 21, 177 Tibullus 124n, 125–7 tongue 2n, 4, 65, 68, 70 torture 5, 30, 115, 129 touch; Aristotle 1–3, 5, 9–10, 17, 50–63, 81, 138, 139n, 144n, 157–61, 166, 168, 170, 176, 178n, 180; Augustine 19, 65n, 172–4, 177–9; Avitus 19, 169–72, 176–7; Cyrenaics 64–7; Galen 6nn, 17, 19, 180–1, 187–91; Hippocratic corpus 19, 182–7; Lucretius 17, 67–74; Mamertus 175; Philodemus 66–7; Plato 6n, 50–2, (155–7); Pliny the Elder 1n, 5, 7, 84; PreSocratics 1, 50–1, 52n, 59, 68n, 81; Stoics 65, 81; and agency 2, 4, 95, 97–8, 122, 148–9; and animation 1n, 6–7, 17, 50, 53–5, 62, 93, 139, 148–9; and children 10, 14, 18, 21, 27, 42, 45–6, 48, 109–10; and the dead 21, 38, 42–5, 47–8, 82–4, 117–18, 108, 110, 122, 126, 129–33, 158, 168, 172, 189; and deferral 9, 18–19, 110, 119, 140–1, 179; as indicator of truth or knowledge 5–7, 10, 14, 16–17,

19, 21–33, 34, 36, 39, 51–2, 55n, 63, 64–6, 79, 81–93, 100, 104, 108, 110–12, 152, 155, 158–63, 171, 180–1; see also basanos (“touchstone”); internal (“inner touch”) 3, 17, 60–2, 64–74, 80, 87, 97, 112; see also embodiment, haptic system, proprioception; loss or absence of; see numbness; mother’s 17, 27, 32n, 47, 82, 87, 100, 102; as opposed to (noncognitive) “contact” 17, 50–1, 53–63, 64, 67–8, 71–2, 74, 81, 155, 181; prohibition against 15, 48, 75, 77, 93, 100, 121–33, 177; see also museums; passive 8, 9, 52n, 67, 72, 91, 130–1, 189; in ranking of the senses 4, 26n, 81, 138, 159, 175–6; and resistance to language/categorization 2, 134, 181; and responsiveness 9–11, 18, 26, 48, 94, 50, 56, 63, 94; reversibility/ reciprocity of 8–11, 18–19, 49, 54n, 62, 91, 113, 116, 136–7, 148, 175; seeing as form of 18, (42), 68, 81–2, 93, 137, 155; self-reflexive 3, 8–14, 19, 35n, 62–3, 66, 71, 87, 113, 175; and subjectivity 2, 6n, 8n, 14, 67, 81, 91, 148–9; and technology 9n, 15; and transgression 19, 47, 49, 82, 87, 121, 136–7, 168; “wholebody” touch 3, 17–19, 34, 37, 111–12, 116, 117n, 138, 144–6, 148, 170, 173–4, 176, 178–9; see also embodiment; words relating to (verbs, Greek): see amphaphān, epimaiesthai, haptesthai, psauein, psēlaphān, thinganein; (verbs, Latin): see sentire, tangere; (nouns, Greek): see dexiōsis, haphē; (nouns, Latin): see tactus; (phrases): see noli me tangere; see also animals, contamination, desire, flesh, hands, intimacy, medium (of senses), object (of senses), organ (of senses), pain, plants, skin, violence tragedy 17, 21, 31–3, 34–49, 164; see also Aeschylus, Euripides, Pacuvius, Seneca the Younger, Sophocles Trimalchio 131–2 Troy 24, 123 Underworld 82 Valerius Maximus 127n, 129n, 130n Varro 121, 125, 129 Venus; see Aphrodite/Venus Verres 128 Vergil 168; Aeneid 121nn, 123, (124n), 125n; Eclogues 104n Vesta 124, 141, 146 Vestal Virgins 91n, 124n, 127, 129; see also Cornelia (Vestal Virgin)

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vestibular system 3, 108n violence 5, 18–19, 38–40, 43, 74, 79, 130, 137, 140; see also rape, torture vision; see sight voice 21, 24, 28, 30–2, 141n, 149, 150, 155, 162, 165–6 Voluptas (Pleasure) 150, 165

wax 8, 11, 14n, 17–18, 82, 93–4, 98, 100, 102, 170 wetness; see moisture Winckelmann 18, 89n, 105, 107, 112, 114–15, 117n wood 54, 93, 139, 141n, 149 wormwood 68n, 168n

water 11, 27, 32, 54, 57, 60, 122, 124–5, 131, 156, 175–6

Zeus 48, 123n Zeuxis 7, 84

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