Utopias in Ancient Thought 3110733412, 9783110733419, 9783110733129

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Utopias in Ancient Thought

Beiträge zur Altertumskunde

Herausgegeben von Susanne Daub, Michael Erler, Dorothee Gall, Ludwig Koenen und Clemens Zintzen

Band 395

Utopias in Ancient Thought Edited by Pierre Destrée, Jan Opsomer and Geert Roskam

ISBN 978-3-11-073820-9 e-ISBN (PDF) 978-3-11-073312-9 e-ISBN (EPUB) 978-3-11-073341-9 ISSN 1616-0452 Library of Congress Control Number: 2021933287 Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; Detailed bibliographic data are available in the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2021 Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Berlin/Boston Printing and binding: CPI books GmbH, Leck www.degruyter.com

Content P. Destrée, J. Opsomer, G. Roskam Preface VII Giulia Sissa The quest for the best. Praise, blame, utopia

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Stephen E. Kidd What will we do when we get there? Utopia and Dicing in Greek Comedy 41 Thornton C. Lockwood What Thomas More learned from Herodotus about Utopia Carol Atack Temporality and utopia in Xenophon and Isocrates Julia Annas Plato’s ideal society and Utopia

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Dimitri El Murr Plato and Utopia: Philosophy, Power, and Practicability in Plato’s Republic 121 Antony Hatzistavrou Plato and the utopia within us

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Christoph Horn Aristotle’s ‘City of our Prayers’ within the History of Political Utopianism 167 Suzanne Husson Utopia and the quest for autarkeia Gretchen Reydams-Schils Were the later Stoics anti-utopians?

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Sean McConnell Cicero and the Golden Age Tradition

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Iris Sulimani All Over the World: The Utopian Idea in Diodorus Siculus Inger N.I. Kuin Laughter in Lucian’s Utopias of the Dead

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David Engels Tao Yuanming’s ‘Peach Blossom Source’ and the Ideal of the ‘Golden Age’ in Classical Antiquity: Utopias in Ancient China and Classical Antiquity 277 Index locorum

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Preface When Thomas More published his famous work De optimo Reipublicae Statu deque Nova Insula Utopia, he could not foresee that its title would give rise to a new literary genre. Other authors very soon developed similar or different utopias, or elaborated dystopias, and since then, this combination of creative philosophical thinking and inventive imagination has never ceased. Although More thus inaugurated a new and very rich literary tradition, he did not produce his new genre from nothing. As a matter of fact, he was in more than one respect indebted to an age-old ancient tradition of ‘utopian thinking’. Plato, of course, comes to mind as the principal source for such utopian thinking, but in fact, the tradition itself is considerably older. It can ultimately be traced back to the earliest phase of Greek literature. In the Odyssey, Homer described Scheria, the island of the Phaeacians, as a place where nature provided everything in abundance (7,112– 132). This motif of the bios automatos also occurs in several of Theocritus’ Idylls, in Latin poetry of the Augustan period, and especially in ancient comedy (see Telecleides, Amphityones fr. 1; PCG VII, p. 668 for a particularly salient example). It is sometimes connected with that of the ‘Golden Age’, the earliest version of which can be found in Hesiod’s Works and days (109 – 126). Famous adaptations of the ‘Golden Age’ theme can be found in Aratus (Phaen. 100 – 114) and Vergil’s fourth Eclogue. Both of these motifs were a constant source of inspiration for later utopian literature. As a rule, utopian societies indeed benefit from abundant natural blessings, which make hard work unnecessary, and show all the high moral qualities associated with primitive generations. In Aristotelian terms, one might perhaps characterize this motif as the material cause, as it were, of a Utopia. But what function does it perform? In many cases, a Utopia may have a positive role, that of presenting an ideal city, or state, which allows us human beings the best possible life. As we will see, Magnesia in Plato’s Laws clearly seems to have such a role. But there is another, perhaps even more important, if negative, role that is very well exemplified in Thomas More’s own Utopia: through presenting an ideal case, to help us readers of such a fiction look at our own real city, or state, with a critical eye. Contrary to Magnesia, this may very well be the primary function of Kallipolis. This notwithstanding, as many scholars have suggested, Kallipolis may well have a hidden, direct ancestor: Aristophanes’ utopian cities of which Nephelokokkugia (‘Cloudcuckooland’) is arguably the most famous. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110733129-001

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As Giulia Sissa argues in ‘The quest for the best. Praise, blame, utopia’, comedy should be best considered as the actual birthplace of full-fledged Utopia. Contrary to what one might think, this should come as no surprise. In More’s Utopia, praise is what best characterizes the passionate presentation that Raphaël Hythlodaeus makes of the utopian society. In classical Athens, praise and eulogy of the Athenian people and power was a crucial feature. When locating a new, fictional city in the sky, Aristophanes also uses the language of praise, or actually self-praise, in order to make his audience laugh, and thus, make them rethink their own city and their democracy. There is another sense in which one should not confuse the Golden Age and Utopia. Thomas More makes it clear that there will be no playing dice in Utopia: the inhabitants of Utopia do not so much as know “dice or other such foolish and ruinous games”. And this is the case in ancient texts as well: while dicing is absent from ancient utopian landscapes (notably in Aristophanes’ Ecclesiazusae) it is present in the landscapes of paradise (both in Teleclides, and Cratinus). As Stephen Kidd shows (‘What will we do when we get there?: Utopia and Dicing in Greek Comedy’), in utopia one finds goals like self-improvement and goods like efficiency, while in paradise, efficiency, self-improvement, even the very concept of goals simply make no sense. Thus, a utopia, contrary to what paradise would consist in, supposes self-improvement, and more generally, something ideal that is to be pursued. In this respect, the question of the ideal constitution is central to the topic of utopia. This, of course, became one of the main issues in ancient Greek political philosophy from Plato onwards, but again, the tradition is older than Plato. In Thomas More’s Utopia, Raphael Hythloday bestows upon the islanders of Utopia a library of Greek authors, which includes Herodotus (alongside more traditional political thinkers such as Plato, Aristotle, and Thucydides). Herodotus’ inclusion on the Utopian reading list invites the question of whether his History is in any sense a work in utopian political theory. As Thornton Lockwood argues (‘What Thomas More learned from Herodotus about Utopia’), Herodotus focuses primarily on political and social customs: similar to More, Herodotus uses the otherness of distant political and social customs as an opportunity to theorize and evaluate political institutions. Different ‘utopian’ motifs, then, were in the air long before Plato undertook to conceive his ideal state in a more systematic and philosophically stringent way. Moreover, Plato also had other thinkers as more direct predecessors, although our information about them is quite meagre. In the second book of his Politics, Aristotle mentions the political views of Phaleas of Chalcedon and Hippodamus of Miletus. The former especially focused on equality of possessions and education, developing a new system of dowries (1266a37– 1267b21). The lat-

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ter devised a constitution for 10,000 citizens that was largely based on a tripartite structure (1267b22– 1268b25). Although the political ideals of both thinkers were impracticable and even somewhat naive, their views illustrate a growing interest in the improvement of existing constitutions and even in the development of blueprints of ideal constitutions. Thus, they paved the way for Plato. Plato has imagined no less than three ‘utopian’ cities: Kallipolis in the Republic, Atlantis in the Timaeus and the Critias, and Magnesia in the Laws. In her ‘Plato’s ideal society and Utopia’, Julia Annas reconsiders their respective status. In the same way More’s Utopia will do, Kallipolis must be seen, Annas claims, as a ‘philosophical Utopia’, that is not as an ideal city that should be implemented as it is described but rather as an imaginatively presented society whose odd and idiosyncratic features are meant to help us readers reflect on the society in which we live in. And this is also the case with Atlantis. It actually may explain why Plato apparently decided to leave it unfinished once he realized how appealing the dystopia of Atlantis (which is supposed to represent Athens itself and its imperialism) has become to his readers, and therefore not only unhelpful but even damaging to them. But if Kallipolis is primarily meant as philosophical, Plato was certainly also keen of the idea of trying to produce the best possible society in the real world. The problem, though, is how to start. There is no starting point in the Republic: in order to have a perfect society, you must have citizens educated in the perfect way, which supposes a perfect society. Hence, Plato’s project of Magnesia, where laws are the central feature: once people agree to live under certain perfect laws, and thus are supposed to become more and more perfect themselves, a perfect city could develop. The problem of practicability of a Utopia is also dealt by Dimitri El Murr (‘Philosophy, Power, and Practicability in Plato’s Republic’) and Anthony Hatzistavrou (‘Plato and the utopia within us’). El Murr claims that this problem is intimately connected to Socrates’ defence of philosophy in the central books of the Republic. For the transformation of the image most people have of the philosopher is a key element of Plato’s argument in favour of the practicability of the ideal city. Hatzistavrou focuses on Plato’s account of the rule of reason as the ‘utopia within us’. Plato, he claims, may have realized how unrealisable such model of human agency would be at least if one takes it in a purely epistemic way. Hence his defence of the importance of the laws: the members of the Nocturnal Council in the Laws and possibly the philosopher-rulers in the Republic continue to control their desires by subordinating themselves to the institution of law. While Plato is ambivalent about the possibility of autonomous rule of reason, he believes that institutionally controlled rule of reason is viable. Like Plato, Isocrates and Xenophon were deeply impressed by the challenging and stimulating conversations with Socrates, yet their interests and focus sig-

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nificantly differed from Plato’s. This is especially true in their own versions of utopias. In ‘Temporality and utopia in Xenophon and Isocrates’, Carol Atack interprets Xenophon’s and Isocrates’ use of past and imagined political arrangements, such as the patrios politeia (ancestral constitution), as the basis for their re-imagined ideal versions of Sparta, Persia and Egypt. For them, the mythical past functions as a location for setting political ideals in play in a similar way to the spatially distinct utopias of later writers, whether Hellenistic ideal cities or Renaissance literary utopias. Unlike Plato, with his gestures towards the realisation of plans for Kallipolis and Magnesia, neither has any programme for restoring the past that they praise. Instead, Xenophon’s and Isocrates’ nostalgia for an imagined political past expresses a conservative hostility to political change, and a longing for personal virtue. Like Isocrates and Xenophon, Aristotle was far less inclined to elaborate speculative, political ideals than Plato. It is probably no coincidence that he inserted in the second book of his Politics a lengthy attack on Plato’s Republic and Laws. For his thorough familiarity with the various existing constitutions in the different cities of the Greek world no doubt helped him to see the weak points and the infeasibility of Plato’s theoretical ideals. Yet in the later books of his Politics, Aristotle tries to find out the model of the ideal polis himself. In ‘Aristotle’s ‘City of our Prayers’ within the History of Political Utopianism’, Christoph Horn defends the thesis that Aristotle, like Plato, develops a full-fledged utopia based on his own type of normativity: the aretaic and eudaimonic criterion as formulated at the beginning of Pol. VII. The best constitution is the one that leaves enough room for those who can develop their virtues – and thereby arrive at happiness – and that gives political power to these individuals. Aristotle’s utopia is that of his city of prayer (kat’ euchên); the other normatively attractive models, i. e. kingdom, aristocracy, polity (mixed constitution), and deliberative democracy are measured according to a single scale based on the question to what extent it leaves room for virtue and happiness. In Hellenistic philosophy, we again find several traces of ‘utopian’ thinking, especially in early Cynic and Stoic philosophy. In his own ‘Republic’, Diogenes of Sinope mainly advocated an ideal of self-sufficiency and personal freedom, against unreflecting conformism and broadly accepted customs. As Susanne Husson shows (‘Utopia and the quest for autarkeia’), the cynic claim to be self-sufficient is not, by itself, contradictory to utopian designing of a perfect community of sages: indeed other Greek philosophers, like Plato and Aristotle, faced the same problem and came to distinguish different meanings and levels of self-sufficiency, in order to solve it. So while cynics similarly claimed to be self-sufficient, particularly on an economic level, that does not logically imply a solitary life.

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The Stoic Zeno of Citium also wrote a ‘Republic’; several fragments suggest that in a somewhat similar cynic vein, he also severely criticised the existing customs (including the pedagogical system and the use of money). As Gretchen Reydams-Schils argues (‘Were the later Stoics anti-utopians?’), the political community outlined by Zeno has a function that is analogous to that of the Stoic sage, who is either non-existent or very rare: just as the sage is meant to guide ordinary human beings in their striving towards the goal of life as stipulated by the Stoics, an ideal political construct can still affect existing socio-political conditions if it is interpreted as a critique of prevailing practices. It is usually assumed though that later stoics did not follow that radical, transformative view of politics; focusing on the question of participation in public life and politics, Reydams-Schils argues that this is not the case. Unlike the Stoics, Epicurus was not interested at all in utopian constructions or theoretical drafts of ideal constitutions. He was a sober-minded thinker who turned to the demands of real life and recommended a careful and rational calculus of pleasure and pain in order to maximise our own pleasure and happiness. Yet there is one interesting Epicurean text that is usually ignored in discussions of ancient utopias, viz. a fascinating fragment from Diogenes of Oenoanda (56.I.1– 12 Smith), in which he evokes a future ‘Golden Age’, when the life of the gods will arrive, when everybody will be wise and when there will be no need of laws or walls, since everything will be full of justice and mutual friendship. This, for Diogenes, is just a hypothesis (whether or not influenced by the contemporary ideology of the Roman Empire), and nothing suggests that he has in mind a full-fledged utopian theory, yet he probably found a universal breakthrough of Epicurean philosophy an attractive and pleasant idea that was at least worth mentioning. Just like the Epicureans, the Academic sceptics showed little enthusiasm for utopian constructions, although in this tradition as well, the motif of the ‘Golden Age’ occasionally occurs. In ‘Cicero and the Golden Age tradition’, Sean McConnell makes the case that in De re publica and later philosophical works such as the Tusculan Disputations Cicero draws on philosophical accounts of the golden age in his analysis of the Roman res publica and the nature of Roman political virtue. By emphasising the intrinsic virtues of the Roman people, and the need to ensure the conditions that allow them to find proper expression in political life, he offers an achievable means for the Roman res publica to attain its best state, exemplified by its glorious past: rather than advocate an unworkable and problematic top-down imposition of a utopian model of an ideal state, Cicero is confident that the best state will come to be from the bottom-up, if the superior nature of the Roman people is simply allowed its full natural expression.

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Ancient philosophical tradition thus contains many ideas and motifs that have a ‘utopian’ flavour. Yet the ancient works that come closest to our modern concept of utopian literature are perhaps not to be found in philosophical literature but rather in historiography. That may seem surprising at first sight, but we may recall that even Plato’s myth of Atlantis is presented as a true discourse about the past, based on respectable sources. Theopompus, for his part, relates Silenus’ account of the world. Whereas Europe, Asia and Libya are only islands, so Silenus argues, there is a big continent that surrounds the outside of this world, with two big cities on it, called ‘Warlike’ and ‘Pious’. He also mentions the Meropes, in whose country can be found two rivers, ‘Pleasure’ and ‘Pain’. Whoever eats from the fruits of the trees that grow on the banks of the river ‘Pain’ never stops lamenting for the rest of his life. But the person who tastes from the trees alongside the other river, loses all his desires and is gradually rejuvenated until he dies as a baby. Aelian, who is our source here, concludes by characterizing Theopompus as a clever inventor of stories, a μυθόλογος (Aelian, Var. hist. 3,18). As a matter of fact, Theopompus combined several ‘utopian’ motifs, including elements from the ‘Golden Age’ and the bios automatos. Nothing is told, however, about the political constitution of the Meropes, and it would probably be wrong to regard Theopompus’ account as an elaborate and carefully considered utopian draft. Euhemerus introduced his well-known theory about the origin of the gods in the context of a ‘utopian’ story about the island Panchaea (see Diodorus of Sicily, 5,41– 46). Next to the typical motifs of the abundant life, socio-economic issues also receive attention, although Euhemerus’ overall discussion of the constitution of Panchaea was probably rather superficial and his first interest was presumably with his controversial theory about the gods. Euhemerus’ utopian work is often compared to that of Iambulus. The latter described his journey to the Islands of the Sun. There, he entered a fantastic world, inhabited by strange animals and beautiful people with remarkable customs. In ‘All Over the World: The Utopian Idea in Diodorus Siculus’, Iris Sulimani inspects Diodorus’ descriptions of idyllic islands, comparing them with accounts of utopian and dystopian places found in other authors, and examines Diodorus’ depictions of real lands, contrasting them with those of other writers. Her study demonstrates that Diodorus, inspired by the events and the politics of his day, locates the utopian islands on the edges of the oikoumenē, yet on the actual map of the world. Simultaneously, known lands and islands that bear resemblance to these utopian islands may be found either in the remote parts of the universe or nearby. The impact of Alexander’s campaign and its subsequent developments, as well as Caesar’s deeds, may explain the prevalence of the utopian idea in Diodorus’ work.

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Authors such as Euhemerus and Iambulus were a welcome source of inspiration for Lucian. His True stories is a particularly clever and humorous variation on the theme of utopian constructions. Lucian tells the story of a lengthy journey to several islands (including the moon, the Isle of the Blest, the Isle of Dreams, and many more; even Aristophanes’ Cloudcuckooland is mentioned), during which he learned to know their inhabitants and their customs. Especially interesting is the programmatic introduction to the work, in which Lucian bluntly states that nothing of what he will tell is true, thus straightforwardly opposing the truth claims of authors such as Iambulus, Ctesias and Homer. In ‘Laughter in Lucian’s Utopias of the Dead’, Inger Kuin deals with Lucian’s world of the dead, which could be imagined in many different ways in antiquity, as a canvas for utopian scenarios. From his writings two different versions of the underworld emerge: one is the paradisiacal Island of the Blessed in True Stories, the other the Cynics’ egalitarian dream world of The Dialogues of the Dead, Charon, Menippus, and Kataplus. Humour plays a central role in each scenario: it qualifies or even undermines these underworlds as utopian visions, but at the same time creates opportunities for coping with death through laughter. As we have seen, the theme of Golden age plays an important role in the utopian descriptions we find through Greek and Roman antiquity. And this is also a theme that is prominent in the Classical Chinese literature, in authors such as Laotse, Confucius, Han Fei and Tao Yuanming. But if some analogies are remarkable, the place of the State and of religion in a utopian society are rather dissimilar in both contexts. In ‘Tao Yuanming’s ‘Peach Blossom Source’ and the Ideal of the ‘Golden Age’ in Classical Antiquity: Utopias in Ancient China and Classical Antiquity’, David Engels shows that while in the Greek world, intimate links to the gods or a proper government are important (with the notable exceptions of the anarchism of the Cynic school and the rationalist approach of Euhemerism), Chinese philosophers of the pre-Buddhist era were generally adverse to depict their utopias as set up and guaranteed by the gods, as well as relied on the power of institutions. We may conclude this outline with a brief survey of several ancient attempts to realize utopian projects. Porphyry relates how his master Plotinus tried to refound a city in Campania and give it the name of Platonopolis. There, a group of philosophers would live under Plato’s laws. But the project was never achieved, due to the opposition of unnamed opponents from the entourage of the emperor (Porphyry, Vita Plot. 12). In addition to philosophers, politicians also pursued the actualisation of their utopian ideals. Agis IV of Sparta, for instance, tried to return to the Lycurgan constitution and to that purpose proposed a cancellation of debts and a redistribution of properties. But his noble aspirations were crushed by the rich and the naive young king paid for his lofty ideals with his life (see

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esp. Plutarch’s Life of Agis). More bizarre is the story of Alexarchus, the son of Antipater and brother of Cassander. Alexarchus founded Uranopolis, a new city on Mount Athos, and even developed a completely new language for it (Athenaeus, Deipnosoph. 3, 98df; cf. also Strabo, 7 fr. 35). Aristonicus, finally, tried to become the new king of Pergamon and therefore started a revolution. After he suffered defeat in a naval battle, be withdrew to the inland and assembled a group of poor men and slaves, calling them citizens of the town of the Sun. After a few initial successes, he was defeated and brought to Rome, where he was executed. A poor end of his utopian dream… Most of the articles in this volume were originally presented and discussed at an international conference held in Leuven and Louvain-la-Neuve from 10 to 12 March 2016. The conference was funded by FWO-Flanders and the FNRS. We also included several other articles which were not presented at the conference but which were specially written for this collection of studies.

Giulia Sissa

The quest for the best. Praise, blame, utopia

A utopia can be defined as a piece of fiction that creates a parallel universe. This is often the infinitely detailed representation of an imaginary society that a text (or a painting, or an architectural drawing) projects as already existing, in some place or time. Such a society will have to be exceptional, but entirely possible; difficult to discover, but now well known; arduous to emulate, and yet exemplary. It will have to be perfect in every way: complete and excellent, just, happy and stable. From this first definition, we may be tempted to generate a very long narrative. It would be a history of the Western collective aspiration to the ultimate good, summum bonum, beginning with mythological dreams about the past, whether the Golden Age, the state of nature or the Kingdom of Saturn.¹ This, however, might fail to capture the political significance of the utopian tradition. If we want to understand the distinctive intent of a utopian fiction, we should start from Thomas More’s dialogue on “The best state of a commonwealth and on the new island utopia” (De optimo rei publicae statu, deque nova insula utopia), where the word itself was coined as a pun meaning “no-place” (outopos). In response to the question of what would be a truly happy and just res publica – an optimal state nowhere to be found in the European, Christian world – a bizarre character called Raphael Hythlodaeus, whose surname means “Idel-Talk”, launches into the unexpected praise of people discovered on a picturesque “new island” in the Atlantic Ocean. Utopia was published in 1516 in Louvain, and in 1518 in Basel; it became an instant best-seller, was translated into several vernacular languages and set the standards of a genre of political theory – what we have come to identify as the “utopian” tradition². If we take seriously the ambition of Utopia, we need to provide a much more specific definition of utopia. Instead of enrolling Thomas More’s new island into a vast and vague category, so capacious that it can include Cratinos’ self-roasting fish, Pherecrates’ rivers of sauce and black broth as well as Hesiod’s Golden Age,

 As examples of this kind of comprehensive notion of utopia, see: Manuel & Manuel 1979; Ferguson 1975; Delumeau, 1992; Cleys & Sargent 1999; Ruffell 2000; DuBois 2006; Carsana 2008. For a comparative account of different definitions of utopia, see Bowman 1976; Davis 1981, Jouanno 2008.  More 1516 & 1995. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110733129-002

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we should try to understand what is it exactly that More invents or, at least, fashions into a paradigm³. Firstly, a proper utopia represents a society whose absolute happiness depends on factors such as a mode of production, a form of government, an administration, institutions, laws, customs and manners, sexual morality, and, often, a dress code, or a diet. This complex, all-inclusive, meticulous assemblage of features is precisely what More depicts in Utopia. And the fastidiousness of the description conveys the spirit of the utopian project: an exemplary society has to be picture-perfect in all its particulars. It is these visions, as grandiose as they are detailed, that we should call “utopias”, lest any allusion to some dreamlike form of wellbeing, such as a tableau of alimentary profusion or a scene of pastoral bliss, can fall into the same category. There is a profound difference between such basic reveries, although under the “reign” of an archaic god, and a political fantasy that transcends mere nostalgia for a carefree lifestyle full of automatic food. We should agree with Raymond Trousson, when he offers a much more demanding definition of utopia: Je proposerai donc ici de parler d’utopie lorsque, dans le cadre d’un récit (ce qui exclut les traités politiques), se trouve décrite une communauté (ce qui exclut la robinsonnade), organisée selon certains principes politiques, économiques, éthiques, restituant la complexité de l’existence sociale (ce qui exclut le monde à l’envers, l’âge d’or, Cocagne ou l’Arcadie), qu’elle soit présentée comme idéal à réaliser (utopie positive) ou comme la prévision d’un enfer (l’anti-utopie), qu’elle soit située dans un espace réel, imaginaire ou encore dans le temps, qu’elle soit enfin décrite au terme d’un voyage imaginaire vraisemblable ou non.⁴

Secondly, we have to go beyond the content of this kind of fiction. We must pay attention to the form of their expression, and to the circumstances of their utterance. What is said matters, of course, but so too does how, when, where, and for whom the message is produced. Utopian thinking/speaking uses a particular mode of discourse: praise. A utopia is not just an excellent state of which I sketch the contours, but a state that I extol in a rapturous panegyric, and that I invite you, ipso facto, to contemplate with delight, and in awe. I do not provide plain information; I execute a dramatic speech act. More precisely I perform what ancient rhetoric classifies as “display”, showing-off, demonstrative, epideictic speaking. The utopian imagination makes states that are, literally, admirable – ready-made to be admired. Utopia is praise. When Raphaël Hythlodaeus extols  Athenaeus, 6, 267e – 270b. See Kidd in this volume.  Trousson 2005, 1. See also 1975, 1998. On the need to preserve the political specificity of utopias, see Finley 1975; Davis 1981, Dowson 1992. Hansen 2004 revisits the question of utopia, in the perspective of representations of the city, in a variety of genres.

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the Utopians in More’s Utopia, he does exactly that: he utters a passionate, appreciative declamation.⁵ Thirdly, we have to explain why utopian thinking / speaking was born not in any old place, but in democratic Athens. Thomas More’s Utopia is meant to be a remake of the Republic. And even before Plato’s invention of Kallipolis, a “City of Beauty” that is nowhere to be found on earth, Aristophanes had brought onto the stage Nephelococcygia, a novel polis, already located up in the sky. The

 With Quintilian and Menander Rhetor (3rd century CE), the praise of cities has become a subgenre of epideictic rhetoric. Quintilian, Insitutio oratoria, 3, 7, 26 – 28: “Cities are praised on similar lines to men. The founder stands for the father, age gives authority (as with peoples said to be autochthonous), and the virtues and vices seen in actions are the same as with individuals, the only special features being those which come from the site and the fortifications. Citizens are a credit to cities as children are to parents. Public works also can be praised; here magnificence, use, beauty, and the builder are usually considered; magnificence, for example, in temples, use in walls, beauty or the builder in both. There are also Encomia of places, like that of Sicily in Cicero, in which we have an eye both to beauty and to use: beauty in the coasts, in level plains and pleasant scenery; use in healthy or fertile localities.” Menander dedicates several chapters of his treatise on an Analysis of epideictic speeches to the most felicitous ways of praising countries and cities. The Introduction to More 1516 & 1995, XXVIII – XXIX presents the hypothesis that More might have been aware of this particular tradition and, furthermore, of contemporary examples of the praises of cities. Tinkler 1988 argues that Raphael’s description of the new island, its institutions and its people fits the pattern of praise, as it is theorized by Cicero and Quintilian. It does so conventionally insofar as Raphael sketches an imago of a city (Utopia 106 – 7), namely a vivid picture that does not need to be plausible. But Raphael’s praise is also somehow unconventional, Tinkler adds, because it is plain, lacks historical depth and sounds provocative vis-à-vis its own audience. Whereas Quintilian recommends that a speaker should harmonize his depiction of the merits and vices of those he praises with the feelings of appreciation and aversion he supposes in his audience (Inst., 3, 7, 23), Hythlodaeus insists that his listeners would be at odds with the features and the values he so enthusiastically extol in the Utopians. Which is the case, it turns out, including for Thomas More. “It is a praise that self-consciously sets itself against its context” (Tinkler 1988: 194). Tinkler connects Utopia to contemporary examples of such genre, for instance the Laudatio Florentinae urbis by Leonardo Bruni. In his thorough account of Menander’s potential influence on Spanish writers of such praises in the fifteenth-century, Ruth 2002, 42 draws attention to the diffusion of his manuscripts and printed books: “Its considerable influence may be judged not only in the high estimation of its author during the Byzantine era, but also by the multiple manuscripts through which it was transmitted during the medieval centuries (and accompanied at least once by versions of Aristotle’s Poetics and Rhetoric). In 1508, at Venice, it appeared in printed form as part of the Aldus edition Rhetores Graeci. The manuscripts and printed version suggest a likely presence of the text among the Italian humanists of the late fifteenth century, and its possible transmission to visiting Spanish humanists who would later write their own laudes urbium for Peninsular cities”. On the style of utopian writing, see Schlanger 1973; 2004:103. On Hythlodaeus’ narrative as a declamatio, see: Surtz 1949. The model of Hyhlodaeus’ praise of pleasure is Erasmus’ Praise of Folly.

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praise an ancient utopia performs, I will argue, responds to a crucial feature of Athenian political culture: the constant eulogy of the People by the People, i. e. self-praise.⁶ The first utopias, Nephelococcygia and Kallipolis, rebound on the attribution of excellence to Athens, by Athenian speakers and among an audience made up of Athenian citizens. These parallel worlds are actually a hypothetical self-contained reality that co-exists with Athens, in Athens. They are meant to outwit this particular polis. This is not a matter of geographical localization, but of political culture: it is the beloved, and endlessly eulogized government by the Athenian people, that these dissenting Athenians challenge in their own words. And here, again, Thomas More creates a similar dialectic: by heaping admiration on a nova insula, Raphael Hythlodaeus shows that Christian Europe is not only flawed, but immensely vain. The backdrop is a world where the merger of the classical tradition and Christianity is supposed to grant the highest standards. But your justice, Raphael claims, is nothing but a futile boast (frustra iactetis exercitam), a righteousness more “specious than fair or expedient” (speciosam magis quam aut iustam aut utilem)”. Should he give advice to a prince, he would expose precisely that phony showing off. ⁷ Fourthly, we have to focus on the theatrical situation. Utopia was born not merely in a certain polis, but in a distinct culture. Democracy, as Alexis de Tocqueville rightly argued about its modern instantiation, changes what it does not create. In antiquity, popular rule was first and foremost a form of government, consisting of institutions, practices and rituals, but it enacted and generated ideas and ideals, discourses and self-representations. Public speaking was vital in the collective deliberations in the assembly and the Council, in the trials held in the law-courts and in official occasions like state funerals. Democratic political culture was vocal, eloquent, and, more to the point, it was immensely

 For a history of praise in Greek and Roman culture, see Pernot 1993. On the importance of praise and blame in the representation of Greek society, see the classical contributions: Detienne 1973 & 1994; Nagy 1979; Kurke 1991. More recently: Elmer 2013 (on epainos, understood as approval and collective consent); Kathryn Morgan (2016) examines the political aspects of the praise of kings, with particular attention to language, the use of the superlative, and the impact of praise upon the addressees.  More writes: “Restrict the right of the rich to buy up anything and everything and then to exercise a kind of monopoly. Let fewer people be brought up in idleness. Let agriculture be restored and the wool-manufacture revived as an honest trade, so there will be useful work for the idle throng … Certainly unless you cure these evils it is futile to boast of your justice in punishing theft (frustra iactetis exercitam in vindicanda furta iustitiam). Your policy may look superficially like justice, but in reality it is neither just nor expedient (speciosam magis quam aut iustam aut utilem)” (I,21).

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and institutionally boastful. Athenian speakers were happy to repeat that democracy was not merely their own political form, but the very best one. There was a public venue, however, where a codified, dramatic discourse broadcasted that all this self-glorification was just ridiculous: the theatre. Utopian speaking/thinking was invented in these unique circumstances: the comic theatre. Utopia was born in jest. On the basis of these premises, I hope to argue persuasively that the focus of utopia is a dynamic of praise exported, inflated and, ultimately, punctured.

1 Praise Praise is a discourse that brings into light the greatness of excellence. One has to demonstrate that actions are of that quality (ἔστιν δ᾽ ἔπαινος λόγος ἐμφανίζων μέγεθος ἀρετῆς. δεῖ οὖν τὰς πράξεις ἐπιδεικνύναι ὡς τοιαῦται).⁸ The preferred, distinctive mode of praise, Aristotle claims, is amplification, namely the attribution of grandness and beauty. Amplification is most suitable for epideictic speakers (ἡ μὲν αὔξησις ἐπιτηδειοτάτη τοῖς ἐπιδεικτικοῖς), since they take into consideration actions, about which there is agreement, so that what remains to do is to attribute grandness and beauty (μέγεθος περιθεῖναι καὶ κάλλος).⁹

Praise is not meant to produce an informative account of what someone has done, but only its augmentation and embellishment. The orator has to “surround” (περιτίθημι) the action he is talking about with qualities that are explicitly overstated. He will improve it, enhance it, and make it bigger. He will convey his own admiration, in order to make the audience believe and feel the same. He will “show off”, ἐπιδείκνυμι. Aristotle’s normative definition captures the gist of praise in practice. Orators, as we shall see in a moment, indulge in the superlative that grammatically amplifies the matter at hand. Athens, they are not shy to say, is the best. They themselves always do their best. A well-known episode of Athenian political life will offer a cameo of epideictic language at work, both in the procedures of democratic politics and in the self-representation of democratic leaders. In 336 BCE, at the suggestion of a man called Ctesiphon, the assembly awarded a golden crown to a prominent pol-

 Aristotle, Rhetoric, 1, 9, 33.  Ibid., 1, 9, 40. Gorgias eloquence is epideictic (Plato, Gorgias, 447a). On Aristotle’s appreciation of the political impact of epideictic rhetoric, see Balot 2013.

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itician and powerful orator, Demosthenes. The coronation was to have taken place in the theater of Dionysos and would have been even more splendid than usual. Unfortunately, everything went wrong. One of Demosthenes’ foes, Aeschines – whom Demosthenes had accused of betraying the interests of the city, as ambassador to king Philip of Macedonia – attacked Ctesiphon, claiming that the decree conferring the crown to Demosthenes was illegal. In his own defense, Demosthenes uttered a famous speech, On the crown. Better to make his case, he set out to quote verbatim the official dedication. “In words and deeds”, the decree stated, “Demosthenes had done his best for the people”, (πράττοντα καὶ λέγοντα τὰ βέλτιστά με τῷ δήμῳ διατελεῖν). He had always been eager (προθύμος) to act as well as he could. By acknowledging his accomplishments and his advice in a piece of legislation, a decree, Demosthenes went on to argue, the People had praised (ἐπαινεῖν) him unconditionally.¹⁰ The decree itself was at the same time a political act and a speech-act: the attribution of superlative qualities, in the very formula of a deliberation made by the People. As a shrewd interpreter of his own political activity, Demosthenes tried to make unequivocally clear the connection between the standards embedded in the buon governo of the People, the speech-acts of the People, and his own behavior. The point of his oration was that the decree on the crown was itself a piece of ἐπαινεῖν, a praise he fully deserved. He was, indeed, as great as the people had claimed he was. The aggrandizement of the polis, he also argued in another speech On the Chersonese, depended upon good citizens. And good citizens “must always say what is the best (τὸ βέλτιστον)”.¹¹ Successful action,  Demosthenes, On the Crown, 57. David Whitehead (1993) includes prothumia among the virtues mentioned in Attic inscriptions. Brad Cook writes: “By combining πρόθυμος with εὔνοια Demosthenes, Ctesiphon, and the Athenians passing decrees with these terms emphasized their concern for and praise of an enthusiastic loyalty that promised to continue into the future its past record of devotion to Athens. Such past and current constancy is frequently stressed in inscriptions by the phrase καὶ νῦν καὶ ἐν τῷ πρόσθεν χρόνῳ, “both now and in the past,” as too with the shorter phrase, ἐν παντὶ καιρῷ, “on every occasion,” which is the very phrase used by Demosthenes to qualify the good citizen’s εὔνοια in the conclusion of his speech (18.321).” (Cook 2009: 44) On selection by lot in Athens, and on Plato’s and Aristotle’s views, see Demont, 2010. The engagement to say what seems to be best can be found in the Iliad, 8, 315: αὐτὰρ ἐγὼν ἐρέω ὥς μοι δοκεῖ εἶναι ἄριστα (Achilles is speaking).  Demosthenes, On the Chersonese, 72. Cf. Ps-Andocides, 4, 12: “I think a bad leader is the kind of man that is concerned only with the present time, but does not think ahead to the future, and recommends what is most pleasing (hedusta) to the masses, neglecting their best interest (βέλτιστα)”. See also Aristotle on the Thirty’s apparent intent to act for the best in 403: “They murdered both sycophants and those who associated with the δῆμος to gratify it in deviation from the best policy (τὸ βέλτιστον) because they were criminals, and when this happened the city rejoiced, thinking they acted for the best (τοῦ βελτίστου χάριν).” (AP, 35, 3).

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political and military, was the result of the deeds of the People following the best (ἄ ριστα, βέλτιστα) recommendations of their leaders.¹² Demosthenes claimed that he had always advised the city in this fashion, namely for the best (τὰ βέλτιστα).¹³ Demosthenes’ self-fashioning as the exemplary citizen of an exemplary city shows how the attribution of “grandness and beauty” to the polis becomes the amplification of the speaker himself. The polis is the best; we must do our best; we do our best; we are the best. Praise means self-praise. The awareness of having always aimed at the highest level of excellence in an excellent city seamlessly becomes pride. For Demosthenes, and for other Athenian politicians, institutionalized and ubiquitous diligence was to generate boastfulness – both in the plural, and in the singular. Since we all try our best, I am the best. This is the tip of a very large iceberg.¹⁴ We know how crucially important praise and blame are in the political life of the Athenian δῆμος. The endorsement of the aristocratic, Homeric model of kleos within democratic culture; the official occasions of epideictic high eloquence, such as Funeral Orations; the pervasive use of self-congratulation, in any venue of public speaking; the commitment to “the best” (τὰ βέλτιστα) in ritualized utterances such as the Bouleutic oath; the honorific decrees in favour of meritorious citizens: these are the many aspects of a coherent adhesion, in words and deeds, to the same quest. The quest for what is best. In the context of Athenian political culture, therefore, we can speak of democratic perfectionism.

2 Τὰ βέλτιστα Perfectionism is usually an aspirational concern for betterment. When the citizens selected by lot as potential members of the Boulé declare under oath that they will do their best for the city, they make a serious pledge that engages their good faith. When, after their tenure in office, the same citizens are submitted to an examination, they have to give account of how well they have performed. The commitment to the best, τὰ βέλτιστα, was set out in the formula of a solemn, and binding promise: the Bouleutic oath. Aristotle tells us that this oath

 Ibid., 75.  Ibid., 73; cf. 1.  I have discussed the presence of this language in oratory and in the speech-acts of democratic life in Sissa 2017.

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was first employed, in 501 BCE, a few years after the reforms of Cleisthenes.¹⁵ Lysias and Demosthenes mention its performance, as a basic feature of the democratic routine, as if it had always existed. Before taking office, the men who had been selected by lot, in order to serve as members of the Council, had to swear that they would “deliberate to give the best possible advice to the city” (τὰ βέλτιστα βουλεύσειν τῇ πόλει).¹⁶ This pledge obliged each of them to aim at a high level of performance, and they were held accountable.¹⁷ The entire Boulé, (not just individual deciders) must respect engagement.¹⁸ This institutionalized intent was reinforced through rewards and incentives. In recognition for their exceptional service, the People may confer upon the Councilors a crown. The prytans were entitled to wear one such wreath, when in office; the entire Council could be likewise rewarded, at the end of their one-year tenure, if what they had accomplished was truly remarkable.¹⁹ Exceptionally, the People could bestow this highly valued symbolic adornment, by decree, on a meritorious citizen. In a solemn public ceremony, held in a meeting of the Council or the Assembly, the crown was to be placed on the head of the happy recipient. This is what Demosthenes expected, but sadly failed to receive. An inscription from the 4th century BCE lists the names of Athenians “whom the People crowned, having judged that, as Councilors, they had had made the best decisions” (τούσδε ἐστεφάνωσεν ὁ δῆμος κρίνας ἄ ριστα βεβουλευκέναι).²⁰ This effort to deliver decisions and services of optimal quality, in the day-today governance of the city, tells us that the quest for the best possible state, in Athens, started as a best practice. It was, first of all, a certain way of doing business: to do it well, superlatively well. It was the disciplined and ritualized pro-

 Aristotle, Constitution of the Athenians, 22, 2– 3.  Lysias, 31, 1– 2: “I have taken oath before entering the Council-chamber that my counsel would be for the best advantage of the State … and feel bound to abide by the oaths that I have sworn.” Cf. Idem, 30, 10 on accusations that the Council “was not seeking the best interests of the State”. In Against Neaira, 4, Demosthenes replaces the polis with the people (δῆμος): “… and he had sworn that, as member of the Council, he would act for the best interests of the Athenian people”. A. Sommerstein and A. Bayliss write: “In short the Bouleutic oath should be seen as an oath “to give (the best) counsel (to the Athenian people) in accordance with the law” (2013: 40 – 42).  For a synthetic understanding of the responsibilities of the Council, see Blackwell 2003.  A decree of 352/1 solves a complicated problem of territorial jurisdiction on land for the sanctuary of Demeter in Eleusis. The conclusion is that “if the decree was incomplete, the Boule had full power to decree what seems to them to be best” (ἐὰν δέ του προσδέηι τόδε τὸ ψήφισμα, τὴν βουλὴν κυρίαν εἶναι ψηφίζεσθαι, ὅ τι ἂν αὐτῆι δοκῆι ἄριστον εἶναι: IG II³ 292, 85 – 86).  See Blackwell 2003: 17– 28.  see also IG II3 1 306

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duction of a plurality of doxai, indeed, but with the intention of getting things done, to everyone’s best ability. Everyone was allowed to speak his mind – but not just to blurt out whatever first came into it. Everyone was urged to give advice to his fellow citizens – but with the warning that he had to aim as high as he possibly could. Speaking was free, and yet framed, formatted and bound to a strong sense of obligation and responsibility. One had to care for the polis, indeed. One had to aspire to goodness, beauty and utility. Oaths, decrees, and invocations reinforced these high standards. A system of quality control – the audits and examinations of magistrates, before and after their service – made sure that those pledges were not empty words. The eloquence of political speakers would echo, and corroborate, this pragmatic ambition. I am arguing here for a compelling context that explains the success and pervasiveness of all this resounding pride. It is a practice – the best practice of popular rule – that sets the stage for the performance of praise and self-praise. The Athenians learned to cultivate the best, τὰ βέλτιστα, not only when risking their lives on the battlefield, but also in their most mundane, political routines. Praise was not just a form of patriotic discourse, or a superficial import from a pre-democratic background, or the compensatory self-promotion of ordinary folks, but the outspoken awareness and the rhetorical extension of how they did business. The simple exercise of day-to-day politics trained the Athenian men to strive for the best. They were not shy about their success. To care for the polis, to commit themselves earnestly (προθύμως) to provide high quality service, in their administrative responsibilities, was the least the People could do. Praise, uttered in public, set in stone or concretized in the leaves of a crown, was their reward. Self-praise, the frank endorsement of that reward.²¹

3 Παράδειγμα In the same political culture, however, the commitment to act and speak as well as one possibly could also generates a form of self-satisfied exceptionalism. This language bears testimony to the pursuit of a model to emulate, a παράδειγμα, but such παράδειγμα is discovered at home, already accomplished and finished. Perfection has already happened. “We are perfect!”. The only space for improvement remains the possibility to emulate and hopefully surpass, generation after generation, the excellence of which we hold the monopoly anyway.

 As a general approach to ancient democracy, I share the perspective of Josiah Ober (see Ober 2008; and 2017).

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Thucydides has Pericles make this claim in the Funeral Oration he allegedly delivered in 431 BCE: We use a form of government that does not emulate the laws of the neighbours, being a paradigm for others, more than theirs imitators (χρώμεθα γὰρ πολιτείᾳ οὐ ζηλούσῃ τοὺς τῶν πέλας νόμους, παράδειγμα δὲ μᾶλλον αὐτοὶ ὄντες τισὶν ἢ μιμούμενοι ἑτέρους).²²

We stand as a παράδειγμα for others to mimic. We offer an “education to Hellas” (τῆς Ἑλλάδος παίδευσις).²³ Isocrates revisits the same theme in one of his most enthusiastic speeches in praise of Athens, the Panegyricus: For, finding the Hellenes living without laws and dwelling in scattered places, some humiliated by oppressive forms of government, others being destroyed on account of anarchy, Athens delivered them from these evils by acquiring authority over some and by setting herself as an example for others (τοῖς δ᾽ αὑτὴν παράδειγμα ποιήσασα); for she was the first to lay down laws and establish a polity.²⁴

Utopian praise echoes these superlatives. Utopias do not come out of nowhere. Utopias are indeed rooted in the society where they emerge as a thought-experiment about an alternative polis – alternative to Athens. More precisely, it is a certain kind of political parole, a certain kind of pragmatic use of language that anchors a utopia to the political culture where it belongs. Utopias create unknown, unimaginable, splendid polities, and, by creating them, they are already going into raptures over their justice and bliss. But those other polities are the best, in comparison and contrast – and, more to the point, in competition –, with a surrounding world that already boasts about itself. The first of those boastful worlds, as I said, is Athens. Greek utopias are actually Athenian dramas. They present an alternative to a quintessentially Athenian practice of discourse: self-praise. Written as hyperbolic encomia, never bland, understated, mildly critical descriptions, utopias extol impossibly exotic, lost, found or new, places. This makes Greek utopias specific as well as inspiring for later political fantasies. Utopias offer a variation of exactly the same quest that transpires in the funeral orations. The difference is that the παράδειγμα has now been found somewhere else. It is a model that, as Socrates says at the end of the Republic, is

 Thucydides, 2, 37, 1.  Thucydides, 2, 41, 1.  Isocrates, Panegyricus, 39. The theme of exemplarity runs through Isocrates oratory. Rulers should stand as good paradeigmata for their subjects (2, 31; 3, 37).

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placed “nowhere on earth” (γῆς γε οὐδαμοῦ) – and certainly not at home –, but “lays in discourses” (ἐν λόγοις κειμένῃ), up in the sky.²⁵ Probably there lays a paradigm in the sky, for anyone who wishes to see, and for anyone who sees, to found as a colony, in himself (ἐν οὐρανῷ ἴσως παράδειγμα ἀνάκειται τῷ βουλομένῳ ὁρᾶν καὶ ὁρῶντι ἑαυτὸν κατοικίζειν).²⁶

One can “colonize” oneself, so to speak, by looking intently at the pattern that the dialogue has been designing. Earlier in the conversation, when imagining in advance the foundation of such city, Socrates had anticipated that the philosophers would have to use “the good itself” as a paradigm: We shall require them to turn upwards the vision of their souls and fix their gaze on that which sheds light on all, and when they have thus beheld the good itself they shall use it as a pattern for the right ordering of the state and the citizens and themselves (καὶ ἰδόντας τὸ ἀγαθὸν αὐτό, παραδείγματι χρωμένους ἐκείνῳ, καὶ πόλιν καὶ ἰδιώτας καὶ ἑαυτοὺς κοσμεῖν).²⁷

The potential rulers were to outline the best πολιτείαν by looking at a divine παράδειγμα and at “what is by nature the just, the beautiful, the wise and all things of the kind” (πρός τε τὸ φύσει δίκαιον καὶ καλὸν καὶ σῶφρον καὶ πάντα τὰ τοιαῦτα).²⁸ Kallipolis was designed according to a παράδειγμα and will become, in turn, a παράδειγμα. The resonance as well as the dissonance with Isocrates’ and Thucydides’ language is striking. These speakers all share the focus on the all-important notion of a παράδειγμα. But whereas the audience of the funeral oration are exhorted to contemplate “the power of the polis” (τὴν τῆς πόλεως δύναμιν) and to admire such power to the point of becoming “lovers of their city” (θεωμένους καὶ ἐραστὰς γιγνομένους αὐτῆς), Socrates’ interlocutors learn that the sole object worthy of contemplation (ὁρᾶν) is Kallipolis, a state made in heaven and crafted in words.²⁹ If they so wish, they will have to look hard at that celestial pattern, and they will be able to transplant it into in themselves. In this metaphorical colonization, the historical reality of Athens is neither perfected as in the good will of democratic governance, nor augmented as it happens in epideictic eloquence,  Plato, Republic, 9, 592a 6 – 7. Goldschmidt 1945.  Plato, Republic, 9, 592b 2– 3. Diogenes Laertius, II. 7: Anaxagoras was accused of not caring for his country. “Indeed, I am greatly concerned with my country,” he replied and pointed to heaven.  Ibid., 7, 540a – b.  Ibid., 6, 500e – 501c.  Thucydides, 2, 43, 1.

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but purely and simply bypassed. Whereas the survivors of Athenian wars must endeavour to match the valour of the dead and regard their own much-loved polis as a παράδειγμα – for the speech itself places them in the position of looking ecstatically at Athens, and of learning their lesson – Adeimantus and Glaucon agree with Socrates that only a heavenly best government, the ἀριστοκρατία they have outlined in their conversation, deserves to be emulated and copied. When reading Plato after Thucydides and Isocrates, we shift from an earthly paradigm to a celestial one. Plato does not trust popular rule to care for quality because, as we will see in a moment, the people could not possibly be a philosopher. Plato also despises the democratic use of words such as “good” or “bad”, as meaningless utterances by rhetors who merely flatter the Δῆμος. Democratic commitment to “the best” is non-existent; democratic discourse about “the best” is nonsense. Since democracy gives power to ordinary individuals, neglects education, and selects leaders by lot, it is structurally indifferent to goodness.³⁰

 This interpretation of the emergence of utopian thinking/speaking, situated in its Athenian context, resonates with the line of thought of Josiah Ober (1991; 2001), who has argued for a pragmatic theory of democratic activity, made up of felicitous speech acts. Through words and deeds the Athenian people made a world for themselves, so that they could get along together and get quite a number of things done – for instance they governed their polis and their empire for more than a century. Plato, I agree with Ober, casts a disdainful “Logopolis” against this successful “demopolis”. In Ober’s words, “Logopolis is designed from the beginning as the antithesis of the polis outside Cephalus’ door, the one most characterized by the rule of shoemakers” (1999: 222). Sara Monoson, on the contrary, has undertaken the ambitious task of “a fundamental rethinking of the relationship between Plato’s thought and the practice of democracy” (2001: 16). “I turn to wider cultural resources for expressions of Athenian democratic thought”, she writes. “Specifically, I look to civic ritual performances, oral traditions, popular legends, and other Athenian cultural practices.” (17). All this in view of demonstrating that in its political imaginary, Athens gets close to Plato. The funeral oration, she argues, projects a vision of the city as one. “This aspect of Plato’s vision (the unity of the polis) actually engages local, democratic structures of political discourse at the level of the imaginary. Embracing the idea of the unified whole as well as some other ideals tracked in the chapters to follow, Plato’s vision has some kinship with the city’s own patriotic self-image.” (22, contra Ober). Monoson’s project may well appear to be commendable, but it misses the essential. If we want to understand Plato’s thinking about δημοκρατία, our task is to grasp Plato’s systematic strategy in the representation of the people. Beyond generic convergences, what matters is the deafening dissonance between, on the one hand the caricatures of the δῆμος that Plato sketches in the Republic and the Protagoras, and what the δῆμος in question was actually trying and caring to accomplish, on the other. For Plato, as we will see in the course of the paper, the ruling δῆμος shows nothing but contempt (καταφρόνησις) towards this effort and this care. For Plato, the people in power “trample under foot” (καταπατέω) the only true concern for good government, namely the education of the leaders. For Plato, the people replace “the good” by its opposite, namely whatever anyone might wish. I have developed different aspects of this argument in

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Praise, therefore, is the most significant flaw of democracy for it voices the hypocrisy of a regime that despises quality, and yet pretends to like it. Athens is but a travesty of goodness. Unwarranted, biased and self-interested, praise is the symptom of its shamelessness. In the Republic, praise is transferred, displaced and relocated faraway – in the only place where it is well deserved. We are urged to stare up there from a distance, rather than down here. Utopia is a gesture.

4 ᾿Aλαζονεία This redirection of looks occurs firstly in the theatre. In play after play, ancient comedy exposes the loud, bragging vanity (ἀλαζονεία) of the Athenian people. It mocks the servile flattery of political leaders, eager to please the masses who, in turn, are easily swindled precisely because they are gullible. And they are gullible because they are prone to self-love. In Dionysus’ theatre, laughter operates a systematic deflation of the self-referential superlative, typical of democratic rhetoric. Aristophanes’ characters replace epideictic amplification with a different kind of enhancement: extra-large ugliness. The cult of “the best” yields to a cheerful exaggeration of “the worst” through hyperbolic scorn, repetitive scatological language, pitiless invective, overstressed disparagement of anything noble, and famously gigantic props. Everything is overstated, heavy, offensive. Blame replaces praise. In the space / time of Dionysus’ theatre, it is Athens as a whole that is utterly derided. Far from being the best, the city itself fares so badly that it needs to be reformed, rescued or reinvented. This dire diagnosis is put forward in the opening scenes of such plays as Ecclesiazusae, Birds, Wealth, not to mention the sinister light shed on the polis in Acharnians, Lysistrata and Frogs. The city badly needs to be “saved” – nothing less! – not from an external threat, but from its own government and its own people.³¹ At the beginning of Ecclesiazusae, for instance, Praxagora utters a damning speech: My country (chora) is as dear to me as it is to you, and I groan, I am grieved at all that is happening in it. I see her being subject to rulers who are always bad (ὁρῶ γὰρ αὐτὴν προ-

Sissa 2017. In a different theoretical perspective, the effectiveness of the spoken word in the continuous creation of the polis, guides the thought of Barbara Cassin (2000).  Aristophanes, Ecclesiazusae, 209.

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στάταισι χρωμένην ἀεὶ πονηροῖς). If you appoint fresh chiefs, they will do still worse (χρηστὸς γένηται).³²

In Birds, two ordinary Athenians Euelpides and Pistetairos announce that they are leaving Athens for a similar reason: honored on account of our tribe and family and living as citizens in the midst of our fellowcitizens (ἀστοὶ μετ᾽ ἀστῶν), we have flown from our fatherland with two feet. We do not hate it on account of its not being great and happy (αὐτὴν μὲν οὐ μισοῦντ᾽ ἐκείνην τὴν πόλιν τὸ μὴ οὐ μεγάλην εἶναι φύσει κεὐδαίμονα), … but the Athenians spend their whole lives singing judgments from their law-courts.³³

The two disgruntled Athenians are now “wandering in search of a quiet place” (πλανώμεθα ζητοῦντε τόπον ἀπράγμονα), where they might “settle and spend their lives” (ὅποι καθιδρυθέν τε διαγενοίμεθ᾽ ἄν).³⁴ They are, more to the point, founding a colony in a manner that is ritual, codified and well recognizable in an Athenian context, namely by carrying a basket, a branch of myrtle and fire in a pot.³⁵ Life in that new polis will have to be as relaxed as “lying down on a soft goat’s skin coverlet” (σισύραν ἐγκατακλινῆναι μαλθακήν), for Athens’ colony will have to be “not greater than Athens, but rather more comfortable” (μείζω μὲν οὐδέν, προσφορωτέραν δὲ νῷν).³⁶ They certainly do not care to move to an ἀριστοκρατία, but to a place where pleasure reigns unchecked, as parties start early in the morning and erotic access to boys, including a neighbor’s son, is completely free.³⁷ Apragmosune replaces the contentious business of the law courts; unrestricted enjoyment of food, drink and sex supplants the customary Athenian regulations. If there is an ideal pattern to Pistetairos and Euelpides’ search, this is it! The colony will have to be the opposite of the metropolis. The Acharnians begins with an assembly on the Pnyx, where Diceopolis, the protagonist, laments that people show up late and are expected to discuss trivial matters rather than the most important topic of the day, namely the prospect of making peace with Sparta. When the assembly finally begins, the first speaker, Amphitheos, is a caricature of a fop. He introduces himself as an immortal, the offspring of the divine dynasty of Demeter and Triptolemus, Celeus and Phae-

     

Aristophanes, Ecclesiazusae, 174– 188. Aristophanes, Birds, 33 – 41. Ibid., 44– 45. Ibid., 43. On the language of colonization in this passage, see Malkin 1987: 120 – 122. Ibid., 90. Ibid., 125 – 143.

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narete, and his own father, Lucinus. It is the gods, he declares, who have charged him to treat with the Lacedaemonians.³⁸ The boast goes on with the arrival of the ambassadors who had been sent on a mission to the Great King of Persia: in Diceopolis’ words, they are but “peacocks”, and “pieces of boastfulness” (ἀλαζόνευμα).³⁹ One of the ambassadors parades and swaggers about his preposterous adventures in Persia. “You are indeed a big braggard!” (σὺ μὲν ἀλαζὼν εἶ μέγας), Diceopolis launches to him.⁴⁰ A envoy from the King of Thrace is also another ἀλαζὼν, and so is Lamachos, the general and war monger who antagonizes Diceopolis.⁴¹ When Diceopolis, a modest farmer from the deme of Acharnia, goes on to strike a truce directly with Sparta, he abandons the rest of the polis to an elite of ἀλαζόνες who, in the eyes of all the other Athenians, seem to get away with their imposture. Athens is in dire straits.

5 Εἰρωνεία In Aristophanes’ plays, Athens is presented as deserving blame, not praise. But there is more. Firstly, comedic blame does not simply stigmatize human and political flaws, it does so in jest. Secondly, laughter springs precisely from a parody of praise, as if the amplified attribution of qualities to an object were itself ridiculous. The very appreciation of a person or a thing is hardly taken seriously, but rather denounced, exaggerated and scorned as undeserved, disproportioned, hyperbolic flattery. Thirdly, this parody exposes both the abuse of praise and its consequences on the receiving side. Praise encourages self-praise. Flattery reinforces self-delusion. Let me clarify these three points, for the utopian gesture can only be understood in this context. Comedy has to bring on stage characters and actions that lend themselves to laughter. Laughability is the essential challenge for a playwright, and Aristophanes proved notoriously successful. But what makes an audience laugh? We can think of multiple modern theories of laughter, but Plato offers a culturally embedded insight into Aristophanes’ success.⁴²

 Aristophanes, Acharnians, 47– 54.  Ibid., 63.  Ibid., 88; 109.  Ibid., 135.  On the critical and I would say anthropological significance of Plato’s understanding of comedy, see Major 2006: “Plato, not without a sense of humor even in his most crabbed works, provides our most detailed account from antiquity of alazoneia on stage and its relationship to laughter. Always concerned with the care of the soul and likewise vexed at impurity of all

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The trigger of laughter, Socrates argues in the Philebus, is precisely self-amplification. The ridicule itself can be defined as the pretence to be better than what one is, in regard to wealth, beauty or virtue, and especially wisdom. Most people overestimate their own moral qualities, “thinking that they excel in virtue when they do not.” And since wisdom is the form of excellence to which the majority lay claim, they are “full of conflicts and of a false conceit of wisdom” (μεστὸν ἐρίδων καὶ δοξοσοφίας ἐστὶ ψευδοῦς).⁴³ Self-deluded people should be divided into two groups: the weak and harmless versus the powerful and vindictive, the former being ridiculous, and the latter hateful (γελοῖα μὲν ὁπόσα ἀσθενῆ, μισητὰ δ᾽ ὁπόσα ἐρρωμένα). The pretentiousness of the mighty is not in the least funny, therefore, but that of the feeble is hilarious. At this point, Socrates adds a further specification to the ridicule: friendship versus enmity. “Did we not say that it is envy (φθόνος) that causes pleasure in the evils of friends (ἡδονὴν δὲ ἐπὶ τοῖς τῶν φίλων κακοῖς)?”, Socrates asks.⁴⁴ Whenever we laugh at our friends on account of their inoffensive vanity, this is envy. But φθόνος is an unjust pain and also a pleasure (λύπη τις ἄδικός ἐστί που καὶ ἡδονή).⁴⁵ Therefore it is unjust, Socrates concludes, to laugh at the innocuous self-ignorance of our friends, instead of being sorry for them. The same laughter, however, would be acceptable vis-à-vis enemies, for “it is neither unjust nor envious (οὔτ᾽ ἄδικον οὔτε φθονερόν) to rejoice in the misfortunes of our enemies.”⁴⁶ This comes across as a lesson in civility, which can help us behave in

sorts, Plato devotes much of his late dialogue the Philebus to analyzing the complex mixtures of pleasure and pain that constitute much of human experience. … In his account, Plato does not give a name to the mechanism he describes, but other authors use the term alazoneia to refer to this dynamic of individuals claiming more than is true for themselves. Xenophon has Socrates discuss the alazon as someone who seeks to get a reputation for skills he does not possess, but who will be laughed at if his deception is discovered (Mem. 1.7.2– 3).” (133 – 134). Major adds that although Plato and Xenophon are not contemporaries of Aristophanes’, they “do isolate a cultural mechanism in classical Athens which is unlikely to have changed markedly between the last quarter of the fifth century and the mid-fourth century”. Major takes the Philebus as a touch stone in his discussion of the performance dynamic, in the parabasis of the Clouds.  Plato, Philebus, 48c – 50b.  Plato, Philebus, 50a 2– 3.  Plato, Philebus, 49d 1.  Plato, Philebus, 49d 3 – 4. The distinction of friends and foes explains why there must be some civility in the refutation of the people Socrates mingles with. They may well be ignorant and vain, thus “full of conflicts and of a false conceit of wisdom” (μεστὸν ἐρίδων καὶ δοξοσοφίας ἐστὶ ψευδοῦς), but they are not enemies. Andrea Nightingale (1993) argues that Socrates refuses to play the game of the encomiastic competition. His ἔλεγχος is a lesson of εἰρωνεία, and antipraise, but with no invective or humiliation of the interlocutor. Livio Rossetti (2000) also insists on the ‘potential’ for laughter in the dialogue, and on Socrates’ effort to refrain from open de-

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our social dealings. How about the theatre? Since comedy, as Socrates goes on to say, is but the theatrical performance of what lends itself to laughter, it must represent characters who are pompous, conceited, self-important but not dangerous. Such characters finds themselves exposed to the unfriendly merriment of the audience – a crowd of righteous enemies and / or invidious friends. This theory of laughter deserves to be taken seriously as a critical understanding of old comedy. But Plato is not merely an Athenian philosopher, intent on making sense of a local practice. His own dialogues are dramas in which Socrates never stops restarting the same operation: to challenge precisely what here he calls δοξοσοφία, namely the illusion of knowledge. Socratic dialogues, I will argue, are a paradoxical adaptation of what happens in a theatre: in both situations, εἰρωνεία responds to ἀλαζονεία.⁴⁷ In the dialogue, this response is amicable good humour. In the theatre, it is uncharitable scorn.⁴⁸ Socrates’ cross-examination, the ἔλεγχος, is meant to make people aware of their contradictions, confusions, false opinions and true ignorance. Pretension is self-deception. Self-esteem is overestimation. Whenever we fail to question our beliefs, to claim that we are knowledgeable about anything is to entertain a conceited image of ourselves. It amounts to indulging in ludicrous self-praise. Furthermore, praise itself deserves to be playfully deflated, as an unexamined, and thus unwarranted attribution of qualities to people or things. Agathon in the Symposium, and Aspasia in the Menexenus – the former heaping superlatives onto Eros, the latter puffing up a hyperbolic panegyric of Athens –, impersonate the silliness of naïve trust in this thoughtless manner of speech.⁴⁹ In all its Athenian variations, Socrates explains, praise is misleading and delusional. One predicates qualities that have no ground in truth, for one fails to give account

rision. On laughter in Plato’s normative political thought and in the Philebus, with a special attention to Socrates, see Naas 2016. The negative light shed on the abuse of laughter resonates with Republic 10, 606c, where Socrates criticizes comedy on account of its habit-forming power. By indulging in comic theatre, we become buffoons in our own life. Mockery should target only the right sort of people, namely inoffensive enemies whom we can deride with impunity.  This reading of Plato and Aristophanes, which I have first outlined in Sissa 2011, is compatible with the in-depth discussions by John Lombardini 2018, especially chapter 2. A different line of thought can be found in Tanner 2017.  On derision as the prevailing kind of laughter that occurs in comedy, see Sommerstein 2009: 104– 115.  Plato, Symposium, 198d-e. I have discussed Agathon’s abuse of praise and Socrates’ refutation, in Sissa 2012. On Plato’s criticism of praise, see Nightingale 1993. On Plato’s normative vision of epainos in the Laws: Morgan 2013. On the multiple interpretations of the Menexenos: Kahn 1963; Pappas & Zelcer 2015 take the Menexenos seriously.

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of the reasons why the object of the predication may deserve such an optimistic assessment. In contrast, in the situation of the dialogue, Socrates practices an elaborate strategy. He starts with a self-minimalization that involves his notorious professions of ignorance, but also a more general claim to ineptitude.⁵⁰ This posture sets the stage for a predictable interaction. By posing as a hopeless incompetent, Socrates coaxes his interlocutors to speak their own mind: “I know nothing, please tell me what you think!” Then the pretension to knowledge unravels. The dynamic of the ἔλεγχος usually elicits compliance but it results in mortification, shame or, occasionally, anger. People are not all daft.⁵¹ They may detect the potential mockery, as in the case of Thrasymachos in the Republic, Callicles in the Gorgias and Alcibiades in the Symposium. ⁵² When this happens –  P. W. Gooch (1987: 101) offers a comprehensive account of Socrates’ self-minimization, which extends self-depreciation beyond the profession of ignorance: These are “disclaimers about his ability to remember, or to follow or to make long speeches, to be good at debate or rhetoric. And Plato lets us know that his modesty in such matters is only mock-modesty. Phaedrus chides Socrates for being coy about his rhetorical powers (236d); Alcibiades remarks in the Protagoras that Socrates was only joking when he said he was a forgetful sort of person (336d; cf. Meno 71c); the Socrates who insists on short questions and answers in that dialogue goes on to speak at length and to spin arguments of great complexity. But the problem with his disclaimers is that, while on occasion they could wear a certain grace, at other times they look for all the world like little tricks; and worse, they can be provocative and annoying. Protagoras found this so: Socrates’ dissimulation about his memory almost broke up their discussion. There is exactly the same problem of perception and motive at the heart of what many commentators think Aristotle must have had preeminently in mind with his citation of Socrates: Socrates’ profession of ignorance”.  In Xenophon’s Memorabilia, 4, 4, 9, Hippias too confronts Socrates: “for it’s enough that you mock (καταγελάω) others, questioning and examining everybody, and never willing to render an account yourself or to state an opinion about anything (ἀρκεῖ γὰρ ὅτι τῶν ἄλλων καταγελᾷς ἐρωτῶν μὲν καὶ ἐλέγχων πάντας, αὐτὸς δ᾽οὐδενὶ θέλων ὑπέχειν λόγον οὐδὲ γνώμη ἀποφαίνεσθαι περὶ οὐδενός).  Plato, Rep., 337a; Gorgias 489e. See also Plato, Symposium, 216e and 218d (Alcibades protesting at Socrates’ little games) and Apology, 38a (Socrates mentioning his detractors’ accusations). Aristophanes also uses the verb “to ironize” (εἰρωνεύομαι) in this precise sense in Birds, 1210 – 11, when Iris pretends not to know which gate she has used to enter Nephelococcygia, and Pistetairos accuses her of dissembling (εἰρωνεύομαι). See Clouds, 445 – 450 on Strepsiades hoping to learn from Socrates to become an εἴρων. On εἰρωνεία in Aristophanes and Plato, see Nehamas 1999 (“Socratic Irony”); Lane 2006; Wolfsdorf 2008. I follow David Wolfsdorf objections to the interpretation of εἰρωνεία merely as “deception” (Lane). The self-referential relevance seems to be prevailing in Plato’s dialogues, where Socrates plays his “usual” game of mock-modesty, in order to induce people to speak their mind and lend themselves to refutation. Wolfsdorf draws attention to Socrates’ “vulpine” strategy of camouflaging better to capture his prey. I agree with Melissa Lane, however, that the aggressive connotation of εἰρωνεία is essential. Socrates’ travesty of not-knowing is indeed perceived as annoying, harassing and manipu-

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namely when Socrates’ victims grow impatient with his fictitious ignorance (εἰρωνεύομαι) and his tiresome questions –, then they call the ἔλεγχος “εἰρωνεία”. This is an accusation, and the accusers have a point. The ἔλεγχος is indeed an entrapment that, as I have mentioned, starts with Socrates’ affectation of all sorts of disabilities, so that people are induced to speak their mind.⁵³ Furthermore, to perfect his vulpine snare, Socrates adds adulation to his mock-modesty. When Thrasymachos accuses him of using his εἰωθυῖα εἰρωνεία, Socrates replies “That’s because you are wise, Thrasymachos! (σοφὸς γὰρ εἶ!)”. When addressing Callicles, Socrates emphatically calls him ὦ δαιμόνιε, ὦ θαυμάσιε, only to welcome his responses as empty words.⁵⁴ Thrasymachos, Callicles, Alcibiades, and most of the other men Socrates engages in Athens’ many venues, do think that they are wise and wonderful – this is precisely their vulnerability. If, as we hear in the Philebus, one’s belief that s/he knows better is inherently ludicrous, then Socrates appears to expose not merely people’s actual shortcomings, but also their irresistible tendency to make fools of themselves. All those talkative experts who ignore their ignorance about justice, friendship, knowledge, politics or religion are potentially comic characters. They are ἀλαζόνες. In Plato’s dialogues, however, Socrates abstains from bursting into laughter. His reaction to vanity is not that of a cackling spectator of comedy. He does not take pleasure in the disparity between pretence and reality. That would be envy. Instead he responds as a friend. This is why, rather than making fun of his foolish interlocutors, he starts with his exasperating little queries, just to clarify, just to make sure that he fully understands what they mean so that they are all on the same page. This is also why Thrasymachos’ protest is compatible with Socrates’ own claims that his questioning may well be disconcerting, unsettling, disturbing, but is nevertheless a cathartic, maieutic, healthy therapy. He is a pain

lative. When the word εἰρωνεία is uttered, it conveys the impatience of such characters as Thrasymachos in the Republic, Callicles in the Gorgias or Alcibiades in the Symposium. It is they who call the bluff of εἰρωνεία. It is they who expose Socrates as an unsavory character, an εἴρων. It is not he, obviously, who would show his hand. Pierre Destrée (2013) also argues for an ironist interpretation of εἰρωνεία, adding that its purpose is protreptic, for Socrates’ treatment of his interlocutors invites the readers to detach themselves from the opinions they might share with them. This interpretation extends the situational effect of εἰρωνεία to the audience of the dialogues.  I have discussed Socrates’ strategy of self-depreciation in Sissa 1990, and Sissa 2000. In Sissa 1986, I had argued that Socrates’ disingenuous interrogations had to be understood in connection with the judicial cross-examination that Socrates practice in the Apology. This interpretation has later been taken up by Louis-André Dorion (1990).  Plato, Republic, 337a; Gorgias, 489e.

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in the neck – a notorious gadfly – but for a good cause. The ἔλεγχος is a friendly cure. Εἰρωνεία creates a dynamic situation. It places the interlocutors in the seemingly flattering, and yet awkward position of being unduly complimented: Socrates knows nothing at all, but they are very smart indeed! Let them venture into definitions and explanations! He will limit himself to asking a couple of questions. By luring people to reveal what they really think, εἰρωνεία is both a setup and a wake-up call. Irony, therefore, is an antidote to ridicule. Or, as Aristotle explains in the Nicomachean Ethics, the εἴρων is the antithesis of the ἀλαζὼν. The former downplays his worth, whereas the latter exaggerates his own merits – Socrates being recognized as an exemplary εἴρων.⁵⁵ Aristotle’s portrayal draws attention to the humorous aspect of εἰρωνεία: both the buffoon (βωμολόχος) and the εἴρων “create laughability” (ποιεῖ τὸ γελοῖον), but whereas the former jokes for the sake of others, the ironist jokes at his own expense.⁵⁶

 Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, 1127a-b, especially 1127b 22– 26: “Self-depreciators, who understate their own merits, seem of a more refined character, for they seem to speak not for the sake of gain, but in order to avoid bombast (οἱ δ᾽ εἴρωνες ἐπὶ τὸ ἔλαττον λέγοντες χαριέστεροι μὲν τὰ ἤθη φαίνονται: οὐ γὰρ κέρδους ἕνεκα δοκοῦσι λέγειν, ἀλλὰ φεύγοντες τὸ ὀγκηρόν). These also mostly disown qualities held in high esteem, as Socrates used to do.” Excessive selfminimization can become a form of boastfulness. But a moderate use of self-depreciation is gracious. P. W. Gooch (1987) argues that Aristotle redefines the εἴρων, in order to portray Socrates in a favorable light, as a refined, understated philosopher intent on denying commonly held beliefs.  Aristotle, Rhetoric, 3, 1419b8 – 10: “Irony is more worthy of a free man than buffoonery, for the ironist provokes laughter at himself, whereas the buffoon provokes laughter at another person” (ἔστιδ᾽ἡ εἰρωνεία τῆς βωμολοχίας ἐλευθεριώτερον: ὁ μὲν γὰρ αὑτοῦ ἕνεκα ποιεῖ τὸ γελοῖον, ὁ δὲ βωμολόχος ἑτέρου). The understanding of this passage is controversial. Pierre Destrée discusses the reasons why “αὑτοῦ ἕνεκα” should be translated as laughing “in his beard” (sous cape), rather than “laughing at himself” (2013: 20). The two meanings are not incompatible: Socrates creates a comic effect on account of his own wit, which he may well enjoy all by himself, but this γελοῖον is self-deprecation anyway. But does Socrates laugh? Livio Rossetti, in his account of the spectacular situation of a Socratic dialogue, speaks of “virtual ridicule (ridicule virtuel)”, and of the ironist smiling “in his inner self while trying to conceal such reaction (dans son for intérieur tout en s’efforçant de déguiser une telle réaction)” (2000: 258). John Lombardini also takes Socratic εἰρωνεία as “a type of solipsistic irony, one in which the primary audience of such irony is the ironist herself” (2018: 125). On this account, it is the εἴρων who “sub-laughs” to himself. The Platonic use of the word when referred to Socrates, however, points specifically to a self-referential move that makes others laugh. Socrates himself does not seem to accompany his own utterances with smiles or chuckles. It is Thrasymachos, on the contrary, who bursts into a sardonic laughter while denouncing Socrates’ “usual irony” (εἰωθυῖα εἰρωνεία, Republic, 337a). In the Platonic scenario, the εἴρων makes himself laughable for an unfriendly audience.

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Along these Aristotelian lines, we can take one step further and argue that the εἴρων responds to the ἀλαζὼν. Socrates’ argument that the trigger of laughter is the overestimation of oneself, especially in regard to knowledge, sheds light on the humbling, and even humiliating, potential of the ἔλεγχος as εἰρωνεία. Someone is making a fool of himself, by pontificating about justice or friendship or love. The elegant and friendly way to puncture the inflated self-image of such a conceited fellow is to turn up the volume of your flattery, and to dim yourself – with a straight face. But the dialectic of εἰρωνεία versus ἀλαζονεία sheds light also onto the theatrical situation, and the unique experience of the Athenian spectators watching a comic performance. Aristophanes’ plays do indeed bring onto the stage the power of praise itself – and of self-praise –, as the primary source of laughter, for ἀλαζονεία, of which we have discussed a massive example in the Acharnians, is omnipresent.⁵⁷ But, as Cedric Whitman had argued, the focus on ἀλαζονεία goes far beyond a recurrent thematic feature of the comedic genre.⁵⁸ Vanity is intrinsically, quintessentially ridiculous. In its relentless attack on disappointing braggers, self-satisfied mediocrities, smug poets, idle-talking intellectuals, blissfully cheated husbands, fading beauties – and, above all, vainglorious generals, parading ambassadors, incompetent statesmen, misleading politicians, inept citizens and absurd policies – comedy initiates a counter-culture of euphoric demystification. The target is the entire culture of democracy, a regime steeped in self-esteem. If we read Aristophanes through the lens of the Philebus, we can take stock of this systemic strategy. Everything and everyone are fair game for mockery, as long as they deserve to be put down, by taking the wraps off and by unmasking false pretences. In other words: as long as there is too much praise and self-praise going on – which is the bread and butter of democracy. This point, the solidarity of praise and self-praise, is crucial, for ἀλαζονεία reveals that nothing is more ridiculous than a complicit exchange of flattery and credulity, admiration and self-esteem. Anyone may become susceptible to mockery, whenever they take themselves seriously and readily agree with those who extol them. Once again, the designated victims of Aristophanes’ abrasive derision are those who think most highly of themselves: gods, celebrities, orators, generals, women, poets, parvenus, knights, hoplites, ambassadors, philosophers, peacocks and other colourful birds.⁵⁹ They are all ἀλαζόνες, afflicted  On ἀλαζονεία in comedy: Gruber 1983: 109 – 10; MacDowell 1987; Major 2006: 135; Mihre 2014.  Whitman 1964: 26 – 27.  R. Saetta Cottone (2005) takes up the question of the insults addressed to individuals, identified by name and cruelly exposed to the public. Saetta Cottone provides an overview of the ongoing critical debate on loidoria, with a ‘pragmatic’ conclusion. The insult of well-known citi-

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by a self-importance that helps them believe what others try to make them believe. Their pride is shown to be not a form of superiority, but rather one of abysmal naiveté. Conceit impairs their vision of themselves and makes them fall into the trap of adulation. It is a liability. Coxcombs allow themselves to be conned. To mock them is to dress them down. This is why it is they who become funny. The theatre makes fun of tragically proud people. Unlike Socrates, the Athenians do laugh loudly at all this boastfulness.

6 Δῆμος and δῆμος One particular play epitomizes brilliantly the theatrical situation of Athenian comedy: Aristophanes’ Knights. ⁶⁰ A dotard, greedy, lazy and above all, boundlessly credulous, character called “Δῆμος” personifies the People. An unscrupulous Paphlagonian slave starts to spoil, flatter, and over-feed him. Two citizens lament this situation. The exaggeration of all these forms of servility is, as we would say, so ridiculous, outlandish, over the top that it can only be false – and thus incredible. The slave acts outrageously. Who could fail to see through his fawning unctuousness? Nobody, except for his victim. Δῆμος is unable to realize that the man is taking him for a ride: he is too stupid, of a stupidity that is steeped in his self-assurance. He simply believes that he deserves all the homage he receives. He enjoys his aggrandizement. The slave holds forth with his accolades and brings more and more food, precisely because he knows exactly where the vulnerability of People lays: the dotty old folk lacks self-awareness. You can make him gobble anything he might like. Whereas the Sausage-seller will be hailed as a perfect politician on account of his abysmal ignorance – he is barely literate, and that much he knows –, Demos is unscathed by self-doubt. By basking in the slave’s compliments and by savouring his presents, he reveals his sense of his own value, at the antipodes of the dismal reality. The People are truly hopeless. The worst they are, the best they think about themselves. This

zens, who might be sitting on the stands, was a way to engage the spectators in the dramatic action, to force them, so to speak, to laugh at themselves (352). This conclusion comes close to my argument, except that collective laughter can only become self-deprecating in the anonymous mockery of everyone – the δῆμος or the polis. See also: Riu 1995. On the categories of individuals who were most exposed to comic mockery, see Sommerstein 1996 (331: “Virtually anyone in the public eye could expect to become a target of comic satire”); Pritchard 2013: 113 – 120; Kawalko Roselli 2011; Robson 2017.  For a reading of the play, which offers a compatible focus on boastfulness and “self-reflective” laughter, see Lombardini 2012.

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is why individuals like the Paphlagonian slave, a fictional version of Cleon, can succeed in a democracy. They simply know how to take advantage of the People’s vanity. By this caricature of the Athenian People at large, Aristophanes pushes to the extreme the political orchestration of laughter. On stage, Δῆμος struts, blissfully blind to his inglorious liability: he is the victim of toadyish demagogues, but remains as full of self-esteem and as pretentious, as he is easy to fool. On the grades, the actual Athenian δῆμος laughs – light-heartedly or sardonically, we are welcome to guess. By taking pleasure in the parody of Δῆμος, the Athenian δῆμος laugh at themselves. Their laughter is a collective response of self-derision, namely of collective “irony,” in the sense that we encounter in Plato’s dialogues. The illusion of beauty, wealth, virtue and knowledge is the quintessential springboard of laughter. Socrates’ εἰρωνεία, as I have argued, slyly provokes it, only to dissolve self-confidence, question after question. The theatre creates a situation that is different from that of a dialogue, of course, but something comparable happens. Let us probe this comparison. In a dialogue, by feigning ignorance, Socrates leads his interlocutors to acknowledge their own contradictions. Plato’s characters usually comply and come to admit to their confusion. They accept to see themselves through Socrates’ lens, and thus ultimately concur with him about their bona fide not-knowing. But it can also happen that, caught off guard, someone like Thrasymachos may instead burst into laughter, mock the εἴρων and even call him disgusting (βδελυρὸς).⁶¹ Thrasymachos feels that he is being made into a laughing stock and he does not like it in the least. He is too full of himself to endorse Socrates’ refutation: he balks at “Socrates’ usual irony” (ἡ εἰωθυῖα εἰρωνεία Σωκράτους). He understands that irony is a joke, that the joke is on him – and cannot take it. He even tries to walk away.⁶² Thrasymachos echoes therefore Hippias’ protest in Xenophon’s Memorabilia: “It’s enough that you mock (καταγελάω) others, questioning and examining everybody, and never willing to give account or to express an opinion about anything”(ἀρκεῖ γὰρ ὅτι τῶν ἄλλων καταγελᾷς ἐρωτῶν μὲν καὶ ἐλέγχων πάντας, αὐτὸς δ᾽οὐδενὶ θέλων ὑπέχειν λόγον οὐδὲ γνώμη ἀποφαίνεσθαι περὶ οὐδενός).⁶³ Hippias and Thrasymachos feel dressed down in front of a parterre of acquaintances who might laugh at them.

 Plato, Republic, 2, 337 a: “Ye gods! here we have the well-known irony of Socrates (ἡ εἰωθυῖα εἰρωνεία Σωκράτους), and I knew it and predicted that when it came to replying you would refuse and feign ignorance (εἰρωνεύομαι) and do anything rather than answer any question that anyone asked you.”; 338d: βδελυρὸς.  Ibid., 344d.  Xenophon’s Memorabilia. 4, 4, 9.

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In the theatre, on the contrary, it is the performance that sets the Athenian spectators in an “ironic” perspective for, although the characters who represent them on stage may well be pompous dupes, they themselves are not. The viewers can recognize themselves aped and caricatured in Lamachos, the war monger or in Amphitheos, the fop, but, as long as they keep laughing, they consent to a systematic self-denigration – as if they agreed with the playwright. The play itself leads the audience to pick holes in a burlesque rendition of themselves. The joke is on them, but it is still funny. The Knights is emblematic because Δῆμος is meant to represents all of the Athenians at once. Like him, they think they know a lot, but they know nothing and believe whomever may blandish them. This is ridiculous! The spectators keep laughing at the mimetic version of themselves – and stay glued to their seats. Unlike Thrasymachus, they can take a joke. By the simple fact of laughing at themselves, those same spectators prove to be capable of a glimpse of self-knowledge. They are a laughing stock, but in the sense that they have the last laugh. They, the δῆμος, are smarter than Δῆμος. The latter is an ἀλαζὼν; the former, an εἴρων. The theatrical situation is exceptional, and yet paradoxically connected to the culturally ingrained habit of amplifying the merit of the democratic polis. The magnification of the People, as we said, is omnipresent in all public venues, especially in deliberative and epideictic oratory, but here it finds its undoing. In the time-space of Dionysus’ festivals, the audience themselves, as a group of ordinary members of the Athenian people, perform an act of political autocritique. It is of course a wicked playwright, Aristophanes, that makes this happen. He is the one who makes them laugh at themselves. But it is they who do the laughing. It is as if they were suddenly able to catch out their own flaws and to see the pitfalls of their own self-government. These are contentiousness, corruption, greed, ignorance, belligerency, but one inescapable weakness runs through all these imperfections: the potential for pride, complacency and naïveté. This captures the actual inclination of democratic political culture to cultivate overconfidence. But for a brief moment, the chorus of Athenian self-praise breaks down, in an explosion of hilarious self-awareness. In the anti-narcissistic mirror of a play, the Athenians take a look at their deficiencies, but also at their usual blindness to these very flaws. They are used to boasting about themselves. All of a sudden, their boastfulness deserves a moment of exhilarating vilification. And this is welcome because a lack of self-knowledge is bad, but also because it lays them open to others’ flattery. We can call this emotional situation – to be induced to laughing at our own expense – “εἰρωνεία”. Aristophanes has contrived this interplay – I make you minimize yourself, ordinary Athenians, by showing you, via my characters, what kind of persons you are, incompetent and vain. Socrates does the same in his own philosophical comedies – I make

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you join me, in the awareness of not-knowing, by laying bare your being “full of conflicts and of a false conceit of wisdom” (μεστὸν ἐρίδων καὶ δοξοσοφίας ἐστὶ ψευδοῦς).⁶⁴ In Athens, comedy is entertainment. But it is also a political strategy that, by aiming at anyone who is anyone, targets a uniquely proud political culture. Athenian democracy takes itself seriously. Comedy makes fun of it. Orators boast that popular rule is the best political order. Comedy laughs at such posturing. In the theatre, democracy becomes ridiculous, but it is the demos who has the last laugh. It is this particular kind of laughter, occurring in a unique situation, that engendered what we have come to call “utopias”.

7 Great and flourishing We usually call “utopian” a variable number of Aristophanes’ plays that invent an alternative reality, either an imaginary city or the radical transformation of Athens itself: Birds, Women at the Assembly, sometimes Wealth. ⁶⁵ It would be wrong, however, to disconnect these plays from the others. The theatre sets up one comic perspective: to make people laugh at what they usually praise; to make them scorn what they deeply care about, namely their own values, their laws, their paradigmatic way of life, their great government and, ultimately, themselves. All Aristophanes’ plays, with their different plots and characters, share this perspective. Knights in particular makes all this exceptionally clear for, once again, Δῆμος is the very personification of the People and, as such, he is supposed to combine all the flaws of democracy. He embodies above all the major vulnerability of popular rule: leaders and orators have to persuade the masses to support their policies, the masses have to vote on issues they know nothing about, and all have to love and praise their polis. The people, al-

 Plato, Philebus, 48c – 50b.  See Dobrov 1997. The theme of a past life in which work and slaves were not needed, because tools moved themselves and in which food and drink were overabundant is typical of Old Comedy. See Athenaeus, 6, 467e: “The Old Comic poets offer passages like the following, in which they discuss life in ancient times and claim that no one relied on slaves. Cratinus in Gods of Wealth (fr. 176): for whom Cronus was king long ago, when they played knucklebones with loaves of bread, and Aeginetan barley-cakes, ripe and full of lumps, were used to pay fees in the wrestling schools”. The banqueteer goes on quoting a series of long passages on the same condition of alimentary wealth (467e – 470c). Interestingly, Aristophanes barely figures as a source. Baldry 1953; Ruffel 2000.

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legedly in the position of ruling, are actually hostage to those who, feigning to help, try to sway them. It is public speakers such as Cleon, the man beyond the Paphlagonian slave, that hold real power – that of making Δῆμος do whatever they want. And their ammunitions are words and deeds that convey sheer flattery. The play exposes precisely Δῆμος’ vulnerability before the eyes of the Athenian δῆμος, who then laugh at their own foibles. The “utopian” plays do exactly the same, for the invention of preposterous poleis, such as Nephelococcygia, or a new Athens ruled by women, or blessed by Wealth is simply part of the same theatrical and cultural experience. These plays push to the extreme the scorn of Athens, and of Athens’ exceptionalism. Not of this or that Athenian, but of the polis itself and its vainglorious politics. In order to jeer at Athens, the “utopian” plays produce an even more hyperbolic encomium, only directed toward a different place. The best dwells somewhere else – in an alternative world to this one. Irony, with an exotic twist. Irony, still. In Aristophanes’ Birds, as I have mentioned, Athens is “great and flourishing”, everyone knows and says that, and yet some people cannot bear to live there.⁶⁶ The polis is actually filled with painful regulations, unfair denunciations, threatening law-suits and turbulent conflict. The judges sing incessantly, more assiduously than the cicadas. This portrayal of Athenian life is the exact opposite of the synergy of words and deeds, social harmony and honest pleasure, as the Funeral Oration would have it. Athens is no παράδειγμα, quite the contrary! Two well-meaning citizens set out to find, and ultimately found, a truly agreeable and tranquil city. This will be located as far as possible from home, up in the air and on a cloud. We have already commented upon this unflattering beginning, a perfect example of Aristophanes’ standard blame of Athens. Now let us see what happens to Euelpides’ and Pistetairos’ project: let us follow the plot. Flying with their two feet, the two men go and visit Tereus, a tyrant now transformed into a hoopoe, in search for directions. To him they reveal the purpose of their quest. Once they understand that the kind of place they are looking for – quiet, comfortable and full of delights – is nowhere to be found on earth, they decide to create one from scratch. They will do so right there, in the sky. But since the sky is

 Thought-provoking interpretations of the play as a utopia: Konstan 1990 and 1995 (see 29 – 44 on Birds); Henderson 1998; Zimmermann 1991; Sommerstein 2004. Sommerstein examines the narrative and dramatic construction of Pistetairos’ power, at the expense of the birds– whose naïveté, I will add, depends entirely on their vanity. See also: Sommerstein 2009; Carrière 1979: 105 – 107; Thiercy 2006; Corbel-Morana 2010 (an interesting contextualization of the quest for the best possible state).

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not an empty space, they need to persuade its native dwellers, the Birds, to help them found a colony of Athens, Nephelococcygia. To do so they astound the Birds by revealing to them their ancestral heritage. Do they know, Pistetairos asks them, that these now wretched and homeless creatures, were once the most powerful and the most majestic living beings of all? Immediately the Birds start to believe that they are more venerable than the Olympians, immeasurably superior to all human beings. A grandiloquent chorus improvises a Theogony, which places the origin of the world in a primordial egg. The first gods were all winged bipeds – Eros the first of all. The genealogy of the Birds is a pastiche of Hesiod and Orphic poetry, certainly, but also echoes a political myth: the representation of a noble pedigree. Such representation, so dear to the Athenians – descendants of three divine powers: Athena, Hephaestus and Earth – was a commonplace, precisely in the funeral orations.⁶⁷ Here is a light version, zero gravity, of autochthony. Based on praise, as glitzy as it is coarse, the aerial city is rapidly filled with braggarts (ἀλαζόνες) who migrate from Athens, eager to settle in the new polis. These imposters are actually flatterers who fuel even more the vanity of the Birds, by spreading compliments, hymns and predictions in honour of the new lords of the world. A herald showers Pistetairos with superlatives: “Oh! blessed Pistetairos, the wisest, the most illustrious, the most gracious, thrice happy …”, before offering him a golden crown in recognition of his supreme wisdom (σοφίας οὕνεκα), which he happily accepts.⁶⁸ The Birds fall passionately in love with themselves. “Soon every man will call this city populous”, intones the chorus. “Fortune favours us. Love for my city possesses people (κατέχουσι δ᾽ ἔρωτες ἐμᾶς πόλεως)”.⁶⁹ Now all men are erastai, lovers of the city! That collective eros for the polis to which Pericles’ Funeral Oration exhorted the Athenians in earnest, blossoms spontaneously in Nephelococcygia. There is even a parody of the funeral eulogy. The praises of the birds are now sung in unison – and everywhere. The wings themselves are nothing but exalting logoi. ⁷⁰ The Birds agree with the Athenian ἀλαζόνες, endorse enthusiastically their ἀλαζονεία, and end up creating a colony of Athens, full of Athenians. Wings are applied to the new-comers, but these hastily enhanced humans are still the same old fellow-citizens whom Pistetairos and Euelpides were desperately

   

Lysias, Epitaphios, 17; Isocrates, Panegyricus, 25; Demosthenes, Epitaphios, 3. Aristophanes, Birds, 1271– 1276. Ibid., 1313 – 1316. Ibid., 1436 – 1445.

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trying to leave behind.⁷¹ Worse, individual birds who disagree with the human government of Nephelococcygia – Pistetairos having to marry Basileia – end up roasted and covered in grated cheese.⁷² As in the Knights, the action revolves around the perverse synergy of flattery and credulity that characterizes democratic politics. Like Δῆμος in the Knights, the Birds and their human leader excel in gullibility. They enjoy compliments so much that they believe anything they like to hear. Self-love, passionate and eloquent, is the key to their foolishness. They fall prey to manipulation. Both plays, therefore, place before the eyes of the viewers a caricature of their own experience as the addressees of gratifying oratory – such as Demosthenes’ speeches, or the funeral orations. They are given the opportunity to laugh, for a moment, at their own compliance with the most solemn forms of public rhetoric. Since vanity is the thematic thread of the Birds, we are left with the question of how “utopian” Nephelococcygia can be. This is not supposed to be a perfectly just polis, for it is meant to be a cushy spot. “Will not man cohabit here with everything that is beautiful?”, chants the chorus. This is wisdom (Σοφία), love (Πόθος), ambrosia (᾿Aμβροσία), the Graces (Χάριτες), and the face of Tranquility (Ἡσυχία).⁷³ By marrying Basileia, Pistetairos will acquire soundness of judgment, good legislation, moderation, but also the fleet, slander, the public paymaster and the triobolus (τὴν εὐβουλίαν τὴν εὐνομίαν, τὴν σωφροσύνην, τὰ νεώρια, τὴν λοιδορίαν, τὸν κωλακρέτην, τὰ τριώβολα).⁷⁴ The city in the sky ends up mirroring the worst of Athens. It is not even a new polis, for it is just a colony of Athens. It comes to exist because Athens was to blame in the first place, but, over the time of the play, it becomes a deracinated replica of Athens – a place made up of flattery and conceit. The final choral song goes into raptures: “Oh, you, who do so well; you who are beyond words, thrice blissful race of the winged birds, receive your tyrant in your fortunate dwellings. He is approaching his glittering golden palace, no all-brilliant star to see shines like this; not even the far-reaching flame of the beams of the sun shines like this”.⁷⁵ Praise is displaced, exaggerated and caricatured. Peacocks, hoopoes and other multi-coloured creatures anatomically embody what is laughable. By laughing at them, the spectators laugh at themselves.

    

Ingo on metamorphosis in Birds. Ibid., 1482– 1489. Ibid., 1318 – 1322. Ibid., 1537– 1541. Ibid., 1706 – 1712.

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In Plato’s Philebus, it will suffice to watch what Aristophanes makes happen in the theatre, for Socrates to outline a theory of laughter that resonates with his usual εἰρωνεία. Utopia was born in jest, as a parallel world that does not go anywhere.

8 ἀριστοκρατία Let us now move on the wings of words, to another city in the sky, Plato’s Kallipolis.⁷⁶ The only one “good and right constitution” (5, 449 a: ἀγαθὴν μὲν τοίνυν τὴν τοιαύτην πόλιν τε καὶ πολιτείαν καὶ ὀρθὴν καλῶ), the one that properly can be called ἀριστοκρατία, is designed in logoi, in the Republic. ⁷⁷ The very foundation of Kallipolis in logoi is the project to achieve optimal results. The community of women and children, in particular, is meant to deliver “the best”, τὸ ἄριστον.⁷⁸ This attribution of high quality could be understood, after all, as yet another utterance of praise. But Socrates in not bragging. The ascription of excellence to this particular polis is well deserved. A dialogue on justice, the Republic offers a meditation of what is really “the good” and what is truly “the best”, thus substantiating the superlative. Whereas the amplifications that resound in the epideictic language of democracy are unwarranted, the quest for the best follows a pattern. The rulers of Kallipolis, being philosophers, do know what is the good, which they use as a divine παράδειγμα.⁷⁹ More to the point, the goodness of Kallipolis is systematically set in contrast with the simulacrum of goodness of anything that comes from the δῆμος. The People may well pontificate about this or that being good, but they do not even know what they are talking about. Kallipolis is not just a beautiful city: it is “Beauty City”. It embodies Kallos itself. There is a reason for its having the very best government: the best people

 Arlene Saxonehouse (1978) argues for a profound connection between Birds and Republic. Kallipolis is allegedly a utopia, Saxonhouse argues, but it is actually a polis full of animals, especially the dog-like Guardians. This reveals that not even this particular polis can possibly be just. Politics cannot achieve justice. I disagree on the injustice of Kallipolis, but I also argue for a connection between the two cities in the sky.  Republic 8, 544e – 545a: “Now we have already gone through the man corresponding to the government of the best, whom we aver to be the truly good and just man.” (τὸν μὲν δὴ τῇ ἀριστοκρατίᾳ ὅμοιον διεληλύθαμεν ἤδη, ὃν ἀγαθόν τε καὶ δίκαιον ὀρθῶς φαμεν εἶναι).  Ibid., 5, 456 c – 457a.  Ibid., 5, 475c – 480a, on the knowledge of the forms, of which only philosophers become able.

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are in charge.⁸⁰ It is the quality of individual characters, Socrates explains in a crucial passage, that determines the quality of cities.⁸¹ Only a good man can govern well. One can only become a “good man” over a long period of time and, crucially, thanks to a painstaking education. This means that the formation of elites is paramount. Whenever a polis fails to select and train its potential leaders, it neglects a basic principle: excellence is not a given but must be acquired. Now, Athens is grossly culpable for having neglected to do this, for democracy affords to all male, adult citizens the equal opportunity to participate in political life, through rotation, randomization and short tenure in office.⁸² This turn-over is the very opposite of the effort to elect the best people. In a δημοκρατία, anyone can become a temporary ruler. Since the many in charge of the administration are undistinguished individuals, randomly chosen, there can never be any ἄριστοι at the helm of the city. Without ἄριστοι, there cannot be any attempt to achieve τὸ ἄριστον, nor τὸ βέλτιστον, nor any superlative goodness. There is no ἀριστοκρατία. Concern for quality is structurally alien to popular rule. As a consequence, political discourse disregards true merit. Anyone can attribute beauty to whatever they happen to like. Praise and blame roam free. On the contrary, Socrates argues that a city needs to equip itself with ἄριστοι, for only such persons will be able to produce opinions (δόγματα) that are the best for the city. You have to look for those who are the best guardians of the opinion that is theirs, that they should do what in each occasion, seems to be best for the city (ὃ ἂν τῇ πόλει ἀεὶ δοκῶσι βέλτιστον εἶναι αὑτοῖς ποιεῖν).⁸³

The ἄριστοι will advise for what they deem to be best (βέλτιστον). Socrates places them in a stark opposition with the leaders of a democratic multitude. The δόγματα of the latter is just an opinion, nothing more. Protagaras or Gorgias, Socrates claims, teach nothing else than these opinions of the multitude, which they opine (δόγματα, ἃ δοξάζουσιν) whenever they get together – and call this knowledge ‘wisdom’ (μὴ ἄλλα παιδεύειν ἢ ταῦτα τὰ τῶν πολλῶν δόγματα, ἃ δοξάζουσιν ὅταν ἁθροισθῶσιν, καὶ σοφίαν ταύτην καλεῖν).⁸⁴

 Ibid., 4, 445d. For a systematic study on knowledge as the foundation of good government see El Murr 2014.  Ibid., 8, 544 d – e.  For a reading of the Republic against the background of Athenian politics, see Nails 2012.  Ibid., 413c.  Ibid., 6, 493a.

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The sophistai merely reinforce collective beliefs, and label them as “σοφία”. But there is no significance to these words, because a multitude has simply no standards of value. They ignore what is the beautiful and the ugly, the right and the wrong, the good and the bad.⁸⁵ The people ignore the meaning of the words they use, and their bad educators only corroborate their ignorance. This is why the people can only blurt out whatever comes to their mind – nothing better than that. This is the fundamental difference between Kallipolis and Athens. The “opinions which they (the many) opine” (δόγματα, ἃ δοξάζουσιν, 493a) are necessarily at a far cry from the kind of opinion of which the ἄριστοι are capable, since the latter are competent men, selected and educated to think that “they must do what, in every occasion, they feel is best for the city” (ὃ ἂν τῇ πόλει ἀεὶ δοκῶσι βέλτιστον εἶναι αὑτοῖς ποιεῖν, 413c). Note that the ἄριστοι produce opinions rather than science, but at least they try to attain to βέλτιστον. The only superiority of the best people, Socrates argues, is that they are demanding, exigent, exacting at the highest possible degree. They are neither omnipotent, nor even omniscient. They are not super-men. They care a great deal for the city. Concern defines an original intentionality. This is the basic effort that makes possible political activity and opens up the possibility of excellence. Since we want them to be the best of the guardians, must they not be “superlative guardians” of the city?” “Yes.” “They must then be intelligent in such matters and capable, and furthermore the champions of the care of the city?” (νῦν δ᾽, ἐπειδὴ φυλάκων αὐτοὺς ἀρίστους δεῖ εἶναι, ἆρ᾽ οὐ φυλακικωτάτους πόλεως; ναί. οὐκοῦν φρονίμους τε εἰς τοῦτο δεῖ ὑπάρχειν καὶ δυνατοὺς καὶ ἔτι κηδεμόνας τῆς πόλεως).⁸⁶

9 Φυλάσσειν Φυλάσσειν means κήδεσθαι. Protecting is caring. The Guardians are actually care-givers. The philosophers-kings will have to be their superlative version: φυλακικώτατοι. They are κηδεμόνες τῆς πόλεως: the champions of the care of the city. They watch over it. To care for each other reciprocally; to care for the city: this is, after all, the ultimate goal of the noble lie. “Well even that, I say, would serve to make them worry about the city and about each other” (τῆς πόλεώς τε καὶ ἀλλήλων κήδεσθαι).⁸⁷ What makes the beauty of Kallipolis, the excellence of ἀριστοκρατία, is the primordial orientation of its leaders toward the

 Ibid., 6, 493b.  Ibid., 3, 412c – d  Ibid., 3, 415d.

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city, more exactly toward the city’s own good. They strive to do what is best for the polis. This is the foundational belief, of which they are the super-guardians. They must care for the belief that they must care for the polis. “Then we must pick out from the other guardians such men as to our observation appear through the entire course of their lives to do, with a total commitment, what they consider to be in the interest of the state, and who would be least likely to consent to do the opposite. … I think, then, we shall have to observe them at every period of life, to see if they are “guardians” of this opinion and never, by sorcery nor by force, can be brought to expel (out of forgetfulness) the opinion that they must do what is best for the state.⁸⁸

This is Plato’s utopia. It is an intentional project, grounded in care. This is also Plato’s profoundly critical response to δημοκρατία, the regime that “tramples under foot” (καταπατέω) not merely excellence, but any concern for excellence. By despising the meritocratic recruitment and the proper education of its leaders, a δημοκρατία not only contributes to the degeneration of Kallipolis’ ἀριστοκρατία, but literally “stumps on top” of knowledge, the very cause of its superiority. The δῆμος’ clogs crush, first of all, the formation of excellent men, without whom the quest for goodness cannot even start because, as we said, “what is best for the polis” only matters for that kind of men. The δῆμος does not care to find rulers who care.⁸⁹ The result will be not only casual, mindless, bad government, but also the proliferation of gratuitous praise because, to restate this key point, the “sophists” supposedly “instruct” ordinary people to attribute beauty and goodness to laws, decrees, policies or individuals, but they actually do nothing but validate those people’s pre-existing opinions. No one has the slightest idea of what they are talking about. They fail to grasp what is truly good and beautiful. This is precisely the danger about which Socrates warns Agathon in the Symposium: praise is nothing but the ascription of amplified goodness and beauty to an object, with no regard for the truth. When this abusive applause is addressed to oneself, Socrates adds in the Philebus, it becomes ridiculous. In this logic, democracy is a comedy. Incompetent people hold the power to judge and approve decisions they cannot understand. They are supposed to know what they actually ignore, and they themselves imagine that they know. Misleading mentors feign to educate them, whereas they simply confirm their thoughtless language. Self-interested leaders flatter the masses.

 Ibid., 3, 412 d – e.  Ibid., 8, 558 b – c.

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The democratic farce culminates in two vivid images. In one of these tableaux, the people is like a “big animal”, capricious and hyper-sensitive to coaxing, whom political leaders feed and caress, “calling “good” what pleases him, and “bad” what he dislikes, without giving any other account of those judgments” (οἷς μὲν χαίροι ἐκεῖνο ἀγαθὰ καλῶν, οἷς δὲ ἄχθοιτο κακά, ἄλλον δὲ μηδένα ἔχοι λόγον περὶ αὐτῶν).⁹⁰ In another dramatic scenario, the people are likened to the sailors on a ship. The captain is competent, but unable to master his crew. The sailors fight for control of the rudder, each claiming that it is his right to steer though he has never learned and cannot point out his teacher or any time when he studied it. And what is more, they affirm that it cannot be taught at all, but they are ready to make mincemeat of anyone who says that it can be taught. ⁹¹

Although navigation is a complex technique that requires knowledge of the sky, the stars, the seasons, the winds and the sea, these sailors cannot bear the thought that all this should be learned. They care only for power. To this effect, they praise and celebrate as a navigator any man who is willing to help them seize the helm, by “persuading or constraining the shipmaster to let them rule”.⁹² Praise and blame are the ammunitions for the competitors in this struggle for unskilled leadership. We have now come full circle. Both Aristophanes and Plato make fun of a δῆμος that is quintessentially ridiculous. As a collective agent, the people are the control model of ignorance, unwariness, and pretension to know. The Athenian people are all ἀλαζόνες, in a sense, because democracy itself places them in the position of displaying, exhibiting, sporting – and using in the governance of the city – the semblance of a knowledge they have never acquired. As in Aristophanes’ Knights and Birds, in the δημοκρατία portrayed in Plato’s dialogues, flattery and self-importance replace any possible care to learn – humbly and painstakingly. The people, Plato laments, cannot possibly be a philosopher.⁹³ Δῆμος is a comic character. Democracy is ἀλαζονεία made into a form of government. Both in the performance dynamic of the theatre and in the friendly setting of Socrates’ dialogues, εἰρωνεία exposes this fundamental flaw of democratic culture. Plato captures the gist of Aristophanic comedy, theorizes the mechanism of

 Ibid., 493  Ibid., 488a – d.  Ibid., 488d.  Plato, Republic, 6, 494a: “To be a philosopher, I said, is impossible for the multitude (φιλόσοφον μὲν ἄρα, ἦν δ᾽ ἐγώ, πλῆθος ἀδύνατον εἶναι)”.

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laughter, and adapts the game of irony versus vanity to his own private plays. In the Republic, moreover, he brings into full light the comedy of democracy, a regime of empowered ἀλαζόνες who deserve to be derided. Aristophanes and Plato, in conclusion, failed to understand democratic perfectionism. This is, sadly, the birth (and the truth) of utopia.

10 Post scriptum, or the Isles of the Blessed In the Menexenos, Aspasia utters a Periclean funeral oration, in which she claims that the government of Athens “is in truth a rule of the best, with the approval of the multitude (ἔστι δὲ τῇ ἀληθείᾳ μετ᾽ εὐδοξίας πλήθους ἀριστοκρατία)”. More to the point “while the multitude has control over most things in the city, they always give offices and power to those they believe are the best (ἐγκρατὲς δὲ τῆς πόλεως τὰ πολλὰ τὸ πλῆθος, τὰς δὲ ἀρχὰς δίδωσι καὶ κράτος τοῖς ἀεὶ δόξασιν ἀρίστοις εἶναι)”.⁹⁴ This superior synthesis of a “government of the best” (ἀριστοκρατία) and the “good doxa” (εὐδοξία) of the πλῆθος points to the very question raised in the Republic, about the range of possibilities available to ordinary people. Are they able to aim at the best? According to Aspasia, the answer is affirmative, for the Athenian multitude are capable of good judgment, which allows them to select only leaders who are ἄριστοι, and to support them at the helm of the city. Athens is suddenly the place where “the man who is deemed to be wise and good has power and holds office (ὁ δόξας σοφὸς ἢ ἀγαθὸς εἶναι κρατεῖ καὶ ἄρχει)”. Really? If this were the case, then we would be in Kallipolis, not in the city that, according to Socrates, solemnly tramples under foot any concern for the best. This cannot be serious. This praise of the Athenians among the Athenians, which becomes therefore a narcissistic self-praise, is doubly absurd.⁹⁵ The speech is, firstly, an exercise in the art of ἐπαινεῖν, filled with the kind of hyperbolic language that a speaker like Agathon might use. Secondly, Aspasia attributes to the people a concern for quality and an ability to identify the best rulers, which goes against anything Socrates has ever said in Plato’s dialogues, from the Apology to the Republic. We have emphasized how the best practice of Kallipolis, a true ἀριστοκρατία,  Plato, Menexenos, 238d.  Aristotle quotes the Menexenos (235d) in the Rhetoric, 1, 9, 30 when he recommends to take the audience into consideration. As Socrates sad, it is not difficult to praise the Athenians among the Athenians (ὥσπερ γὰρ ὁ Σωκράτης ἔλεγεν, οὐ χαλεπὸν ᾿Aθηναίους ἐν ᾿Aθηναίοις ἐπαινεῖν).

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is first of all a matter of attitude, intent, carefulness for an education that prepares the future “super-guardians” to perform their task as well as they possibly can. Democracy crushes precisely that kind of care for the polis. Aspasia speaks like an ἀλαζὼν, feeding the habit of a crowd of ἀλαζόνες. She can recite the entire history of Athens! She is indeed the one who knows our own city! She magnifies, amplifies us: she is great, and we are great! But Socrates, the εἴρων, invites us to share his own standpoint: let us minimize ourselves and admire this marvel in awe! And like Socrates, we may feel that, wow!, we are suddenly swept off our feet and transported to the Ilsles of the Blessed. If this is Athens, then Athens is an island of bliss! We may well believe that we walk in the streets of Athens, down to the Piraeus, in a meadow on the outskirt of town, on the ground of Attica, but in truth we dwell in a place that belongs in the mythological tradition. The Isles of the Blessed (μακάρων νήσοι), Hesiod narrates in Works and Days, are located along the shore of deep Ocean, apart from men, beyond the extreme boundaries of the earth (ἐς πείρατα γαίης). Out there, live forever the heroes who fought at Troy and Thebes, enjoying a carefree life, for the soil spontaneously bears fruit for them thrice a year. A venerable god, Cronos, rules over them.⁹⁶ Whereas Hesiod’s landscape is merely a pastoral vagary, in Socrates’ mouth the Isles of the Blessed stand as a metaphor of an admirable πολιτεία: an aristocracy with the approval of the multitude, where equal opportunity, civility and virtues flourish. All the goodness of Athens derives from its unique government. It is Aspasia’s polis, therefore, that floats in the extra-terrestrial space of mythology. It is a place no-where to be found on earth, a utopia. I have argued for a definition of “utopia” as something far more specific than an idyllic time/space. A utopia is a complex, hypothetical parallel world. It is primarily a political fantasy. It is made up of admiration, in response to the self-aggrandizement of its surrounding political culture. This is exactly what Plato fashions in response to Aspasia’s epideictic eloquence. Aspasia amplifies Athens among the Athenians, thus creating a unanimous expression of pride. Socrates, the εἴρων, reacts to this chorus of ἀλαζονεία. With his εἰωθυῖα εἰρωνεία, he insinuates that if this eulogy were true, then we would be living in the Isles of the Blessed. This poetic reverie conveys the experience of the best form of government, but counterfactually so: if, and only if, this polis – Aspasia’s polis – were Athens, then Athens would be pure heaven. To believe it, we should forget quite a bit of Plato’s thinking about democracy. Athens is the home of the “big animal”. Athens sails like a drunken boat. Athens is the land where

 Hesiod, Works and Days, 166 – 173.

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the People are in charge of the most daunting responsibility, government, but disdain education, hold office by chance and speak freely not knowing what they are talking about. Athens is a boastful democratic polis. The Menexenos, therefore, exemplifies the utopian gesture, as a parody. Surely, all this magnificence cannot possibly be attributed to this place, down here. We must be talking about somewhere else: the polis of the Birds, that of the philosophers or that of the greatest of heroes. Which means, once again, a place nowhere to be found on earth, a utopia. Aspasia’s charm lasts only for three days. Utopia was born in jest and goes nowhere.

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Stephen E. Kidd

What will we do when we get there? Utopia and Dicing in Greek Comedy What will we do when we get there? Thomas More makes it clear in Utopia that there will be no playing dice: the inhabitants of Utopia do not so much as know “dice or other such foolish and ruinous games” (aleam atque id genus ineptos ac perniciosos ludos ne cognoscunt quidem) he writes, and repeats the pronouncement throughout his text.¹ Even before discussing the imaginary land, one of his characters criticizes the plagues of 16th-century society which include “dice, cards, backgammon, tennis, bowling, and quoits, in which money slips away so fast” (alea, charta, fritillus, pila, sphaera, discus, an non haec celeriter exhausta pecunia).² Contrast this with the utopian natives whose upbringing has been so virtuous that they cannot even discern the pleasure of such vices: they ask “what pleasure can there be… in throwing dice on a playing-table?” (nam quid habet, inquiunt, uoluptatis, talos in alueum proiicere), and muse further, “if there were any pleasure in the action, wouldn’t doing it over and over again make one tired of it?” (quod toties fecisti, ut si quid uoluptatis inesset, oriri tamen potuisset ex frequenti usu satietas).³ More’s erasure of dicing from his utopia is something that is shared among ancient utopias as well. Aristophanes’ Praxagora in the Assembly Women, for example, remarks that there will be no more dicing in her ideal communist state, and there is good reason to think that Plato, Aristotle, and others would have followed suit on this point. On the other hand, there is a curious counterpoint to be found in other comic fragments, which I will call the counterpoint of paradise. In fragments of Cratinus and Teleclides, where a land of plenty or Time of Cronus is depicted, dicing is a clear, almost celebrated feature of the landscape. This no doubt has to do with the fact that dicing and games more generally were present as festival activities, where citizens attempted and maybe even caught a glimpse of some more permanent paradise. The question of this chapter arises from these two landscapes placed side by side: why is dicing absent from utopian landscapes but present in the landscapes of paradise? I will argue that the answer has to do with the different goods and goals of each place. In utopia one finds goals like self-improvement and goods

 Logan, Adams, Miller 2004: 128 – 9.  Logan, Adams, Miller 2004: 66 – 7.  Logan, Adams, Miller 2004: 170 – 1. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110733129-003

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like efficiency, while in paradise, efficiency, self-improvement, even goals themselves simply make no sense. I will begin this argument by looking at the fragments from old comedy where dicing, specifically with knucklebones (astragaloi), is included into the landscape. This expands into a broader picture of paradise, which so often resembles contemporary festivals. Then I will turn to the Assembly Women and contextualize that exclusion of dicing within the social thought of the period. Although these other fourth-century texts are not utopian they are good indicators of the vices generally desired out of contemporary society. After posing the question of utopia vs paradise, and considering issues like gambling and idleness, I will end by considering that paradise of the afterlife, where dicing and other such frivolous pursuits are played for eternity within some endlessly present moment.

1 Dicing as a Feature of Paradise So: what do we do when we get there? Old comedy makes it clear: we eat and drink and have as much easy sex as we can. Dikaiopolis celebrates at the end of Acharnians with a great feast, and the chorus sing that he will “drink, garlanded with flowers… and sleep with a young woman, getting one hell of a massage” (τῷ μὲν πίνειν στεφανωσαμένῳ… τῷ δὲ καθεύδειν / μετὰ παιδίσκης ὡραιοτάτης, / ἀνατριβομένῳ τε τὸ δεῖνα, 1145 – 48); Peisetairus and his fellow citizens of Nephylococcygia, at the end of Birds, also celebrate a perfumed wedding banquet where the new bride’s beauty is described as “unspeakable” (κάλλος οὐ φατὸν λέγειν, 1713). And whatever the darkness of Praxagora’s utopia, her promise that everyone will have “loaves of bread, slices of fish, barley cakes, coats, wine, garlands, chickpeas” (ἄρτους, τεμάχη, μάζας, χλαίνας, οἶνον, στεφάνους, ἐρεβίνθους, 606), as well as sex (613) is at least made good with the 64 – syllable banquet menu at the end of the play (1169 – 76) and Blepyrus running off to enjoy some carnal delights.⁴ In short, the comic struggles to create more perfect societies not only tend to pay off, but tend to pay off in a certain direction: namely, a celebration of food, drink, and sex. But comedy offers another route as well to such achievements of paradise which seems not to require any struggle or achievement at all. These are the so-called glimpses of Schlaraffenland in comedy: the visions of lands of plenty where rivers flow with stew meat and food flies into one’s mouth of

 For the darkness of Praxagora’s utopia, see Said (1999[1979]).

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its own accord.⁵ In such lands, one can lead a life of pure supine pleasure since scarcity and its consequence of labor have not been imagined into it. It is worth considering two fragments from this well-attested tradition, specifically with this question (what do we do when we get there?) in mind. The first is from Teleclides, a poet who appears on the list of victors of the Dionysia in the late 440’s and early 430’s. The fragment is from his play Amphictyoneis (fr. 1 KA = Ath. 6.268a – d), a title which suggests either a group of delegates, or Amphictyon the ancient king of Attica, son of Deucalion.⁶ The speaker of the following fragment which describes the past golden age has been believed to be, among others, Amphictyon, Deucalion, Dionysus, or Cronus: Well, I’ll tell you about the life I provided for mortals at the beginning. Peace, first of all, was (everywhere) like water for your hands. The earth brought forth no fear or disease, but instead whatever was needed arose of its own accord: every stream gushed with wine, and barley cakes fought with loaves of bread around the mouths of men, begging them to swallow the whitest ones, if they should like. And fish would come home, roasting themselves, and set themselves on the table; and a river of broth swirling with warm meat would flow past the couches, and streams of these sauces were at hand for whoever wanted, so that the opportunity was plentiful to gulp down many a moistened morsel. And in little dishes were anapests(corrupt) sprinkled with seasonings, and roast thrushes flew down one’s throat accompanied by biscuits, and there was a racket from all the flatbread pushing eachother around the people’s jaws. And with leftover slices of sow’s womb the children played knucklebones. λέξω τοίνυν βίον ἐξ ἀρχῆς ὃν ἐγὼ θνητοῖσι παρεῖχον. εἰρήνη μὲν πρῶτον ἁπάντων ἦν ὥσπερ ὕδωρ κατὰ χειρός. ἡ γῆ δ᾽ ἔφερ᾽ οὐ δέος οὐδὲ νόσους, ἀλλ᾽ αὐτόματ᾽ ἦν τὰ δέοντα· οἴνῳ γὰρ ἅπας᾽ ἔρρει χαράδρα, μᾶζαι δ᾽ ἄρτοις ἐμάχοντο περὶ τοῖς στόμασιν τῶν ἀνθρώπων ἱκετεύουσαι καταπίνειν, εἴ τι φιλοῖεν, τὰς λευκοτάτας. οἱ δ᾽ ἰχθύες οἴκαδ᾽ ἰόντες ἐξοπτῶντες σφᾶς αὐτοὺς ἂν παρέκειντ᾽ ἐπὶ ταῖσι τραπέζαις. ζωμοῦ δ᾽ ἔρρει παρὰ τὰς κλίνας ποταμὸς κρέα θερμὰ κυλίνδων, ὑποτριμματίων δ᾽ ὀχετοὶ τούτων τοῖς βουλομένοισι παρῆσαν, ὥστ᾽ ἀφθονία τὴν ἔνθεσιν ἦν ἄρδονθ᾽ ἁπαλὴν καταπίνειν. λεκανίσκαισιν δ᾽ +ἀνάπαιστα+ παρῆν ἡδυσματίοις κατάπαστα. ὀπταὶ δὲ κίχλαι μετ᾽ ἀμητίσκων ἐς τὸν φάρυγ᾽ εἰσεπέτοντο· τῶν δὲ πλακούντων ὠστιζομένων περὶ τὴν γνάθον ἦν ἀλαλητός· μήτρας δἐ τόμοις καὶ χναυματίοις οἱ παῖδες ἂν ἠστραγάλιζον. (Teleclides fr. 1 KA = Ath. 6.268a-d)

 For the theme, cf. Farioli 2001: 27– 137; Olson 2007: 99 – 105; Ruffell 2000, 2011: 386 – 93.  For discussion of this play, cf. Ruffell 2000, Farioli 2001: 74– 91, Storey 2011: 3.288 – 93, Bagordo 2013: 43 – 104.

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As the other fragments from this section of Athenaeus show (he quotes from some seven different comedies), this is all fairly stock comic description of the golden age.⁷ The life of hedonistic feasting that comic utopias struggle to create is simply already there in Schlaraffenland. But although the food and drink are to be expected, this last line about knucklebones is a little more striking: “the children played knucklebones with leftover slices of sow’s womb.” Why knucklebones? On the one hand the trope is clear enough: the speaker wishes to say that children in contemporary society enjoy playing with knucklebones—the bones of course being the leftovers of a feast—but in the past, food was in such plenty that it was not the leftover bones children played with but the very best slices of meat: “sow’s womb” as Teleclides’ character reports. In that sense, the trope could work in any number of ways: Teleclides only needs to say something like “in the golden age, even the bones were made of meat.” On the other hand, this shift from feasting to playing with the bones seems a natural one to make and Teleclides is not the only one to do it. Cratinus writes or perhaps already had written something similar: according to Athenaeus, Cratinus had produced his Ploutoi before Teleclides’ play and so had inaugurated this comic fantasy of the golden age—although it should be mentioned that some modern estimates place the play as late as the early 420’s.⁸ From a number of papyrus finds, the play purports to be about the Titan Wealth-Gods returning to earth in search of a lost relative: while doing so, someone (perhaps the chorus of Wealth-Gods) speaks of the past Golden Age of Cronus: Those for whom Cronus was king in the old days, when they played knucklebones with loaves of bread, and Aeginetan barley-cakes, ripe and luxuriant in lumps, tumbled on the wrestling grounds. οἷς δὴ βασιλεὺς Κρόνος ἦν τὸ παλαιόν, ὅτε τοῖς ἄρτοις ἠστραγάλιζον, μᾶζαι δ᾽ ἐν ταῖσι παλαίστραις Αἰγιναῖαι κατεβέβληντο δρυπεπεῖς βώλοις τε κομῶσαι. (Cratinus fr. 176 = Ath. 6.267e)

 Ath. 6.267e lists Cratinus’ Plutuses (fr. 176 KA), Crates’ Beasts (fr. 16 KA), Teleclides’ Amphictyons (fr. 1 KA), Pherecrates, Miners (fr. 113 KA) and Persians (fr. 137 KA), Aristophanes’ Tagēnistai, Metagenes’ Thuriopersians (fr. 6 KA), and Nicophon’s Sirens (fr. 21 KA). For the relationship between utopia and slavery in comedy (Athenaeus actually cites these passages during a discussion over slavery), see Sells 2013: 102– 6.  Storey 2011: 1.346– 7 for discussion; cf. Farioli (2001) 31– 57.

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The sense of the trope is the same here as in Teleclides: there was such plenty in the time of Cronus that even the bones were made of food (here loaves and barley cakes fill the function rather than meat slices). But that the expression should be made in the same way calls for some explanation, not so much along the lines of allusion, which would not fully explain the issue, but rather regarding the place of knucklebones in the conceptual space of a feast or, by extension, an imagined time of plenty. Why should such objects or activities be imagined into paradise, or as seems more likely, already be at hand when one set out to imagine paradise? The primary connection between feasting and knucklebones is that of the victim and its parts. One might think of the wishbone of the Thanksgiving day turkey—an American tradition with a medieval pedigree (with a goose not a turkey of course)⁹—only here one is dealing with the talus or ankle bone of hoofed animals like a goat or a sheep.¹⁰ The ankle bone with its four-sides and uneven nature is suited for throwing and games of chance. One comes across them in festival contexts: in Plato’s Lysis, for example, Socrates first comes across the title character among a group of boys throwing knucklebones after the sacrifice in a festival of Hermes.¹¹ They were still in festival garb, Socrates reports (206e): After entering [the palaistra grounds], I came upon the boys, who, having finished with the sacrifice and pretty much all the ceremonial stuff, were throwing knucklebones, all dressed up in their best clothes. Most were playing outside in the courtyard, but some were playing “odds and evens” with a great deal of knucklebones in a corner of the dressing room, choosing them from some baskets. εἰσελθόντες δὲ κατελάβομεν αὐτόθι τεθυκότας τε τοὺς παῖδας καὶ τὰ περὶ τὰ ἱερεῖα σχεδόν τι ἤδη πεποιημένα, ἀστραγαλίζοντάς τε δὴ καὶ κεκοσμημένους ἅπαντας οἱ μὲν οὖν πολλοὶ ἐν τῇ αὐλῇ ἔπαιζον ἔξω, οἱ δέ τινες τοῦ ἀποδυτηρίου ἐν γωνίᾳ ἠρτίαζον ἀστραγάλοις παμπόλλοις, ἐκ φορμίσκων τινῶν προαιρούμενοι…

Clearly not all knucklebones are fresh from the day’s victim—that would suggest an enormous feast for this festival of Hermes. But still, there seems to be some connection between knucklebones and the sacrificed victims of which they were part. This may provide a clue as to why some adults and not just children are found buried with knucklebones, some numbering into the hundreds: they are

 See Johannes Hartlieb’s (1456) discussion of St. Martin’s Day (The Book of All Forbidden Arts ch. 79a, translated by Kieckhefer 2017 and discussed at 11).  For the location of the astragalos, see Arist. HA 2.1, 499b with Nollé 2007: 7 for a picture and discussion.  For the context of this passage and the festival, see Bordt 1998 ad loc.

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not just knucklebones, but may be symbols of past sacrifices as well.¹² When the comedians thus say “even the knucklebones were made of food back then” a fuller gloss might read “although in festivals today children play with knucklebones, in festivals back then children played with the best slices of meat” or in the case of Cratinus, fine loaves of bread. Paradise, at least as these comic fragments suggest, thus looks something like a Greek festival or feast, where there is not just eating and drinking, but the playing of games, for example, throwing knucklebones. If this is so, the picture should not be limited to children: games were part of many festival’s expected activities for adults as well. Lucian captures this spirit centuries later with his description: “during [the festival] nothing serious nor business-like is permitted to be engaged in, but only to drink and get drunk and yell and play and roll dice…” (ἐν αὐταῖς δὲ ταῖς ἑπτὰ σπουδαῖον μὲν οὐδὲν οὐδὲ ἀγοραῖον διοικήσασθαί μοι συγκεχώρηται, πίνειν δὲ καὶ μεθύειν καὶ βοᾶν καὶ παίζειν καὶ κυβεύειν…).¹³ He is describing the Roman Saturnalia, of course, or as he calls it in Greek the Kronia, but classical Athenians too had their own Kronia festival, theirs during the harvest time, and if the “time of Kronus” fragments are any clue, Lucian’s description likely bore a resemblance.¹⁴ Another festival close in time to that of the Kronia, that of Athena Skiras, also had some connection to dicing and gambling, as a number of scholars have argued, since a word for both dicing and dicing-houses is skirapheia. ¹⁵ At the Anthestheria meanwhile, there are some clues from vase depictions that game play, for example, with knucklebones, was a feature of the festival.¹⁶ Games were likely spread also more informally among other institutionalized festival features: Nick Fisher, for example, notes dice found in the debris of the Odeion at Corinth which suggests that gaming went on during the intervals between performances.¹⁷ Finally, there are a number of conceptual

 Cf. Simon 1986: 387 “the astragal might commemorate the sacrifice” quoted at Kurke 1999: 288 n. 82; Kurtz and Boardman 1971: 208 – 9 and Fisher 2004: 68 for a grave with 587 knucklebones; for the man buried with 144 knucklebones, see below note.  Lucian Sat. 2.10 – 11.  For dicing at the Saturnalia, cf. Martial 4.14.7, 5.84.3, 11.6.2; Suet Aug. 71.1 with Purcell 1995; for the Athenian Kronia, cf. Demosth. 24.26 with Σ ad loc., Philochoros, FGrH 328 F 97, Plut. Thes. 12.1 with Versnel 1990: 2.99 – 35 and Bremmer 2004: 43 – 46; for connections (and differences) between the Roman Saturnalia and the Greek Kronia, cf. Versnel 2.136 – 46, Graf 2015: 87– 9.  For the Skira festival, see Pollux 9.96 – 7 with Burkert 1983: 143 – 9 and Fisher 2004: 72– 4.  For Choes vase depictions of knucklebones and games, see Van Hoorn cat. nos. 244, 298, 573, 629 with Fisher 2004: 68 for the idea that these depictions do “not necessarily demonstrate that these games were played specifically during the Anthesteria, but it remains a reasonable possibility.”  Fisher 2004: 74 n. 70.

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links between festivals and play. Aristotle speaks of that freedom from anger one experiences in contexts of “play, laughter, festival…” (Rhet. 1380b3: ἐν παιδιᾷ, ἐν γέλωτι, ἐν ἑορτῇ…) while the very word that Plato’s Athenian uses to describe festivals is “forms of play”: “certain forms of play,” he says, “sacrificing and singing and dancing” (τινὰς δὴ παιδιάς, θύοντα καὶ ᾄδοντα καὶ ὀρχούμενον, Laws 7.803e).¹⁸ One might go so far as to say that what one does at a festival is almost by definition rather like what one does at smaller scale banquets or symposia: one eats, one drinks, and one plays.¹⁹ This festival landscape, it seems, is what paradise looks like. Like Pindar’s paradise where the landscape is “heavy with golden-fruit trees, with some taking pleasure in horses, others in playing board games, others with their lyres”²⁰ so too the comic fragments make it clear: one eats, and one drinks in paradise, yes: but one also plays dice.

2 No Dicing in Utopia Paradise, lands of plenty, and the festivals that arise out of them, embrace dicing and such games as expected features in the landscape. By contrast, utopias tend to be rather choosy in regards to what sorts of games, if any, are to be allowed among the citizens. It was already seen how More banished dicing repeatedly from his Utopia, and ancient social ideals were no different. Take, for example, Praxagora’s city in the Assembly Women, at least as she first describes it. Among the social banes that she will sweep away with her radical reforms is dicing. No more lawsuits, she says, no more crime, and when Blepyrus asks (672): “So there also won’t be any gambling with dice?” Praxagora answers “No, because what will they use for stakes?” (Βλ. οὐδὲ κυβεύσουσ’

 For the connection between ‘play’ and ‘festival’, cf. Pind. Ol. 1.16 – 17, Herod. 3.55 (where paignia is ‘a feast’ holiday), 9.11 (Ὑακίνθιά τε ἄγετε καὶ παίζετε); Aristoph. Lys. 700 (with Σ ad loc: παιγνίαν· ἑορτήν); Pl. Phaedr. 276b (for the sake of “play and festival”), Rep. 2.365a (διὰ θυσιῶν καὶ παιδιᾶς ἡδονῶν), Leg. 2.657d (παιδιᾷ τε καὶ ἑορτάσει); Men. Sam. 41– 2 (τῆς δ᾽ ἑορτῆς παιδιὰν πολλὴν ἐχούσης), Epitr. 478 (where συνέπαιζεν refers to participation in the festival Tauropolia).  For this trinity, cf. Aristoboulos FGrH 139 F 9a (= Ath. 530c), Phoenix Iambs fr. 1 (231– 2 Powell = Ath. 530f10 – 11); cf. cf. Amphis Gunaikokratia fr. 8 KA = Ath. 8.336c; Ion Chi. 27.7 West; Lattimore 1962, 260 – 3. For ‘play’ as the activity of the symposium, Theog. 567– 70; Pind. Ol. 1.16 – 17, Hermipp. Theoi fr. 24 KA, Pl. Phaedr. 276d, Ps.-Pl. Minos 320a, Xen. Symp. 2.26.7 (παιγνιωδέστερον); Hedylus 5 GP.  I will quote this passage in full below. For the utopian themes of Pyth. 10 and Olymp. 10, see Morgan in this volume.

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ἆρ’ ἅνθρωποι; / Πρ. περὶ τοῦ γὰρ τοῦτο ποιήσει;). As with the comic fragments discussed earlier, the initial point here is simple enough: if money becomes meaningless in a communist utopia, gambling too will become meaningless. There is nothing to gain or lose because everyone has everything already in “plenty” (aphthona is her word at 690). The disappearance of dicing, for her, is as natural a consequence of communism as the disappearance of thievery. But Praxagora’s banishment of dicing is more than a consequence of communism: it is a marker of dicing as a fourth-century BCE social ill similar to More’s descriptions of the banes of sixteenth-century society. Dicing, like the crime and lawsuits which precede it in this passage, was a perceived societal disease that was commonly wished away, even if not in explicitly utopian texts. So, for example, in Xenophon’s Oeconimicus, Socrates discusses the forces that control the idle man, and singles out “certain mistresses disguised as pleasures, dice games and useless associations of men, which… prevent them from useful work by ruling them…” (καὶ ἄλλαι δ᾽εἰσὶν ἀπατηλαί τινες δέσποιναι προσποιούμεναι ἡδοναὶ εἶναι, κυβεῖαί τε καὶ ἀνωφελεῖς ἀνθρώπων ὁμιλίαι, αἳ… διακωλύουσιν αὐτοὺς ἀπὸ τῶν ὠφελίμων ἔργων κρατοῦσαι, 1.19 – 20). In the Memorabilia, Socrates is reported to have taught that work is good and idleness bad: among the “idle” he singles out “dicers” (τοὺς δὲ κυβεύοντας ἤ τι ἄλλο πονηρὸν καὶ ἐπιζήμιον ποιοῦντας ἀργοὺς ἀπεκάλει, 1.2.57). One finds similar sentiments in other fourth-century writers like Isocrates, Lysias, and Alcidamus.²¹ In comedy too, the sentiment is widespread: in Wasps, for example, a “love of dice” is listed among the diseases discussed at the beginning of the play, while later in Wealth the god laments about being wasted on dice, and how he must leave such houses as soon as he enters.²² Thus, when Praxagora says there will be no more dicing in her utopia, this reflects a general social disdain of dicing: she seems not to have been the only one to wish dicing out of some better society. Even Aristotle who finds a limited place for “play” (paidia) in the good life of the Politics and Nicomachean Ethics seems to echo the typical dangers.²³ One reason why the good life cannot consist of play and games, he argues, is that “people are harmed from them more than they are improved, neglecting their bodies and possessions” (βλάπτονται γὰρ ἀπ᾽ αὐτῶν μᾶλλον ἢ ὠφελοῦνται, ἀμελοῦντες τῶν σωμάτων καὶ τῆς κτήσεως,

 Cf. Isoc. Antid. 287, Lys. 14.27, Aeschines In Tim. 53, Alcidam. Odyss. 27; for discussion of these passages and their negative treatment of dicing see especially Kurke (1999) 283 – 95, Fisher (2004) 68 – 75.  Wasps 75 (philokubos) and Wealth 242– 44, respectively.  For general treatments of Aristotle views on play, cf. Gauthier and Jolif, 1958: 872– 9, Solmsen 1964, Kidd 2016.

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EN 10.1176b10 – 11). This sounds a lot like Xenophon’s Socrates regarding estate management and the deplorable role of ameleia and dicing (1.20), to say nothing of that stock character of fourth-century oratory: the man who has diced away his inheritance, or, in the case of Aeschines’ Timarchus, even more.²⁴ Dicing, then, has no place in an ideal society by fourth-century standards. Like crime and lawsuits it is something wished away. In the next section, I will pose the question that obviously follows—namely why dicing has no place in an ideal society—but before doing so, it is worth observing something particular about comedy when it comes to utopia. Assembly Women, for all its utopianism, ultimately resembles, and must resemble a typical comic paradise, where citizens eat, get drunk, and have sex. A Xenophonian scourge of vices like drunkenness and idleness or an Aristotelian appeal to the joys of contemplation, in lieu of the inebriated festive ending, could only be met with disappointed jeers from a comic audience, no matter how useful such morals would be for a utopian program. Comedy would thus seem to resist, almost by generic necessity, any full commitment to utopian restructuring, since a thorough purge of the vices typically wished out of society would threaten the fantastic hedonism that the comic genre demands.²⁵ Yet, the prohibition on dicing remains for the Assembly Women and it is surely to be located among the play’s utopian elements: it is difficult, after all, to imagine a place for dicing in other utopian texts, for example, the Kallipolis of the Republic, where all poetry and music (typical forms of “play,” paidia, for Plato) have been drastically reduced to only the most virtuous and self-improving kind.²⁶ Even in the Laws, where the Athenian famously remarks that the Magnesian citizens’ lives ought to be spent in play, that “play” consists of a similarly reduced repertoire of songs and dances in praise of arete and the divine.²⁷ Although it is never made explicit in such texts, one might assume, following Praxagora’s lead, that when it comes to dicing, a fourth-century utopia would resemble More’s, namely a place where citizens, to quote More again, “do not so much as know dice, or any such foolish and ruinous games.”

 Cf. Lys. 14.27, Aeschin. In Tim. 42 with Kurke 1999: 284; cf. Arist. Wasps 75 regarding Amynias with MacDowell 1971 ad loc.; Columella, Rust. 8.2.5 pignus aleae in reference to Greeks losing their inheritance at cock-fights.  For other views on utopia’s relationship to comedy beyond those already cited, cf. Heberlein 1980, López Eire 1984, Konstan and Dillon 1981, Konstan 1995: 15 – 90; Zeitlin 1999, Ceccarelli 2000, Amati 2010.  For Plato’s usage of play to cover music and dance, cf. Soph. 234a, Pol. 288c, Laws 2.666a-c, 673c-d, 6.771e, 764e.  For good overview of these themes in the Laws, see Prauscello 2014: 105 – 51.

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3 Why the Disjunction? Utopia thus erases what Paradise preserves, at least when it comes to dice. What can be the explanation for this disjunction? If it has been noticed that in the two comic fragments, knucklebones are mentioned while Praxagora specifies kuboi or six-sided dice, one might recall Leslie Kurke’s influential idea about a negative ideology surrounding kuboi as opposed to the positively-charged astragaloi. ²⁸ Maybe, one might argue, the issue is not so much about dicing, but six-sided dice, kuboi, and so there is no disjunction after all: for both places, astragaloi are permitted, but not kuboi. But as I have argued elsewhere what has been perceived as an ideology against six-sided dice is actually just a negative ideology against gambling.²⁹ It is not just the well-attested fact that knucklebones were often gambled with, but that the very word for “gamble” in Greek is kubeuō. So, perhaps then, it is this issue of kubeia in the sense of “gambling” that provides the reason for the divide between utopia and paradise: what utopias are out to erase is not “foolish” games per se, but rather the gambling that such games are involved in and the financial destruction they cause. This is really the sense of Praxagora’s use of kubeuō and surely it is this aspect of dicing that bothered More so much as one of the quotations above suggested.³⁰ Yet even here, it is debatable whether gambling is really the whole problem. It is not just that Lucian and others include gambling into the temporary paradise of the festival, it is rather that these fourth-century thinkers when they attack dicing and such games hardly mention money at all. Xenophon’s Socrates, for example, zeroes in on moral issues like idleness (argia) and softness (malakia): such gatherings of men are “useless” he writes (1.19 – 20) and such games, he explains, keep the men from “useful work” (αἳ διακωλύουσιν αὐτοὺς ἀπὸ τῶν ὠφελίμων ἔργων). Similarly with Aristotle, as was seen, he conflates gambling with other forms of paidia as if there were really no ultimate distinction between the two when it comes to questions of the good life (eudaimonia).³¹ All forms of play fall short, he goes on to say, since they lack that important element of seri-

 Kurke 1999: 283 – 95.  Kidd 2017.  See above notes 1 and 2.  See Aristotle EN 10.6, 1176b9 – 1177a11. I consider EN 10.6, 1176b10 – 11 (quoted above) a reference to gambling, although it need not be reduced to gambling.

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ousness (spoudē): the real activities of leisure ought to be contemplation or in the Politics that leisure pursuit opposed to play which he calls diagōgē. ³² When one considers ancient utopias in light of More’s, it seems that leisure time ought somehow to be “useful” to use Xenophon’s word. Work is not the goal —Plato, Aristotle, and More agree—work is for the sake of leisure time, just as war is for the sake of peace, and so utopias focus themselves and their innovative efficiencies around that ultimate goal. But that achieved leisure time is not to be spent in idleness, but in improving the soul and self. Consider the reasons for listening to that reduced repertoire of hymns in the Republic, the reasons for dancing and singing in the virtuous choruses of the Laws, the reasons for Aristotle’s rejection of “play” in favor of contemplation, or, in the case of More, the reasons for the citizens’ spending their leisure hours listening to public lectures.³³ Dicing and such “foolish games” are erased from certain forms of utopian thinking, it seems, ultimately not for financial reasons, but for the reason that such play is not “useful” for anything: there is no self-improvement or increase in virtue to be won through the repeated act of rolling dice. It is simply a waste of time. Along these lines, it perhaps should be added that More’s Utopians do have two games to play in their leisure time, both it seems of the “useful” or “self-improving” variety: one is explicitly described as a battle between virtue and vice.³⁴

4 The Underworld What, then, of utopia’s doppelganger, paradise? One suspects that it does not set such a high premium on goods like “usefulness” or “self-improvement.” But to approach this idea, it is necessary to turn to one final landscape where dicing is depicted. In the leskhē (leisure center) of the Cnidians at Delphi, a place where games of all sorts were likely to have been played, there was a famous painting by Polygnotus, the Nekuia, from the 460’s BCE.³⁵ How it managed to remain there continuously from that period to the period when Pausanias describes it some

 For the importance of “seriousness” as a criterion for rejecting play, cf. EN 10.6, 1176b32– 34 and 1177a2– 5 with Gastaldi 1987 and Schottländer 1980, for the term’s range in Aristotle; for contemplation, EN 10.8, 1178b21 ff with Gauthier and Jolif 1958 ad loc.; for diagōgē, see Pol. 8.3, 1337b33 – 1338a30 with Lord 1982: 56 – 7, Nightingale 2001: 167, Kidd 2016: 360, and Destrée 2018.  Logan, Adams, Miller 2004: 127.  Logan, Adams, Miller 2004: 129.  For overview and reconstruction of this painting, see Stansbury-O’Donnell 1990.

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six centuries later, is unclear. Nevertheless, he describes this underworld painting in detail, including, among other scenes, two scenes of dice playing. He describes first the part of the painting where the daughters of Pandareus are depicted (10.30.2): “Polygnotus has painted [these girls] as crowned with flowers and playing with knucklebones, and gives them the names of Cameiro and Clytie” (Πολύγνωτος δὲ κόρας τε ἐστεφανωμένας ἄνθεσι καὶ παιζούσας ἔγραψεν ἀστραγάλοις, ὄνομα δὲ αὐταῖς Καμειρώ τε καὶ Κλυτίη…).³⁶ Here is a symbolism of innocence with these unmarried girls since knucklebones are so often counted among childhood toys: these girls play in an eternal childhood.³⁷ This astragaloi scene resembles another eternal dice game which Pausanias describes in the upper part of the painting (10.30.1): “If you turn your gaze again to the upper part of the painting, you see… Salaminian Ajax, and also Palamedes and Thersites playing with dice, the invention of Palamedes; the other Ajax is looking at them as they play” (εἰ δὲ ἀπίδοις πάλιν ἐς τὸ ἄνω τῆς γραφῆς, ἔστιν… Αἴας ὁ ἐκ Σαλαμῖνος, καὶ Παλαμήδης τε καὶ Θερσίτης κύβοις χρώμενοι παιδιᾷ, τοῦ Παλαμήδους τῷ εὑρήματι…). Whether these heroes are gambling or whether Pausanias is deliberately avoiding the verb kubeuō to suggest they are not, is uncertain. But either way one cannot help but think of Praxagoras’ question about kubeia for her ideal city: “what would they use for stakes?” It would be rash to suggest that these are depictions of paradise, especially regarding this latter group of heroes. Nonetheless these depictions of eternal games of dice in the afterlife put the paradise-vs.-utopia question into a certain light. What can self-improvement or maintenance of the soul mean in the afterlife when time has come to an end and the structure of tomorrow or a better tomorrow has no meaning? Faced with the absurdity of self-improvement in the afterlife, frivolous games like rolling dice begin to hold their own. The pleasures of the moment become the good because the moment is the only conceivable unit of time left.³⁸ Outside of Polygnotus’ painting, games were an established part of the afterlife, at least the afterlife that many hoped for. So Pindar’s depiction of paradise, which was already partly quoted, is of course the afterlife from one of his threnoi (fr. 129 Maehler):

 For whom, see Hom. Od. 20.66 – 78.  Amandry 1984; Dolansky 2012: 274 for the Roman custom of dedicating dolls before marriage.  For the continuation of philosophy in the underworld, cf. Plat. Apol. 41b, Arist. Protrep. B43 with Horn in this volume. But the conclusion reached at Phaed. 67a-b suggests more of the problem I am interested here: if death gives access to “truth”, what is a philosopher left to do?

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For these [i. e. the good people] the sun shines down on the night there below, and their suburb [lies] in meadows of red roses and incense of shady… is heavy with golden-fruit trees, and some take pleasure in horses, others in playing boardgames, others with their lyres, and among them lovely-flowered prosperity is in bloom. τοῖσι λάμπει μὲν μένος ἀελίου τὰν ἐνθάδε νύκτα κάτω, φοινικορόδοις ἐνὶ λειμώνεσσι προάστιον αὐτῶν καὶ λιβάνων σκιαρᾶν < > καὶ χρυσοκάρποισιν βέβριθε καὶ τοὶ μὲν ἵπποις γυμνασίοισι τοὶ δὲ πεσσοῖς τοὶ δὲ φορμίγγεσσι⸥ τέρποντα⸤ι, παρὰ δέ σφισιν εὐανθὴς ἅπας τέθ⸥αλεν ὄλβος·

These happy creatures of the afterlife playing pessoi are not so far removed from the blessed citizens of comedy’s Schlarrafenland who roll astragaloi. The struggles of life are at an end for both, and what remains is the life of enjoyment: terpontai being Pindar’s word. What does such eternal enjoyment mean in the concrete? Playing a boardgame.³⁹ This may provide one reason why not just Greek childen but many Greek adults, at least in the archaic period, were buried with their games—really a wide-spread Mediterranean practice. A grave in Attica dating to the middle of the seventh century BCE contains a miniature terracotta gaming table along with a cubic die;⁴⁰ two other sixth century graves in Athens also contain such miniature gaming tables with dice.⁴¹ Emily Vermeule refers further to a number of graves where people are buried along with their cubic dice, and recently Hellenistic burials have been added to the list.⁴² Knucklebones too are regularly found in burials, not just for women and children, but men as well, for example, the man from Gordion who was buried with 144 of them.⁴³ Similarly the nearly 200 vases which depict Ajax and Achilles playing a boardgame with dice are almost all from Etruscan tombs, with some painters making rather explicit the

 Cf. the good life of the underworld in Aristoph. Frogs 318 – 19 (οἱ μεμυημένοι | ἐνταῦθά που παίζουσιν) with Dover 1993: 57– 9 for the recurrence of this word in the chorus’s songs; Pl. Rep. 10.614e for the ‘festival’ connection (οἷον ἐν πανηγύρει) in his own description, while earlier (2.363c – d) the drunken symposium of the underworld is ascribed to Orphic belief.  Kallipolite 1963: 123 – 4; pls. 53 – 55.  See Kübler 1970: 394– 5, 512– 13, cat. no. 129, Schädler 2008: 175, 180 (which has images of two of the three).  Vermeule 1979: 79 – 80; for dice finds in Hellenistic burials, see Nankov 2013.  Vermeule 1979: 78 n. 75. For the woman buried with 587 knucklebones, see above note.

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death themes already lurking in Exekias’ early version.⁴⁴ The Greeks, like many ancient cultures, took their games with them.⁴⁵

5 Conclusions When one considers the games of the afterlife, it becomes clearer why dicing is a feature of the landscape of paradise but erased from the landscapes of utopia. Self-improvement, self-maintenance, the betterment of the soul: these are goals for utopia, while they can only be absurdities for paradise. Without time there can be no goal-oriented structures. It is as if when we ask of paradise “what do we do when we get there?” the answer seems to be that we eat, drink, and play. When we ask of utopia “what do we do when we get there?” the answer seems to be “we try to get there.” This is not to say that utopia is merely a vague reflection of paradise—as if the recipe for utopia were just paradise plus scarcity—or that utopian thinkers somehow misunderstood the nature of the fantasy, rather like people who fantasize into their lottery winnings the need to pay taxes. Rather it is the reverse. An endless game of dice strikes not just us but many of those fourth-century thinkers as a hell not a heaven, and this anxiety underlies utopia’s appeal. It is not that behind every utopia lies a paradise, but rather that behind every paradise lies a utopia, as if pleasure were not some end, but a mere cypher tricking us into to getting some place further.

References Amandry, P. (1984), “Os et coquilles”, in L’Antre corycien II. BCH Suppl. 9: 347 – 80. Amati, M. (2010), “Meton’s Star-City: Geometry and Utopia in Aristophanes’ Birds,” CJ 105.3: 213 – 227. Bagordo, A. (2013), Telekleides. Einleitung, Übersetzung, Kommentar (FrC Band 4), Heidelberg: Verlag Antike. Bordt, M. (1998), Platon. Lysis, Gö ttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Bremmer, J. (2004), “Remember the Titans!”, in C. Auffarth and L. T. Stuckenbruck (eds.), The Fall of the Angels, Leiden: Brill, 35 – 61.

 See Buchholz’s “Brettspielende Helden” in Laser 1987: 126 – 84, for a list of the over 160 depictions; for the connection between the image and the afterlife, Vermeule 1979: 81– 82, Whittaker 2004: 293 – 95.  For the cross-cultural comparisons, see Whittaker 2004, Morris 2004: 232– 39; cf. Schädler 2007: 359 – 60 for a list of other board-games found in burials.

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Burkert, W. (1983), Homo necans: the anthropology of ancient Greek sacrificial ritual and myth. P. Bing (trans.), Berkeley: University of California Press. Ceccarelli, P. (2000), “Life among the savages and escape from the city” in F. D. Harvey, J. Wilkins, and K. J. Dover (eds.), The Rivals of Aristophanes: Studies in Athenian Old Comedy, London: Duckworth and the Classical Press of Wales, 453 – 71. Destrée, P. (2018), “Aristotle on Music for Leisure” in T. Phillips and A. D’Angour, (eds.), Music, Text, and Culture in Ancient Greece, Oxford, 183 – 202. Dover, K. J. (1993), Aristophanes. Frogs. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Farioli, M. (2001), Mundus alter: utopie e distopie nella commedia greca antica. Milan: Vita e Pensiero. Fisher, N. (2004), “The perils of Pittalakos: settings of cock fighting and dicing in classical Athens,” in S. Bell and G. Davies (eds.), Games and festivals in classical antiquity, Oxford: Archaeopress, 65 – 78. Gauthier, R.A. and Jolif, J.Y (1958 – 9), L’Éthique a Nicomaque: Introduction, Traduction et Commentaire. Louvain. Gastaldi, S. (1987), “Lo spoudaios aristotelico tra etica e poetica,” Elenchos 8: 63 – 104. Graf, F. (2015), Roman Festivals in the Greek East. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Heberlein, F. (1980), Pluthygieia. Zur Gegenwelt bei Aristophanes, Frankfurt am Main: Haag & Herchen. Καλλιπολιτη, Β. (1963), “᾿Aνασκαφὴ τάφων A ᾿ ναγυροῦντος” Αρχαιολογικον Δελτιον 18.1: 115 – 32. Kidd, S. (2016), “Play in Aristotle” CP 111: 353 – 371. Kieckhefer, R., (2017), Hazards of the Dark Arts, University Park: The Pennsylvania State University Press. Konstan, D. and Dillon, M. (1981), “The Ideology of Aristophanes’ Wealth” AJP 102: 371 – 94. Konstan, D. (1995), Greek Comedy and Ideology, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Kurke, L. (1999), Coins, Bodies, Games, and Gold: The Politics of Meaning in Archaic Greece, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Kurtz, D. and Boardman, J. (1971), Greek Burial Customs. London: Thames and Hudson. Laser, S. (1987), Sport und Spiel. Archaeologia Homerica. Kapitel T, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Lattimore, R. (1962), Themes in Greek and Latin Epitaphs, Urbana: University of Illinois Press. Logan, G. M., Adams, R. M., and Miller, C. H., eds. (2006), More: Utopia. Latin Text and English Translation. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. López Eire, A. (1984), “Comedia política y utopía” CIF 10: 137 – 174. Lord, C. (1982), Education and Culture in the Political Thought of Aristotle. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. MacDowell, D.M. (1971), Aristophanes. Wasps. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Morris, S. (2004), “Of Granaries and Games: Egyptian Stowaways in an Athenian Chest”, Hesperia Supplement 33, ΧΑΡΙΣ: Essays in Honor of Sara A. Immerwahr, 225 – 42. Nankov, E. (2013), “Playful in life and after death: Board games in early Hellenistic Thrace” in V. Sîrbu and R. Ștefănescu (eds.), The Thracians and Their Neighbors in the Bronze and Iron Ages vol. 2, Braila: Editura Istros, 277 – 88. Nightingale, A. (2001), “Liberal Education in Plato’s Republic and Aristotle’s Politics” in Y. L. Too (ed.), Education in Greek and Roman Antiquity, Leiden: Brill, 133 – 73. Nollé, J. (2007), Kleinasiatische Losorakel. Astragal- und Alphabetschremologien der hochkaiserzeitlichen Orakelrenaissance. Munich.

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Olson, S. D. (2007), Broken Laughter, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Prauscello, L. (2014), Performing Citizenship in Plato’s Laws. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Purcell, N. (1995), “Literate games: Roman urban society and the game of alea”, Past & Present 147: 3 – 37. Ruffel, I. (2000), “The world turned upside down: utopia and utopianism in the fragments of old comedy” in F. D. Harvey, J. Wilkins, and K. J. Dover (eds.), The Rivals of Aristophanes: Studies in Athenian Old Comedy, London: Duckworth and the Classical Press of Wales, 473 – 506. Ruffel, I. (2011), Politics and Anti-Realism in Athenian Old Comedy. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Said, S. (1999[1979]), “The Assemblywomen: Women, Economy, and Politics” in E. Segal, (ed.), Oxford Readings in Aristophanes, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 282 – 313 (Originally: “L’Assemblée des femmes: les femmes, l’économie et la politique” in J. Bonnamour and H. Delavault (eds.), Aristophane: les femmes et la cité). Schädler, U. (2007), “The Doctor’s Game—New Light on the History of Ancient Board Games” in P. Crummy, S. Benfield, N. Crummy, V. Rigby, and D. Shimmin (eds.), Stanway: An Elite Burial Site at Camulodunum, London: Society for the Promotion of Roman Studies, 359 – 75. Schädler, U. (2008), “Pente Grammai – the ancient greek board game Five Lines” Board Game Studies 11: 173 – 96. Schottländer, R. (1980), “Der aristotelische ‘spoudaios’”, Zeitschrift für philosophische Forschung 34.3: 385 – 95. Sells, D. (2013), “Slaves in the fragments of Old Comedy” in B. Akrigg and R. Tordoff, (eds.), Slaves and Slavery in Ancient Greek Comic Drama, Cambrdige: Cambridge University Press, 91 – 110. Simon, C. (1986), The Archaic Votive Offerings and Cults of Ionia. Diss. UC-Berkeley. Solmsen, F. (1964), “Leisure and Play in Aristotle’s Ideal State” RhM 107.3: 193 – 220. Stansbury-O’Donnell, M. (1990), “Polygnotos’s Nekyia: A Reconstruction and Analysis”, AJA 94.2: 213 – 35. Storey, I. C. (2011), Fragments of Old Comedy. 3 vols. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Van Hoorn, G. (1951), Choes and Anthesteria. Leiden: Brill. Vermeule, E. (1979), Aspects of Death in Early Greek Art and Poetry. Berkeley: University of California Press. Versnel, H. (1990), Inconsistencies in Greek and Roman Religion II: Transition and Reversal in Myth and Ritual. Leiden: Brill. Whittaker, H. (2004), “Board Games and funerary symbolism in Greek and Roman contexts,” in Myth and Symbol II. Symbolic Phenomena in Ancient Culture. Papers from the Second and Third International Symposia on Symbolism at the Norwegian Institute at Athens, September 21 – 24, 2000 and September 19 – 22, 2000 (ed. Synnøve des Bouvrie), Bergen, 279 – 302. Zeitlin, F. (1999), “Utopia and Myth in Aristophanes’ Ecclesiazousae” in T. M. Faulkner, N. Felson, and D. Konstan (eds.), Contextualizing Classics, ideology, performance, dialogue: essays in honor of John J. Peradotto. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 69 – 88.

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What Thomas More learned from Herodotus about Utopia 1 A Utopian Reading List Thomas More reports that Raphael Hythloday introduced the islanders of Utopia to the literature of the Greeks. Although Hythloday did not bother with Latin authors (since aside from its poets and historians he thought there was nothing in that language that they would value), on his fourth voyage to the island he provided them with a small library. To wit, Thus they received from me most of Plato’s works and more of Aristotle’s, as well as Theophrastus’ book On Plants, though the latter, I’m sorry to say, was somewhat mutilated….They are very fond of Plutarch’s writings, and delighted with the witty persiflage of Lucian. Among the poets they have Aristophanes, Homer and Euripides, together with Sophocles in the small typeface of the Aldine edition. Of the historians they possess Thucydides and Herodotus, as well as Herodian. (II: 75 – 76)¹

That Hythloday decides to include Herodotus amongst the twelve authors that comprise his Canon of the classical Greek corpus suggests that he (or More) placed tremendous value on Herodotus as a source of wisdom for the Utopians. But Herodotus’ inclusion on the Utopian reading list invites the question: What is it in Herodotus’ Histories that the Utopians should learn? In order to determine what the Utopians (or Thomas More himself) learned from Herodotus, I want to consider a related question, which is whether we should think of Herodotus in any way as a utopian political theorist. Although the Histories records important political events in Archaic Greece, such as the constitutional reforms of Lycurgus and Cleisthenes (2.65 – 66, 5.66 – 69) or the emergence of the tyranny of Peisistratus in Athens (1.59 – 64), the accounts are brief and not especially focused on constitutional details.² Familiar, too, is Her-

 For references to More’s Utopia I quote from Logan et al. 2002, with Roman numerals indicating book and Arabic numbers indicating pages; for the Latin text, I use Logan et al. 1995. Clay and Purvis 1999: 11– 15 examines the other authors on the Utopian reading list for their significance.  For references to Herodotus’ Histories, I quote from Grene 1987 (with occasional adaptation), using Arabic numbers for book and paragraphs; for the Greek text I use Hude 1927. Bloomer 1993 argues that Herodotus identifies superlative nomoi as instances of the deeds and wonders that https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110733129-004

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odotus’ praise of Athens and Sparta: That it was the former, who through selfgovernment, was ultimately the savior of Greece against the Persians (5.78, 7.139). Or, in the words of Demaratus, that the latter grounded their freedom and courage in their obedience to law (7.102, 7.104, 7.209). Nonetheless, the only political or utopian theorizing in the work appears to be the three paragraphs that make up the “constitutional debate” in which Persian usurpers—including the future king Darius—consider the respective merits of isonomia, oligarchy, and monarchy (3.80 – 82). My question—whether Herodotus is a utopian political theorist—seems rather quickly answered in the negative. Such a verdict, I will argue, is premature. No doubt, when modern thinkers political theorize—in utopian or pragmatic fashion—their written products look like Aristotle’s prose (or that of Rawls) much more than anything that what one finds in Herodotus. But it would be historically chauvinistic to deny Herodotus the status of a political theorist solely because he does not share our modern analytical or rhetorical framework. Aeschylus’ tragedies, Aristophanes’ comedies, Xenophon and Plato’s dialogues, and Aristotle’s lectures also theorize about politics albeit from the perspective of very different genres, but that is just to note that “political theorizing” in 5th and 4th Century Greece is a much richer and more varied intellectual phenomenon than it is today. Reflection on Herodotus as a political thinker invites salutary reflection on the narrowness of our own notions of political theory. The accuracy of applying the term “utopian” to Herodotus depends upon one’s understanding of utopianism. To use the language of Manuel and Manuel 1979, although there are “wellsprings” of utopian thought in classical authors, the concept of utopia is Thomas More’s patrimony (12– 13).³ What More intends by the term is elucidated by Anemolius’ “Six Lines on the Island of Utopia” (one of the ancillary materials that More published with Utopia), which captures at least two of the most important senses of the term: “No Place” (utopia) was once my name, I lay so far (ob infrequentiam); But now with Plato’s state I can compare, Perhaps outdo her (for what he only drew In empty words I have made live anew In men and wealth, as well as splendid laws): “The Good Place” (eutopia) they should call me, with good cause. (Logan 1995: 14)

the proem of the Histories identify as worthy of preservation. Although that claim is not inconsistent with my own views about Herodotus’ theoretical or normative exempla, it fails to do justice to the ethical or political significance of some of those superlatives.  Clay and Purvis 1999 note that “until 1516, there was no such place and no such thing as utopian literature” (1); nonetheless, they too detect the roots of More’s utopian insights in passages from Herodotus (4, 162– 65, 168 – 172).

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By “utopia” More seems to mean both an especially good place, but I think equally one which in some profound sense is “infrequent,” other, or “no place.” Anemolius (or More) certainly thought that the best constitution of Plato’s Republic was in some sense an exercise in utopian political theorizing and I think a good case can be made for also locating such utopian reflection in Herodotus’ Histories. Throughout the first four books of the Histories he examines the social and political customs of peoples from around the known world that I think are utopian in both of More’s senses of the term. Admittedly, Herodotus presents his stories as chronicles that either he himself has observed or that he has learned about from others (1.5) whereas More’s Utopia, literary contrivances notwithstanding, is a work in speculative theorizing about political and social institutions.⁴ Nonetheless, More’s apparent borrowings from Herodotus and his inclusion of Herodotus on the Utopian reading list suggest to me that More learned something important about utopia from Herodotus. My chapter argues that Herodotus’ reflections on the political and social customs of distant peoples warrants the classification of him as a political utopian thinker who had much to teach the residents of More’s island of Utopia. In the first part of my chapter, I argue that although Herodotus shows a lack of interest in the constitutional organization of political communities, his keenness for examining cultural institutions with political significance warrants us calling his work “political.” In the second part of my chapter, I argue that Herodotus is more than a mere chronicler of political institutions insofar as he provides a “market” of political institutions that he not only describes but evaluates, all of which are decidedly “no where.” Herodotus’ depiction of political mores and customs to his contemporary audience warrants us describing him as a political theorist, regardless of his remarks about cultural relativism. In the third part of my chapter, I argue that we should consider Herodotus a qualified utopian political theorist because of his reflections on Archaic Greek colonization and his contrast of superlative and deficient political constitutions and customs. Finally, in my conclusion I argue that More’s own practice of utopian theorizing may deflate some of the tension between utopian and non-utopian political thought, a lesson I think he learned more from Herodotus than Plato.

 As Rist 2016 shows, More’s Utopia raises a host of exegetical and philosophical questions in its own right. Although I dwell upon some of the tensions in More’s work in the conclusion of my chapter, my chapter is ultimately focused on Herodotus rather than More.

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2 Is Herodotus’ Histories Political? As Sara Forsdyke notes, prominent in the interpretation of Herodotus’ Histories is a strand of scholarship that dismisses him as “a naïve storyteller who had no deep (sic) of understanding of (or interest in) politics” (Forsdyke 2006: 224).⁵ Although Herodotus reports a number of historical events that are central to the development of Archaic Greek political institutions, his interest in them is admittedly selective. Take, for instance, his analysis of autocratic rule in Athens in the 6th century under Peisistratus and his sons (c. 560 – 539 BCE), an example of a more general Archaic political development in which autocratic rulers or “tyrants” established political power with populist appeals amidst infighting among aristocratic families.⁶ Herodotus reports to us the factional squabbling —between men of the coast, the plain, and the hills—that presented the opportunity for Peisistratus’ seizure of power and his three different coups. But Herodotus seems more interested in details such as Peisistratus entering Athens with Phya (during the 2nd coup in 539 BCE), masquerading as Athena, because of the light that it sheds on purportedly sagacious Athenian judgment [1.59 – 64]). Unlike, say, the account of Peisistratus in the Athenian Constitution, in Herodotus there is little discussion of his populism, his economic or tax policies, his building program, his transformation of the magistrates, or analysis about why his reign (unlike his sons) was long-lived.⁷ At first glance, Herodotus’ selectivity concerning Peisistratus suggests an almost tawdry interest in the fabulous details of his ascensions to power (for instance, his self-inflected wounds, his use of theatrical trickery, or the “uncustomary” treatment of his Alcmaeonid wife). But the family of the Peisistratids are part of much larger—and quite politically attuned—narrative that runs almost the length of the Histories. Herodotus is especially sensitive to the place of the Alcmaeonid family in the development of Athenian political institutions and clearly the Peisistratids are a sort of foil to them (6.123).⁸ Further, the Peisistratids are re-occurring characters, as it were, in the broader narrative of Athenian dem-

 Forsdyke evinces Victor Ehrenburg, who comments on 5.67 (the discussion of Cleisthenes’ reforms) that Herodotus “had no discriminating knowledge of political and constitutional issues” (224).  Dewald 2003 contextualizes Herodotus’ complex treatment of Archaic tyranny, of which the Peisistratids are but one dynastic example.  The closest Herodotus comes to such an analysis is his claim that Peisistratus “in no way deranged the existing magistracies or the ordinances but governed the city well and truly according to the laws that were established” (5.59); cf. Ath. Const. 13.5, 16.1– 9.  See further Fornara 1971: 54– 57 and Moles 2002: 37– 42.

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ocratic freedom. As Herodotus notes, it is only after Athens sheds its Archaic tyranny that it begins to manifest the strengths and virtues of self-rule (5.78). The sons of Peisistratus also are ever waiting in the wings, hoping to be re-installed by the Persians either at the battle of Marathon, or upon Xerxes succession to the throne, or at the siege of the acropolis (5.65, 6.107, 7.6, 8.52). Although it may be fair to say that books V – IX of the Histories are less focused upon the constitutional details of political change (hence barely a single paragraph each on the reforms of Solon and Cleisthenes [1.29, 5.66]), it seems equally selective to characterize the work’s sweeping narrative about the development of Athenian freedom as being insufficiently “political.” The analysis of non-Greek customs in the first four books of the Histories is especially sensitive to social and political customs and furnishes a political anthropology with extensive details—something unimaginable for a thinker with “no discriminating knowledge of political and constitutional issues” (Forsdyke: 244).⁹ Indeed, Herodotus and More share similar outlooks and interests in the social and political customs of political philosophizing. Although More describes the organization of offices on his island (II: 43 – 48, 82– 83), he spends far more time discussing their socio-political customs, such as their labor practices (II: 48 – 53), their system of distributing goods (II: 53 – 58), their systems of commerce (II: 58 – 63), their attitudes towards marriage and burial (II: 78 – 81), their foreign policy and military organization (II: 83 – 93), and their religious beliefs and liturgical practices (II: 93 – 107). Rather than think of either More or Herodotus as insufficiently “political,” I would suggest that both authors challenge us to think of politically significant factors of a society that extend beyond constitutional specifications or the organization of political offices. In the first four books of the Histories, Herodotus surveys at length the customs and practices of several major societies, including Persia, Babylon, Egypt, Scythia, and Libya (the latter two include numerous smaller social entities or groupings). Several political themes predominate across his analyses. First, several logoi raise the problem of cultural assimilation and the permeability of societal boundaries. At one end of the extreme are the Scythians, who execute their ruler Anacharsis for daring to practice Hellenic religions and dress in its attire (4.76 – 77); at the other end of the spectrum are the Persians, whom, Herodotus reports, welcome foreign customs more than any other peoples (including the practice of Greek pederasty [1.135]); somewhere in between lies the case of Egypt, which initially eschews Greek practices (2.91; cf. 2.154), but which,

 Although my analysis is oriented by parallels between More and Herodotus, Ward 2008 also argues that the cultural logoi in books I–IV are the basis for Herodotus’ political philosophizing.

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under the reign of the philhellenic king Amasis, establishes the port of Naucratis for Greek merchants and conducts alliances with the Theran colony at Cyrēnē (2.178 – 82). As Thucydides reminds us in Pericles’ funeral oration (2.39), the question of assimilation speaks more broadly to the openness of a society, with Athens and Sparta located at extremes of such a spectrum. Such openness (or its lack) determines the political freedoms and social trust within a society. A second socio-political theme that Herodotus chronicles in several logoi is the question of the malleability of social, political, and gender roles. Herodotus points out that Egyptian gender roles are the opposite of those practiced in Greece; everything from whether a specific gender identifies with the household or the public sphere to whether one urinates standing up or sitting is reversed in Egypt, which suggests that gender roles are enormously flexible (2.35). Although Socrates in the Republic makes clear that his “female drama” is controversial for an Athenian audience (Rep. 5.449c–451c), Herodotus reports numerous societies in which women are held in common (1.216, 4.104, 4.172, 4.180, 4.203) and several in which men and women practice gender-egalitarianism (4.26, 4.112). Political equality (or more precisely, political inequality) is also a matter of flexibility: Herodotus tells the story of the 7th century Median king Dēiocēs whom he claims was the first to establish political authority through the construction (literally) of a multi-walled palace at Ecbatana. Herodotus observes When all was built, Dēiocēs was the first who established this ceremony: that no one whatsoever should have admittance to the king, but that all should be transacted through messengers and that the king should be seen by none; moreover, to laugh or to spit in the royal presence was shameful for all alike. These solemnities he contrived around his own person so that those who were his equals and of the same age, brought up with him, and of descent as good, and as brave as he, might not, seeing him, be vexed and take to plotting against him but would judge him to be someone grown quite different—and all because they did not see him. (1.99)¹⁰

The story of Amasis’ ascent—one I will examine at greater length in part III of my chapter—represents the same phenomenon (2.172).¹¹ Although it is true that malleability is not a constitutional feature of a society, the possibility of constitutional change or reform is a function of political malleability. A third socio-political theme that Herodotus focuses upon in several logoi is the question of land distribution and economic inequality. As Hadas points out,

 Contrast Dēiocēs’ establishment of political authority with Egyptian inability to live without a king (2.147).  Atack 2020: 13 – 38 explores at length the place of Dēiocēs and Amasis as examples of Herodotean monarchs.

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it is quite likely that More’s depiction of the Utopian attitude towards silver and gold—Utopians use the metals only for chamber pots, shackles for slaves, and jewelry to mark criminals (II: 60 – 61)—is adapted from Herodotus’ depiction of the Ethiopian use of golden fetters for their prisoners (3.22– 23; cf. 3.130).¹² But Herodotus the political anthropologist also keenly observes the practices of land distribution in different societies.¹³ The Scythians, for instance, determined how much property each of its members would possess based on how much territory one could ride on a horse in a single day (4.7). Of the societies that Herodotus studies, Egypt seems to have the most experimentation with policies of land distribution. Apparently under the reign of King Sesostris,¹⁴ land was divided into equal plots (hence spurring the discovery of geometry), the product of which was subsequently taxed by the realm (2.109). Additionally, a caste system was put in place in which warriors were allocated twelve plots of land, untaxed, for their service to the Pharaoh (2.168). But Herodotus also tells the charming story of an upstart King Sethos¹⁵—a priest of Hephaestus—who eliminated caste privileges for warriors. Sethos met the Assyrian army with his own that was “not one of warriors, but shopkeepers and handworkers and fellows from the marketplace” (2.142). Thankfully for the Egyptians, field mice gnawed through the leather of their opponents’ quivers and shields, bringing about their defeat on the battlefield. More, of course, identifies structural poverty as the main cause of crime in his England and eliminates private property from the island of Utopia (I: 15 – 17, II: 43, 46, 59 – 60). Herodotus is clearly an interested observer of political culture even if his focus is not necessarily on its constitutional structure or the arrangement of offices. He depicts a wide array of political and social institutions as radical as anything one might find in Plato or Aristophanes, several of which More incorporates into his construction of Utopia. Herodotus focuses upon aspects of political culture that serve as the structural basis for constitutional establishment and reform, such as the openness and malleability of different communi See Hadas 1935: 113 – 14. Herodotus repeatedly underscores the arbitrary or conventional value of precious metals. The Lydians are the first to use gold and silver for currency and cultures that have an abundance of gold use it liberally for many purposes (1.94, 1.215, 3.98, 4.195 – 96).  If Aristotle is any guide, the issue of land distribution is central to classical “utopian” thought. In his account of best constitutions in Politics II, he examines the programs of land distribution found in Plato, Phaleas of Chalcedon, and Hippodamus of Miletus (Pol 2.5, 7– 8). Aristotle himself proposes a radical redistribution of landed property in his own best constitution (Pol 7.10).  That is Senusret III (1878 – 1841 BCE), or perhaps an amalgamation of several pharaohs.  That is Shabataku (c. 702– 690 BCE).

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ties. But a political thinker does not simply observe a multitude of political practices or social institutions (utopian or otherwise); he or she also evaluates those institutions. If Herodotus’ Histories are clearly “political” in their content, it remains to be show that he himself is a political theorist.

3 Is Herodotus a Political Theorist? Although the evidence from the first part of my chapter suggests that Herodotus is attentive to and sophisticated in his analysis of socio-political aspects of different societies, it is altogether another question whether we should view him as a political theorist who reflects upon and evaluates political culture. Nonetheless, given the evidence I have furnished so far, the burden of proof falls upon those who wish to deny the claim that Herodotus is a political theorist. One can think of two arguments against the claim that we should view Herodotus as a political theorist. First, although both Herodotus and More show a fascination with political and social customs, one might argue that whereas More derives political institutions in Utopia based on principles of equality and justice, Herodotus, as an historian, merely chronicles political events or institutions in different societies. Political history and political theory may overlap, but Herodotus, one might argue, falls more clearly in the former rather than the latter category. Secondly, one might argue that Herodotus’ discussion of cultural and political relativism—and his apparent endorsement of Pindar’s claim that “custom is king over all” (3.38)—is inconsistent with the practice of normative political theorizing, especially insofar as such theorizing evaluates trans-cultural customs and norms. Such an argument denies that thoroughgoing cultural relativists can justify the evaluation of trans-cultural politico-social institutions and that Herodotus is indeed such a cultural relativist. The claim that Herodotus merely chronicles rather than theorizes political culture is undermined by a consensus in Herodotus scholarship that his narration of events from Archaic Greece is intended to illuminate, and thus theorize, the late 5th century events of his contemporary audience, who lived through at least the earliest years of the Archidamian War (431– 421 BCE).¹⁶ Whereas Herodotus’ predecessors chronicled (without evaluation) the res gestae of Persian  A number of explicit references in the Histories, such as those to the Peloponnesian Wars (6.98, 7.235, 9.64, 9.73), suggest that Herodotus was composing the Histories as late as the 420s. See further Fornara 1971: 41– 44. Harrison and Irwin 2018 generally (and 8 – 16 specifically) explore the subsequent consensus that formed around Fornara’s interpretive framework and the challenges of dating the work’s composition.

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kings, Fornara 1971 persuasively argues that Herodotus’ Histories are written selectively to show the relevance of the decline of the Persian Empire to those living under the Athenian Empire, especially the central lesson that greatness is ephemeral and “human happiness is never stable” (1.5). But if Herodotus selectively presents the experience of the Persian Empire as a lesson to his late 5th century audience, then he is doing far more than merely chronicling the past; rather, he re-imagines the past in light of the present and presents the past as a cautionary tale about imperialism.¹⁷ As Raaflaub 1978 puts it, “the tragic poet occasionally uses myth to analyze and interpret for his audience some of the most urgent political problems they are facing in the capacity as citizens. In a similar way, I suggest, Herodotus uses the Histories of the past to shed light on contemporary issues.”¹⁸ Herodotus’ use of the past clearly puts him in the camp of the political theorist, reflecting on the theoretical ramifications of the past, rather than that of the political historian. Although scholars such as Fornara, Raaflaub, and Balot have ably sketched out ways in which Herodotus’ Persian War narrative in Histories V – IX evaluates late 5th century political practices and implies cautions about Periclean imperialism, less clear is how the various ethnic logoi might present a form of political theorizing. I suggest that the chronicles of other cultures and institutions in Herodotus’ Histories function somewhat like the way Socrates likens a democratic regime in the Republic as a place that “contains all kinds of constitutions, as a result of its license” (Rep. 8.557d4– 5). Certainly More appears to have drawn upon Herodotus’ account of customs in such a fashion (a point I will return to in my conclusion). The culturally diversity of Herodotus’ ethnic logoi—from the pacifistic tribes of the Argippaei and the Garamantes, who own no warlike arms (4.23, 4.174), to the “Man-eaters” who neither practice justice nor uphold any laws (4.106)—present a veritable “supermarket” of anthropological practices for the political theorist to reflect upon and evaluate. As I show in part III of my chapter, clearly Herodotus evaluates such practices as superior and inferior. Nonetheless, one might argue that such evaluations are undercut because of Herodotus’ apparent endorsement of Pindar’s claim that custom is king, a position that precludes any such normative standpoint according to which one could

 According to Raaflaub 1987, Herodotus teaches that “if the hunger for power becomes excessive, if imperialism, disregarding justice and the rights of others, is pursued to the extreme and becomes a goal in itself, then danger is inevitable” (247; cf. Raaflaub 2002: 164– 183). Balot 2001: 99 – 135 develops at length Herodotus’ critique of Athenian imperialism.  Fornara 1971: 23, 35 – 36, 61 already suggested that Herodotus is an imaginative author, more like a dramatist than a chronicler; Raaflaub 1978 develops Fornara’s original insight at greater length.

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evaluate different political practices. After reporting that Cambyses’ irreligious treatment of Egyptian practices proves that he was not in full possession of his faculties, Herodotus reports that If it were not so, he would never have set about the mockery of what other men hold sacred and customary. For if there were a proposition put before mankind, according to which each should, after examination, choose the finest customs in the world (nomous tous kallistous ek tōn pantōn nomōn), each nation would certainly think its own customs the best. Indeed, it is natural for no one but a madman to make a mockery of such things….These are matters of settled custom, and I think Pindar is right when he says, “custom is king of all” (nomon pantōn basilea). (3.38)¹⁹

One might argue that Herodotus embraces a form of political relativism in which trans-cultural objective theorizing is impossible.²⁰ Herodotus’ position is nuanced and, as I showed in the first part of my chapter, he clearly believes that political institutions are variable and malleably. Nonetheless, it is wrong to ascribe to Herodotus uncritically a position of cultural relativism based on his quotation of Pindar in 3.38. First, Herodotus invokes Pindar’s view of nomos within his overall evaluation of Cambyses in order to show that Cambyses was an incompetent—indeed, a “violently distracted” (emanē megalōs)—king. Whatever relativism stems from the assertion that “custom is king” does not preclude positive and negative evaluation, which lies at the basis of political theory. Secondly, however much Herodotus appreciates the complexity of trans-cultural comparisons, he is deeply committed to trans-cultural ethical lessons, first of which is his claim that good fortune does not abide in the same place (1.5). From the account of Croesus in Book I to that of Pausanias in Book IX, Herodotus repeatedly reminds his audience of that trans-cultural, trans-historical lesson. In contemporary parlance, although Herodotus accepts the truth of descriptive moral relativism, I believe he would reject both moral objectivism and metaethical moral relativism (Gowans 2019). The

 Plato’s Gorgias quotes Pindar as saying, “Law (nomos), the king of all, of mortals and the immortal gods, brings on and renders just what is most violent with towering hand” (484b4– 8). Since Pindar’s verses on nomos do not survive, it is difficult to say whether Herodotus, Plato, or either is representing Pindar’s view accurately. For further details see Asheri 2007: 436 – 37. On the ambiguity of the term nomos, see Humphreys 1987 and Thomas 2000: 102– 134.  Scholars who have interpreted Herodotus to endorse a form of relativism include Thompson 1996: 135 – 140 and Roy 2010: 149 – 172. Histories 3.38 is standardly included in discussions of ethical relativism, which Herodotus is uncritically taken to endorse (e. g., Wolff 2018: 21– 22). By contrast, Fornara 1971: 23 and Hau 2016: 172– 193 place Herodotus within the framework of moral didacticism.

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Herodotean political theorist can justify the claim that although specific moral customs—such as whether one buries, cremates, or eats the dead—may vary between cultures, nonetheless there is a transcultural norm that survivors ought to respect and honor the dead.

4 Is Herodotus’ Histories a work of Utopian Political Theory? The first two parts of my chapter have provided evidence to support the claims that Herodotus has a keen interest in political anthropology and that he does not simply record such observations but that he engages them in a theoretical or evaluative way. It remains for my chapter to consider whether Herodotus is in any way utopian in his reflection on the political institutions of non-Greek cultures and peoples. But here I want to defuse a potential objection. Ryan Balot has argued that Apart from a few outliers, classical thought was quintessentially post-utopian. Classical thinkers were post-utopians, above all, because they saw no way to guarantee the good life for human beings. They took this view for several related reasons: the universe is not providential, and luck has too much power to shape our lives; human reason either cannot recognize the human good or cannot remake the world so as to produce the human good reliably; and human beings are not naturally sociable or co-operative animals. (Balot 2008: 78)

Balot does not say whether Herodotus falls into his “post-utopian majority” (which includes Hesiod, Thucydides, Polybius, Cicero, Livy, and Tacitus). But if the common characteristic of his “post-utopians” is a modesty about the possibility of systemic political change (“they supplied no visionary social blueprints” [78]), then utopians must be immodest suppliers of visionary social blueprints. As I stipulated at the beginning of my chapter, I draw my notion of “utopian” from reflection on More’s Utopia: To call a program or institution utopian is at a minimum to identify it as something infrequent or rare and something which is good (perhaps even superlatively so). But I contest Ryan’s implied claim that utopians are immodest visionaries. I do not think it follows that because a constitution or cultural practice is utopian that therefore other societies should take it as a blueprint for change.²¹ Rather, one sense in which I take a constitution  Clay and Pulvis 1999 note that the island “utopias” of the ancient world (e. g., those of Eu-

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or practice to be utopian is if the practice presents a cultural or political “mirror” that critically sets in contrast another society’s own practices and grounds incremental improvement (a point to which I will return in my conclusion). More’s discussion of the Utopians’ attitude towards international law makes clear what I have in mind. About the Utopian attitudes towards international treatises, More writes that While other nations are constantly making, breaking, and renewing treaties, the Utopians make none at all with any nation. If nature, they say, does not bind man adequately to his fellow man, what good is a treaty? If a man scorns nature herself, is there any reason to think he will care about mere words? They are confirmed in this view by the fact that in that part of the world, treatises and alliances between princes are not generally observed with much good faith. (II: 83)

Rather ironically, More goes on to point out how “sacred and inviolable” are the treatises in Europe, which are observed by princes who are “all so just and virtuous” (II: 83); clearly, the practices of the Utopians with respect to treatises is intended to cast a critical shadow upon the practices of European princes. But More goes on to note that Utopia is a world “as distant from ours in customs and manner as by the distance the equator puts between us” and that “perhaps if [the Utopians] lived here they would change their minds” (II: 84). It is hard to imagine that More is proposing that England abandon all its treatises or forego making new ones in its international relations. The “rareness” or “infrequency” of Utopia makes possible practices, such as forgoing international law, the practicality of which would otherwise be seriously limited in normal societies. I submit that Herodotus presents political practices and institutions that function in a fashion similar to those proposed in More’s Utopia. If one may be utopian without offering a visionary blueprint for social change, how might Herodotus be utopian? Herodotus’ discussion of the Libyan colony of Cyrēnē provides a first example of the sort of utopian political theorizing I think he practices in his Histories. ²² In Herodotus’ account of the establishment of the colony of Cyrēnē, its oikistēs Battus I claims that:

hemeros and Iamboulos) do not posit ideal “blue prints” for other societies to copy. Manuel and Manuel 1979 note that More’s Utopia is hardly a paradise: it presupposes the enduring existence of crime and warfare between states (123 – 127).  Cyrēnē features in both the Egyptian and the Libyan logoi (2.161). In the former case, it is a Cyrēnaean victory over Apriēs’ army (composed of foreigners, although supporting his rule over Egypt), that precipitates a populist rebellion against him, one led by Amasis (2.161, 2.169). In the latter case, Herodotus seizes upon the story of the colonization of Cyrēnē (c. 630 BCE) as the historical backbone of his Libyan speech.

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The Cyrenaeans sent to Delphi to ask what order of government they should set up that they might live to the best advantage (ontina tropon katastēsamenoi kallista an oikeoien). The Pythia instructed them to bring in from Mantinea, in Arcadia, a commissioner for reform. The Cyrenaeans made their request, and the Mantineans gave them the most renowned of their citizens, whose name was Demonax. This man came to Cyrēnē, and, having learned all the details, divided the people into three tribes. The arrangement was as follows: one section was made from the Theraeans and the original Libyan inhabitants, their neighbors; one from the Peloponnesians and Cretans; and a third from all the islanders. In another change, he set aside certain domains and certain priesthoods for King Battus, but all the rest of the original possession of the kings he assigned as public property (es meson tō[i] dēmō[i]). (4.161)²³

The colonization of Cyrēnē is an example of the more general phenomenon: Greek colonies provided Greek political theorists with an unprecedented opportunity “to start from scratch” in their reflection on well-ordered political arrangements. Plato’s Laws, for instance, is presented as a dialogue that reflects upon how to draw up the Cretan colony of Magnesia, of which the character Cleinias is a founder.²⁴ Herodotus himself, along with Protagoras, were colonists in the panhellenic colony that Pericles helped to established at Thurii in the 440s.²⁵ Herodotus’ discussion of Cyrēnē shows that he is familiar with the opportunity for political theorizing that colonization presents. Herodotus’ dialogue on constitutions provides a second example of utopian theorizing that includes reflection on and the determination of superlative constitutions. The dialogue takes place between three major Persian figures in the Histories, Otanes, who argues for the supremacy of isonomia (a form of popular rule), Megabyxus, who argues for the supremacy of oligarchy, and Darius (who argues for the supremacy of monarchy). As Rosen 1988 notes, “Herodotus’ political views are obliquely presented in his recording of a conspiracy, a revolution, and the first political dialogue in western literature” (39).²⁶ Within the dialogue, Darius argues that Suppose, for the argument, that all three constitutions are the very best—the best democracy, the best oligarchy, the best monarchy. I declare to you that, of these three at their best,

 Demonax’s diminution of royal prerogative and the reorganization of tribal structures presents a number of parallels with Cleisthenes’ Athenian reforms of 508 (5.66).  Ober 1998: 290 – 93 argues for a similar perspective on Aristotle’s account of the best constitution in Politics 7– 8.  See further Ostwald 1991. Munson 2006: 257– 273 surveys Herodotus’ remarks about western colonization in light of his connection with Thurii.  The constitutional debate has generated much commentary, including most recently Pelling 2002, Lévy 2003, Roy 2012, Sissa 2012, Allen 2013, and Linderborg 2019.

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monarchy is far superior. Nothing is manifestly better than the one best man. He will have judgment to match his excellence and will govern the many blamelessly, and what measures he must device against ill-doers will be wrapped in a similar well-judging silence. (3.82)

Darius’ arguments against oligarchy and democracy amount to the claim that a plurality of rulers—whether few or many—inevitably leads to faction (in the case of oligarchy) or demagoguery (in the case of democracy), both of which will eventually end up in some sort of despotism. The basic structure of the argument shows surprising similarity to the argument for kingship in either Plato’s Statesman or Aristotle’s Politics. Its presence in the text argues against the claim that Herodotus is anti-utopian because it shows him theorizing about the best constitution. A third example of Herodotus’ utopian political theorizing consists in his identification of superlative practices or institutions (as distinct from constitutions). In his examination of gender roles within the Babylonian logos and cultural assimilation in the Egyptian and Scythian logoi, Herodotus juxtaposes and evaluates different cultural practices. In the case of Babylonian gender customs, Herodotus first recounts what he calls “wisest” (sophōtatos) and “most beautiful” (kallistos): In every village, once a year, the people did the following: as the girls in the village became ripe for marriage, they gathered and brought together all such to one place. There was a great throng of men surrounding it, and the auctioneer put the girls up, one by one, for sale. He would begin with the best-looking, and after she had been sold and brought a great price, he would auction off her whose looks were next best. They were all sold to live with their men. All the rich men of Babylon who were disposed to marriage outbid one another in buying the beauties. But those of the lower classes who wanted to marry were not set on fairness of form but took the uglier girls, with money to boot. For when the auctioneer had gone through all the best-looking girls, he would put up the ugliest or one that was crippled, and would sell her off: ‘Who will take the least money to live with this one?’ The money came from the sale of the good-looking girls, so those who were handsome portioned off the ill-favored and the cripples. (1.196)²⁷

Herodotus notes that this superlatively wise custom has been allowed to elapse and that instead those without wealth now prostitute their children to generate dowries (1.196; a practice also found in Lydia [1.93]). Alongside such a practice is what Herodotus calls the most shameful (aischistos) of Babylonian customs:

 Asheri 2007 notes that “no Babylonian evidence exists for such a custom, and the entire description gives the impression of a utopian, half-comic Greek fantasy” (210).

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Every woman who lives in that country must once in her lifetime go to the temple of Aphrodite and sit there and be lain with by a strange man….When once a woman has taken her seat there, she may not go home again until one of the strangers throws a piece of silver into her lap and lies with her, outside the temple….Those women who have attained to great beauty and height depart quickly enough, but those who are ugly abide there a great while, being unable to fulfill the law. Some, indeed, stay there as much as three or four years. (1.199)

As Saxonhouse 1996 notes, “The word ‘democracy,’ to be sure, never surfaces in the discussion of Babylonia, but the egalitarianism at the heart of the principles of ancient democracy, an egalitarianism here based not on nature but constructed by human ingenuity, is at work” (41). The first institution—the sale of brides— seeks to offset natural or skin-deep advantages and insure the marital success of those who are unsuccessful in the genetic lottery. The institution is utopian, and so justifies Herodotus’ superlative, because it alleviates the arbitrary advantages of wealth and beauty. By contrast, of course, the rite of sexual passage—regardless of its affront to a woman’s consent over her sexual choices—is shameful because it reverses the intention and the effects of the sale of brides: women are penalized, indeed potentially detained for years, based on the same arbitrary characteristics of sexual attractiveness. Herodotus’ contrast of the two practices within close textual proximity is meant to underscore the utopian wisdom of the first and the dystopian shamefulness of the second; both illustrations elucidate institutional mechanisms for addressing arbitrary inequality within one and the same culture. The Egyptian and Scythian logoi juxtapose social treatments of assimilation cross-culturally. In the Egyptian logos, Herodotus tells the story of king Amasis who overcame Egyptian Hellenophobia and produced a quasi-open society during his own reign. Herodotus originally notes that the Egyptians historically avoided Greek customs, and indeed, the customs of any people other than their own (2.91).²⁸ But Amasis—a “man of the people” (dēmotēs) who became king, brought prosperity to his land, ruled his people with wisdom (sophiē),

 Herodotus notes that during the reign of Psammetichus (663 – 609 BCE), Egyptian children were turned over to Ionians who had supported his revolt against his fellow eleven kings in order that they could learn Greek (2.154). But Psammetichus kept the Ionians physically isolated in Egypt and gave no indication of adapting their customs. Egyptian antipathy towards the Greeks appears to originate in their defeat by colonists from Cyrēnē during the reign of Apriēs (a.k.a. Wahibre Haaibre c. 589 – 570 BCE), a defeat that ultimately led to a rebellion led by Amasis against Apriēs (4.159, 2.161– 162, 2.169).

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and himself died without undergoing a reversal in fortune²⁹—contrived ways to express his philhellenic views and increase the openness of his kingdom. He introduced what Herodotus calls a “blameless law” (amōmos nomos) concerning the livelihood of his subjects, one that Solon himself imitated in Athens (2.177). He established Naucratis, a major port city, for Greeks to trade and dwell in, made offerings at Delphi, and established alliances and friendship with the Greek colony at Cyrēnē (2.178, 2.180, 2.181). By contrast, in the Scythian logos, Herodotus tells the story of Anacharsis, a Scythian who travelled over much of the world—sight-seeing (theōrēsas)—and had gained great wisdom (sophiēn pollen). After making a prayer at a Greek festival to Cybele for safe passage home, he fulfilled his promise and celebrated her rituals upon his return to Scythia. A fellow Scythian observed his use of foreign customs, informed the king, and the king executed Anacharsis himself (4.76).³⁰ Although Herodotus produces the story of Anacharsis (and Scyles) to illustrate the Scythian practice of taking extreme steps to avoid non-Scythian practices and to preserve their own customs (4.76, 4.80), it seems difficult not to read his plight in contrast with that of Amasis. Although both Egypt and Scythia were xenophobic or closed societies, the wisdom of Amasis allowed him to overcome Egyptian nomoi against foreigners and positively, if incrementally, improve Egypt through trade and interaction with Greek colonies. Indeed, Amasis’ transformation of Egyptian nomoi appears to be a counter-argument to the claim that “custom is king” (3.38).³¹ Amasis presents an example of how a closed-society can be nudged towards an open society, unseating the governing xenophobic nomos and instituting the reign of a new, more open one. The evaluation of social and political customs, the evaluation of different forms of constitutions, and the reflection on how to establish a well-ordered colony present examples of Herodotus practicing utopian political theorizing. Admittedly, Herodotus is doing many other things in his text and his examples are not visionary blueprints. But then again Thomas More himself calls into question whether utopian theo 2.172, 2.177, 3.10. Herodotus notes that Amasis reconciled his people to their servitude by mixing hard-work with a lack of aloofness (2.173 – 174). As noted earlier, Herodotus notes that Sethos tried to emancipate the Egyptian people from the institution of kingship but that they could not live a day without a king (2.141, 2.147). Presumably Amasis recognizes the limits to which Egyptian nomoi can be changed (even while himself changing their xenophobia).  Herodotus also offers the story of Scyles, who also imitated a Greek way of life and was also executed—by beheading—on the spot, when he was observed following Greek practices (4.78 – 80).  As Saxonhouse 1996 notes, the story of Amasis suggests “that there is nothing by nature that gives one man rule over another, that (in modern liberal terms) no one is so different from another to justify his or her rule over another” (48).

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rizing consists in supplying immodest visionary social blueprints, a claim I would like to examine briefly in my conclusion.

5 More’s Utopian Incrementalism In his contrast between utopian and post-utopian thought in antiquity, Balot 2008 claimed that one of the reasons why post-utopians were modest about their social ambitions was because “the universe is not providential, and luck has too much power to shape our lives” (2008: 78). No doubt, such a point appears to be a wedge between More’s Utopia—which although not explicitly Christian, is certainly compatible with Christianity—and Herodotus’ Histories, which over and over demonstrates his thesis that many states that were once great become small, that many that were once small become great, and that “good fortune never abides in the same place” (1.5). Herodotus appears to embrace a profoundly tragic worldview in which prosperity is fragile, the vicissitudes of time level all, and—following Solon—we should call no person happy until he is dead (1.32). But if Herodotus is modest in his theological expectations, it is intriguing to note that More was equally modest about the possibility of improving society by means of political theorizing. In the first book of Utopia, the character of Thomas More and Hythloday debate the possibility of the third wave of Plato’s Republic, namely the claim that to bring a just state into existence either kings must philosophize or philosophers must be kings (Rep. 5.473de). Hythloday is deeply suspicious about the possibility that he, as a philosopher, could successfully advise a king with wisdom because of the pressures to tell the rulers what they want to hear (and in the context of their discussion, what they want to hear is to expand their territory and justify additional revenue measures [I: 28 – 32]). Thus Hythloday concludes that “there is no place for philosophy in the councils of kings” (I: 34). By contrast, the character of Thomas More in the dialogue presents an “incremental” or what he calls “an indirect approach” to political reform.³² He describes it as such:

 Rist 2016 notes that the two books of Utopia were composed at different times and argues that the “Augustinian incrementalism” of the first book is at odds with the more ambitious theorizing of the second book (776 – 784). Although I do not believe that my claims about Herodotus’ influence on More are inconsistent with those of Augustine, More may have drawn upon multiple perspectives in support of his position. It remains striking that the Utopian reading list includes only Greek (pagan) authors (even though Hythloday introduces the Utopians to

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If you cannot pluck up bad ideas by the root, or cure longstanding evils to your heart’s content, you must not therefore abandon the commonwealth. Don’t give up the ship in a storm because you cannot hold back the winds. You must not deliver strange and out-of-the-way speeches to people with whom they will carry no weight because they are firmly persuaded the other way. Instead, by an indirect approach, you must strive and struggle as best you can to handle everything tactfully—and thus what you cannot turn to good, you may at least make as little bad as possible. (I: 35)

If we can assume that the character of Thomas More in any way speaks for the author Thomas More, then at least on the grounds of More’s description of political practice, Herodotus seems much more of a “utopian” than not. At several places the author More suggests that although Utopia presents a blueprint of sorts for a new society, its intention is primarily to offer what the French humanist Guillaume Budé described in a letter to Thomas Lupset, the printer of More’s book, in July 31, 1517. After praising More’s treatise at length, he claims that “Our own age and ages to come will discover in [More’s] narrative a seedbed, so to speak, of elegant and useful concepts from which they will be able to borrow practices to be introduced into their own several nations and adapted for use there” (Logan 1995: 117). If Herodotus is not a utopian in the sense of the author of a blueprint for the radical transformation of society, he nonetheless appears to be a resource for utopianism as conceived by the philosopher who coined the term.³³

References Allen, D. (2013), “The Origins of Political Philosophy,” in G. Klosko (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of the Histories of Political Philosophy. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 75 – 95. Asheri, D., A. Lloyd, and A. Corcella. (2007), A Commentary on Herodotus, Books I – IV. O. Murray and A. Moreno, eds. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Atack, C. (2020), The Discourse of Kingship in Classical Greece. London: Routledge. Balot, R. (2001), Greed and Injustice in Classical Athens. Princeton: Princeton University Press.

the basic tenets of the Christian faith, which the Utopians believe is consistent with their own religion, presumably derived on the basis of natural reason [II: 93 – 94]).  I am grateful to audiences for comments at the conference for Ancient Utopias at Leuven Belgium in March 2016, at a panel on Herodotus’ political thought at the Northeast Political Science Association annual meeting in November 2016, and at Denison University in March 2017. I am also grateful for written comments on the chapter from Susan Sauvé Meyer, Carol Atack, and John Knight.

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Balot, R. (2008), “Utopian and Post-Utopian Paradigms in Classical Political Thought,” Arion 16: 75 – 90. Bloomer, W.M. (1993), “The Superlative nomoi of Herodotus’s Histories,” Classical Antiquity 12: 30 – 50. Clay, D. and A. Purvis. (1999), Four Island Utopias. Newburyport, MA: Focus Publishing. Dewald, C. (2003), “Form and Content: The Question of Tyranny in Herodotus,” in K. Morgyn (ed.), Popular Tyranny: Sovereignty and its Discontents in Ancient Greece. Austin: University of Texas Press, 25 – 58. Fornara, C. (1971), Herodotus. An Interpretive Essay. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Forsdyke, S. (2006), “Herodotus, Political Histories, and Political Thought,” in C. Dewald and J. Marincola (eds.), The Cambridge Companion to Herodotus. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 224 – 241. Gowans, C. (2019), “Moral Relativism,” The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, Edward N. Zalta (ed.), URL = . Grene, D. (1987), Herodotus, The Histories. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Hadas, M. (1935), “Utopian Sources in Herodotus,” Classical Philology 30: 113 – 121. Harrison, T. and E. Irwin, (eds.). (2018), Interpreting Herodotus. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hau, L.I. (2016), Moral History from Herodotus to Diodorus Siculus. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Hude, C. (1927), Herodoti Historiae, 3rd ed. 2 vols. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Humphreys, S. (1987), “Law, Custom and Culture in Herodotus,” Arethusa 20: 211 – 220. Linderborg, O. (2019), “The Place of Herodotus’ Constitutional Debate in the History of Political Ideas and the Emergence of Classical Social Theory,” Akropolis 3: 5 – 28. Lévy, E. (2003), “Les dialogues perses (Hérodote, III, 80 – 83), et les débuts de la science politique,” Lalies 22: 119 – 145. Logan, G.M., R. M. Adams, and C. H. Miller, eds. (1995), More: Utopia, Latin Text and English Translation. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Logan, G.M. and R. M. Adams, eds. (2002), Thomas More, Utopia. Rev. Edition. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Manuel, F.E. and F. P. Manuel. (1979), Utopian Thought in the Western World. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Moles, J. (2002), “Herodotus and Athens,” in E.J. Bakker, I. J. F. De Jong, and H. van Wees (eds.), Brill’s Companion to Herodotus. Leiden: Brill, 33 – 52. Munson, R.V. (2006), “An Alternate World: Herodotus and Italy,” in C. Dewald and J. Marincola (eds.), The Cambridge Companion to Herodotus. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 257 – 73. Ober, J. (1998), Political Dissent in Democratic Athens. Intellectual Critics of Popular Rule. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Ostwald, M. (1991), “Herodotus and Athens,” Illinois Classical Studies 16: 137 – 148. Pelling, C. (2002), “Speech and action: Herodotus’ Debate on the Constitutions,” Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Society 48: 123 – 158. Raaflaub, K.A. (1987), “Herodotus’ political thought and the meaning of Histories,” Arethusa 20: 221 – 248.

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Raaflaub, K.A. (2002), “Philosophy, Science, Politics: Herodotus and the Intellectual Trends of his Time,” in E.J. Bakker, I. J. F. De Jong, and H. van Wees (eds.), Brill’s Companion to Herodotus. Leiden: Brill, 149 – 186. Rist, J.M. (2016), “From Dreamland ‘Humanism’ to Christian Political Reality or from Nusquama to Utopia,” Review of Metaphysics 69: 739 – 785. Rosen, S. (1988), “Philosophy and Revolution,” in his The Quarrel Between Philosophy and Poetry. London: Routledge, 27 – 55. Roy, C.S. (2010), Political Relativism: Implicit Political Theory in Herodotus’ Histories. Ph.D. thesis, University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill. Roy, C.S. (2012), “The Constitutional Debate: Herodotus’ Exploration of Good Government,” Hisos 6: 298 – 320. Saxonhouse, S. (1996), Athenian Democracy: Modern Mythmakers and Ancient Theorists. South Bend, IN: University of Notre Dame Press. Sissa, G. (2012), “Democracy: A Persian Invention?” Mètis 10: 227 – 261. Thomas, R. (2000), Herodotus in Context: Ethnography, Science, and the Art of Persuasion. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Thompson, N. (1996), Herodotus and the Origins of the Political Community: Arion’s Leap. New Haven: Yale University Press. Ward, A. (2008), Herodotus and the Philosophy of Empire. Waco: Baylor University Press. Wolff, J. (2018), Introduction to Moral Philosophy. New York: W.W. Norton.

Carol Atack

Temporality and utopia in Xenophon and Isocrates

Greek politeia writing has some similarities with, and is foundational for, later utopian texts, and in many cases serves a similar purpose to later utopian writings, in offering criticism of present political institutions and practices through the presentation of an imagined alternative.¹ This chapter interprets Xenophon’s and Isocrates’ use of past and imagined political arrangements, such as the patrios politeia (ancestral constitution), as the basis for their re-imagined ideal versions of Sparta, Persia and Egypt, through evaluative schemes intended for later utopias, showing how the manipulation of temporality in their works has an argumentative and political purpose echoed in later debates on the usefulness of utopian writing.² The focus on the political practices and culture of the imagined past and the wish to preserve or return to it unifies the utopian elements in the thought of Xenophon and Isocrates. While Xenophon and Isocrates are engaged in different projects, their shared use of the patrios politeia appears to address a similar audience of elite conservative Athenians.³ By creating imaginary societies separated in time, and often in space, from fourth-century BCE Athens, they were able to criticise contemporary political practice without openly attacking Athenian democracy, and being identified as a ‘hater of democracy’ (misodēmos, Isoc. Areopagiticus 57). Temporality is key to categorising utopias; whether the ideal is found in the past or future indicates whether it is something lost to be mourned or a goal to work towards. Nineteenth-century socialists distinguished their ideal societies by placing them in the (relatively near) future, and thereby marking them as achievable through political action; Edward Bellamy concluded his remarks on his own utopian vision by insisting that “The golden age lies before us and not behind us”.⁴ But both Xenophon and Isocrates insist on the superiority of past politeiai, such as those of Sparta and Persia as originally founded, and on the im I would like to thank Paul Cartledge, Tom Phillips, Tim Rood and Malcolm Schofield for helpful comments on this chapter, and the organisers of the Leuven conference for their assistance.  Goodwin and Taylor 1982: 21– 28; Mannheim 1936: 190 – 222; for a critical appraisal of Mannheim’s model see Levitas 1990.  On the connections between the pair as political thinkers see Gray 2000, Azoulay 2006 and the papers in Tamiolaki 2018.  Bellamy 2007; see Shklar 1973: 108. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110733129-005

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portance of resisting change. Isocrates even repositions elements of Plato’s Kallipolis, the Republic’s vision of a timeless ideal society, in the mythical Egyptian past he describes in his Busiris. While the importance to the utopian tradition of politeia writing about Athens and Sparta has long been acknowledged, surveys of utopian writing often address this through readings of Plutarch’s lives of Solon and Lycurgus, which consolidate and embellish a range of material from earlier sources, including Xenophon and Isocrates.⁵ While Judith Shklar criticised the continuing evocation of “wistful Spartan utopias” and an interest in classical thought that was “no longer relevant”, the political argument of Plutarch’s sources provides evidence of the critical use of concepts of utopia in ancient texts, and also a route through which these texts influenced later utopian writing.⁶

1 Politeia and utopia Greek political writing prior to Aristotle typically took the form of the politeia, an account of the political character and institutions of a city, often offering a snapshot and argumentative critique of current political culture (as in ps-Xenophon’s Constitution of the Athenians); later the genre expanded to include historical accounts of the foundation and political development of a specific polis (such as Aristotle’s Constitution of the Athenians).⁷ Such politeiai might be free-standing pamphlet texts, such as Xenophon’s Constitution of the Spartans, or embedded within more complex narrative works and dialogues, as with the politeia of Persia in Xenophon’s Cyropaedia, and that of Athens in Isocrates’ Areopagiticus. ⁸ Gregory Claeys notes that the politeia tradition, with this connection to historical cities, provided “one of the most direct sources for the ‘realist’ strand in utopian thought”.⁹ This tradition could be distinguished from the ‘golden age’ arcadia; the separation and contrast between the two forms, in one of which distribution of goods is optimised, in the other in which want and the need for regulated distribution vanishes, is important for understanding the political function of Greek

 Claeys 2011: 24– 25; Manuel and Manuel 1979: 94– 99.  Shklar 1973: 108.  Bordes 1982 surveys politeia writing; Dawson 1992 reads politeia texts as “communist” utopias.  Bertelli 1977; Dawson 1992: 35 – 37; Lockwood 2015.  Claeys 2011: 23; Finley 1975b.

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utopian texts.¹⁰ The Golden Age tradition looked back to the mythical past, imagining conditions no longer replicable as one age superseded another, a lost golden age of present gods and the automatic abundance of resources, as in Hesiod’s golden age (Works and Days 109 – 126).¹¹ In contrast, polis-focused work more often takes the form of what Doyne Dawson identified as ‘low utopias’, in which ensuring the just distribution of scarce resources was at issue.¹² The political writings of Xenophon and Isocrates belong to this latter tradition, in which political arrangements ensure the just distribution of scarce resources, except for the deliberate blurring of categories in Isocrates’ Busiris. There is a complex interplay between the two traditions, and frequent overlap when writers argue that a specific set of political arrangements can re-instantiate the conditions of the golden age of Kronos; when Homer’s Odysseus makes this connection in likening Penelope to a king under whose rule the order of the world is so perfect that animals and crops appear in super-abundance out of the usual season (Homer Od. 19. 109 – 114).¹³ But identifying a rival’s political proposals as suggestions of a golden age, and thus an abrogation of politics, was a powerful form of criticism; Plato’s Statesman myth can be read as a critical satire of theories of virtue kingship, espoused by Xenophon and Isocrates. He positions such rule in a golden age, the Age of Kronos, marked by the absence of politeiai (Plt. 271e7– 8); in the opposed temporalities of each direction of the cosmos, the Age of Kronos is marked by plenty and the active stewardship of divine beings, while in the Age of Zeus humans must marshal their own resources under conditions of decline and entropy, as the god withdraws.¹⁴ Writers used both space and time to establish distinctions between their ideal politeiai and those of the degenerate present. Setting the politeia in another place was one option, and setting it in the past or future time another possibility. Greek imaginary cities are usually located within the Greek world (Sparta, pro-

 Finley 1975b: 180 – 182; Kumar 1991: 2– 6. Finley cites Giannini’s distinction between the ‘utopia d’evasione’ and the ‘utopia di riconstruzione’ (Giannini 1967: 120); Giannini himself allies the first type with spatially distinct settings and the second with the temporally distinct.  Claeys 2011: 17– 19; Manuel and Manuel 1979: 68 – 71. Vincent Geoghegan identifies goldenage elements in utopian socialist thought (Geoghegan 1987: 56 – 59), and argues that ancestral constitutions represent the golden age.  Dawson 1992: 21. The politeiai of Plato’s Athens and Atlantis fall between the categories.  Gregory Claeys notes a connection between good monarchs and pastoral utopian themes in the early modern era, as with Shakespeare’s pastoral As You Like It and Queen Elizabeth (Claeys 2011: 23).  Dimitri El Murr explores the political importance of the Statesman’s golden age myth in El Murr 2014: 170 – 188, cf. Kahn 2009; Malcolm Schofield surveys Plato’s engagement with the politeia tradition in Schofield 2006: 30 – 43.

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posed colonies) or the range of Greek colonisation and cultural contact (Persia, Egypt and possibly, at the limits, Atlantis). However, given the Athenocentrism of classical Greek political thought all these locations express distance from the centre. Later, Hellenistic writers would respond to Alexander’s encounters with the east by setting imaginary politeiai in more distant locations, such as the Indian Ocean, where Euhemerus’ Panchaea was positioned.¹⁵ Beyond geographic location, the spatial element of the classical Greek politeia is more often concerned with the division and distribution of space within the city, both between city and surrounding land and within the town itself, as part of its overall concern with distribution of resources between citizens.¹⁶ Politeiai intended as blueprints for new cities or imagined ones might look to the future for their realisation, albeit in a weak sense of describing something not yet in existence. Hippodamus of Miletus, for example, offered a blueprint for a future city rather than an elegy for a past one (Arist. Pol. 2.8. 1267b30 – 37). But for Xenophon and Isocrates the past offered a more appropriate form of separation; past perfection (albeit often imaginary) could be set against the present degenerate form of the same politeia, as in Xenophon’s Constitution of the Spartans and Cyropaedia, or Isocrates’ Areopagiticus. Both Xenophon and Isocrates manage the physical co-location of imagined ideal city and present defective city through the manipulation of time. While Plato, in his Timaeus-Critias, imagines an earlier geography overlaying the current terrain of Attica, wiped out along with his primeval Athens and Atlantis, neither Xenophon nor Isocrates insists on topographical change to demarcate their ideal past from non-ideal present. Instead, they set their cities in an undifferentiated past, distinct from the present but also detemporalised; this is a different kind of past than the sequential historical change from one constitution to another (metabolē politeiōn) mapped by the Aristotelian constitutions.¹⁷ The quality of the past invoked in these works is distinctive. They do not provide sequential narratives (although they may be inset within narrative works, as with Xenophon’s past-Persia), but instead imagine a fixed situation set in an unspecified time.¹⁸ While Plutarch’s biographies of Solon and Lycurgus are cast in sequential narrative form, the politeia material they incorporate was not original-

 DS 5.41.4– 64.7, Ferguson 1975: 102– 110; Manuel and Manuel 1979: 21. On the spatiality of utopian writing see Marin 1984, 1993; Vieira 2010: 3 – 8.  Lévêque and Vidal-Naquet 1996; Vernant 1983.  As summarised at Ath. Pol. 41.1– 42.1.  cf. Frye 1973.

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ly narrative in form.¹⁹ The contrast between past and present Athens and Sparta, where the past is a model of a counterfactual alternative to the present, suggests that temporality is being used as a marker of political intent. Writing in the early twentieth century, Karl Mannheim aimed to separate utopia and ideology, as two forms of political perspective that worked against analysis and action; he argued that ideology, associated with dominant groups, fixes the views of classes or groups so that they are unable to see beyond the collective viewpoint that stabilises their worldview, whereas utopia, associated with oppressed groups, “hides certain aspects of reality” and renders the groups incapable of action.²⁰ Mannheim then divides utopian thought into four types: chiliastic, liberalhumanitarian, conservative and socialist-communist. His types are distinguished by their orientation towards time.²¹ Chiliastic utopianism, exemplified by anabaptist and millenarian movements of the mediaeval and early modern period, emphasises the moment and chance. Liberal-humanitarian and socialist-communist utopias look to the future for their realisation, although in distinctive ways, with the former placing vague hopes in future political change, while the latter expects change to take place as capitalism collapses. This orientation towards the future had become the usual format of nineteenth- and early twentieth-century utopian writing, exemplified by texts from diverse strands of socialism, such as the technological utopia of Edward Bellamy’s Looking Backward (1888) and the more straightforwardly revolutionary Reflections on Violence (1908) of Georges Sorel, who attributes to myth the powers that Mannheim gives to utopia.²² For Barbara Goodwin and Keith Taylor, “idealisation of the past and criticism of the present” is one of six possible temporal relations between utopia and present reality that they identify.²³ It characterised not just ancient utopian writing but those taking the “ancient” side against the “moderns” in later debates.

 One of Plutarch’s achievements in his lives of Solon, Lycurgus and Theseus is to transform non-narrative politeiai and detemporalised mythical material into linear narratives: see Hawes 2014: 149 – 174; Pelling 1999.  Mannheim 1936: 36. Mannheim goes on to argue that familiarity with new psychological thinking on the unconscious might change individuals’ susceptibility to these modes of thinking, and that the new science of sociology might significantly modify older forms of utopian and ideological thought, cf. Goodwin and Taylor 1982: 137– 139; Levitas 1990: 92– 93.  Mannheim 1936: 211– 215.  Bellamy 2007; Kumar 1991: 132– 167; Levitas 1990: 73 – 78; Sorel 1999.  Goodwin and Taylor 1982: 21– 28.

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Mannheim’s conservative utopia is distinguished by the emphasis it places on the past and on gradual change. However, it is also engaged in struggle with the future-oriented forms of utopia (and is a response to their theorisations, from a political perspective that is not focused on theory). This focus on the past brings it into the present: “the presentness and immediacy of the whole past becomes an actual experience”.²⁴ In some ways William Morris’ News from Nowhere (1890), though ostensibly set in the future, and describing a society which has undergone violent and revolutionary change leading to a transformation of economic and social life, is oriented towards the past in its nostalgic evocation of mediaeval working practices and its idealisation of the craft labour rendered unnecessary in Bellamy’s own technological vision.²⁵ Morris was offering a critical response both to Bellamy’s science fiction and to the industrial capitalism of the present, neither of which valued labour in the positive way that Morris’ aesthetic idealisation of craft does. In this sense, Xenophon and Isocrates, resisting the political changes entailed by democratic political practices, and looking back to an age of greater fixity of legal arrangements, can be aligned with Mannheim’s conservative type of utopia with its orientation towards the past. For Xenophon and Isocrates, their conservative political agenda in responding to present-day crises in Athens, and to the perceived decline of Sparta and Persia, made both the historical and the mythical pasts suitable locations for their political utopias. This past is set against a version of the present that itself has been recast in ideological terms, so that reimagined and represented past and present are contrasted. Ruth Levitas has explored utopian writings as contributions to and attempts to influence the social imaginary, the shared collective view of the people of how their society is structured or works.²⁶ Charles Taylor describes these collective views as often originating in theories and the work of individual theorists, which have then infiltrated and been incorporated into the thoughts and beliefs of the wider public.²⁷ Within this framework, one can treat Greek politeia texts as documents intended to manipulate the construction of the social imaginary; in exploring the distinction between the imaginary and the lived political experience, they contest and manipulate the political imaginary. In the conservative version of this process, this may involve evoking the past while arguing for change.  Mannheim 1936: 212.  Frye 1973: 44– 46; Goodwin and Taylor 1982: 212; Morris 2003; Roemer 2010.  Levitas 2013: xiv–xv.  Taylor 2004: 23 – 24; cf. the more radical approach of Cornelius Castoriadis (Castoriadis 1987, 1997).

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This evocation of nostalgia in the process of invoking change resembles that employed by British prime minister John Major in April 1993, in encouraging his own Conservative party to support his policy of increasing European integration via the Maastricht treaty. His speech to pro-European conservatives ended with a description of continuing tradition, that itself looks back at George Orwell’s description of political nostalgia:²⁸ Fifty years from now Britain will still be the country of long shadows on county grounds, warm beer, invincible green suburbs, dog lovers and pools fillers and – as George Orwell said – “old maids bicycling to Holy Communion through the morning mist” and if we get our way – Shakespeare still read even in school.

Major’s evocation of a golden past was widely criticised – ‘a load of tosh’, according to the Independent’s leader the following day – not least for his failure to acknowledge that the English identity he evoked was not applicable to the whole of the United Kingdom.²⁹ At least in contemporary debate, political considerations trumped the aesthetic experience that Major sought to create. William Morris’ rural England of hard-working craftsmen and aesthetic delight in their productions similarly draws on a specific vision of a beautiful past that is not tied precisely to history, but creates a timeless world that was better and that can be delivered through the politics of the future. Like Morris, Xenophon and Isocrates valorise the processes of the past. The idea of the patrios politeia had become an important, albeit highly contested, component of the Athenian political imaginary by the time they were writing. The first references to it in Athenian political discourse of the late fifth-century BCE and at the restoration of Athenian democracy suggest a broad appeal to traditional practice rather than to a developed ideology or a specific set of constitutional arrangements, but this changes to appeals to it as a developed and full-featured politeia later in the fourth century.³⁰ While some scholars have insisted that the reference is to a historical version of the Athenian constitution, most likely that of Solon and Drakon, rather than an imaginary ideal that exists as a counterfactual opposite to the present, Isocrates’ development of the idea exploits the blurred boundary between early history and myth to write about the details of Theseus’s po-

 Major 1993, citing Orwell 1941.  Anonymous 1993. Major’s vision was “comfortably nostalgic”, but an “absurdity” in the divided, post-Thatcher UK (Hewison 1994: 419).  See Finley 1975c. However, Finley ignores the shift from Athenian debates of the 410s (Ath. Pol. 29.3; Rhodes 1993: 376 – 377; Shear 2011: 20 – 22, 41– 60) to those of the mid-fourth century (Mossé 1978, cf. Rhodes 2011).

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litical activity in a way more appropriate to history. Isocrates ascribes elements of the Athenian constitution to Theseus, more usually treated as a founder figure (Helen 35 – 36, Panathenaicus 129 – 131), and Xenophon’s treatment of the Spartan constitution also demonstrates the link with the mythical past, although Spartan taste for such material is suggested by Plato’s Hippias in describing the ‘ancient stories’ he tells to the Spartans (Pl. Hipp. Ma. 285d6 – e1).³¹ While presenting their idealised politeiai as snapshots of the ancestral constitution, both Xenophon and Isocrates detemporalise them, positioning them in a mythical space whose temporality is constituted by its opposition to the present.

2 Xenophon’s past utopias Xenophon presents two apparent utopias, Sparta and ancient Persia, which both turn out to be lost past ideals. In the Lacedaemonion Respublica, Xenophon draws a contrast with decadent present Sparta, rather than with Athens, as one might expect, while proleptic allusions to the negative consequences for Persia of its absorption into Cyrus’ expanded empire appear throughout the Cyropaedia. There are both temporal and spatial elements to these idealised societies. Thomas More’s characters learn about his Utopia from the traveller Raphael Hythloday, with whom they debate; the narrator of Xenophon’s Lacedaemonion Respublica, implicitly a witness of Spartan practice, also describes what he has seen and learned.³² The unnamed narrator is a marked presence in this work; first person pronouns or verbs mark the opening of several chapters (1, 2, 10, 12, 13, 14, 15), and emphasise the narrator’s individual response to the Spartan constitution, typically one of wonder (thauma) that dissipates on greater understanding.³³ The quality of these responses marks the difference between utopia and lived political experience. This politeia focuses on specific features of Spartan political culture and education, rather than providing a complete overview and inventory of institutions

 Among those arguing that the patrios politeia refers to a historical, usually Solonian, constitution, are Rhodes 2006; Ruschenbusch 1958. On Solon as a mythical figure see Mossé 1978, 1979. On the changing use of patrios politeia arguments, see Atack 2010, with Atack 2018, and on Isocrates’ politicised use of the arguments, Atack 2014.  Frye 1973: 36 – 37; Manuel and Manuel 1979: 122.  The verb θαυμάζω is a formula for introducing philosophical inquiry (Gray 2007: 147). Forms of θαυμάζω in the Lac. Pol.: 1.1, 1.2; with the negative 2.14, 9.6, 12.4, 12.14, 14.7.

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and practices.³⁴ Xenophon’s interest is in the political culture, the way of life and the educational process which produce the Spartan citizen. However, his account appears to be idealised and an example of the ‘Spartan mirage’; overturning earlier Athenian representations of the city, it presents Sparta as a utopia of virtue.³⁵ Xenophon attributes the origin of the Spartan constitution to a single founding act by Lycurgus. This took place at the boundary between historical and mythical time, synchronously with the return of the Heraclids (Lac. Pol. 10.8).³⁶ Unlike other accounts, Xenophon does not cite the “Great Rhetra”, or provide an explicit account of change in the Spartan constitution, which is presented as a single object of wonder:³⁷ I was reflecting one day on the fact that, although Sparta has one of the smallest populations, it has become the most powerful and famous of all Greek states, and I wondered (ἐθαύμασα/ethaumasa) how this could have come about. However, when I examined the way of life (ἐπιτηδεύματα) of the Spartiates, I ceased to be surprised (ἐθαύμαζον/ethaumazon). Indeed, I admire (θαυμάζω/thaumazō) Lycurgus, the man who established the laws under which they flourished (ηὐδαιμόνησαν/ēudaimonēsan); I consider him an extremely wise man. (Lac. Pol. 1.1– 2, translation adapted from Moore 1975)

The complex temporality of the work is hinted at in this opening passage, which relates the narrator’s changing response to Sparta as he learned more about Lycurgus. The narrator’s initial thought, expressed in the aorist, no longer persists; he no longer (with the imperfect verb ethaumazon) finds this worthy of thauma, but instead continues, in the present tense, to regard Lycurgus himself as an object of thauma. Xenophon is also keen to set out the difference between Sparta and other Greek societies; its practices are the opposite of those elsewhere (6.1, 7.1). Particular differences are seen in its treatment of women and of same-sex relationships; the reorganisation or abolition of property and the household is a recurring theme of classical utopias, notably Plato’s Republic, and is acknowledged in Lycurgus’ rules for the communal oversight of children and property:³⁸

 Gray 2007: 40 – 41; Lipka 2002: 44– 46.  Dawson 1992: 26 – 35; Ferguson 1975: 29 – 39; Hodkinson 2005: 239 – 244. Hodkinson argues that, in covering major political institutions (the ephorate, 8.3 – 4, the gerousia, 10.1– 3), Xenophon’s account goes beyond the usual Athenian focus on Spartan kingship.  Plutarch Lyc. 1.1– 2 notes the chronology disputed in various of his sources; at 1.5 he notes that Xenophon’s date is the earliest possible.  See also Hdt. 1.65.2– 66.1, Pl. Leg. 3.691d8 – 692b1 (separating three “saviours” who reformed the constitution, Plutarch Lyc. 6 – 7.  Dawson 1992: 40 – 43; Schofield 2006: 87– 91, 227– 234.

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In the following respects, his institutions differed from the ordinary type; in other cities each man controls (ἄρχουσιν) his own children, servants and property, but Lycurgus, because he wished the citizens to benefit (ἀπολαύοιεν) from each other without doing any harm, gave each man equal authority over all children, whether his own or those of others. (Lac. Pol. 6.1)

Xenophon further complicates the temporality of the work with a palinode, chapter 14, that emphasises that the description he has given is of a past society whose practices and customs are no longer observed. The authenticity of this “enigmatic” (Hodkinson) chapter and its positioning within the work have been challenged by many scholars, although Noreen Humble has made a strong case for its authenticity and role within the work’s argumentative structure.³⁹ The chapter distances the reader from the society described, suggesting that it no longer exists in its ideal form: If someone were to ask me, whether I believed that the laws of Lycurgus still remained unchanged (ἀκίνητοι/akinētoi), by Zeus, I could not say this with confidence (θρασέως) … so it is no surprise (θαυμάζειν/thaumazein) that such reproaches are being cast at them, for they obviously (φανεροί/phaneroi) do not obey either the gods or the laws of Lycurgus. (Lac. Pol. 14.1, 14.7)

The former time (proteron men (14.2, 6), prosthen men 14.3) is contrasted sharply with the current situation (nun de, 14.3, 4, 5, 6). The explicit statement of this division between past and present resolves some of the apparent ambiguity and conditionality of earlier parts of the text. They also illuminate the tension that underlies the narrator’s account of Sparta and his attitude to it. While Xenophon has typically been treated as an unqualified enthusiast for Sparta and its culture, his Spartan politeia taken with his analysis of Sparta in his historical writings suggests a more guarded and ambivalent perspective. This ambivalence was read by Leo Strauss as an indication that the document was an ironic critique of Sparta rather than a eulogy of its claimed original constitution; but it may be anachronistic to impute the features of twentieth-century dystopias to text or author, even though many of the features of idealised Sparta are similar to those satirised by modern dystopians.⁴⁰

 Hodkinson 2005: 249; see also Gray 2007: 217– 221; Humble 2004; Lipka 2002: 27– 31.  Strauss 1939. However, contextualists might argue that anachronism is a vice inherent to the Straussian method of “recovery” of ancient texts (cf. Ruderman 2015). More broadly, 20th century treatments of the imaginary Sparta and of Platonic utopias as a source for totalitarianism (Crossman 1937; Popper 1966) represent an important reception tradition, cf. Schofield 2006: 194– 198; Vieira 2010: 29 – 31.

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However, further utopian elements in Xenophon’s writing on Sparta suggest ways in which the gap between mythical past and present might be bridged. This appears to be one of the functions of the Spartan kings, who claim descent from Heracles through the Heraclids, founders of the Dorian states. The unbroken list of kings serves as a ladder reaching back into the past heroic age. The Lac. Pol. closes, if the transmitted manuscript is correctly ordered, with a chapter outlining the peculiar honours given to the Spartan kings (15.1– 9). Kingship, Xenophon stresses, is the only office (μόνη γὰρ δὴ αὕτη ἀρχή) that continues unchanged in its Lycurgan form: I also want to describe the agreement Lycurgus made between the king and the city. For this is the only office (ἀρχή/archē) which remains today in its original form (ἐξ ἀρχῆς/ex archēs); whereas one would find the constitutions of others to have changed (μετακεκινημένας/ metakekinēmenas) and still to be changing (μετακινουμένας/ metakinoumenas) even now. (Lac. Pol. 15.1)

The play on both senses of archē draws attention to this unique feature of the Spartan politeia, and introduces the idea of completed change (metakekinēmenas) to political offices, ignored in the earlier part of the text. The presence of living kings within a polis culture with a particularly strong emphasis on citizen equality (at least among the elite Spartiate citizens) is paradoxical or anachronistic.⁴¹ But their presence as an exemplar for citizens of good character and behaviour could help to maintain the culture that Xenophon idealised, and allow the ideal past to be transmitted to the non-ideal present. The material presence of the kings emphasises this. While Xenophon does not explore aspects of topography such as the layout of the city (an important feature of much politeia writing; Hippodamus of Miletus was a town planner), he does pay attention to the built environment and to the topology of monarchy, as well as to the structure of the military camps commanded by the kings (LP 13.1– 10).⁴² The idealising presence of the king is explored further in Xenophon’s encomium of the Spartan king Agesilaus, under whom he served on campaign.⁴³ While the appearances of Agesilaus in the Hellenica are fitted into the work’s his-

 Cartledge 2001: 55 – 67 explores the Spartan “peculiarly high symbolic regard for kingship” (61). The Athenians still had a “king archon” with specific, mostly religious responsibilities (Arist. [Ath. Pol.] 3.2– 5; retelling the stories of their mythical kings, especially Theseus, provided opportunities for political analysis (Euripides Suppliants, Isocrates Helen, cf. Atack 2020: 44– 84; Easterling 1985).  Paden 2001; Shipley 2005.  Cartledge 1987: 55 – 66.

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torical narrative, his presence in the posthumous encomium is detemporalised, with no overarching narrative.⁴⁴ Agesilaus lives in a house that is or resembles a primitive hut such as his Heraclid ancestors would have known. Anyone who finds this hard to believe should look at (ἰδέτω/idetō) the kind of house that was sufficient for Agesilaus, and, in particular, look at (θεασάσθω/theasasthō) the front doors. It would not be implausible to think that these were the very doors that Heracles’ descendant, Aristodemus, acquired and set up on his return home. (Agesilaus 8.7)

The primitive hut is a theme of past-oriented and nostalgic utopias that materialises the idea of the “noble savage”.⁴⁵ It simultaneously connects the present kings with the distant past, and contrasts that simple primitive past with the luxurious practices of other contemporary monarchs and aspirant figures. Agesilaus exemplifies the simple, primitive life in his practices, such as sitting directly on the ground rather than on carpets; when the Persian satrap Pharnabazus comes to meet him, he is shamed into copying the ascetic king’s behaviour (Hellenica 4.1.30). Xenophon’s Persian politeia (Cyropaedia 1.2) transplants many elements of his Sparta into a distinctive setting, Persia re-imagined as a polis. But just like Sparta, the perfect society turns out to be just out of reach; Cyrus, the paradigmatically successful leader created by this society, has effectively destroyed the conditions in which its important feature, its educational regime, can continue.⁴⁶ Transplanted to Babylon and replicated in the subordinate satrapies, Persian education fails to produce a new generation of effective leaders (7.5.86). Again, a palinode sets out the decline (8.8); just as with Xenophon’s other works, the authenticity of this section has been questioned.⁴⁷ However, just as with the conditionality of the Lycurgan heritage of Sparta, the persistence of Persian education and values has been flagged as a potential problem earlier in the work.⁴⁸ Perhaps because Xenophon’s Persia owes more to his imagination than his Sparta does, he sets out more detail of its civic topography. Even so, he emphasises the rules that govern the use of space rather than the details of the built environment, such as the separation of commercial and leisure space which ensures that the gentlemen do not have to come into contact with traders:⁴⁹  Pontier 2010.  Rykwert 1972; Rood, Atack and Phillips 2020: 186 – 7.  Nadon 2001: 29 – 42 contrasts Xenophon’s Persian and Spartan paideiai; the contrast Newell 1983 finds between his Persia and Media resembles that between utopia and dystopia.  Gera 1993: 299 – 300; Nadon 2001: 139 – 146.  Nadon 2001: 141– 144, citing Cyr. 3.3.51– 2 and other passages from book 8.  See Pontier 2006: 337, 387. Aristotle attributes this practice to Thessaly (Pol. 7.12.1331a30 – 35).

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They have a so-called Free Square (ἐλευθέρα ἀγορά/eleuthera agora), where the king’s palace and other government buildings have been built. From hence are banished to another place merchandise for sale and its sellers, their cries and their vulgarity, lest their confusion (τύρβη/turbē) mingle (μιγνύηται/mignuētai) with the good order (εὐκοσμίᾳ/eukosmiai) of the educated. (Cyr. 1.2.3, translation Ambler 2001)

The exclusion of commerce from the heart of the city hints at Spartan restriction on the economic activities of Spartiates, and also perhaps a hint of golden-age thought woven into the politeia, in the satisfaction of needs outside economic activity (as with the stress on hunting rather than agriculture as the source of food).⁵⁰ Persian civic space is then further subdivided to emphasise the ageclass divisions that, as in Lycurgan Sparta, structure the lives and responsibilities of citizens: This square by the government buildings is divided into four parts. One of these is for the boys, one for the youths, another for the mature men, another for those who are beyond the years of military service. It is required by law that these divisions attend their several places, the boys and the mature men at daybreak, the elders when it suits each of them, except for appointed days, when they are obliged to be present. (Cyr. 1.2.4)

Thus the space and the time of the Persian polis are organised to emphasise the roles of citizens in each stage of their lives. The description of the different life stages emphasises the continuity of the process as the politeia’s practices and rules serve to deliver a stable society. The persistence and stability of the politeia are marked by present and perfect verbs.⁵¹ However, Xenophon’s narrative marks a turning point in the history of Persia, as the youthful Cyrus explores the different society of the Medes, gains a taste for military expeditions, and launches the series of military actions that will result in his capture of Babylon and establishment of an autocratic empire on a completely different scale. That the Cyropaedia is an educational utopia has long been noted.⁵² Its principal problem is to explore how the small-scale society of Persia could be replicated under the changed conditions of empire. Xenophon’s opening questions seek to identify the origin of the qualities that enabled Cyrus to manage this process, asking whether they were innate or acquired through education (1.1.6).

 Although Christopher Tuplin has argued that Xenophon’s Persia is distinct from the historical Sparta, the idea of elite abstention from direct economic activity is related to Athenian Laconophilia (Tuplin 1994).  Nadon 2001: 35, citing Waller Newell’s unpublished PhD dissertation.  Both Frye (1973: 38) and Nadon (2001: 24) cite Edmund Spenser’s introduction to his Faerie Queene (1590), in which he praises Xenophon’s practice of exemplarity.

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The past perfection of Persia before Cyrus is contrasted to Cyrus’ own empire, and both are superior to the corruption and decline Xenophon finds in the contemporary Persian empire. Using the past to explore empire enables Xenophon to explore the phenomenon of large-scale empire without committing himself to supporting contemporary instances of despotic rule, but it also raises the question of whether good customs can be preserved in different circumstances. Throughout the narrative Xenophon flags practices, particularly those of soldiers on campaign, that he claims do persist in present Persia: There remains even unto this day (νῦν δὲ ἔτι) evidence of their moderate fare (μετρίας διαίτης) and of their working off by exercise what they eat. (Cyr. 1.2.16)

Although Xenophon marks continuity in this way, as the work progresses the thought that the new empire might not provide an environment for the secure continuance of Persian customs is repeatedly flagged, for example: And as for the children who may be born of us, let us educate them here. We ourselves will be better by wishing to provide ourselves as the best possible patterns (παραδείγματα/paradeigmata) for our children, and our children could not easily become worthless (πονηροί/ ponēroi), even if they wished to, spending their day in noble and good practices, not even hearing or seeing anything shameful (αἰσχρόν/aischron). (Cyr. 7.5.86)

However, the Persian politeia was already receding into the past, from the moment that Cyrus first travelled to the court of his grandfather Astyages, king of the Medes (1.3.1– 3). However, it is the disputed final chapter of the last book that moves it even further back, using the same patterns (proteron/prosthen men… nun de) seen in the palinode of the Lac. Pol. This final chapter is an effective dystopia, demonstrating the kind of society that might result if the moral codes praised by Xenophon were rejected. Through a series of reversals, Persia with its focus on justice and the perfection of the individual becomes a dystopia of corrupt public life and private excess and depravity. The order held in place by Cyrus’ unique capabilities begins to disintegrate immediately on his death: When Cyrus died, however, his sons immediately began to fall into dissension (ἐστασίαζον/ estasiazon), cities and nations immediately revolted (aphistanto), and everything began to take a turn (ἐτρέποντο/etreponto) for the worse. (Cyr. 8.8.2)

Xenophon gives examples of the deterioration in Persian public life, with injustice and corruption rampant:

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And that the children before used to hear cases being justly adjudicated (τὰς δίκας δικαίως δικαζομένας) and seemed to learn justice (δικαιότητα), this too has been altogether undone, for now they see clearly that whichever side bribes more (πλέον διδῶσιν) wins. (Cyr. 8.8.13)

Private life is corrupted by the lack of restraint towards food and drink, and the preference given to Median customs and dress over Persian ones: But they are also much more delicate now than in Cyrus’ time. Then they still made use of the education (παιδείᾳ) and continence (ἐγκρατείᾳ) they received from the Persians, as well as the dress and the luxury of the Medes. Now they look with indifference on the extinction of the Persians’ perseverance (καρτερίαν/karterian), while they conserve the Medes’ softness (μαλακίαν/malakian). (Cyr. 8.8.15)

The impact of this decline is apparent in the military (8.8.20 – 26), which has lost the skills developed under Cyrus and maintained through practice, and now must rely on Greek mercenaries. Just as with the Lac. Pol., the juxtaposition of positive and negative descriptions of a society, set against each other as past and present, raises the question of how Xenophon means his readers to assess each stage of Cyrus’ life and that of his successors. But the presence of the dystopia of 8.8 should not lead us to conclude that Xenophon does not idealise or express nostalgia for the earlier societies. His ambivalence towards the present state of Sparta and Persia is itself an expression of political nostalgia.

3 Isocrates’ critical utopias For Isocrates, the imagined ideal past is precisely located in Athens, in two distinct eras: a more recent historical past, that of the generation which produced the victors at Marathon, just over a century before the dramatic or actual composition dates of his speeches (Panegyricus, Areopagiticus), and that of a more distant mythical past, the time of Athenian synoecism and the foundation of its democracy by the king Theseus (Helen, Panathenaicus). In identifying a mythical golden age of democracy in these settings, Isocrates can criticise current practice and argue for his own political programme, while avoiding the appearance of supporting oligarchy or tyranny within his own political context. He can also criticise others’ writing: his Egyptian politeia also criticises the sophist Polycrates (explicitly) and Plato’s Republic (implicitly). Here the mythicised and detemporalised past reflects political discourse rather than practice. Isocrates presents a past golden age of Athenian democracy, but his programme argues for a substantially different political programme for the near fu-

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ture. Leadership of a Panhellenic expedition against Persia was a different project from the defensive hegemony that the Athenians more usually assumed.⁵³ His case for Athenian leadership of such a programme was the cultural and political hegemony of Athens, underpinned by its position as the first and best politeia and its autochthonous citizenry (Panegyricus 23 – 24). For Isocrates, the best political arrangements are always those he attributes to Athens: Christian Bouchet, with good cause, has described his work as a ‘utopia of the centre’.⁵⁴ While this vision of a past perfect Athens lies behind much of Isocrates’ rhetoric, it is most clearly set out in a work addressed more closely to Athenian citizens, the Areopagiticus. The past politeia of Athens is described in detail, but it is an imaginary account; as with Xenophon’s Lac. Pol. the emphasis is on the political culture of the city and the education through which it is instilled, as well as more specific description of political institutions and processes, particularly the reimagined aristocratic Areopagus Council.⁵⁵ The organisation of civic space is an important theme of this work. The Areopagus is both a physical location in Athens and the detail that identifies the council that met there. Elsewhere in the work Isocrates emphasises the contrast between town and city, and idealises the country estates of the aristocracy (52– 53). However, time is also a significant theme, and one that is significantly manipulated. While Xenophon’s comparison between idealised past and experienced present Sparta, rather than present Sparta and present Athens, is unclear until the final chapters, Isocrates is much more explicit in his comparison between Athens before democracy was fully developed, and Athens in its current political state. He acknowledges that Athens is now politically stable, albeit reduced from its former imperial glory, but warns that it would be naïve not to expect further change for the worse, as predicted by his model of change (6 – 7). Athens cannot maintain the advantages of recent victories (12), and many Athenians complain about the quality of the present democracy (15), while in practice preferring it to “the one established by their ancestors”. Isocrates’ explicit alternative is to propose a return to this ancestral democratic constitution, that he here attributes to Solon, followed by Cleisthenes: It is in favour of [the democracy of our forefathers] that I intend to speak, and this is the subject on which I gave notice that I would address you. (16) For I find that the one way – the only possible way – which can avert future perils from us and deliver us from our

 Isoc. To Philip 9, Panegyricus 17, Panathenaicus 13 – 14.  Bouchet 2010.  On the historical function of and changes in the role of the Areopagus Council, see Wallace 1989.

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present ills is that we should be willing to restore that earlier democracy (ἐκείνην τὴν δημοκρατίαν ἀναλαβεῖν) which was instituted by Solon, who proved himself above all others the friend of the people (δημοτικώτατος), and which was re-established by Cleisthenes, who drove out the tyrants and brought the people back into power – (17) a government than which we could find none more favourable to the populace or more advantageous to the whole city. (Areopag. 15 – 17, translation Norlin).

In including both Solon and Cleisthenes, Isocrates blurs the historical boundaries and blends distinct periods into a single, idealised whole; it is rare for fourth-century Athenian authors to say much about Cleisthenes, but Isocrates wishes to set the Marathon generation in context (Paneg. 75 – 87, cf. De Bigis 27), which necessitates acknowledging Cleisthenes’ role, and suggesting that he restored the Solonian democracy rather than radically changing it, the more usual charge.⁵⁶ In Isocrates’ imagined past, offices were given by appointment to suitable candidates, rather than their holders being selected by lot (23). Those citizens appointed to office – from those with the leisure time and “sufficient means” (βίον ἱκανόν, 26) to manage them properly – carried out their duties in the interests of the commonwealth rather than seeking private gain from their roles. This ensured stability and security: And how, pray, could one find a democracy more stable or more just (βεβαιοτέραν ἢ δικαιοτέραν) than this, which appointed the most capable men (δυνατωτάτους) to have charge of its affairs but gave the people authority (κύριον) over these men? (Areopag. 27)

Overseeing the whole politeia is the Council of the Areopagus, an aristocratic body of former (selected) officials that is charged with ensuring the decency and good order (eutaxia, 39) of citizens. The individual excellence of its members, guaranteed by their noble birth and Athenian upbringing, leads them to deliver good order (eukosmia, 37): For our forefathers placed such strong emphasis upon sobriety (σωφροσύνην/sōphrosunē) that they put the supervision of decorum (εὐκοσμίας/eukosmia) in charge of the Council of the Areopagus—a body which was composed exclusively of men who were of noble birth (τοῖς καλῶς γεγονόσι/tois kalōs gegonosi) and had exemplified in their lives exceptional virtue (ἀρετήν/aretē) and sobriety (σωφροσύνην), and which, therefore, naturally excelled all the other councils of Hellas. (Areopag. 37)

Isocrates goes on to detail the processes through which the Areopagus exerted its influence, and the differences between its practices and the methods used to  Cloche´ 1963: 84– 85; Flaig 2011; Mathieu 1925: 145 – 146.

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control citizen behaviour in the current constitution. The Areopagites exerted influence through their own good example, and through maintaining such close oversight over citizens that they were able to predict and ward off crime in advance (47). Unlike the present democracy, they exerted control through their continuing oversight and without the need for written laws (39 – 42, Paneg. 78). The past becomes a kind of counterfactual alternative to the present, of the kind that an opponent of democracy might propose, as Isocrates admits in acknowledging that he might be seen to hate democracy (misodēmos, 57) and to be making suggestions for revolutionary change (59). The contrast between ideal and actual Athenian democracy resembles the distinctions between types of democracy set out by Aristotle in the Politics, with the ideal of the patrios politeia resembling the first form (Arist. Pol. 4.4. 1291b30 – 1292a17). The Aristotelian Ath. Pol. also describes the power of the Areopagus council (Ath. Pol. 8), as well as the first stages of the dismantling of its powers in Cleisthenes’ reforms. But Isocrates, like Xenophon, is not concerned with the precise depiction of a historical stage in the evolution of the Athenian politeia (as the Aristotelian text, for all its difficulties, is) but with the creation of an imaginary alternative to the deprecated present, that is then endowed with the cultural authority of the past, and becomes an instance of Mannheim’s “whole past”.⁵⁷ The cultural conditions and the personal qualities of the past Athenians, and their activities and their consequences, are Isocrates’ real interest. He imagines an austere version of the public festivals, stripped of excess by the sober restraint of the elite and the reluctance of those outside the city to travel in to watch the public displays (48). Citizens avoid the agora, creating through their practice the division between citizen and commercial life that both Plato and Xenophon mandated in their own writings: And so strictly did they avoid the market-place that, even when they were at times compelled to pass through it, they were seen to do this with great modesty (αἰδοῦς/aidōs) and sobriety (σωφροσύνης/sōphrosunē) of manner. (Areopag. 48)

Isocrates, like John Major in 1993, invokes nostalgia for an imagined past to gather support for his own programme for future action and to insist on the continuity of past and imagined future. His imaginary past Athens, however, is not a static model but itself changes through his career, as the political situation to which he was responding changed. The authentic, good democratic Athens moves back in time from a period historical past, the generation before Mara Cf. Bringmann 1965: 83 – 88 on Isocrates and the patrios politeia.

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thon, to the mythical past, in which Theseus the Athenian culture hero becomes the main political actor. From presenting a utopia headed by a collective citizen group, the Areopagus, he moves to emphasise the role of the founder king. In part this is a response to the changing political conditions under which Isocrates was writing, and particularly to the rise of powerful rulers such as Philip of Macedon.⁵⁸ Isocrates also uses the politeia form to criticise other writers’ idealist use of the genre. His Busiris is thought to contain an implicit criticism of Plato’s Republic, associating the politeia of Kallipolis with features of a politeia attributed to Busiris, founder and king of Egypt.⁵⁹ Busiris was notorious in Athenian myth as the Ethiopian king who sacrificed visitors, contrary to Greek custom; the myth is an unusual and extreme example of Greek ethnocentrism, although it had already been contested by Herodotus.⁶⁰ Isocrates removes Plato’s imaginary Kallipolis from its location in Socrates’ thought as a timeless ideal, and places it in a burlesque version of the mythical past, spatially reconfigured outside the Greek world to emphasise its distance from the Athenian centre. Busiris’ politeia is both temporally and spatially distinct from the world of the Greek polis, albeit connected to the heroic age. There are many problems in interpreting this “parodic and paradoxical” (Vasunia) response to Plato, and in Isocrates’ subversive use of positive and negative Greek stereotypes about Egypt within it.⁶¹ The Busiris is presented as a response to and correction of a rhetorical defence of the character by Polycrates, an Athenian sophist of the early fourth century, but in citing Polycrates’ Accusation of Socrates (4) Isocrates involves Plato’s work.⁶² Isocrates places a Platonic politeia into the distant Egyptian past; in

 Panathenaicus 138 – 148; see Atack 2014: 350 – 353.  On Egypt as a political and philosophical ideal, see Froidefond 1971: 231– 235, and for a postcolonialist deconstruction of the “Egyptian mirage”, see Vasunia 2001. The Busiris has rarely been treated as a political work; for Mathieu it is ‘purement littéraire’ (Mathieu 1925: 146).  Busiris and Heracles were familiar from vase paintings and comedy: see LIMC sv Bousiris, III.1 147– 152, III.2, Skinner 2012: 104– 106.  Phiroze Vasunia emphasises these challenges, against readings that take Isocrates’ parodic mythography at face value, as Martin Bernal did (Bernal 1987: 103 – 106; Vasunia 2001: 193 – 199).  The limited and late evidence for Polycrates’ works, and the possible structure of his lost work on Socrates, are surveyed in Livingstone 2001: 29 – 40. The Busiris’ composition date is uncertain, but following Eucken, against Mathieu, I believe that it cannot predate the circulation of Plato’s complete Republic: Eucken 1983: 173 – 183; Livingstone 2001: 40 – 47; Mathieu and Brémond 1928 – 62: 1.184– 185.

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doing so, he undermines Plato’s creation by presenting it as the product of a long-ago Egypt.⁶³ He begins by hinting at the life of the golden age, one of plentiful food, although here delivered through agriculture. Busiris’ politeia has been positioned outside the normal boundaries of the passage of time and the limitations of human endeavour. Living with the resources of the Nile gives the Egyptians control over climate and agriculture: For in addition to the advantages I have mentioned, the Nile has bestowed upon the Egyptians a godlike (ἰσόθεον/isotheon) power in respect to the cultivation of the land; for while Zeus is the dispenser of rains and droughts to the rest of mankind, each Egyptian has made himself master (κύριος/kurios) of both of these on his own account. (Busiris 13, translation Van Hook)

While the Egyptians must practise agriculture, unlike humans living in typical golden age accounts, they do so like gods, controlling the artificial climate to ensure the success of their efforts, and thus removing the possibility of failure that normally accompanies human endeavour. The specific setting of Egypt ensures this possibility; the advantages that Busiris has commandeered are due to the spatial location of the society not to its political organisation. It is in these details that Busiris’ skill as a lawgiver becomes apparent, as Isocrates describes the organisational details of the Egyptian politeia. Like Kallipolis, it is marked by fixed class divisions (15), and the requirement that workers stick to their own technē (16 – 18), so that each worker achieves a high standard in their specialist task. The lower quality produced by changing roles, or through the rotation of offices, is a charge Isocrates also makes elsewhere; the permanence of kingship and appointments made under it makes for better rule than the changing magistrates of a democracy (Nicocles 17– 18). Just as Xenophon praised Lycurgus’ constitution for its resistance to change, Isocrates observes that those features which make the Egyptian constitution resistant to change have made it popular with philosophers and subject to imitation, notably by the Spartans. …also with respect to the system (σύνταξιν ) which enables them to preserve royalty and their political institutions in general, they have been so successful that philosophers who undertake to discuss such topics and have won the greatest reputation (μάλιστ᾽ εὐδοκιμοῦντας/malist’ eudokimountas) prefer (προαιρεῖσθαι/prohaireisthai) above all others the Egyptian form of government, and that the Lacedaemonians, on the other hand, govern

 Allan Bloom read the Busiris as “evidently” praising Socratic politics and defending his religion, rather than criticising them (Bloom 1955: 202).

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their own city in admirable fashion because they imitate (μιμουμένους/mimoumenous) certain of the Egyptian customs. (Busiris 17)

The “philosophers” have long been identified with Plato and Athenian Laconophiles in the tradition of the Spartan mirage (cf. Herodotus 2.80, 6.60); the description of the Egyptian paideia, which works through the study of subjects included in the Republic’s programme for the philosophical education of guardians (22– 23), with phronēsis as its goal (21), strengthens the link.⁶⁴ Egyptian ideas were not just transmitted through Sparta’s imitation of its constitution, Isocrates goes on to suggest, but through their influence on Pythagoras (27– 28). This may be the charge against Plato of plagiarism of Pythagorean texts that became well established in antiquity (Diogenes Laertius LP 8.54). Isocrates manipulates myth to suggest that ideal politeiai that offer the possibility of political change, such as Plato’s Kallipolis, draw on the past rather than offering innovation, and aim to re-instantiate a golden age rather than to ameliorate the arrangements of the contemporary polis. While Plato too praises the stability and antiquity of Egypt, in contrast to the changeability of Greek music and laws (Laws 2.656d1– 657b8, 7.799a1– b8), he does not attribute this, or Egypt’s political arrangements and culture, to a single lawgiver or founder, but to collective decision-making.⁶⁵ Isocrates, on the other hand, insists on Busiris’ sole authorship of the Egyptian constitution; this is the basis on which Busiris should be defended, rather than for any improbable deeds (31– 32). He contests the chronology of previous accounts that attempt to link different myths (8, 37), deploying first the methodology of chronography and then a criticism of poets’ slanders of the gods, a further connection to Plato’s Republic with its criticisms of poetic accounts of the gods. In using the politeia as the vehicle for praise and in using it to express ambivalence, Isocrates follows Xenophon’s writing on Sparta, praising mythical lawgivers and asserting the importance of kings in the maintenance of established culture and customs. In hinting that Plato’s radical proposals were an imitation of Egyptian practice he questions the possibility of innovation in utopian projects and insists on the priority of ancient constitutions as the model for political reform.

 Wilamowitz suggested that Pythagoreans rather than Plato are Isocrates’ target: Eucken 1983: 179; Livingstone 2001: 137– 138; Wilamowitz-Moellendorff 1919: II.116, n.113.  Brisson 1987; Froidefond 1971: 267– 342.

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4 Conclusion: before utopia Both Xenophon and Isocrates use the politeia genre to criticise current political and cultural arrangements. They set imagined, de-historicised and timeless ideal past versions of politeiai against degenerate present versions, using similar language of political good order and personal self-restraint to do so. The mythical past functions as a location for setting political ideals in play in a similar way to the spatially distinct utopias of later writers, whether Hellenistic ideal cities or Renaissance literary utopias. Neither Xenophon nor Isocrates has any programme for restoring the past that they praise; while scholars have debated the seriousness of his proposals as a plan for change, Plato does outline a process by which a city could be transformed into a Kallipolis. Instead, Xenophon’s and Isocrates’ nostalgia for an imagined political past expresses a conservative hostility to political change, and a longing for personal virtue. In opposing the possibility for change, Xenophon and Isocrates prefigure the concerns and the methods of later forms of conservatism. In placing their ideal societies in an unachievable past, they offer a critique of utopianism while using its devices.

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Julia Annas

Plato’s ideal society and Utopia 1 A familiar story Plato is best known for his dialogue that we call Republic. The main thing that readers of the work (apart from specialists) remember is the idea of philosopher rulers. In the dialogue Socrates, the main speaker, describes a society to be based on the principle that rulers should be people with knowledge, and, given the conditions which it turns out are required for someone to have knowledge, only a few will have it and so be fit to rule, and by that point they will be philosophers. The ideal society will be run by philosopher rulers or “guardians”, who rule because they have knowledge of what is best for everyone in the society; they themselves will be unselfish servants of the best interests of the society. A familiar story about Plato’s political thinking goes as follows: Plato’s ideal society and its philosopher rulers come from a period when Plato was very optimistic about human nature and its capacity to acquire knowledge and to apply it impartially and incorruptibly. Later, however, he grew disillusioned about humans’ ability to rule uncorrupted by power, and in his later political work, the Laws, he replaces the rule of knowledgeable rulers by the rule of law. Plato’s political thinking thus follows an arc from optimism to pessimism about human nature. This account of Plato’s progress (or regress) may come with a dubious biographical story about Plato’s becoming disillusioned by a failed intervention in politics in Sicily.¹ Even if we believe that story, however, it is detachable from the claim that he moved in a disillusioned direction. Sometimes this account is summed up in the claim that Plato’s thinking became “less utopian”. This familiar story is, I claim, wrong in every major point. Although we do have good reason to think that the Laws is later than the Republic, it is mistaken to think of the Republic as the product of optimism about human nature, and the Laws as the product of later disillusioned pessimism. Further, the familiar story is misleading when it is presented as a lessening of interest in utopia. Plato is doing two things in the Republic, which have very different upshots for his later reflections. He is giving an account of the ideally just society and individual, and he is also giving us the first philosophical utopia. These are distinct, and very different.  On the unlikelihood that the so-called ‘Seventh Letter’ gives us usable biographical information, see Irwin 2009 and Burnyeat and Frede 2015. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110733129-006

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“But surely they are the same thing?” I shall be arguing that they are not, and that recognizing that they are not enables us to make better sense of what Plato is doing in his ongoing engagement with justice in society and in the individual.

2 The ideal state: first attempt Plato has, throughout all his work, a constant and passionate interest in the ideal form of society. The ideal society is one in which the citizens live happy lives. Further, they do so not by making their main aim money, or a pleasant life, or power, as is the case with most people in our societies. They learn to live happily by being educated to be good people, people with the virtues of courage, self-control, wisdom and justice. They are people, that is, who think it more important to be honest than to win competitions or make money; people who value health rather than indulgence, standing up for what is good rather than going along with the powerful. Plato is entirely serious about this. We should remember that happy lives here are not lives of pleasant feeling but flourishing lives, as the Greek word eudaimonia is often translated. Still, we should not underestimate the shock value of Plato’s claim, not just to us but also to his audience. We will live happy, flourishing lives, the claim goes, by (and only by) being good, co-operative people, not by being competitive and ruthless, always asking what the payoff will be for me. This claim did not sound immediately plausible to Plato’s contemporaries any more than it may do to us. But Plato believes unwaveringly that it is true, and much of his work is devoted to persuading us of it, from many directions. The Republic is only the most familiar work that does this. The Republic is about “how we should live,” as Socrates says in book 1. Socrates’ friends Glaucon and Adeimantus pose as starkly as possible the challenge to an individual who thinks it worthwhile to be just. In fact, they say, this person would suffer every kind of injustice and misrepresentation, while the unjust person would flourish. Socrates undertakes the quixotic-seeming task of showing that actually the just person, even suffering the worst that can happen to him or her in the actual world, is still happier than the unjust person who has every worldly advantage. But the case for this can be made out only by explaining to us the nature of justice, and to do this we need to consider justice not only in the individual but in the state. We quickly move to a strong claim. Justice, the main virtue of the good person, is actually the very same thing in the state as it is in the individual person (“in the soul”, as he puts it). We look at the state to see justice in “larger letters”, but we find exactly the same thing in both cases. Jus-

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tice is a relation, a relation between the parts of a unified whole. In both the state and the individual, it is the relation that holds when the rational part educates the other parts to respond to good reasons, so that both state and individual become unified, rational wholes. One result of this, which is emphasized at the end of the main argument, is that when as an individual, I seek to become just, I should try to conform myself, as an individual, to the structure of the ideal state.² It would be completely missing the point for me to try to become like the people in the ideal state, such as the philosopher rulers.³ The Republic is not, then, only, or even mainly, about the ideal state. It is centrally about justice, justice in the individual soul and justice illustrated on a larger scale in the state. (In the ancient world its title is sometimes taken to be On Justice). Famously, the requirements of justice in the state are unsettling. Corresponding to the role of reason in the person, the state is to be ruled by a class of ‘guardians’ who rationally grasp what is best for the state as a whole. There is also a class of ‘auxiliaries’ or military, who put the guardians’ commands into action, and then the rest, envisaged as a population of farmers, with some craftsmen. These three classes are kept strictly distinct as functioning parts of the state. The farming part of the population have all the money, but no political power; the rule of the guardians is not accountable to the other citizens. Kallipolis, as this ideal state is often called, is completely, uncompromisingly and unapologetically different from any society that we (and Plato’s audience) have been aware of. We are not being asked to think of a society that we could get to by altering some of our institutions. Kallipolis is radically different from any of our societies. Secondly, Plato underlines this by putting stress on the point that we will never create an ideal society by trying to improve our institutions. They are fundamentally misguided; we need a radical break, a clean sweep. He uses the metaphor of an artist who needs a clean surface on which to draw something new. Plato is being deliberately challenging here, as challenging as he can be. And this raises a question, because he also thinks that the ideal society of Kallipolis is not merely an idle dream, but something which could – in ideal condi-

 The famous passage at Republic 592a-b.  This is one consequence of the fact that the Republic answers the question of how I, an individual, should live. If I ask how I, as an individual, benefit from being a good person, the following answer is manifestly irrelevant: “Well, if the ideal state came into being you would be a philosopher ruler”. We can learn some things from considering the sketchily presented lives of the citizens of Kallipolis, but they are not part of the main argument about justice in the individual.

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tions, of course – come about. But how are we to take the first steps towards bringing about the ideal society? How are we even to start getting from here to there? In keeping with the idea of the clean slate, Plato sometimes suggests that we might be able to make a clean sweep of institutions. In one notorious passage he suggests sending away from a city anyone over the age of 10, so that a whole generation could grow up and be educated under radically new institutions. But this cannot work, given his own insistence on the radical nature of the break needed. For the people to do the sending away and educating will still be people who have been themselves brought up under the old, disastrously wrong institutions, and are therefore still tainted with all the defects that motivated sending away the other adults.⁴ The more radical the difference between the ideal state and us, and the more the stress on the need for a clean sweep and the futility of merely changing existing institutions, the more hopeless it looks to find any way from here to there. Kallipolis, it seems, can be brought about only by people who have already been brought up in Kallipolis, so the process can never get started. We have no way to break into the circle. It is sometimes suggested that this problem is not damaging for Plato, since he thinks that once in a great while someone might come along who had escaped the corruptions of existing societies. Such a person would be liberated from the faulty thought-patterns of existing societies and so could organize and shepherd through a radical change of the kind needed to produce an utterly different society like Kallipolis. The circle could thus be broken into. (Of course this would require him to use force on uncomprehending and so unappreciative people whose society was being reformed, but Plato is unbothered by this.) However, this move fails because of a fact about Kallipolis which has not been mentioned so far. One aspect of the familiar story about Plato’s political thought which I mentioned is the idea that when writing the Republic Plato believed in the rule of reason exercised through knowledgeable rulers with absolute power, whereas he later became disillusioned about the prospect of any human being exercising absolute power without corrruption, So he introduced the idea, in the Laws, of all citizens being subject to the absolute authority of the laws. So the story goes. One reason that this cannot be right is that, although it is not much remarked upon, laws play a large role in the Republic.

 540d1– 541b1. The leaders of the project are called ‘philosophers’ at 540d4, but this simply evades the problem of people growing up in actual societies being able to become philosophers, without the extensive training required in Kallipolis.

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Kallipolis has laws just as any Greek city does; Greeks couldn’t imagine a city running without laws any more than we can. So Socrates and his partners, in building up the sketch of Kallipolis, frequently call themselves “lawgivers” for the city. This is a metaphor, but it’s taken very seriously: often Socrates moves directly from something’s being a good for the city to its being an appropriate object for legislation.⁵ Moreover, law pervades the central analogy between person and city. The decline of the progessively worse states is presented as a decline in citizens’ willingness to obey their laws. And the role of reason in organizing the lives of good people is often expressed in terms of law.⁶ The rulers’ education in particular is established by important laws, and the rulers are educated both to enforce laws and to be scrupulously law-abiding themselves; even their games are to train them to follow laws willingly. But given this tight relation between laws and the rulers’ education, we can see that nobody who hasn’t been educated under the laws of Kallipolis can have the knowledge that would be needed to establish Kallipolis. We can’t break into the circle after all. Does this matter? The Republic is obviously not meant as a blueprint for people to go out and apply in the actual world. Plato’s stress on the radical break between any actual state and his ideal state means that anyone who did try to go out and educate children under 10 would be grievously mistaken about their own qualifications for doing so.And Plato is clear that this applies to himself too; the Republic emphatically does not contain the kind of knowledge that would be needed to be a philosopher ruler. (For one thing, it is full of the kind of metaphors, images and appeals to the imagination which the philosopher rulers’ higher education will stringently avoid.) The role of the ideal state in the Republic is officially just what Plato says it is at the end of the main argument: when I strive to improve, I should aim to conform the relation of the parts of my soul to that of the relation of parts of the ideal state, and for this it is utterly irrelevant whether or not the state exists in our world. Still, Plato does insist that Kallipolis is not beyond human nature: it is not merely an idle dream. So the feasibility of embodying Kallipolis in the actual world matters to Plato.

 For example, the importance of unity in the ideal society is represented as its being the highest good that a lawgiver can aim at in crafting laws (462a2– 7). This point about law in the Republic is discussed at greater length, with references, in Annas: 2012 and in Annas: 2017.  The passage at 425 – 427 has been inflated and often misinterpreted. The claim there is not that laws are unimportant in a city of good people, but only that good people, brought up among good basic laws, will work out small details of legislation for themselves without its having to be laid down for them. These minor regulations can be relied on to be in the spirit of the major laws.

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3 Utopia unfinished Here we run up against a striking feature of the Republic. There are passages in which Socrates describes the way of life of the rulers. These will be so devoted to the common good that they will have no families of their own. Sex will be regulated by officials who will, by means of a rigged lottery, bring together at festivals the people they want to “breed” together. The resulting children will be brought up communally. There will be no private property or private houses, and no privacy. Women will be trained to be guardians and have the same way of life as the men, including military training. This idea of abolishing the family and private property was, unsurprisingly, notorious from the first. But here the point at issue is, what is the point of these passages? They are not a part of the main argument of the book, which gives the reader reasons to be just in the actual world as it is. And as I try to make myself just I should aim to conform the structure of my soul to that of the ideal state, not to that of any of the people in it. It would be a mistake to think of myself as being, or trying to be like, one of the rulers. That could happen only in the ideal state, and the ideal state is not a part of the argument that I have reason to be just in the world as it is. As Plato emphasises, it’s irrelevant for the main argument whether the ideal state actually exists or not. And this is fortunate, since, as we have seen, he has a systematic problem about bringing the ideal state into existence. Also, we do not need the famous passages about the rulers’ communal way of life for the main argument of the Republic. Indeed, these passages lay the main argument open to the common misinterpretation that the answer to the question, why I should be just, is to be found in the ideal state where I would (I hope!) be a philosopher ruler. But this answer is utterly irrelevant to Plato’s claim that he will justify my being just even in the worst possible circumstances of the actual world. So what are these passages doing? I suggest that they are best understood as the first philosophical utopia. Utopia has been defined in different ways, but the understanding of it that I will make use of is: an account of a fantastic and imaginatively presented society which, though not necessarily perfect or ideal, is designed to make us reflect back adversely on the ways in which our society differs from it. A good example of utopia in this sense is Thomas More’s Utopia. Here we have a society where communal living and common possession of goods is presented in a way designed to make the reader reflect on the problems raised by private property and selfishness in contemporary sixteenth-century England. More’s Utopia is far from an ideal society. Not only are the Utopians not Christi-

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an, they are refined hedonists.⁷ They are also tolerant of all religions, something strongly opposed by More himself, who unhesitatingly tortured Protestants. More’s Utopia is designed to appeal to the imagination in ways that will make the reader reflect critically on his or her own society.⁸ Plato’s is, I suggest, the first philosophical utopia. It has non-philosophical predecessors in Hesiod’s account of the Golden Age, and some of Aristophanes’ fantasies, but it is the first which comes from serious political thought about society (even though it is, as stressed, not part of the main argument of the Republic).⁹ The account of the lives of the rulers in the ideal state of Kallipolis is familiar because it is famously provocative (as it is meant to be). It is a picture of communal life which appeals to our imagination. It encourages us to disapprove of our individualistic, competitive way of life, each person “dragging into his own house” everything he can, thinking of his own pleasures and pains as being different from those of others.¹⁰ It is meant to make Greeks feel ashamed of the way they wage war against other Greeks, and, famously, it is meant to make men reflect on their attitudes to, and assumptions about, women. This utopian picture in the Republic is extended and made more vivid in “the Atlantis story”, a narrative in the opening frame dialogue of the Timaeus and continued in the unfinished dialogue Critias. As the Timaeus opens, Socrates has been telling friends about the rulers’ lives in the Republic, stressing the most notorious aspects, such as the new roles for women, the community of children, the rigging of the apparently random sexual encounters and, prominently, the way that citizens of Kallipolis make war. (Notably, there is no mention of the point that the rulers of what is called the best form of state are to be philosophers.) Socrates now says that these people have been depicted in a static picture, and he wants to see them in motion. In other words, he wants a story about them.

 Unlike the inhabitants of Francis Bacon’s The New Atlantis (who miraculously receive Christian scriptures before the date they were actually written).  The work is famously elusive in this respect; we are surely meant to think that the Utopians’ communal lifestyle would obviate the contemporary problems described in book 1, but More clearly does not want to make the Utopians’ tolerance and hedonism make us reflect adversely on contemporary religious intolerance.  Plato himself refers to the “Golden Age” of Kronos in the Statesman and the Laws. The Laws passage takes the Golden Age to be one where humans were ruled by reason externally, by daimones. But it is not a perfect world, since the inhabitants fail to take advantage of its resources to devote themselves to philosophical thinking.  464c-d.

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At this point one of the friends, Critias, says that, by an extraordinary chance, Socrates’ discussion of the best state reminded him of a story that his grandfather told him long ago. (We now get a long account of the transmission of the story, which involves Egyptian priests who preserved the records of societies which vanished in great natural disasters.) Thus Athenians of Plato’s day, we are told, need to be told about the wonderful exploits of their own ancestors, who turn out to be exactly like the people described in what I have called the utopian part of the Republic. Kallipolis existed! It was a real historical society, ancient Athens! What luck that this story was fortuitously preserved! This introduction signals to the reader that what follows is fiction, and indeed the Atlantis story is recognized by Plato’s readers as fiction (though not always, as we’ll see). Then we get the story. Ancient Athens’ finest deed, we are now told, was to stand alone against mighty Atlantis, a powerful island society in the Atlantic, which invaded the Mediterranean and theatened to bring Greek cities under its control. Plato’s audience thinks at once of the Athens of the Persian wars, which defeated a far larger Persian invading force at the battle of Marathon. But as the story proceeds we find another layer. Ancient virtuous Athens, Kallipolis in action, turns out to have been a land power, described in ways making her like the Sparta of Plato’s day. And as Atlantis is described, it turns out to be a sea power, which invades other peoples and acquires an empire. Now the audience remembers the Athens of Plato’s own youth, a powerful and imperalist sea power. The defeat of Atlantis by ancient Athens now turns out to suggest the Peloponnesian war, where Athens’ imperialist ambitions led to her utter defeat by Sparta. After the defeat of Atlantis, we are told, both Atlantis and Athens were destroyed in a great natural cataclysm of earthquakes and floods. The Atlantis story functions on more than one level. It is significant that not only the defeated vicious Atlanteans, but the victorious virtuous ancient Athenians, are utterly destroyed, so that no history remains of the great exploit (and it is only an accident that the story survives in Egypt and eventually surfaces again – otherwise there could be no story). This brings out an interesting implication of Plato’s defence of justice for its own sake in the Republic. The ancient Athenians fight against Atlantis because it is the just thing to do. They do not oppose Atlantis, against overwhelming odds, in hope of material reward, or even lasting fame. Justice is its own reward; the message of the Republic is that it is always better to be just than to be unjust, even when justice lands you in the worst situation that the world can inflict on you. There is nothing for the ancient Athenians to regret about the disappearance of knowledge of their great victory. In Greek culture heroes often fight to get lasting fame, but for Plato this is a serious mistake. On this level the story fits well with the cos-

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mology of the Timaeus which it introduces, in which the cosmos as a whole is ordered for the best, and also for the best of each part – as a part of the whole. The Atlantis story makes the kind of point that utopias are intended to make, namely to get the audience to rethink their attitude to their own society. Plato’s audience are to be encouraged to criticize their own society, historical Athens, for greed and competitiveness by contrast with virtuous ancient Athens, Kallipolis in action. Plato’s Athenian audience are encouraged to be ashamed, not proud, of Athens’ history as an imperialist sea power. Plato is particularly clever here. First he suggests to his audience that the defeat of invading Atlantis by ancient Athens will be a forerunner of the battle of Marathon, where historic Athens defeated the invading Persians. But as ancient Athens and Atlantis are described, it becomes clear that it is historic Athens which is the counterpart of the Atlantean invaders, and historic Sparta which is the counterpart of virtuous ancient Athens. As often, Plato is being as challenging and offensive to his audience as he can be. The Atlantis story carries out one prominent function of utopia – to get us to rethink our attitudes to our own society. Athenians in particular are urged to rethink patriotism which is based on past heroism and ignores the ugly side of Athenian imperialist history.¹¹ But the Atlantis story is unfinished – dramatically so, since it ends with an incomplete sentence. Although we know the main “plot” of the story, it breaks off before the narrative gets going. We don’t know why Plato never completed the Atlantis story, any more than people in antiquity did, and we can only speculate. But one reason strongly suggests itself (of course it does not exclude others). Plato gives us a long description of Atlantis, which, though west of the Mediterranean, has features like those of societies to the east. (We can see it as an early example of “Orientalism”.) It is exotic and fantastically rich. Everything is on a huge scale and lavish. The temple of Poseidon, for example, is three times the size of the Parthenon, covered in gold and silver, filled with and surrounded by solid gold statues. The fertile country supports herds of elephants, and has springs of hot water as well as

 The dramatic date of the dialogue seems to be before the end of the Peloponnesian war. One of the people present is Hermocrates, the Syracusan leader most responsible for the utter defeat of the imperialist Athenian expedition to Sicily. Moreover, Critias, in spite of dating difficulties, is surely meant to remind us of the reign of the Thirty Tyrants after Athens’ final defeat. One of these was the Critias who was Plato’s uncle. For Plato’s actual audience this would all be in the past, but historians have plausibly suggested that Plato has in mind the resurgence of Athenian sea power and imperialist ambitions in the 4th century. For Plato the Athenians of his own day have failed to learn their lesson from defeat.

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cold. Plato fills out the exotic picture for us with realistic detail about ships, walls and temples. The point of this for Plato is obvious: it is the wealth of Atlantis that makes it hard for them to sustain their earlier virtue and leads them to develop an attachment to money and power. We are to see the wealth, power and ambition of Atlantis as a bad thing, and to see Atlantis as a dystopia to contrast with the utopia of virtuous ancient Athens, the actual embodiment of Kallipolis. But here Plato comes up against something that spoils his message: vicious Atlantis is far more interesting and appealing to us than is virtuous ancient Athens. This becomes clear with the reception history of the Atlantis story. From the early modern period there was an intense European interest in discovering Atlantis. This took complicated forms, since explorers and scholars had to integrate the Atlantis story with biblical history and then with information about the Americas. What’s notable is that Atlantis comes to be seen as a wonderful lost civilization, not as a dystopia which deserved to be destroyed. Indeed scholars in 17th century Spain and Italy appealed to it as the forerunner of their own nation’s cultures. So did the great 17th century Swedish scholar Olof Rudbeck, who produced a Nordic origin for European civilization in finding the ruins of Atlantis at Gamla Uppsala, prehistoric burial mounds outside his university city of Uppsala. Not till the early nineteenth century did it become accepted that the Atlantis story is a fiction, and until then its main use was to provide an origin story for a number of groups. In the nineteenth century a new tradition got started: Atlantis as the focus of fantasy and science fiction. One of the first was Jules Verne’s Ten Thousand Leagues under the Sea, where undersea explorers find the ruins of Atlantis. Since then both traditions, of Atlantis as a fantasy place and Atlantis as a real lost city, have flourished. Improvements in undersea archaeology have made no impact on true believers in the reality of Atlantis, which has been “discovered” in the Atlantic, at Troy, in Ireland, in Brazil, in the Greek island of Thera, and many other places. It is still going strong. The popular author Gavin Menzies, whose two previous books claimed that the Chinese discovered America, and started the Italian Renaissance, now has a book which “proves” that Atlantis was the empire of the Minoan Greeks (not a new theory, incidentally). Meanwhile the science fiction writer Harry Turtledove has written a history of Atlantis which is an alternative history of the eastern United States, thus continuing the tradition of claiming Atlantis as our founding country. Both these still flourishing traditions respond to the Atlantis story in what is for Plato the exactly wrong way. Instead of being inspired by ancient Athens, the utopia, Kallipolis in action, we get fascinated by Atlantis. Plato discovered, whether consciously or not, that created fictions are not as easily diverted to eth-

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ical ends as he had hoped. Plato’s own myths successfully reconfigure the materials of traditional myths to make ethical claims, but fiction is resistant to this. It fixes our attention on particulars – especially exotic, interestingly different particulars like a city with massive golden temples – so that we resist the intended redirection to the ethical lesson. However aware he was of this point, Plato dropped his narrative of utopia before finishing it. And he didn’t again write about utopia, the fictional place that is “no place” (outopia) but which we imagine as a “good place” (eutopia) in order to focus on the faults of our own society. Trying to embarrass your audience by getting them to identify with Atlantis doesn’t work if Atlantis turns out to be fascinating, something we want to think further about and develop in different ways. Utopia, then, does not suit what Plato wants to do, and he drops it, in the middle of a sentence. When he returns to the issue of the ideal society of good, happy citizens in his later work Laws, he uses a different approach.

4 The ideal society: second attempt As I mentioned, it is often thought that in the Laws Plato pictures a society organized by laws and inhabited by lawabiding citizens because he has given up on the idea of incorruptible rulers. It’s true that in the work we do find the claim that humans need laws because nobody has the requisite knowledge to rule, and if he did have it, he would not be able to remain above corruption.¹² But this is not the only thing going on. In the Laws Plato improves on the approach of the Republic in three ways. Firstly, and most importantly, he now has a way to solve the Republic’s problem, which was that the changes needed to produce a good society are so radical that we need an utterly clean break; but the only people who can produce this without disastrous mistake would have to be themselves the products of the good society. So we have no way from here to there. What makes this an unavoid-

 874e – 875d: “It is necessary that humans should establish laws and live in accordance with them; otherwise they do not differ at all from the most savage wild animals…No human is born with a nature able to recognize what benefits humans in forming society and, having recognized this, to be able and willing always to do what is best. Firstly it is difficult to recognize that the true political skill must care for what is common and not what is individual …Secondly, suppose that someone did adequately grasp that this is the case….and then got absolute rule over a city, with no-one to call him to account – he would never be able to abide by this resolve…..his human nature will always urge him to greed and self-interested actions, since it will irrationally flee pain and pursue pleasure, making these prior to what is more just and better.”

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able problem, we saw, was that products of the good society have been educated according to the laws of the good society, and so can’t be replaced by anyone not so brought up, however good a person they may be their own society. In the Laws Plato has his characters, a Cretan, a Spartan and an Athenian, sketch a code of laws for a proposed new city in Crete, Magnesia. This code is an ideal one; it is to be the code of laws for a city in which the citizens are to flourish and live happily, and in which they do so by aiming always to be good, cooperative people, rather than aiming to be rich or powerful. (This is, after all, the only kind of society that Plato thinks is worth bringing about.) The law code is not a blueprint to be put directly into action. However, Plato has managed to break into the circle. The lawcode is to be established, and then the city is to be started by inviting immigrants to be citizens in Magnesia under these laws. These are to be ordinary people educated in a variety of societies. It was common in the ancient Greek world for new cities to be set up, often with a population emigrating from many other cities, so Plato is here using a quite ordinary and familiar model, one known to work in the real world.¹³ What is different in Plato is the assumption that we can set up ideally good laws, which will lead to a society of virtuous, and so happy people, and that ordinary people can be brought in and educated to live under these laws. Eventually, as future generations are brought up under them, citizens will, he thinks, find living under these laws easy and effortless, since they will appreciate the benefits of living in a good society structured by such laws. In this they are helped by one of Plato’s inventions. Although citizens are to be brought up to be strictly law-abiding, they are also to understand their laws. They are to be brought up under a system of education that everyone must participate in. This will enable them to appreciate the benefits of a society whose overarching aim is virtue, and to remain untempted by money, glamour and power. Further, the laws are to have “preludes” or preambles which explain the point of the law, This enables the person to whom the law might appear as an imposition to appreciate that there is good reason for the law: it structures a practice which encourages virtue – courage, for example, or fairness – rather than encouraging selfishness or competitiveness. The Laws describes in detail the education that the citizens are to receive. In many ways it resembles the education of the guardians in the Republic – it is to be an education of character rather than just a conveying of skills. It differs in that in the Laws all citizens are to be educated in this way – education of char-

 Although most new cities were sent out from a single parent city, some were founded with mixed populations from the start; Thurioi, in southern Italy, was a well-known example.

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acter is to unite all the citizens who share the laws of their city. Everyone will have the same obedient and appreciative attitude towards the laws, rather than some citizens obeying them unquestioningly while only the rulers understand them and their role in making the city one where all the citizens flourish. However much or little Plato consciously had this in mind, he has solved his Republic problem: how we to get from here to there. The approach is now to use a familiar and successful model, the setting up of a new city with a mixture of new citizens, but with an unusual law-code. The cities Plato is familiar with have laws which are produced by compromises between various political groups, and their aim is greater wealth, or imperialist power. Plato suggests that we could instead have what he calls the only real laws.¹⁴ These are laws which structure a society in which the overall aim is for the citizens to be good, virtuous people and thus to live happily. As with the Republic, he is not giving us an example of this ideal law-making, but showing us the kind of thing that needs to be done for us to produce an ideally good society. And this time there is a way for us to begin, a method we can understand. But what of the status of the laws that Plato makes his characters in the Laws produce? They are to be laws under which people are to be educated to be virtuous – but why think that a conversation between three old men, which is what the Laws consists of, would produce laws that measure up to this? Here is Plato’s second move in rethinking the path to the ideal society. The way the laws of Magnesia are specified is not just by three old men chatting in a loosely connected and sometimes frankly rambling way, with one of them, the Athenian, doing most of the talking.The project of constructing laws for the ideal city is more structured than that. (This may not be obvious from the way the dialogue itself wanders around topics.) Magnesia is in Crete, a place where a city could plausibly be founded based on a social system like Sparta’s (since Cretan and Spartan laws were similar). That is, all (male) citizens are educated from a young age under a system focussing them on the community rather than their family. In Sparta and Crete this education aimed relentlessly at military dominance and victory, along with strict obedience to the laws. Plato approves of the compulsory public education, though he thinks it should be extended to women as well as men. He also approves of the idea that citizens should be obedient to their laws and regard them as in all essentials a finished matter. But he disapproves of the narrow focus of Spartan education on military victory and dominance. Unifying the citizens

 I am not here able to take up the issues of law as divine reason embodied in cities, or the resemblances between Plato’s view of law in this work and the Stoic idea of natural law.

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through a common education which stresses their common goals and common goods should, he thinks, be directed to a wider and better aim than militarism. It should be directed to the aim of the citizens becoming virtuous in general – people who are brave, but more importantly have the virtues of wisdom, selfcontrol and justice. The main speaker is an Athenian, and this is deliberate. He is there to propose laws many of which are more or less modified versions of Athenian law. (This is one of several reasons for holding that he is not just a mouthpiece for Plato himself.) This fact about the role of the Athenian was made clear in a scholarly work by Glenn Morrow some time ago.¹⁵ We are used to the idea that Plato strongly disapproved of his own city and its democratic institutions, so it may at first seem odd that his ideal lawcode should introduce so much from Athens. But, although he still has no use for democracy of the Athenian kind, he clearly recognizes two positive features of Athenian society. Athens is a highly participatory political society (as Sparta was not). An Athenian citizen could expect to serve in some public capacity at some point in his life, since so many offices were decided by lottery; at any time a fair percentage of Athenian citizens were employed in a public capacity for a year. The resulting turnover, together with a system of audits after a term of office, led to a culture of accountability. Magnesia would come near the top of an international list of countries free from corruption (and Sparta emphatically would not). Magnesia thus represents one of Plato’s many attempts to have the best of two worlds. Citizens of Plato’s ideal state will have the Spartan kind of attitude to their laws; they will regard them as established and not to be endlessly litigated or added to. Moreover they will all share a common education which will strengthen their cultural ties to their fellow-citizens and set bounds to concern for their own families. But they will have the Athenian kind of attitude to participating in active citizenship, and expecting everyone to take their turn in helping to run public matters. They will also expect accountability, and hence freedom from corruption, in all their officials.¹⁶ Plato expects this combination to result in citizens who have a better conception of the common good than either Spartans or Athenians. The citizens of Magnesia will appreciate the importance of aiming to be virtuous – wise, just, self-controlled and courageous – in a way that takes precedence over any aim to be rich or powerful. This is, Plato thinks, because they are educated under laws which embody good values, rather than  Morrow: 1993.  The highest office is that of auditor, the officials who audit and check up on other officials. Plato transfers to them the honours given in his society to winners in sports and other prominent public figures.

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merely being the product of political compromises. Again, the Laws itself does not claim to present these laws, any more than the Republic exhibits the knowledge that it talks about.¹⁷ But it shows us how to go about getting from here, actual defective societies, to there, the ideal state where people live virtuously and flourish. Thirdly, Plato deliberately adopts a new method of arguing for his project. In the Republic the actual features of the ideal state are the product of top-down argument from principles, such as the principle that it is knowledge that entitles someone to rule. In the Laws Plato moves to what I call “changing from within”. He takes an existing society and way of life – in this case that of Crete, which he thinks is like Sparta – and tries to get people who participate in that way of life to enlarge their view of what is valuable in it and what its aim should be. So we find the Athenian talking to Cleinias, the Cretan, and being surprisingly deferential to him – that is, to the culture he represents, since the actual person Cleinias is portrayed as very limited intellectually. This deference comes out in two ways. Firstly, the Cretan on occasion protests that the Athenian is finding fault with Cretan laws and institutions. When this happens, this is exactly what the Athenian is doing, but he always avoids conflict by denying this and keeping Cleinias on board with the argument.¹⁸ The Athenian is faulting Cretan culture in order to improve it, by enlarging its aims. Further, not only does the Athenian do this, he persuades his hearers that that is what they are doing too. Cretan laws, he keeps insisting, really do aim at all of virtue, not just military courage.¹⁹ This is not in fact true – the whole problem with Cretan laws, which the Athenian hammers home, is that they have too narrow an aim, and produce only soldierly virtues. But Plato (and in this he is not unusual in the ancient world) sees no objection to falsehood in a good cause, where the result can’t be brought about some other way. And the Athenian’s friends go along with him, and allow him to present his ideal laws as the real content of their own laws – though a content that they find hard to discover! This isn’t a method that we find anywhere else in Plato, probably because this is the only dialogue where the speakers are explicitly ordinary people, the discussion is kept at a level where ordinary people can understand it, and

 At 811c-e the Laws itself appears to be recommended as what Saunders calls a “set text” for education; but this surely means that education must be based on the principles behind the legislation in the Laws, not that the text itself should be taught. See Meyer: 2011.  630d, 667a.  628e – 632d, 659c – 663d, 705d-e.

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very little appeal is made to philosophical argument.²⁰ In his last work on the ideal society Plato shows us where we need to start if we are to get anywhere towards an ideal society – the society where people are wise, just, self-controlled and brave, and hence live flourishing lives. We need to start with ordinary people who are ignorant of philosophy and probably suspicious of it, and persuade them in terms that they can accept that their society and culture should be altered for the better. To do this, we need to get them to accept change from inside their own cultures, and when those cultures are themselves very resistant to change, it’s important to take them seriously and try to enlarge people’s understanding of them from within, rather than expecting them to accept conclusions drawn from principles unfamiliar to them. If we do this we may, like the Athenian, broaden the minds even of people who are satisfied with their own culture, and get them to become better people by enlarging their view of the aim and hence nature of their society.

5 Conclusion I began by saying that our understanding of Plato’s political thought tends to be dominated by philosopher rulers and the idea that Plato started out optimistic about human nature and then got disillusioned. I hope I have gone some way towards suggesting a more complex picture of Plato’s thinking. At a very general level his political and social thinking never wavers: the ideal society is one where people lead flourishing lives, because they are virtuous and co-operative rather than greedy, violent and competitive. But he produces, as has been seen, two quite different accounts of this, and also utterly different methods for how we can, or cannot, get there. This is not disillusion; the Laws shows us a remarkably original and fresh approach to the ideal society. Further, Plato is also, I have suggested, the author of the first philosophical Utopia, the fantastic sketch of the society that gets us, the readers, to be critical of our own societies. We will probably disagree as to Plato’s degree of success in one or all of these three endeavours. But it is at any rate clear that Plato’s political thought offers us several original alternatives. It deserves to be studied and explored for more than the philosopher rulers who have dominated interest, and led to over-emphasis on the Republic, treated as a single political argument and in isolation from Plato’s later thinking.

 And when it is, as in Book 10, it is made very explicit that the Spartan and Cretan are not able to follow the philosophical part of the Athenian’s argument.

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References Annas, J. (2012), “Virtue and Law in the Republic,” in R. Patterson et al (eds.), Presocratics and Plato: Festschrift at Delphi in Honor of Charles Kahn. Las Vegas: Parmenides Press, 165 – 182. Annas, J. (2017) Virtue and Law in Plato and Beyond, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Burnyeat, M. and M. Frede (edited by D. Scott), The Pseudo-Platonic Seventh Letter, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Irwin, T. (2009), “The inside story of the Seventh Letter: a sceptical introduction,” Rhizai VI.2, 127 – 160. Meyer, S. S. (2011), “Legislation as a tragedy: On Plato’s Laws VII, 817b – d,” in F. G. Hermann and P. Destree (eds.), Plato and the Poets, Leiden: Brill, 387 – 402. Morrow, G. (1993), Plato’s Cretan City, Princeton: Princeton University Press (reprinted from the 1960 edition).

Dimitri El Murr

Plato and Utopia: Philosophy, Power, and Practicability in Plato’s Republic Take any book devoted to the concept of utopia, or to the story of utopias throughout the centuries: it is most likely that it will begin with a chapter devoted to Plato, and more specifically to Plato’s chef d’oeuvre, the Republic. So much is true of Lewis Mumford’s influential 1922 essay The Story of Utopias,¹ which famously distinguishes utopias of escape from utopias of reconstruction, and makes Plato’s Republic a paradigmatic example of the latter. So much is also true of Jean Servier’s comprehensive Histoire de l’Utopie, whose main endeavour is to tell apart millenarianism from utopianism. The first, Servier argues, has been a prevalent source of all revolutions against social and political orders throughout history, while the second merely encompasses the anxiety of philosophers and intellectuals who dream of a just and well-ordered city because they refuse true egalitarianism and fear anarchy more than anything else.² In Servier’s highly critical reconstruction of the history of utopian thinking, Plato’s Republic plays a central role, paving the way, as it were, to the later, full-fledged conceptions of utopia, notably Thomas More’s.³ A good deal of supplementary evidence could of course be adduced to vouch for the importance of the Republic in any serious history of utopian thinking. Instead of giving into this tedious exercise, suffice it to say here that the inventor of the very word utopia ⁴ and corresponding literary genre, Thomas More, made no mystery that his De optimo Reipublicae statu deque nova insula Utopia libellus, Note: A first version of this paper was delivered at the conference on Ancient Utopias organised by P. Destrée, J. Opsomer, and G. Roskam, and held jointly at Leuven University and the Université de Louvain-la-Neuve in March 2016. Later drafts were then presented in 2017 and 2018 at Yale University, the University of Copenhagen, and the École Normale Supérieure in Paris. I am grateful to the organisers of and participants to these events for very helpful discussion. I am particularly grateful to David Charles, Brad Inwood, and Ben Morison for discussing this paper further with me, and to Verity Harte and David Sedley for penetrating written comments. A shorter and slightly different version of this paper has appeared in French: see El Murr 2018.  Mumford 1962 (ch. 2 is devoted to the Republic).  Servier 1967.  Servier 1967: 53: “la cité juste dont Platon a tracé le plan prépare les utopies des siècles à venir.”  On the neologisms of Thomas More, and notably his choice of naming his book Utopia rather than Nusquama, see Vieira 2010: 3 – 5. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110733129-007

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whose 500th birthday was celebrated in 2016, was deeply connected to Plato’s project in the Republic. For in the edition which appeared in Basel in 1518, the reference to Plato’s Republic comes in as early as the epigraph.⁵ It was thus none other than Thomas More himself who made Plato’s Republic the archetype of the distinct literary genre thereafter associated to his name.⁶ This, for sure, enlightens More’s philosophical and political agenda.⁷ But does it cast any light on Plato’s project in the Republic? Should one infer from the importance conferred on Plato in More’s Utopia that the Republic as a whole is an example, indeed the first, of utopian narrative?⁸ In reaction to a scholarly propensity to label ‘utopia’ any and all sorts of literary projects,⁹ Pierre-François Moreau, in his classic book on utopian narratives,¹⁰ claims there are four features distinctive of any “récit utopique” worthy of the name: (1) closure, (2) difference, (3) social organisation, and (4) rationality.¹¹ Utopian narratives, he argues, depict closed systems, which are almost entirely self-referential and therefore conceived to be stable. They also describe systems that are radically different from reality, systems where the question of practicability is never asked and the connection with the real world never con-

 See More 2002: 117. Utopia priscis dicta, ob infrequentiam, Nunc civitatis æmula Platonicæ, Fortasse victrix, (nam quod illa litteris Delineavit, hoc ego una præstiti, Viris et opibus, optimisque legibus) Eutopia merito sum vocanda nomine.

‘No-place was once my name, I lay so far; But now with Plato’s state I can compare, Perhaps outdo her (for what he only drew In empty words I have made live anew In men and wealth, as well as splendid laws). ‘The Good Place’ they should call me, with good cause.

 There is a vast scholarly literature available on the Platonic background of More’s Utopia: see e. g. Starnes 1990, and Lacroix 2007: 13 – 20.  “More composed the Utopia as a rewriting of Plato’s Republic in which he answered its central question in a form that would be relevant to his own day. The Utopia is the Republic recast in a new mould applicable to the demands of contemporary Christianity as these were understood by More and his circle of reforming friends. In a word, it is a Christianized Republic.” (Starnes 1990: 3)  According to Raymond Trousson, Plato should rightly be seen as the creator of the genre. See Trousson 1975: 33: “Platon est généralement considéré comme le véritable créateur du genre utopique, et c’est justice.”  This tendency is well evidenced nowadays in the still growing number of dictionaries and encyclopaedias devoted to listing and classifying all kinds of literary, philosophical, and architectural projects of alternative societies: see Snodgrass 1995, Trahair 1999, Riot-Sarcey, Bouchet and Picon 2002, Morris and Kross 2004.  Moreau 1982.  For interesting comments on these features, see Macherey 2011: 32– 36.

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sidered. Utopias imply a deep socialization of every aspect of human existence, which concerns especially the division of labour and the regulation of social conduct and sexual behaviour. Last, utopias are understood as entirely rational organisations, where rationality amounts to living in conformity with nature, this principle providing in turn the basis of both an anthropological and a political system. According to Moreau, these four, deeply coherent features are distinctive of the very essence of a utopian narrative Does Plato’s Republic tick all the boxes? Features (3) and (4) are obviously prominent in Socrates’ design of a Kallipolis that displays not only a strictly hierarchical social system based on the division of labour and property but one that is said to be “according to nature” (kata phusin). Given Socrates’ views on how the ideal city will wage war against Greek and Barbarian cities, the Kallipolis could, however, scarcely be considered a closed system and feature (1) might not seem as obviously related to the Republic as the previous ones. Yet, it is true that the ideal city of the Republic is not so much concerned with foreign policy as with its inner harmony and social system. Hence, regarding features (1), (3) and (4), the Republic may count as a utopian narrative. Things are more complicated as far as feature (2) is concerned. For Moreau’s rejection of the practicability claim is remarkably rigid. He writes: “à qui prétendrait que ces mondes sont invivables, on ferait remarquer qu’ils ne sont pas faits pour y vivre. Sans quoi leurs auteurs auraient écrit des projets de réforme, et non des utopies.”¹² According to Moreau, utopian narratives and blueprints for action should therefore be seen as mutually exclusive projects. This brings me to the main issue I wish to address in this paper. How does the Republic approach the question of the practicability of the ideal city?¹³ If Moreau is right, and if indeed the very essence of the literary genre of utopian narrative excludes any consideration on realizability, then Plato’s Republic, whose central books address this issue at length, cannot count as a utopia. Alternatively, should this lead us to consider the Republic a mere political program and blueprint for action, or even worse, a radically anti-utopian, totalitarian project,

 Moreau 1982: 98.  I should make clear that this question is merely an aspect of the broader question whether the Republic as a whole is utopian, a notoriously difficult question which has given rise to much scholarly literature. To my knowledge, the best comprehensive account on the subject is Chapter 5 of Schofield 2006. For recent developments, see Morrison 2007, Zuolo 2009, Ferrari 2013, and Lacroix 2014. My own modest contribution, restricted to the issue of practicability, follows the path opened by Burnyeat 2000.

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as e. g. Karl Popper famously argued?¹⁴ Neither of these two options does justice to Plato’s subtle approach to the issue of practicability in the central books of the Republic. ¹⁵ For Plato is neither uninterested in the issue of practicability nor obsessed by it: he is keen on addressing it, because he is convinced that it should be addressed (for reasons we shall consider), but he also makes clear that this issue is not, indeed should not, be the most important one. This is, at least, what I shall argue, my main contention being that the question of the practicability of the ideally just city is intimately connected to Socrates’ defence of philosophy in the central books of the Republic. For the transformation of the image most people have of the philosopher is a key element of Plato’s argument in favour of the practicability of the ideal city.

1 Desirability and practicability in the Republic’s central digression 1.1 Desirability and practicability In Books 5 – 7 of the Republic, where Socrates famously broaches crucial issues of Platonic ontology and epistemology, ancient and modern readers alike have found some of Plato’s most vivid images and purple passages. Yet, the philosophical importance and extraordinary fame of these central books should not prompt the reader of the Republic to overlook that they form a coherent

 On Popper’s reading of the Republic and the issue of utopianism, see Lane 1999 who convincingly shows that Popper’s and Leo Strauss’ otherwise antagonistic reading of the Republic confront utopianism as “a common foe.”  According to Raymond Ruyer, a French philosopher who authored an influential book on utopia and utopianism, Plato’s conception of practicability is “extraordinarily simplistic”: “L’utopiste a tendance à s’en tenir à la première phase, la contemplation du but. Il en reste même souvent à la contemplation de l’idéal, non précisé en un but bien défini. Il a tendance à croire qu’en regardant attentivement l’idéal, il fera, de son accomplissement, une pure affaire de copiage, de calquage. […] Le plus grand des auteurs d’utopie, Platon, en offre un exemple tout à fait caractéristique. La conception platonicienne d’un monde des Idées – essences et valeurs – dont le statut est différent de celui du monde réel, et qui sert de modèle à celui-ci, est une conception géniale qui reste toujours vraie. […] Par contre, la conception platonicienne du mode d’actualisation de l’idéal par copiage est, au moins dans la République, extraordinairement simpliste. Pour Platon, réaliser un État juste, c’est essentiellement en bien copier l’Idée.” (Ruyer 1950: 60 – 61) In my view, it is Ruyer’s reading of the central books of the Republic that is “extraordinarily simplistic.”

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whole, deeply unified by a philosophical question that connects them tightly to one another as well as to the overall argument of the dialogue. At the beginning of book 5 (449a – 451b), Socrates is about to move to book 8. But the main characters resist this move and ask him to explain how the community of women and children he has alluded to at 423e – 424a will be practically organized. Socrates, who had seen them coming, is reluctant to give into the demands of his interlocutors: “‘You’re lucky’, I said, ‘that it isn’t you that has to try to explain it, because there’s a lot that’s hard to believe (πολλὰς γὰρ ἀπιστίας ἔχει), even more than with what we were talking about before. Not only might one not believe my proposals possible (ὡς δυνατά); even if they were entirely possible, there’ll still be doubts as to whether they’re for the best (καὶ εἰ ὅτι μάλιστα γένοιτο, ὡς ἄριστ’ ἂν εἴη ταῦτα). That’s why one hesitates to get involved with it all, in case it looks like mere wishful thinking (εὐχή), my dear friends.’” (Rep. 5, 450c6 – d2, trans. Rowe)¹⁶

In this passage occur the two distinct questions unifying the stretch of argument that extends through the central digression: are Socrates’ proposals desirable? Are they practicable? ¹⁷ More often than not, as the later reception of Plato’s Republic amply demonstrates,¹⁸ interpreters of the Republic have expressed doubts on the desirability and/or practicability of the ideal city. By having Socrates fear, in this passage, that his proposals might be considered mere wishful thinking,¹⁹ Plato proves himself well aware of this risk, anticipating, as it were, the vexed question of the utopian character of his Kallipolis. ²⁰ Appended to this paper is the analytical summary of what I take to be the structure of the argument running through the central digression. On this summary, I wish to make three remarks. (1) It should be clear that the question of the desirability and practicability of the ideal city is running, and repeatedly emphasized, throughout books 5, 6 and 7. Notably, book 5 opens with this question and book 7 ends with it, before book 8 reboots Socrates’ initial project of examining non-ideal constitutions. (2) It should also be clear that some of the Republic’s most famous passages on ontology, epistemology, education, and notably philosophia, are part of this wider argument devoted to the issue of practicability. To this view, one might per-

 All translations of the Republic are borrowed from Rowe 2012.  This crucial point has been forcefully emphasized by Burnyeat 2000 and Vegetti 2000.  Starting with Aristotle’s severe criticisms of Plato’s ideal city in his Politics, II, ch. 2– 5.  ‘Wishful thinking’ stands for the Greek εὐχή (literally ‘prayer’ but here ‘wish-thought’). On the importance of this word for the argument on practicability, see Burnyeat 2000: 301– 2.  Vegetti (2000: 117) makes a similar point.

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haps oppose the following passage at 502c, which seems to introduce a clear break in the argument running through the central digression. “Now that we’ve finally dealt with that point (οὐκοῦν ἐπειδὴ τοῦτο μόγις τέλος ἔσχεν), should we go on to the remaining question (τὰ ἐπίλοιπα δὴ μετὰ τοῦτο λεκτέον) – how are there going to be these saviours of ours in the city, preserving the regime? What studies and pursuits will they need to shape them, and at what sorts of age should they embark on each of these?” (Rep. 6, 502c9 – d2)

“That point” clearly refers to the desirability and practicability of the ideal city, whereas “the remaining question” refers to a new point, introducing thereby the long stretch of argument specifically dedicated to the nature and education of the philosophical rulers. Consider, however, the conclusion of this argument, which is also the conclusion of the whole central digression. “‘So now’, I said, ‘do you agree that the city and its institutions as we’ve described them are not mere wishful thinking, and that what we’ve described may be difficult to realize, but is nevertheless possible, in a way – that is, in just the way we indicated: if true philosophers, whether one or more than one, should come to power in a city, dismissing as illiberal and worthless the rewards people now aspire to, making it their first priority to get things right, with the rewards that come from that, and treating what is just as the greatest and most indispensable thing, all the time putting themselves at its service and making it grow as they put that city of theirs in due order?’” (Rep. 7, 540d1– e2)

I find significant that Plato thinks it necessary to end the central digression with the very issue that launched it in the first place: with a reminder of the practicability claim, and a last defence against those who might think he indulges into mere wishful thinking. Of course, I do not wish to suggest that the famous passages of books 6 and 7 devoted to the nature of philosophical education and knowledge are reducible to the issue of practicability and do not have a wider impact. My point is that the conclusion of the central digression indicates that theses passages devoted to philosophia and philosophical education are meant to play a distinct role in the overarching concern of the digression. (3) Last, the analytical summary shows that the two claims, the desirability claim and the practicability claim, are not addressed at the same length and, as it were, with the same philosophical urgency. As far as the question of desirability is concerned, Socrates’ argument consists in showing, first, that the best education makes the best citizens and second, that the more unity the city can achieve, the better it is.²¹. Because the  This last argument is amply discussed and rejected by Aristotle in the Politics: see II, 2, 1261a16 – 22 and II, 5, 1263b30 – 37.

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ideal city has the best citizens (whether male or female) to guard and preserve it, and because it will prevent any form of civil strife from occurring, it is supremely desirable. Concerning practicability, things are much more complex, and Socrates spares no effort in addressing this issue, as evidenced in the analytical summary. In an important passage (458 a – b),²² Socrates, although he claimed from the start that his proposals should not be seen as mere “wishful thinking,” asks permission to indulge in it, thereby postponing the examination of his proposals’ claim to practicability. This, or so I suggest, indicates that the two questions are not on the same level, and that the desirability claim is not as problematic as the practicability claim. Why so? Deciding whether the proposals characterizing the ideal city are desirable may only be a matter of showing how desirable consequences follow from earlier premises. But such an argument cannot work regarding the claim to practicability, for establishing that a proposal is practicable implies going beyond the mere level of principles. In turn, showing how Socrates’ proposals could be implemented in the actual world is needed to avoid the ridicule which prevented Socrates from entering this issue altogether.

1.2 The ‘three waves’ motif Preventing ridicule, or radical disbelief, is one constant preoccupation on Socrates’ part. A preoccupation so constant that it gives rise to the three waves motif (τρικυμία) that confers its literary unity upon the whole argument on the desirability and practicability of the ideal city. Let us consider how this motif unfolds in the Republic’s central digression. Although the actual reference to the wave (κῦμα) metaphor occurs at 457b7, when Socrates reflects back on the first wave he has just survived, a connected metaphor was introduced as early as 453d, in the middle of the discussion of the equal aptitudes of men and women. By comparing his handling of the argument to the situation of a man lost at sea, Socrates was then pointing out that he needed to swim through the argument to reach a safe conclusion. The trikumia motif introduced later is distinctly more complex. Each of the three waves of this trikumia represents the violent reaction of popular opinion that is prompted by the three radical political changes, which, Socrates argues, are conditions of possibility of the Kallipolis, conditions that he must prove to be both desirable and practicable. So Socrates and his interlocutors are now not

 Rightly emphasized by Burnyeat 2000: 301.

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only lost at sea, but need to swim against the tide. Socrates’ swimming through these waves thus represents his endeavour to overcome the power of popular opinion. For what Socrates describes as a fear for ridicule is really a fear of being so paradoxical that his measures will fall into disbelief and ill repute (473c8: ἀδοξία). This, I suggest, is a crucial point to make sense of Plato’s repeated claim to practicability. Even more so, because, as we shall see, the waves of disbelief are increasingly hard to overcome.

1.3 The first wave The first wave is concerned with the equal aptitude of men and women as guards of the Kallipolis. Female guards, Socrates argues, shall have a similar upbringing and education as male guards, and similar activities, especially waging war (451b – 452e). The two questions of the practicability and desirability of this first measure are examined in turn and give rise to uneven treatments. As for the desirability claim, the conclusion reached at 457a3 – c2²³ follows from a very simple argument Socrates puts forward at 456c – e. Given 1) that men and women shall undergo the same pedagogic process, and 2) that education in the ideal city produces the best of citizens, it follows that 3) education will produce the best of female citizens. Having the best citizens possible is most desirable for any city. Therefore Socrates’ proposal is most desirable. Concerning the practicability claim, the gist of the argument lies in the appeal to the conformity with nature. “‘So women of this sort must be selected to live, and share the guarding, with men of the same sort, given that they will be up to it, and are akin to them in nature.’ ‘Yes, absolutely.’ ‘And mustn’t we assign the same pursuits to the same natures?’ ‘We must.’ ‘In that case we’ve come round in a circle, back to where we were before [see 451e] we agree there’s nothing contrary to nature about assigning music and physical training to the women guards.’ ‘Absolutely right.’ ‘So there was nothing impossible about the law we proposed to lay down, and it wasn’t mere wishful thinking, given that what we were laying down was actually in accord-

 Rep., V, 457b7– c2: “Then can we claim that we’re surviving this first wave, as it were, by what we’re saying about the law relating to women – well enough, at least, not to have been totally washed away? Our proposal is that both our guards and our guardesses should share all their pursuits in common: can we claim that somehow or other our argument is hanging together, that this is something that’s both possible and beneficial?”

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ance with nature; it seems it’s what we do now, contrary to what we’re proposing, that’s unnatural.’ ‘It does seem so.’ ‘Now didn’t we set out to look into whether we were proposing things that were both possible and best?’ ‘We did.’ ‘And we’re agreed that they’re possible?’ ‘Yes.’“(Rep. 5, 456b1– c9)

Because men and women have a distinct nature, it should follow from the principle of specialization that Socrates introduced as early as book 2 that they have distinct activities. If so, how could there be female guards? In response to this objection, Socrates shows that difference in nature has several meanings, and notably that sexual difference, which is just one example of such difference, has no impact whatsoever on the issue at stake, i. e. the ability to guard the city. Establishing an education common to male and female guards is therefore in conformity with nature without conflicting with the principle of specialization.²⁴ This conformity with nature entails the practicability of the measure altogether, as 456c makes clear: “So there was nothing impossible about the law we proposed to lay down, and it wasn’t mere wishful thinking, given that what we were laying down was actually in accordance with nature.” This tight logical connection between nature and possibility is key to understanding how Socrates argues for the existence of guards, for it recalls an earlier argument. At Rep. 2, 374d – 376d, while reflecting on the needs of the city for luxury, Socrates claimed that guards ought to have a specific nature, simultaneously gentle and high-spirited, to fulfil their task. But within a single individual, how is the alliance of such contrary qualities possible? We know it is, argued Socrates, thanks to the analogy introduced earlier between guards and watchdogs. For the very existence of well-bred dogs proves that this alliance is in conformity with nature, therefore possible, and that so is the specific character of well educated guards.²⁵ Socrates then concluded: “In which case what we were talking about isn’t impossible, and what we’re looking for in a guard

 One interesting question that I shall leave untouched here is why Plato has Socrates reach such a conclusion in a passage loaded with references to antilogy and eristic argument (see Rep. 5, 453b – 455b, and esp. Glaucon’s remark at 454a1– 2: Ἦ γενναία […] ἡ δύναμις τῆς ἀντιλογικῆς τέχνης.) I address this issue in detail in El Murr 2020.  Davis (1964: 400) claims that this passage shows that “for the discussants in the Republic, […] possibility is proved by actuality,” but conformity with nature and actuality are not strictly equivalent concepts.

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isn’t an unnatural combination.’” (375e6 – 7: Τοῦτο μὲν ἄρα, ἦν δ’ ἐγώ, δυνατόν, καὶ οὐ παρὰ φύσιν ζητοῦμεν τοιοῦτον εἶναι τὸν φύλακα.)

1.4 The second wave Once this first wave is overcome, the second one is introduced in the form of a law: “That these women, all of them, should belong in common to all these men, and that none of the women should cohabit exclusively with any one man; the children, too, should be held in common, so that neither will any father know his own offspring, nor any child his father.” (Rep. 5, 457c10 – d3)

As Glaucon makes immediately clear, this is a much bigger wave than the previous one. For that very reason it will be much more difficult to believe that it’s practicable and beneficial.²⁶ Glaucon nonetheless asks Socrates to show that it is both. As noted earlier, this is where Socrates asks permission to postpone the examination of how the community of women and children is practicable, to show first that it is most desirable for the city. Socrates then devotes eight Stephanus pages or so (458b – 466d) to showing what kind of communal life the guards would lead, and what kind of sexual and birth policy this life would imply. These measures would produce, he argues, a community where the sense of belonging and propriety would be utterly transformed and alien to actual practices, a community where no civil strife and social dissent could ever occur.²⁷ Because of these consequences, this form of community is most desirable. At 466d, Socrates reminds himself that he should now be addressing the practicability claim. But he cannot resist digressing even further and so considers several matters of military education and war waging (466d – 471c), up to a point where Glaucon abruptly stops him and reminds him of what was promised earlier.²⁸ As Glaucon puts it, Socrates could indeed

 Rep. 5, 457d4– 5: “This, he said, is much bigger than the last one, if you really expect us to believe either that it’s possible or that it’s beneficial (πολύ, ἔφη τοῦτο ἐκείνου μεῖζον πρὸς ἀπιστίαν καὶ τοῦ δυνατοῦ πέρι καὶ τοῦ ὠφελίμου).”  On the community of guards and the role played by philia within this community, see El Murr 2012 and El Murr 2017.  Rep. 5, 471c4– 7: “It seems to me, Socrates, that if one allows you to go on talking about things of this sort, you’ll forget altogether to deal with the subject you earlier pushed to one side in favour of these other ones: namely, the possibility of the realization of these political arrangements of ours, and exactly how their realization would be possible.”

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go on explaining all the benefits that would come from the community of wives and children (Glaucon even lists a few other benefits Socrates did not consider). But we already know that this community is most desirable. What we need to know now is whether and how it is practicable (471e5: ὡς δυνατὸν καὶ ᾗ δυνατόν) This dramatic move calls for three remarks. Firstly, as with the previous wave, the two claims on desirability and practicability are distinct, giving rise to consecutive analyses. There is, however, a sharp contrast with what happened before because the difference between the two claims is now dramatically emphasized. Socrates resists examining the practicability claim, although he was eager to distance himself from those who indulge into mere wishful thought. Secondly, while constantly delaying his announced examination of the practicability claim, Socrates builds on Aristophanes’ Ecclesiazusae, which has long been recognized as the sub-text of his description of the communal life of guards.²⁹ Reflecting on the role the allusion to Aristophanes plays for the practicability claim of Socrates’ proposal, Burnyeat rightly argues that Plato uses the Ecclesiazusae in the service of his philosophical concerns: by using this comic fantasy well-known by his readership, Plato helps the reader break free from “the conventional perspectives of ordinary life” (Burnyeat 2000: 305). Burnyeat adds (306): “not merely are we to take comic fantasy seriously, but in Plato’s view we must indulge in fantasy in order to take it seriously and see its practicability.” Just as Aristophanes’ comedy helps us see the world in a very different light, alien to conventions and habits, the second wave may be overcome if we accept that the true meaning of having women and children in common is not sexual freedom but sexuality and birth control subservient to the common good. My third and last remark will provide a transition to the second part of this paper. In lieu of a response to Glaucon’s request, Socrates makes yet another, very important move, which he describes as the third wave that needs to be overcome. “‘I hadn’t expected this sudden attack on my argument,’ I said; ‘I see you’ve no sympathy for my hanging back. Perhaps you don’t realize that just when I’ve barely escaped out from under the first two waves that were threatening me, you’re now bringing on the third, the biggest and hardest of them to overcome; when you see it and hear it, then you’ll complete-

 That Socrates alludes to comedy in book 5 of the Republic is made clear notably by his earlier reference to the “female drama” (451c1: τὸ γυναικεῖον δρᾶμα) and his mention of laughter and ridicule throughout. On the relation of book 5 of the Republic to Aristophanes’ Assembly-Women, there is a vast scholarship. Adam (1902: 345 – 355) provides an interesting overview of this scholarship from the mid – 18th century to the beginning of the 20th century. For recent developments, see Sommerstein 1998: 13 – 18.

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ly feel for me, and understand my fear and hesitation about trying to discuss, or even mentioning, so unlikely sounding an idea.’” (Rep. 5, 472a1– 7)

This passage shows that the third wave has an altogether different status from the two previous ones. So much is clear when one reflects on the trikumia metaphor itself and Plato’s reasons for choosing it. As David Sedley has convincingly argued, this motif refers not to three ordinary waves on the beach, but to an actual cataclysmic tsunami, a phenomenon that, according to the evidence examined by Sedley, was already understood in Antiquity (and later) as consisting in a set of three consecutive waves.³⁰ Socrates also points out that this third wave is “the biggest and hardest” wave among the three (472a4: τὸ μέγιστον καὶ χαλεπώτατον τῆς τρικυμίας). As Sedley points out, this is in perfect agreement with our ancient evidence on, and actual knowledge of tsunamis, which support the idea that the third and final wave is often the biggest and most damaging. So, as the discussion moves into considering the third wave, at 472a, the kind of cataclysmic phenomenon Plato alludes to becomes increasingly clear. Correctly understood, the trikumia motif indicates how radical and destructive of actual political structures Plato’s proposals are meant to be. But why is it only retrospectively, when the third wave breaks in, that we realize we are in the middle of a tsunami that might wash us away in a deluge of incredulity? I suggest that Plato has carefully manufactured this dramatic effect to emphasize the particular status of the third wave. For the third wave is not yet another condition of the desirability and practicability of the ideally just city: it is, as it were, a super-condition, the condition of the two previous ones.³¹ This is why Socrates does not immediately give in to Glaucon’s demands. The practicability claim of Socrates’ first measure was entirely dependent on the logical connection between what is natural and what is possible. But as far as the second wave is concerned, things are much more complex, because the burden of customs and actual practices is so heavy that a much more radical change is needed.

2 The third wave As the third wave breaks in, Socrates elucidates how the practicability claim he has made concerning the ideal city should be understood.

 See Sedley 2005.  This is well noted by Ferrari (2013: 135).

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2.1 Paradigm, practicability, and approximation The analysis of the practicability of the community of wives and children begins with a distinction made on Socrates’s part between two different understandings of possibility, a distinction that will turn out to be crucial for the rest of the argument. “‘Then it was a paradigm we wanted’, I said, ‘when we started looking for the sort of thing justice is in itself, and the perfectly just man, were he ever to come into existence – what he would be like, if he did; similarly with injustice and the most unjust man. Our aim was to use the perfectly just and the perfectly unjust man as reference points, so that however these two did in relation to happiness and its opposite, we’d be compelled to accept that whichever of ourselves resembled them as closely as was possible would have a portion of happiness most like theirs. We weren’t aiming to show that what we were describing was possible as such.’ ‘That much is certainly true,’ he said. ‘Well then, do you think a painter is any less good a painter if he paints a paradigm of what the most beautiful human being would be like, and manages to render every detail in his painting accordingly, but isn’t able to demonstrate the possibility of such a man’s coming into existence?’ ‘Zeus! No, I certainly don’t,’ he said. ‘Well, weren’t we too creating a paradigm – in speech, of a good city? That’s what we’re claiming, isn’t it?’ ‘We certainly are.’ ‘So do you think that what we’ve been saying is any less well said just because we may not be able to show it possible to found a city as we were proposing?’ ‘No indeed,’ he said. ‘So that’s the truth of the matter,’ I said. ‘But if I’ve got to try my hardest even so, for your sake, and show how best, and under what conditions, it would all be most possible, I ask you to make the same concessions to me, as I make my attempt, that you agreed to just now.’ ‘What concessions?’ ‘Is it possible for anything to be realized in practice as it is described in words, or is it rather in the nature of things for actions to be further removed from the truth than words are, even if some deny it? How about you? Do you accept it?’ ‘I do,’ he said.” (Rep. 5, 472c4– 473a4)

Socrates begins with reminding Glaucon of earlier concessions. In their search for justice itself and the perfectly just man, they have been looking for a paradigm, a perfect and pure case, which would serve as a reference point. Thanks to this paradigm, they are now able to judge what kind of life is closer to, and which one is the most remote from, the paradigmatic case. But they were not concerned whether this paradigm could come to existence, i. e. whether a perfectly just man could exist. The same goes for the ideally just city: a paradigm

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of a perfectly good city has been created in speech, a paradigm which is no less true and valuable if one is unable to show how this city could come into existence.³² As André Laks has shown,³³ what is crucial in this argument is that Socrates is not using the standard concept of possibility, one that could anachronistically be labelled ‘Kantian,’ according to which a possible concept differs from a real object only insofar as the object actually exists. What Socrates calls for here is another concept of possibility that might be labelled ‘possibility by approximation,’ where the reproducibility of the paradigm depends on an approximation of the model. This notion of possibility presupposes of course that the perfect reproducibility of the paradigm is unattainable, because, as Socrates puts it, “action is further removed from the truth than words” (473a1– 2: φύσιν ἔχει πρᾶξιν λέξεως ἧττον ἀληθείας ἐφάπτεσθαι). Socrates then concludes: “Then don’t make me have to prove that the sorts of things we’ve been describing would be realizable in practice, in every detail. If we’re able to show how a city might be governed in a way that comes closest to our description, that should be enough for you to declare that we’ve discovered how the things you yourself are prescribing are possible. Won’t you be content to achieve this much? I certainly would.” (Rep. 5, 473a5 – b2)

This is a radical shift in the argument on the practicability of the ideal city. Socrates and Glaucon agree that there are metaphysical obstacles to the realization of the ideal city. But this is not the problem addressed here. I agree with Burnyeat (2000: 299) that this problem is alluded to so as to be set aside. The question that Socrates and his interlocutors are facing is not how to overcome the metaphysical obstacles to the realization of the ideal city: these obstacles cannot be overcome, and indeed, it is worth remembering that even the ideal city will

 At the end of book 9, 592a-b, Socrates returns to the idea that his conversation with Glaucon and Adimantus provides a paradeigma of the good city. According to Glaucon, the just man’s own city, his real fatherland, is indeed the city-in-words constructed in the Republic. To which Socrates adds: ‘But it makes no difference whether it actually exists anywhere or will exist (διαφέρει δὲ οὐδὲν εἴτε που ἔστιν εἴτε ἔσται); only in this city’s affairs will he take a part, and no other’s’ (592b3 – 4). This last sentence is often brought in the discussion of the possibility of the ideal city. Yet, the point of the passage is not the existence of the Kallipolis (this is the point addressed in book 5), but rather the idea that the question of its existence is irrelevant for the main project of the dialogue, which is to define what the best human life is. I am grateful to Brad Inwood for pressing me to take this passage into account, and to Verity Harte for sharing her own view of it with me.  Laks 1990: 214– 216 and Laks 2012: 22– 29.

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eventually collapse.³⁴ The problem addressed in the passage quoted earlier is rather how to overcome the human obstacles that have prevented the establishment of an approximation of the ideal city. Just as painters, Socrates has painted Kallipolis, which is a perfect imaginary exemplification of an ideally just city. The question concerning practicability now consists in examining how the best approximation of that paradigm could ever come to existence.

2.2 Philosophy and the power of doxa This sudden shift leads to another no less radical turn in the argument. “The next step, it seems, is for us to try to search out and identify precisely what it is that’s done badly in cities as they currently are, and what accounts for their not being run in the way we want. What is the smallest change needed to introduce this kind of regime into a city? Preferably, it would be one thing that changed, or if not one, two; and if not two, the minimum number possible, and the smallest and least disruptive.” (Rep. 5, 473b4– 9)

“What is the smallest change needed to introduce this kind of regime into a city?” (473b6 – 7: καὶ τίνος ἂν σμικροτάτου μεταβαλόντος ἔλθοι εἰς τοῦτον τὸν τρόπον τῆς πολιτείας πόλις), asks Socrates. Despite its simplicity, this question is quite extraordinary, for it changes entirely how the practicability claim is framed. From now on, Socrates is not so much asking how an ideal city could be practicable as how an actual city could be, as it were, idealized. ³⁵ Following his understanding of the practicability claim, Socrates is now considering the practicability of an approximation of the ideal city and needs to reflect on how this approximation could ever come to be. This passage also confirms that the coincidence of power and philosophy in a philosopher-king, or a philosopherqueen, is the condition of the practicability of the ideal city inasmuch as it is the condition of other conditions. If this “small” change is introduced in actual cities, the philosopher-king will use the ideal city as a paradigm that he will do his best to approximate as closely as possible. Although in the passage quoted above, Socrates presents his proposal so as to minimize its disruptive effects, he is well aware that it will appear “very unlikely” (473e2: πολὺ παρὰ δόξαν, echoing the earlier παράδοξον λόγον at 472a6).  See Rep. 8, 546a1– 3: “Hard though it is for a city like yours to be moved, put together as it is, still, since everything that has come into being must also perish, even a thing so well constructed will not last for ever.”  This is Jacques Brunschwig’s suggestive way of formulating the problem: see Brunschwig 2001: 885.

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To understand how this proposal, making philosophers kings or kings philosophers, is paradoxical, one needs only to recall Callicles, according to whom the philosopher is surely the least capable of governing anyone (Gorg. 484c – 485e). I suggest, however, that Socrates’ phrase here has a deeper meaning. Showing that the practicability claim of the ideal city isn’t mere wishful thinking will imply fighting against the very power that, since the beginning of the digression, has brought disbelief and ridicule to the proposals put forward. This power is of course the power of doxa, opinion. In that sense, Socrates’ proposal that philosophers be kings/queens or kings/queens be philosophers is not only against custom or habits: it is πολὺ παρὰ δόξαν precisely because it is directed against that all too powerful principle that governs most of men’s decisions, actions and values. This explains the whole project that starts with Socrates’s casual remark at 473b4 (τὸ δὲ δὴ μετὰ τοῦτο). The actual process of defining what a philosopher is (such is the task devoted to section 474d – 488a of the Republic) stems from the need to counter-balance the power of doxa, and in fine, to radically transform the image of the philosopher in popular opinion. The very structure of the long stretch of argument starting at 474d and ending at 502c points in the same direction and indicates that this is one of the goals pursued by Socrates. Hence the significant role conferred on Adimantus’ objection at 487b – 488a on which this whole section of the Republic hinges.³⁶ Once the true “philosophical nature” (philosophos phusis) is defined, and the philosopher distinguished from the philodoxos, Socrates thinks that the philosopher’s ability and entitlement to rule follow from his true nature and correct education. This is an interesting move on Socrates’ part, consisting in inferring from nature to practicability, as he previously did when responding to the first wave. But Adimantus is concerned that this will not do, and that more argument is needed to persuade those who will object that Socrates has tricked them “with this new-fangled kind of petteia that uses words instead of pieces” (487c2– 3: ὑπὸ πεττείας αὖ ταύτης τινὸς ἑτέρας, οὐκ ἐν ψήφοις ἀλλ’ ἐν λόγοις). This crystal-clear allusion to the usual confusion, constantly criticised by Plato, between Socratic dialectic and sophistic eristic, is significant and confirms that the issue at stake is the true philosopher’s image in popular opinion. This image is precisely described by Adimantus: […] someone might well say that he has no way of arguing against you as you put each question to him, but nevertheless he can perfectly well see that if people take up philosophy, not just in order to complete their education, and as something to be abandoned be-

 See sections 3.3 and 3.4 in the appended Analytical summary.

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fore they’ve grown up, but rather as something to spend their time on even after that, they mostly become downright peculiar, not to say totally corrupted, and even the ones that seem the most respectable, when they’re subjected to this kind of treatment by the pursuit you praise so much, turn out to be of no use to their cities. (Rep. 6, 487c4– d5)

It should be noted that Socrates agrees with Adimantus: philosophers indeed have a bad name. This is yet another crucial aspect of doxa that needs to be overcome. To do so, Socrates’ argument will consist in discharging philosophy from the blame the actual so-called philosophers legitimately deserve.

2.3 The practicability of philosopher-kings It is now high time to sum up the salient aspects of Plato’s approach to the ideal city’s claim to practicability. Socrates’ first proposal (the equal education of male and female guards) is said to be kata phusin, hence practicable. Socrates’ second proposal (the community of wives and children) is surely also considered kata phusin, but given how opposed it is to customs and habits, the appeal to the conformity with nature cannot suffice, and a further argument to confirm the practicability claim is needed. This leads Socrates to finally make clear what practicability exactly means. Practicability is approximate realization, which allows for the reproducibility of the paradigm and its necessary adjustment to facts (as opposed to logoi) and historical variables. This crucial move shows that Plato is well aware that natural possibility is not sufficient to avoid the charge of mere wishful thinking or, as we would put it, utopianism. A second type of condition is needed at the level of force and political action,³⁷ and this is what the philosopher-king proposal crucially provides. But how is this super-condition practicable? What makes the idea of the coincidence of power and philosophy more than mere wishful thinking? A first answer is provided by Socrates in the concluding section (starting at 497a) of the long argument corresponding to the third wave. “‘So those were the problems we foresaw back then,’ I said, ‘when for all our trepidation we found the truth compelling us to say that no city or regime, and equally no individual man, would ever achieve completion until some chance brought it about that these philosophers of ours – the few, currently described as useless, that have not gone to the bad – are compelled, whether they wish it or not, to take charge of a city, and to put themselves at the city’s service, or else the sons of those presently wielding princely or kingly power, or those kings and princes themselves, came by some sort of divine inspiration to be pos-

 Vegetti (2000: 126 – 130) rightly emphasizes this crucial point.

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sessed by an unfeigned passion for true philosophy. I myself declare that I have no reason for declaring either or both of these outcomes impossible; if they were, we’d justly be laughed at, for mere empty and wishful thinking – right?’ ‘Right.’ ‘So if something either has happened, in the endless reach of past time, or is now happening in some region far beyond the ken of us Greeks, or else will happen at some time in the future, to compel top philosophers to take charge of a city, on this point we’re ready and willing to fight our corner: that the regime we’ve described has come into existence, and exists, or will exist, only when the Muse, herself, takes control of a city. It’s not impossible for her to do so – we’re not talking about something that’s impossible; just difficult – that much we’re agreed about.’” (Rep. 6, 499a11– d6)

In this extraordinary passage, Socrates offers one of his last reflections of the practicability of the ideal city. It is possible, he says, that some chance, some necessity, or some divine inspiration may turn actual rulers, or their heirs, into philosophers. But how could we believe that this possibility is more than a very improbable eventuality? Socrates proposes that we counter this alleged improbability by using our imagination and extend the boundaries of space and time. In what conditions, he asks, could we be criticized for having uttered mere wishful thinking? Only if it could be proved that in the endless past philosopher-kings have never occurred, or else if it could be proved that nowhere now in the wide world is there a philosopher-king, and nowhere will there be one in the future. Thanks to this indefinite expansion of time and space, Socrates counter-attacks those who might consider that all this talk about power and philosophy is utopian dreaming, for the outcome of this curious thought-experiment is that it is now the non existence of the philosopher-king that turns out to be improbable. This answer to the problem of the practicability of the ideal city will hardly be considered a compelling argument. But should it be read as an argument at all? I would suggest rather that these grandiose considerations beyond the limits of space and time neatly capture Plato’s specific approach to the issue of the practicability of his political proposals. As a serious political philosopher, Plato is bound to meet the requirements of practicability, and thus provide arguments that would show that some of these proposals, or an approximation of them, would be practicable. But as a serious philosopher tout court, Plato wants us to understand that the requirements of practicability have nothing to do with the intrinsic truth of his proposals (which makes them desirable).³⁸ This is why it is from this very point of view, the global and timeless standpoint

 See Schofield (2006: 240) who makes this point crystal clear.

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of philosophical truth, that the issue of practicability becomes, in the end, so readily unproblematic.

Conclusion I wish to conclude by suggesting that the Republic meets the practicability claim of its proposals at yet another level. As I have tried to argue extensively, the passages books 5 and 6 devote to the philosopher (i. e. to the nature of his phusis and specific knowledge, to his bad reputation, to his education) are part of a wider argument designed to show that the super-condition of the ideal city (the philosopher-king/queen) is practicable. Yet, these passages also offer a distinctive image of the philosopher, alternative to his image in popular opinion. In my view, these two aspects of the central books of the Republic are intimately connected. At Rep. 6, 488a – 489d, Socrates explains to Adimantus why it is that philosophers have such a bad reputation: popular opinion considers that they are at best “useless” (489b3: ἄχρηστοι), at worst, “totally corrupted” (489d3: παμπόνηροι). Socrates then devotes nearly ten Stephanus pages to explaining why this double image of the philosopher has become preeminent in popular opinion. The main reason why a philosophical nature becomes corrupt is bad education. If philosophy were taught differently and at a suitable age, Socrates adds, the philosophical nature would develop harmoniously (498b – c). Adimantus remains sceptical and thinks most people, including Thrasymachus, would remain too. But Socrates is more optimistic: “‘We’re not going to give up trying until either we convince (πείσωμεν) both him and everybody else, or we do something for them that will help them when they’ve been reborn, in some future life, and they encounter discussions like this again. ‘You’re looking at a short time, then,’ he said. ‘No time at all, in fact,’ I said, ‘when it’s compared with the whole of time. But it’s no surprise if most ordinary people aren’t convinced by what’s being said, because they haven’t ever seen realized what’s now been theorized.” (Rep. 6, 498d1– 8)

Socrates here acknowledges that his present discussion with Glaucon and Adimantus partly aims at transforming the image of the philosopher by explaining his true nature and usefulness against the prejudices that make him useless

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and dangerous in popular opinion.³⁹ But Socrates’ optimistic belief that this task is not out of reach is nowhere clearer than in the following passage: “‘My fine friend,’ I said to him, ‘don’t write off ordinary people so completely. They’ll surely think differently if you take on a soothing instead of a combative tone, and try to free them from their prejudice against the love of knowledge by pointing out to them who it is you have in mind by “philosophers”– describing their true nature, as we did just now, and what they typically do, so that they don’t imagine you’re talking about the same people they are. If they’re given this new perspective, you really will find them taking a different view, and giving different answers to your questions. Or do you really think anyone will be harsh and malicious to someone who is neither the one nor the other to them, when in himself he’s gentle and lacking in malice? I’ll get in before you and say that I think responding like that to gentleness requires a natural harshness you won’t find in the mass of the people, only in a few individuals.’” (Rep. 6, 499d10 – 500a7)

Getting the majority of people a different view of philosophia is Socrates’ main agenda as he broaches the issue of the philosophos phusis. The discussion on philosophy in the central books of the Republic should therefore be considered an exercise in the art of persuasion (see πείσωμεν at 498d1), aiming at substituting Plato’s own image of the philosopher to the discredited image summoned by Adimantus.⁴⁰ Read along these lines, the sections of the central books devoted to philosophy turn out to play an important part in the practicability claim of the third wave. By establishing, among its readership, a new image of the philosopher, against actual opinions and prejudices, the dialogue contributes to make possible the “smallest change” needed to implement an approximation of the ideal city, and thus plays a part, at some performative level, as it were, to the third wave’s claim to practicability.⁴¹ Resorting to the Republic’s own literary and persuasive strategy with its readership might seem a particularly feeble way to make sense of the practicability of philosopher-kings. But, as Socrates puts it in a passage quoted above, “the whole of time” is, after all, the appropriate scale to judge whether or not Plato was such a utopian thinker that he actually believed his chef d’oeuvre could eventually change the world.

 A similar strategy of persuasion can be found, or so I claim, in Plato’s Politicus concerning the king (basileus) whose negative image Plato wants to get rid of: see El Murr 2014: 257– 261.  It is no accident that in the lines between the passages quoted above, Plato targets Isocrates whose rival conception of philosophia he despises: see Rep. 6, 498e.  This idea seems to be close to what Ferrari 2013 labels “writerly utopianism,” although I am still unclear what this word – used to translate Roland Barthes’ concept of texte scriptible (not mentioned by Ferrari) – exactly means.

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Appendix: Analytical summary of the central digression of the Republic (books 5 – 7) 0. Prelude to the digression (449a – 451b): desirability and practicability 1. The first wave (451b – 457c) 1.1. (451b – 456b) That human nature of the female variety is capable of sharing with the male in guarding and other tasks is practicable 1.2. (456c – 457c) This is not only practicable but desirable for a city 2. The second wave (457c – 471c) 2.1. (457c – 458b) Glaucon and Socrates on practicability and desirability 2.2. (458b – 466d) The desirability of the community of wives and children 2.2.1. (458b – 461e) The communal life of guards implies sexual policy and educational control. 2.2.1. (461e – 466d) It is most desirable because it provides the greatest unity to the community and prevents any risk of civil war or social dissent. 2.3. (466d – 471e) The practicability of the community of wives and children (the examination of this point is postponed to the next section) 3. The third wave (472a – 541b) 3.1. (472b – 473b) Paradigm, practicability, and approximation 3.2. (473b – 474d) The third wave is the coming together of philosophy and political power. 3.3. (474d – 488a) What is a philosopher? 3.3.1. (474d – 475d) First definition: the philosopher is a ‘lover of wisdom’ (this definition is rejected). 3.3.2. (475e – 484a) Second definition: the philosopher is a lover of truth (this definition is accepted). 3.3.3. (484a – 487a) As a consequence of the previous definition, the philosophical nature (ἡ φιλόσοφος φύσις) is the most fitted to rule. 3.3.4. (487b – 488a) Objection: (Adimantus breaks in) to most people, philosophers are either totally corrupted (487d2– 3: παμπονήρους) or useless (d 5: ἀχρήστους). Why then claim that philosophers should rule? 3.4. (488a – 497a) Why do philosophers have such a bad name? 3.4.1. (488a – 489d) Philosophy is not to blame: (some) philosophers are useless because cities do not use them. 3.4.2. (489d – 493e) Philosophy is not to blame: (some) philosophers are depraved because they are badly educated and corrupted.

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3.4.3. (494a – 497a) Why this situation is inevitable in actual cities. 3.5. (497a – 502c) Conclusion on the practicability of the ideal city 3.6. (502c – 540d) New point: the education of the philosopher-rulers 3.7. (540d – 541b) General conclusion on practicability

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More, T. (1978), L’Utopie [fac-similé de l’éd. de Bâle (Frobel), 1518; trad. française en regard], texte original, appareil critique, exégèse, traduction et notes par A. Prévost; préface de Maurice Schumann. Paris: Mame. More, T. (2002), Utopia, edited by G. M. Logan and R. M. Adams, revised edition. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Moreau, P.-F. (1982), Le récit utopique. Droit naturel et roman de l’État. Paris: Presses Universitaire de France. Morris, J. M. and A. L. Kross eds. (2004), Historical Dictionary of Utopianism. Lanham, Toronto, Oxford: The Scarecrow Press. Morrison, D. (2007), “The Utopian Character of Plato’s Republic,” in G. R. F. Ferrari (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Plato’s Republic. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 232 – 255. Mumford, L. (1962), The Story of Utopias. New York: The Viking Press. Riot-Sarcey, M., Bouchet, T., and A. Picon eds. (2002), Dictionnaire des utopies. Paris: Larousse. Rowe, C. (2012), Plato. The Republic, translated with introduction and notes. London: Penguin. Ruyer, R. (1950), L’utopie et les utopies. Paris: Presses Universitaire de France. Schofield, M. (2006), Plato: Political Philosophy. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Sedley, D. (2005), “Plato’s tsunami,” Hyperboreus 11, 2: 205 – 214. Servier, J. (1967), Histoire de l’utopie. Paris, Gallimard. Snodgrass, M. E. (1995), Encyclopaedia of Utopian Literature. Santa-Barbara-Denver-Oxford, ABC-CLIO. Sommerstein, A. H. (1998), Aristophanes, Ecclesiazusae, ed. with trans. and comm. Warminster: Aris and Phillips. Starnes, C. (1990), The New Republic: A Commentary on Book I of More’s Utopia Showing Its Relation to Plato’s Republic. Waterloo, Ont.: Wilfrid Laurier University Press. Trahair, R. C. S. (1999), Utopias and utopians. A Historical Dictionary. London-Chicago: Fitzroy Deaborn Publishers. Trousson, R. (1975), Voyages aux pays de nulle part. Histoire littéraire de la pensée utopique. Bruxelles: Editions de l’Université de Bruxelles. Vegetti, M. (2000), “Beltista eiper dynata. Lo statuo dell’utopia nella Repubblica,” in M. Vegetti (ed.), Platone. La Repubblica, Libro V, traduzione et commento, vol. IV, Naples: Bibliopolis, 107 – 147. Vieira, F. (2010), “The concept of utopia,” in G. Claeys (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Utopian Literature, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 3 – 27. Zuolo, F. (2009), Platone e l’efficacia. Realizzabilità della teoria normativa, Sankt Augustin: Academia Verlag.

Antony Hatzistavrou

Plato and the utopia within us

Utopianism is the imaginative creation of models of political or broadly societal arrangements which, though it purports to address real political and social concerns, treats the practicability of those models as at least of secondary importance. Utopian political or societal models have psychological counterparts, that is, imaginative models of human agency that function as their psychological underpinnings. The psychological viability of those models of human agency is similarly treated as being of at least secondary importance. I call those models of human agency the ‘utopia within us’. Both the political or societal models and the models of human agency that support them may be criticized for being ‘unduly’ utopian if they rest on grossly implausible principles. Traditionally, discussions of Plato’s utopianism have focused on the nature of the models of political arrangements that he proposes in primarily the Republic and the Laws and on their practicability. In this chapter I focus instead on Plato’s account of the psychological underpinnings of those models and examine the respects in which it may be deemed unduly utopian. I argue that for Plato the utopia within us is the rule of reason. The rule of reason is exemplified by the philosopher-rulers in the Republic, by the members of the Nocturnal Council in the Laws and that rare bird, the true political expert who deserves to enjoy absolute power in the Statesman and the Laws. The rule of reason, as described by Plato, suggests a model of psychological order that is characterised by (a) substantial subordination of irrational desires to reason which thus unhindered (b) attains some specific type of high-level knowledge relying exclusively on its own internal states. I argue that Plato associates (b) with a grossly implausible form of epistemic individualism but offers a more plausible psychological theory about the attainment of (a). On the latter theory law plays a crucial role as it provides strong external incentives for the control of desires. I proceed as follows. In the first section I argue that the rule of reason in Plato has two components, an epistemic and a motivational one. First, the rule of reason involves some type of high-level knowledge. In the Republic that high-level knowledge amounts to the dialectical knowledge of the Forms that the philosopher-rulers possess while in the Laws it amounts primarily to the knowledge of the unifying element of the four cardinal virtues that the members of the Nocturnal Council and the true political expert possess. In the Statesman it involves, inter alia, high-level knowledge of the virtues of moderation and courage that enables the true political expert to intertwine the characters of https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110733129-008

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moderate and courageous persons in the city. Second, the rule of reason involves the virtue of moderation (sōphrosunē) that presupposes enkrateia. The person who possesses high-level knowledge of the correct moral values should act on it instead of being side-tracked by other considerations. Those other considerations may be desires of the spirit or the appetitive part according the moral psychology of the Republic or the non-rational desires that contravene the soft cord of reason according the puppet image in the Laws. In the second section I argue that the epistemic component of the rule of reason is based on a grossly implausible individualistic justification of knowledge that fails to take into account what I call ‘substantive’ epistemic dependence. In the third I focus on the motivational component of the rule of reason. I argue that we should distinguish between autonomous rule of reason and institutionally controlled rule of reason. The former is exemplified by the true political expert in the Statesman and the Laws who after he has been properly educated may control his irrational desires without subordinating himself to a political or legal authority. The latter is exemplified by the members of the Nocturnal Council in the Laws and possibly by the philosopher-rulers in the Republic who continue to control their desires by subordinating themselves to the institution of law. Plato is ambivalent about the possibility of autonomous rule of reason but, rather plausibly, considers institutionally controlled rule of reason to be a psychological state that is more likely to be attained by humans.

1 The rule of reason in Plato In Republic 9 Socrates claims: (T1) …to insure that someone like that [a manual worker] is ruled by something similar to what rules the best person, we say that he ought to be the slave of that best person who has a divine ruler within himself. It isn’t to harm the slave that we say he must be ruled, which is what Thrasymachus thought to be true of all subjects, but because it is better for everyone to be ruled by divine reason, preferably within himself and his own, otherwise imposed from without, so that as far as possible all will be alike and friends, governed by the same thing. … This is clearly the aim of the law, which is the ally of everyone. But it’s also our aim in ruling our children, we don’t allow them to be free until we establish a constitution in them, just as in a city, and – by fostering their best part with our own – equip them with a guard-

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ian and ruler similar to our own to take our place. Then, and only then, we set them free.’ (590c8 – 591a3)¹

T1 makes clear that the rule of reason is a psychological state of the agent. A person may be ruled directly by his own reason or indirectly by the reason of the best person. T1 suggests that indirect rule by the reason of the best person may take two forms. First, some people who, like the manual workers, are by nature unable to be ruled by their own reason have to obey the law of the city presumably as promulgated by the best person. Second, others, like the young persons who may eventually be able to be ruled by their own reason, will not only obey law but also receive a special type of education, until their reason is able to rule themselves. T1 may create the impression that once one who has the natural ability to be ruled by one’s own reason completes one’s proper training one no longer needs to be guided by anything else including law. That would be a mistake (and a failure to understand the gist of Plato’s saying that law is the ally of everyone in the city). But more about that point in section 3. What does the rule of reason involve? At first approximation it is the rule of the reason of the best person. And the best person that Plato refers to in T1 is the philosopher. In Republic 4 Plato provides an initial account of what the rule of the reason consists in within the context of his theory of the tripartite soul. He claims that the reasoning part should rule with the assistance of the spirit over the appetitive part because ‘it is really wise and exercises foresight on behalf of the whole soul’. (441e4– 5). When that kind of rule obtains one acquires unity and inner harmony (443d8 – 444a1). In Republic 9 he clarifies that that kind of unity and harmony can only be achieved by a philosopher (581b5 – e4 and 586e4 – 587a1). The philosopher’s reason grasps the true reality, that is, understands the Forms of different virtues and the Form of the Good and also controls the motives that emanate from the spirit and the appetitive part. As a result the soul of the philosopher as a whole pursues the values of reason, namely, the attainment of truth and knowledge. So, the rule of the reason of the philosopher is ‘normative’.² For the reason to rule is for the soul as a whole to pursue the values of reason. The normative rule of reason has two components. The first is epistemic. In order for reason to rule, it should attain truth and knowledge. The second is motivational. Reason should control the motives that conflict with the aim of attaining truth and knowledge. How should we understand the ability of the philoso-

 Throughout the chapter the translations of the Republic are by Grube and Reeve 1992.  For the normative rule of reason see Kraut 1973 and Klosko 2006: 77– 82

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pher’s reason to control motives that conflict with the values of reason? In the Republic it is identified with the virtue of moderation (sōphrosunē) that is defined as a type of harmony between the three parts of the soul, namely, the reasoning part, the spirit and the appetitive part. Socrates provides a definition of the virtue of moderation thus understood in Republic 4: (T2) And isn’t he moderate because of the friendly and harmonious relations between the same parts [that is, the reasoning part, the spirit and the appetitive part], namely, when the ruler and the ruled believe in common that the rational part should rule and don’t engage in civil war against it? Moderation is surely nothing other than that, both in the city and in the individual.’ (442c10 – d3)

Based on that definition we may infer that moderate persons have the following features. First, since they are ruled by the reasoning part and since, as we have seen, for Plato the rule of the reasoning part is ultimately normative, they pursue the values of reason. So, for example, no moderate person would make the accumulation of wealth his or her aim in life. Second, since their spirit and appetitive part willingly accept the rule of the reasoning part, they do not experience any serious psychological conflicts or have regrets. Finally, it follows from the fact that they possess those two features that they also have basic self-control or else enkrateia. That is, they do not fail to act on their belief about what promotes the values of reason. Moderation logically presupposes enkrateia. The ability to exercise enkrateia is not peculiar to philosophers or indeed to ordinarily virtuous agents. In the Laws the Athenian stranger acknowledges that mistaken judgements about what is overall good for the agent may effectively control one’s non-rational desires. Some people are able to control their own desires for pleasure and are masterful in techniques about how to tempt others though they are entirely bad (635d2– 4). If they are entirely bad, then, given the close link between virtue and happiness that the Athenian accepts (660e2– 661d5), they are not guided by judgements that express what is objectively overall good for them. Rather it is their false beliefs about what is overall good for them that succeed in controlling their desires. In a similar manner, in the Republic Socrates recognizes that the oligarchic person is able to control for the most part (see 554d10) the appetites that conflict with his, intrinsically evil, pursued value of wealth-making. On the one hand, he is able to control his ‘dronish’ desires for excessive expenditure by his general carefulness for his money (554b6 – c3 and 554e7– 555a7). On the other hand, he is able to honour his financial contracts out of fear that he might endanger the rest of his wealth (554c11– d4).

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So, the rule of reason involves high-level cognitive achievement that is peculiar to philosophers and the virtue of moderation that presupposes an ability to be enkratic that non-philosophers may successfully exercise even when they pursue evil goals. Who possesses the psychological state of the rule of reason? As we have seen, in the Republic, it is the philosophers. But we can reasonably assume that another three types of personas within the Platonic corpus are also in a similar psychological state. The first are the members of the ‘Nocturnal Council’ in the Laws. They understand not only the differences between the four cardinal virtues (wisdom, moderation, justice and courage) but also what unites them, namely, what makes them all virtues (965c9 – d3). That knowledge of the unifying element of the different virtues is considered a precondition for achieving virtue: unless one is able to tell what unites the virtues, one cannot be sufficiently virtuous (965d6 – e5). They will also have knowledge of the unifying element of a wide range of evaluative concepts like goodness and beauty (966a5 – 9). Their knowledge will be articulable and demonstrable: they will be able to demonstrate using arguments (endeiksin tōi logōi) the truth of their judgements about what is right and wrong (966b1– 9). Though Plato does not mention the theory of the Forms in the Laws, one gets the impression that the kind of articulable and demonstrable knowledge of the unifying element of the virtues and of general evaluative concepts that the members of the Nocturnal Council possess is comparable to the high-level knowledge of the Forms that the philosophers possess in the Republic. ³ That impression is further corroborated by the following considerations. First, that knowledge is characterised as supreme (see, diapherontōs phronein at 964a1– 2), genuine (see, ōntōs eidenai at 966a6) and exact (see, akribōs idein at 965c10). Second, it is said to require intellectual capacities above the level of ‘ordinary excellences’ (dēmosiais aretais, 968a2) that enable the members of the Nocturnal Council to make statements about virtue that are more exact than the ones made by the many (964d3 – 5). Third, it presupposes mastery of other high-level sciences.

 To avoid any misunderstanding I do not take a stance here on whether in the Laws (or in the Statesman) Plato continues to hold the theory of the Forms. My claim is only that some basic features of the type of high-level knowledge that the members of the Nocturnal Council and, as I explain shortly in the main text, of the types of high-level knowledge that the true political experts in the Laws and in the Statesman possess are similar to basic features of the high-level knowledge of the Forms as described in the Republic. My claim is meant to allow that the precise content of the types of high-level knowledge that the members of the Nocturnal Council and the true political experts in the Laws and in the Statesman possess need not be what Plato describes as Forms in the Republic.

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Plato singles out the importance of theology and stipulates that no one can become a member of the Nocturnal Council unless they have a natural affinity with the divine and have worked hard at studying divine matters (966c8 – d3). Theology is not the only science that the members of the Nocturnal Council should master. Plato also mentions astronomy that should be subordinate to theology (967b4– 968a1), mathematics (817e5 – 818a4) and a range of unspecified subjects which it will be ultimately the responsibility of the Nocturnal Council to determine their nature and manner of study (968d3 – e5). Furthermore, it is plausible to assume that they also have the virtue of moderation. Plato claims that the members of the Nocturnal Council will be selected not only on the basis of their cognitive abilities but also on the basis of their character and behavioural habits (tropōn ēthesin kai ethesin) (968c9 – d3). So, they must behave virtuously which presupposes that they are moderate and thus enkratic. The second type of persona that possesses the psychological state of the rule of reason is the true political expert in the Laws who, according to Plato, can very rarely (if ever) be found (875d2 – 3). That person has understanding of the nature of the common good in a city and of the fact that common and private good coincide (875a1– b1). It is plausible to assume that that person’s knowledge is not only above the level of ordinary excellence but is also, like the knowledge of the members of the Nocturnal Council, supreme, genuine, exact and based on mastery of other high-level sciences. But in addition to his supreme intellectual capacities that person is also so supremely in control of himself that he does not even need to be under the rule of law (875c3 – d2). Thus, we could infer that he is supremely moderate. Finally, we may also plausibly consider the true political expert in the Statesman to exemplify the rule of reason. Political expertise as described in the Statesman involves knowledge about ruling human beings that is considered by Plato ‘practically the most difficult and most important thing of which to acquire knowledge’ (292d2– 3). Furthermore, political expertise is impossible to be possessed by the majority of people but is rather the privilege of very few people (292e1– 293a5). So, political expertise involves a type of high-level knowledge that requires cognitive abilities ordinary people lack. More specifically, political expertise is a theoretical type of knowledge that directs a wide range of other sciences, like the science of war or the science of public educators. It directs those sciences in two ways. First, it controls their timing, that is, it decides when it is appropriate for them to operate (305c10 – d4). Second, it provides guidelines of how those sciences will operate and checks their progress (308d1– e8). It is, thus, plausible to assume that the political expert has a theoretical understanding of a wide range of other sciences that deal with the human good and is epis-

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temically superior to those sciences since it supervises them. Furthermore, since the political expert provides guidelines to other sciences his political expertise must be articulable. Finally, political expertise aims at weaving together the two basic human dispositions, courage (andreia) and moderation (sōphrosunē) (311b7– 9). It is, thus, plausible to assume that the political expert has an understanding of virtue that is superior to any understanding of virtue reached by any of the subordinate sciences. For example, the political expert has a superior understanding of the nature of courage than the general. Plato does not specify in the Statesman what the political expert’s understanding of virtue amounts to. And there is no clear reference in that dialogue to the theory of the Forms. Given, however, the fact that political expertise is superior to all other sciences that deal with the human good and requires intellectual capacities that are above the reach of the many, the political expert should be considered to have a type of highlevel knowledge of virtue. The political expert should be considered to also possess the virtue of moderation. Like the true political expert in the Laws he is not subject to the rule of law (293a6 – 296b4). If he is to successfully co-ordinate the activities of the various sciences that are subordinate to political expertise with a view to promoting the common good and correctly mix courage and moderation in the city, he should act on his political expertise and not be distracted or frustrated by any conflicting desires for self-aggrandisement. Let me sum-up the basic features of the rule of reason as exemplified by the philosophers in the Republic, the members of the Nocturnal Council in the Laws and the true political expert in the Laws and in the Statesman: 1) The rule of reason has an epistemic component, namely, a particular type of knowledge that is above the level of ordinary intellectual capacities. 2) That high-level knowledge involves comprehensive knowledge (a) of the nature of virtue and human goodness and (b) of the principles of a wide range of sciences.⁴ 3) That high-level knowledge is articulable and demonstrable. 4) The rule of reason also has a motivational component, namely, possession of the virtue of moderation which presupposes enkrateia.

 As I noted in the previous footnote, I take no stance on whether knowledge of (a) and (b) in the Laws and the Statesman is best characterized as being knowledge of the Forms on the model of the theory of the Forms as described in the Republic.

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In what follows I will examine whether any of those features of the rule of reason are unduly utopian.

2 The epistemic component of the rule of reason I begin with the epistemic component of the rule of reason. There does not seem to be anything grossly implausible about the assumption that there may be a particular type of knowledge that is beyond the grasp of ordinary people. There are familiar examples of intellectual disciplines (for example, mathematics or theoretical physics) excellence in which requires exceptional intellectual abilities that may not be shared by all people. Of course by taking the rule of reason to depend on the possession of extraordinary intellectual capacities Plato puts the rule of reason beyond the grasp of the vast majority of people. But that makes his philosophical outlook elitist and not unduly utopian. Plato’s account, however, of the type of articulable and demonstrable knowledge of the principles of a wide range of sciences that the rule of reason involves is more problematic. In the Republic that kind of knowledge is the outcome of mastery of dialectic.⁵ In the context of the simile of the line (509d1– 511e5) Plato describes dialectic as the method for attaining proper understanding (noēsis) of the intelligible realm and contrasts it with the method that sciences like calculation and geometry use which enables their students to attain the lesser cognitive state of thought (dianoia). Calculation and geometry are able to reach conclusions about their subject matter from relevant principles but mistakenly treat their hypotheses as first principles and fail to give an account of them (510c1– d4). By contrast: (T3) [reason using the power of the dialectic] does not consider these hypotheses as first principles but as stepping stones to take off from, enabling it to reach the unhypothetical first principle of everything. Having grasped this principle, it reverses itself and, keeping hold of what follows from it, comes down to a conclusion without making use of anything visible at all, but only of forms themselves, moving on from forms to forms and ending in forms.’ (511b4– c2)

The unhypothetical first principle of everything is the Form of the Good. In Republic 7 Plato clarifies that in virtue of its ability to identify the Form of the Good  For Plato’s account of dialectic see Benson 2015. In this section I do not provide a comprehensive reconstruction of Plato’s account of dialectic in the Republic (or discuss the relevant scholarly debates about its precise content). I only focus on those aspects of Plato’s account that are directly relevant to my argument.

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dialectic provides a more complete account of each thing than any of the sciences: (T4) ‘…whenever someone tries through argument and apart from all sense perceptions to find the being itself of each thing and doesn’t give up until he grasps the good itself with understanding itself, he reaches the end of the intelligible just as the other reached the end of the visible. Absolutely. And what about this journey? Don’t you call it dialectic? I do.’ (532a5 – b5) (T5) ‘…no one will dispute it when we say that there is no other inquiry that systematically attempts to grasp with respect to each thing itself what the being of it is… (533b1– 3) (T6) Then, do you call someone who is able to give an account of the being of each thing dialectical? But insofar as he’s unable to give an account of something, either to himself or to another, do you deny that he has understanding of it. How could I do anything else? Then the same applies to the good. Unless someone can distinguish in an account the form of the good from everything else, can survive all refutation, as if in battle, striving to judge things not in accordance with opinion but in accordance with being, and can come through all this with his account intact, you’ll say that he doesn’t know the good itself or any other good.’(534b3 – c5)

In T3 Socrates claims that through dialectic one is able to grasp the unhypothetical principle of everything. And in T4, T5 and T6 Socrates claims that dialectic enables one to grasp and articulate an explanatory account of the being of each thing. Given that the objects of dialectic are the Forms, Socrates must mean that dialectic assists one in grasping and articulating a demonstrable account of the intelligible realm. And if we assume that for Socrates explanation of the nature of things in the sensible realm is possible provided that it includes reference to the Forms,⁶ we may ascribe to him the following thesis (which for convenience I call the science of everything thesis (SET)): (SET) Dialectic leads to a science of everything in the intelligible and the sensible realm.

Furthermore, that science of everything includes a particular type of what we may call ‘meta-scientific’ understanding. As Socrates put it: (T7) …if inquiry into all the subjects we’ve mentioned [calculation, geometry, astronomy, harmonics] brings out their association and relationship with one another and draws con-

 For that interpretation see Fine 1999.

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clusions about their kingship, it does contribute something to our goal and isn’t labor in vain, but otherwise it is in vain. I, too, divine that this is true. But you’re still talking about a very big task, Socrates. Do you mean the prelude, or what? Or don’t you know that all these subjects are merely preludes to the song itself [namely, dialectic] that must also be learned? (531c9 – d8)

So, the objects of the science of everything also include the principles of the high-level sciences of calculation, geometry, astronomy and harmonics that are preparatory studies for the real experts in dialectic, namely, the philosophers. In T3, Socrates claims that dialectic provides an explanatory account of all the basic hypotheses of those sciences by identifying their unhypothetical foundation. And in T7 he clarifies that mastery of dialectic presupposes knowledge of the interrelations and kinship between those sciences, which for convenience we may label ‘subordinate sciences’. So, we may ascribe to Plato the following ‘meta-scientific’ thesis (MST): (MST) Dialectic provides meta-scientific knowledge of the nature of the subordinate sciences that study the intelligible realm which has two components: (a) knowledge of the foundations of the principles of each science and (b) knowledge of the similarities between those sciences.

SET and MST are not per se grossly implausible. Perhaps one day we may talk of a science of everything and in fact the progress of science throughout the ages even if it does not make that prospect highly probable at least does not discredit a relevant hope as entirely ludicrous. Furthermore, it is plausible to assume that at some point philosophy of science may produce a model that clearly defines the interrelations of the conceptual schemes of different sciences and identifies common fundamental hypotheses.⁷ But even though SET and MST are not per se grossly implausible, Plato appears to understand them through the prism of an extreme epistemic individualism that is unrealistic. The extreme epistemic individualism (EEI) that I have in mind may be described as follows:

 Those who are pessimistic about scientific progress may of course find both SET and MST unduly utopian. For such sceptics my argument in the remainder of this section still has some value: it identifies an additional reason for taking Plato’s account of the epistemic component of the rule of reason to be unduly utopian, namely, his failure to appreciate the importance of substantive epistemic dependence.

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(EEI) In order for one to have proper knowledge in a cognitive domain, D, one must be able to account for all the relevant justificatory steps of one’s true beliefs about D by relying exclusively on one’s own internal epistemic states.⁸

For Plato the relevant cognitive domain is primarily the intelligible realm, that is, the Forms, but also the sensible realm to the extent that it can be understood by reference to the Forms. Through dialectic one justifies one’s beliefs about the Forms and their empirical manifestations relying exclusively on one’s own knowledge of the sciences that study the intelligible realm. I will first briefly explain why EEI is problematic and then argue that in the Republic Plato is committed to it. EEI is problematic because it disregards the extent to which our beliefs epistemically depend on the beliefs of others and more importantly the extent to which the beliefs of an expert epistemically depend on the beliefs of his peers. By ‘epistemic dependence’ I mean the dependence of our beliefs on the beliefs of others the evidence for or foundation of which we are unable to check.⁹ The others may be either experts or laypeople. Our dependence is the result of epistemic trust. That is, we base our beliefs on the beliefs of others even though we are unable to check the evidence of those beliefs because we trust them. Epistemic dependence is a pervasive feature of our epistemic lives. Our intellect is too small and our life too short to be able to check the evidence for all the beliefs we have. Even if we are experts in a certain scientific field our relevant beliefs depend on the beliefs of other experts – we simply could not try to account for the truth of their beliefs and it would be irrational for us to trust only the beliefs that we have independently established through our own scientific reasoning. Epistemic dependence takes two forms. The first we may call ‘provisional’ epistemic dependence. The clearest example of provisional epistemic dependence occurs in education. In order for the learning process to get off the ground, the students have to epistemically trust the views of their teachers. But once the educational process has been completed the students may be able to access the epistemic reasons of the teachers and thus have no need to epistemically rely on them. For example, once medical students have mastered a specific field of medical science they are able to account for the grounds of the beliefs of their teachers. The second form we may call ‘substantive’ epistemic dependence. In cases of substantive epistemic dependence one never reaches a state in which one is able  For a recent philosophical analysis of epistemic individualism see Pritchard 2015.  For an analysis of the concept of epistemic dependence see Hardwig 1985.

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to account for the grounds of those beliefs of others that one bases one’s own beliefs on. This may happen for a variety of reasons such as intellectual inability, absence of relevant training or lack of time and interest. Plato is aware of epistemic dependence and its value. He describes instances of provisional epistemic dependence on experts. For example, in the Kallipolis those who have a philosophical nature will receive education shaped by the philosopher-rulers who have high level knowledge of the Forms (540b5 – 6). During the process of their education their beliefs epistemically depend on the philosophical expertise of the philosopher-rulers. Plato also recognizes instances of substantive epistemic dependence. For example, the decisions of elderly members of the Nocturnal Council depend on the information about life in Magnesia offered by the junior members whom they have selected (Laws 12, 964e1– 965a4). But Plato seems to disregard the importance of the experts’ substantive epistemic dependence on other experts. More specifically, he disregards the extent to which a philosopher’s dialectical knowledge needs to epistemically depend on (a) beliefs of those experts in the subordinate sciences that study the intelligible realm, like mathematics or astronomy, and (b) outcomes of dialectical examinations performed by other fellow dialecticians. What strongly suggests that Plato espouses EEI is his demand in T6 that a dialectician should be able to provide an account of the being of each thing. Given Plato’s account of the nature of dialectic in T3-T6 providing an account of the being of each thing should involve at least three steps: First, identifying a range of hypotheses within the context of at least one of the sciences (other than dialectic) that study the intelligible realm which accounts for the being of that thing; second, explaining the unhypothetical foundation of that range of hypotheses; and, third, defending the conclusions of the two previous steps against all possible objections (see especially his claim in T6 that the dialectician should be able to survive ‘all refutation’). In none of those steps can the dialectician trust the beliefs of experts in the subordinate sciences that study the intelligible realm. He cannot trust their beliefs in the second step as they lack any understanding of the foundation of their principles. And he cannot trust their judgement about which range of hypotheses accounts for the being of a particular thing within the context of their respective subordinate science in the first step as he needs to be able to defend that account against all possible objections in the third step. Similarly, the demand that he defends the conclusions of the first two steps against all possible objections suggests that he cannot epistemically trust the conclusions of dialectical examinations by other dialecticians. So, for Plato, a dialectician has to rely exclusively on his or her own intellectual resources in providing an account of the being of each thing.

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My interpretation that in the Republic Plato is committed to EEI is further corroborated by his account of the education that the philosopher-rulers receive. The main reason why those with the natural aptitude to become philosophers should study the subordinate sciences is that only someone experienced (empeirōi) in those sciences can grasp what dialectic reveals (533a8 – 11). By experience here Plato does not mean just some level of familiarity with the subject matter of the subordinate sciences but a particular type of high-level understanding that enables the future philosophers to attain a unified account of all the subordinate sciences (537b8 – c8).¹⁰ Attainment of that level of understanding requires dedicated study of a period of ten years (537d2 – 3). So, it is natural to assume that for Plato the philosophers can attain sufficient mastery of the subordinate sciences that does not require them to epistemically trust the traditional experts in those sciences. Similarly, Plato’s account of the philosophers’ training in dialectic suggests that mastery of dialectic is incompatible with substantive epistemic dependence on other dialecticians. Of course while the young philosophers are trained in dialectic they will be supervised by and thus they will have to provisionally epistemically trust the established philosophers’ judgements about how dialectic should be contacted. But the end of training in dialectic is for each one of them individually to become able to grasp the Form of the Good and then mould his or her own soul and subsequently the city in accordance with it (540a4 – b1). The relevant understanding of the Form of the Good which, as we have seen, involves the ability to provide a demonstrable account of its nature using dialectic is an internal psychological state of each philosopher and not a collective epistemic state. Is Plato committed to EEI in his account of the rule of reason in the Statesman and the Laws? In the Laws the Athenian suggests that the members of the Nocturnal Council should master theology as well as study a range of unspecified preliminary studies with a view to exploring their common elements and consequently constructing coherent laws and rules of conduct (967d4– e3). He also insists that each member of the Nocturnal Council should be able to offer reasoned explanations about those laws and rules of conduct that, presumably, make references to theology and the preliminary studies (967e4– 968a1). The demand that the individual members of the Nocturnal Council are required to master the common elements of the preliminary studies and offer rather extensive reasoned explanations may give the impression that their epistemic state resem-

 That is, Plato here does not treat empeiria as being sharply contrasted with expertise as he does for example in the Gorgias (463b3 – 4).

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bles that of the dialecticians in the Republic. But, given that, as we have already seen, the precise content and structure of the educational curriculum for the future members of the Nocturnal Council remains unspecified, we do not have much else to corroborate that impression. Similarly it is tempting to think of the persona of the true political expert as described in the Statesman and the Laws as a paradigm of extreme epistemic individualism. For example, in the Statesman his ability to supervise and control the timing of all the subordinate sciences that aim at the human good may give the impression that he need not substantively epistemically depend on their scientific judgements but that he is able to offer demonstrable explanations of the truth of those judgements. But given that neither in the Statesman nor in the Laws do we get an account of the education of the true political expert it is difficult to assess the extent of his reliance on his internal epistemic states for justifying judgements made in the realm of the subordinate sciences. To conclude, at least in the Republic and possibly in the Statesman and the Laws Plato is committed to an extreme epistemic individualism that renders his account of the epistemic component of the rule of reason grossly psychologically implausible.

3 The motivational component of the rule of reason As we have seen, the person whose soul reason normatively rules will exhibit the virtue of moderation. One may think that for Plato the virtue of moderation involves complete silencing of the desires that oppose the values of reason. After a long process of education and many years of law-abiding behaviour a philosopher manages to entirely tame his non-rational desires so that they will never pose a threat to the normative rule of reason in the future. On that understanding of what the virtue of moderation involves the philosophers who have reached complete silencing of their non-rational desires are able to retain the normative rule of reason relying entirely on their own psychological abilities. There is no fear that they may occasionally be defeated by their non-rational desires and engage in akratic actions. Their supreme psychological self-control may be primarily due to the comparative weakness of the non-rational desires that oppose the normative rule of reason. For example, the philosophers’ sexual desires may either be significantly weakened or their desire for truth or knowledge so overwhelmingly strong that they would never diverge

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from their contemplation of the Forms or political duties to have an affair with a member of the producers. That understanding of the virtue of moderation would commit Plato to a motivational counter-part of epistemic individualism that I label ‘motivational individualism’. According to it, one can control one’s desires or inclinations that contravene the rule of reason by relying exclusively on one’s own internal psychological states. Motivational individualism may allow provisional motivational dependence. For example, while during a process of moral training one may rely on incentives created by law or one’s peers to control one’s desire for self-aggrandisement. But it is incompatible with substantive motivational dependence. Once one’s moral training is concluded, one need rely on no external incentives to follow the rule of reason. For convenience I will call the successful rule of reason which does not involve substantive motivational dependence ‘autonomous’ rule of reason. Motivational individualism holds true for one type of political persona in Plato’s dialogues. In the Laws Plato mentions the possibility of a true political expert who even when he has absolute power manages to retain his virtue and not fall prey to his non-rational desires for self-aggrandisement (see T8 below). Presumably the same is true of the true political expert in the Statesman who rules unhindered by any type of institutional control relying exclusively on his superior knowledge (293a6 – 296b4). Does Plato believe that that type of political persona is a genuine possibility? The evidence of the Laws is at least ambivalent. The Athenian claims that such a person is nowhere to be found though perhaps through the grace of God (see T8 below) he might at some point appear. His ambivalence is evidence that he realises that it is unlikely for the vast majority of those who have a philosophical nature to attain autonomous rule of reason. As the Athenian explains in the Laws, it is difficult for one to properly understand that the object of political expertise is the common good (875a1– b1). But even if someone manages to properly understand the object of political expertise, when he acquires absolute political power, he would never serve the common good but rather promote exclusively his personal good (875b4– 6). Rather: (T8) …his mortal nature will always rush towards greed and the pursuit of his private interests while it will, on one hand, irrationally avoid pain and, on the other, seek pleasure valuing those two things higher than what is better and more just. And while creating darkness within itself it will fill to the full both itself and the whole city with every evil. For if ever some human being were born by nature capable as result of some divine lot and politically powerful, he would need no laws to rule over himself. The reason is that no law and no order is better than knowledge and it is not fitting for reason (nous) to be the servant or slave of anyone but rather it should be the ruler of everyone, if of course

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one is to be truly free by nature. Now, however, such person is nowhere and in no manner to be found except only to a small degree. So, we must choose the second-best option, namely, order and law which can see what holds for the most part but cannot cover everything.’ (875b6 – d3)¹¹

Plato’s point is that with the possible exception of a divinely assisted true political expert, no other political expert who acquires absolute power and thus has no external constraints to his political actions would be able to control his desires for self-aggrandisement relying exclusively on his own internal psychological states. Plato’s suggestion is that no individual has absolute power and everyone is ruled by law. This means that for Plato the rule of law provides sufficient external incentives for both rulers and subjects to retain their self-control. Plato’s views about the relation between law and enkrateia become clearer in the socalled ‘puppet-image’ in the first book of the Laws: (T9) …Let us consider that each one of us, though we are living creatures, is a divine puppet that is constructed either as a plaything for the gods or for some serious purpose. For of course we do not know the latter but we do know this thing, that these states of ours that are in us like nerves or strings both pull us and, since they are opposite to each other, pull against one another towards opposing actions that cross the line between virtue and vice. For, as the argument goes, each one of us should pull against the other cords while he always follows one of those pulling forces and never abandons it: this is the golden and sacred directing-cord (agōgēn) of calculation (logismos), which is called (epikaloumenēn) the public law of the city. Since it is golden, it is soft, while the other cords are hard and iron and resemble a whole variety of other forms. One should always co-operate with the finest directing-cord of the law. For since calculation is fine but mild and not violent, its directing-cord needs assistants so that the golden kind in us wins over the other kinds. (644d7– 645b1)

On the standard interpretation of T9, the puppet image explains how akrasia and enkrateia are psychologically possible.¹² The iron cords that oppose the soft cord of reasoning represent the agent’s non-rational desires for pleasure and the avoidance of pain (644c6 – d1). When the agent follows one of the iron cords, he acts akratically. When the soft-cord of calculation prevails, he behaves enkratically. According to T9, in order for one to remain enkratic one needs to co-operate with law. Since the cord of calculation in an individual is weaker than the iron

 The translations from Laws are mine.  For an excellent philosophical analysis of the standard interpretation see Bobonich 2002: 260 – 267. The standard interpretation has been recently challenged by Wilburn 2012: 26. For some telling criticisms against Wilburn’s challenge see Suavé Meyer 2016: n 19 at 163.

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cords of his non-rational desires, it needs assistants in order to prevail over them. Law is the most important assistant. How does law help an individual remain enkratic? First, law is backed by sanctions. Fear of externally imposed sanctions provides an individual with strong incentives to control their non-rational desires. Secondly, apart from fear of sanctions, law triggers another kind of fear, namely, the fear of acquiring a bad reputation before our fellow citizens for failing to say or do something fine. The Athenian calls this fear ‘shame’ (646e10 – 647a2). In his account of the Athenian democracy during the Persian wars, he identifies a particular type of shame that we may call ‘civic’. Civic shame both is the product of law (699c2– 4) and in turn produces a law-abiding disposition (698b6). Law produces civic shame because it identifies the object of civic shame, that is, it identifies certain norms of public conduct as fine or disgraceful (728a5 – 7). They are norms which the agent fears that he may be criticized by his fellow-citizens for failing to adhere to. Civic shame supports the rule of law in the following way: once it is instilled in people, it helps keep under control their non-rational desires for self-aggrandisement that may tempt them to break the law.¹³ To sum up, in the Laws Plato acknowledges that with the exception of some divinely assisted political experts everyone else, including those who are able to attain high-level political expertise, need the external incentives of law in order to retain their self-control. So, even those in whose soul reason normatively rules and exhibit the virtue of moderation, like the members of the Nocturnal Council, are in danger of acting akratically unless they are under the rule of law. It is plausible to assume that the external incentives of law function differently for the members of the Nocturnal Council than for the ordinary citizens of Magnesia. Given that the ordinary citizens possess only demotic virtue and lack the high-level training of the members of the Nocturnal Council, they should not be considered to possess the proper virtue of moderation.¹⁴ They may have to occasionally or frequently rely on the external incentives of law in order to be motivated to behave in accordance with reason as citizens of Magnesia. That is, when they face their strong-desires for self-aggrandisement, for example, strong sexual desires, considerations of legal sanctions and civic shame may tip for them the balance of reasons in favour of just and law-abiding behaviour. So, we can say that law may at least occasionally provide ‘direct’ motivational support for enkratic action. But that direct motivational support of law is compatible with their experiencing significant internal conflict and frustration.

 I explore in more detail the function of law in the Laws in Hatzistavrou 2018.  For demotic moderation see Laws 4, 710a3 – b3.

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By contrast, it is plausible to assume that, since the members of the Nocturnal Council have high-level understanding of the virtues and attain a level of virtue higher than demotic virtue, they are motivated primarily by their appreciation of the value of a life guided by reason. As they are properly moderate, they should not experience significant internal conflict in opting for law-abiding behaviour as citizens of Magnesia. So, we should not expect law to provide direct motivational support for their enkratic actions. Rather, as T8 suggests, for them the external incentives of law function primarily as a safeguard. That is, were those incentives to disappear, they would eventually be unable to resist the prospect of abusing their absolute political power. We may thus say that law ‘counterfactually’ supports their enkrateia and consequently the normative rule of their reason. Law’s counterfactual support for enkrateia is a form of substantive motivational dependence. The members of the Nocturnal Council are able to remain enkratic in the long run only if they live in a regime like that of Magnesia, in which the rule of law obtains and they themselves are under the rule of law. Even though while they live in Magnesia they may not be directly motivated by the external incentives of law as happens with ordinary citizens, absent the external incentives of law they are bound to become akratic. So, in the Laws Plato allows for substantive motivational dependence and his account of the motivational component of the rule of reason in the members of the Nocturnal Council does not commit him to an extreme form of motivational individualism. In the Republic, the philosopher-rulers, like the members of the Nocturnal Council and unlike the true political experts of the Statesman and the Laws, are under the rule of law. The main reason for giving the reins of power to philosophers is that they are able to preserve the laws of the perfect city (484b9 – c2). The rulers of the perfect city have to obey the laws that Socrates has proposed and further legislate in the spirit of Socrates’ laws (458b9 – c5). Socrates’ laws provide what we may call the main constitutional framework of the perfect city, since they concern primarily social stratification (for example, they include norms about the establishment of the three classes) and the distribution of political power (for example, they include norms about the scope of the authority of the philosopher-rulers and the auxiliaries). Furthermore, the philosopher-rulers are not expected to change any of the important laws of Kallipolis (445d8 – e4). So, in the Republic they operate within the rule of law and more specifically the scope of their political authority is constrained by the constitutional framework provided by the original legislator (that is, Socrates). Why does Plato make the philosopher-rulers of Kallipolis to be bound by law? We do not find an explicit answer in the Republic. I will venture a speculative answer that draws on Plato’s account of the function of law in the Laws. In a

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nutshell, my suggestion is that law counterfactually support the enkrateia of the philosopher-rulers. Let me go through the main considerations that provide some plausibility to my suggestion. First, it is clear that law does not significantly affect the cognitive component of the rule of reason of the philosophers. It is the study of dialectic and not the study of law of Kallipolis that leads to knowledge of the Forms. So, it is natural to expect that law affects the motivational component of the rule of law and ensures that the philosopher-rulers remain enkratic and moderate. Second, Socrates claims that, in some people, the unnecessary desires of the appetitive part either entirely lose their force or remain weak and few in number when they are controlled by law and the desires that follow reason (571b7– c1).¹⁵ If, as is plausible to assume, those people include the philosopher-rulers, then Socrates allows that some unnecessary desires may always be found in their soul even though they have no or limited motivational strength. That is further supported by his subsequent claim that those unnecessary desires are to be found in every person (hekastōi) even to those who seem to be moderate (572b4– 5). And since law helps to keep the force of those desires under control, the absence of law may threaten the enkrateia of the philosopher-rulers. Of course, since the philosopher-rulers are moderate, they do not experience any internal conflict and may be motivated to act not because of the external incentives of law but because they appreciate the value of a life guided by reason. Law may only counterfactually support their enkrateia and need not provide direct motivational support for enkratic action. Third, at a crucial juncture of the argument of the Republic Socrates relies on the authority of law in order to ‘compel’ the philosopher-rulers to follow a course of action. Within the context of the simile of the cave Socrates repeatedly claims that they will be compelled to return to the cave, that is, to assume the task of ruling the Kallipolis (see anagkasai, 519c9, anagkēi 519e4, prosanagkazontes 520a8, anagkasteoi 539e3; cf. 500d4). The kind of compulsion that he has in mind is legal compulsion (see, nomōi 519e1). So, the philosophers are legally obliged to become rulers.

 I assume that when Socrates claims that in some people the unnecessary desires pantapasin apallatesthai (571b8) he means, not that they are eradicated and thus could never in the future tempt them or appear in their dreams (see 571c3 – 7) but rather, that when properly controlled by law and reason they totally lose their motivational strength. If Socrates literally meant that those desires are eradicated then we could not make sense of his recommendation that the temperate man (see sōphronōs at 571d7) should try to control those desires before going to sleep (571d6 – b2) and his claim that those desires exist in every person even the moderate (572b4– 5).

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The philosophers’ reasons for returning to the cave have been the topic of intense scholarly debate.¹⁶ For the purposes of this chapter I focus only on one important aspect of Socrates’ argument. Socrates presents the legal demand that the philosophers rule in turns and do not spend all their time doing philosophy as a just demand addressed to just persons (520e1; cf. 520a6 – 9). Since the demand is just and justice always pays, the potential failure of the philosophers to comply with it could be either the result of ignorance of its justness, which is implausible given their high-level understanding, or more plausibly, an instance of akrasia, that is, failure to act in accordance with what they know to be just and thus good for them. So, again we can see that the law that the philosophers rule in turns aims at safeguarding that the philosophers remain enkratic. Of course, as Socrates himself acknowledges, since the philosophers are just and thus understand the justness of the legal demand, it is impossible that they would not want (see ethelēsousin at 520d7) to rule (520d6 – e1). So, the external incentives of law do not directly motivate them to rule. But it may still counterfactually support that they act enkratically: in the absence of the relevant legal demand they might not be able to resist in the long run the temptation to spend all their time philosophising. Undeniably, the philosophers’ desire for an uninterrupted philosophical life is neither an unnecessary desire of the appetitive part nor the typical desire for self-aggrandisement that the Athenian warns against in T8. But if my argument in the previous paragraph is correct, then Socrates intends us to think of it as an unjust desire and thus to treat the philosophers’ potential acting on it as an instance of akrasia. So, a philosopher could potentially be led astray not only by some unnecessary desire that is always hidden in his or her soul but also by a temptation created by a characteristic desire of reason.¹⁷ If my speculative interpretation is correct, then we can understand the sense in which law is the ally of everyone in the city as stated in T1. The external incentives of law may directly motivate the subjects of Kallipolis to win over their desires for self-aggrandisement and counterfactually safeguard that its rulers would not be defeated in the long run by either some unnecessary desire or the temptation to abandon their political duties for the sake of uninterrupted en-

 I have argued elsewhere (Hatzistavrou 2006) for a particular interpretation according to which the mixed life of philosophy and political rule is the best life for the philosophers raised in Kallipolis and their main motive for undertaking the task of ruling is an entrenched desire to benefit their city.  The idea that a desire characteristic of reason may in the circumstances be unjust and thus potentially lead to akratic action appears paradoxical. My point is that that paradox is created by the logic of Socrates’ argument. I analyse the paradox in Hatzistavrou (forthcoming).

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joyment of philosophy. So, in the Republic the rule of reason is institutionally controlled. To conclude, at least in the Republic and possibly in the Statesman and the Laws, Plato bases the epistemic component of the normative rule of reason on a grossly implausible epistemic individualism. But at least in the Laws and possibly in the Republic the motivational component of the rule of reason depends on an ordinary institutionalized means of social control, namely, law and thus appears to be more psychologically viable.

References Bobonich, C. (2002), Plato’s Utopia Recast. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Benson, H. (2015), Clitophon’s challenge: Dialectic in Plato’s Meno, Phaedo and Republic. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Fine, G. (1999), “Belief and Knowledge in Republic 5 – 7,” in G. Fine (ed.) Plato. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 215 – 246. Hatzistavrou, A. (2006), “Happiness and the nature of the philosopher-kings,” in F.G. Herrmann (ed.) New Essays on Plato. Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 95 – 124. Hatzistavrou, A. (2018), “Plato’s legal positivism in the Laws,” Jurisprudence 9: 209 – 235. Hatzistavrou, A. (forthcoming), “Law, akrasia and the philosopher-rulers in the Republic.” Hardwig, J. (1985), “Epistemic dependence,” Journal of Philosophy 82: 335 – 349. Klosko, G. (2006), The development of Plato’s political theory. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Kraut, R. (1973), “Reason and justice in Plato’s Republic,” in E. N. Lee, A. P. D. Mourelatos and R. M. Rorty (eds.) Exegesis and Argument. Assen: Van Gorcum, 207 – 224. Pritchard, D. (1985), “Epistemic dependence,” Philosophical Perspectives 29: 305 – 324. Suavé Meyer, S. (2015), Plato Laws 1 & 2. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Willburn, C. (2012), “Akrasia and self-rule in Plato’s Laws,” Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 43: 25 – 53.

Christoph Horn

Aristotle’s ‘City of our Prayers’ within the History of Political Utopianism Aristotle famously describes, in Politics VII.4, the design of a city which he characterizes as the polis ‘of our prayers’ or ‘according to our wishes’ (κατ᾽ εὐχήν: 1325b36). In the scholarly literature, it is a much-debated issue what is meant by this formula and if it indicates, as the traditional reading supposes, Aristotle’s ideal of a political constitution as developed in Pol. VII – VIII. There seem to be four other candidates for the best Aristotelian politeia: (i) kingdom, at least as he speaks of it in Nicomachean Ethics VIII.12 and in Politics III.16 – 18, (ii) aristocracy (according to Pol. IV.2), (iii) polity or the ‘mixed constitution’ (i. e. a constitution that reconciles the interests of rich and poor people: Pol. IV.11), and (iv) direct or deliberative democracy.¹ Which one is the best for Aristotle? Or should he be seen as a normative pluralist who takes seriously different political models? Furthermore, if it might be correct (as I believe) that books VII and VIII contain Aristotle’s ideal of a perfect constitution, does the word εὐχή imply that Aristotle is alluding here to an extreme political utopia, to some transcendent ideal based on wishful thinking? Or does he develop a model of an optimal polis which he considers to be realizable? More fundamentally, does Aristotle belong, as is often accepted by scholars, to the group of anti-utopian, realistic thinkers within the history of political philosophy? Or might there be a version of political utopianism that can plausibly be applied to Aristotle? Can we perhaps find some reconciliation between utopianism and realism in Aristotle? In this paper, I would like to argue in favour of the thesis that the polis κατ᾽ εὐχήν in fact represents Aristotle’s ideal of a political constitution. In my opinion, the formula κατ᾽ εὐχήν should be taken in the (somewhat deflationary) sense that the most desirable city is something which we have to wish or pray for since it is based on a number of favorable preconditions that depend on luck (as has rightly, I think, been pointed out by F.D. Miller Jr. 2009). Nevertheless I believe that the ‘city of our prayers’ can be characterized as Aristotle’s political utopia (section I). Then, in section II, I will discuss the question why we should consider the ‘city of our prayers’ as Aristotle’s normative ideal – not the other candidates, i. e. kingdom, aristocracy, polity or mixed constitution, or

 Such a democracy might be seen to appear in the ‘accumulation argument’ of Pol. III.11. And one may add as a certain evidence the passage Pol. IV.4, 1291b30 – 37; cf. J. Waldron 1995. I argued against this reading in Ch. Horn 2016. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110733129-009

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a certain version of deliberative democracy. Finally, in section III, I will investigate the normative principle which is subjacent to Aristotle’s judgement on the best constitution as well as the suboptimal ones.

1 Should we regard the ’city of our prayers‘ as Aristotle’s political utopia? Let us begin with the question of political utopianism or realism in Aristotle. It might be useful to draw here on a well-established distinction between two versions of utopianism: On the one hand, we find in the history of political thought descriptive or narrative utopias which outline more or less extravagant images of social reality (providing fanciful contrasting alternatives to our existing suboptimal political conditions). On the other hand, we are confronted with prescriptive and criteriological utopias that are expressing (perhaps highly demanding) normative standards (although not beyond any possible realization). On the basis of this fundamental distinction we can certainly exclude the possibility that Aristotle belongs to the first group (that argues for a type of utopia which might be exemplified in antiquity by the Aristophanic comedy Ecclesiazusae). Aristotle never gives us an image of an idealized social community like that of a peaceful Golden Age, a moral kingdom of ends, or a just and fair realm of communist equality. But I think he has a good chance to be added to the second group, as I will try to make plausible in this paper. A simple working definition of political utopianism in the second, prescriptive sense could be based on two elements: (a) ideal theoretical normativity (it may be a quite demanding one) and (b) independence from any likelihood of practical realization (without being actually impossible). Following this definition, both Plato’s kallipolis and the state described in Zeno’s Politeia can clearly be characterized as ancient utopias, since both of them have their fundaments in a Platonic or Stoic form of political normativity respectively – even if they are far away from the political reality of their time. It suffices that they are not practically unfeasible – at least according to their authors. The case of Aristotle, however, seems to be different from that of Plato or Zeno. His normative standards (as we know them from the Nicomachean Ethics and the Politics) look like an anti-utopian approach from the outset. One might see a testimony for that in his criticism of Plato in Pol. II where both the city of the Republic and that of the Laws are criticized as deeply unrealistic. Moreover, he does not, as it seems, put much emphasis on ideal normativity, but rather accentuates the plurality of normatively more or less adequate constitutions in gen-

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eral and strategies of their improvement piece by piece. Is Aristotle hence antiutopian? Doyne Dawson in his monograph Cities of the Gods (1992) proposes a third solution: he describes Aristotle as a utopian thinker in a minimalist sense, namely as one who takes his ideal of a ‘mixed constitution’ from the realist wing of Greek political thought. Seen from this point of view, Aristotle’s utopian thinking – the sort of idealized normativity as we find it in Pol. VII – VIII – would be restricted to the conservative preference for Sparta or Crete (1992: 35 – 7). If that were true, then Aristotle could argue at best for the kind of normativity expressed by the Magnesia model in Plato’s Laws, not the more demanding type of the kallipolis in the Republic. But I don’t think that this is correct. What I want to defend instead is the thesis that Aristotle, like Plato and Zeno, develops a full-fledged utopia based on his own type of normativity. What seems to be at first glance a normative pluralism and anti-utopianism turns out to be a highly differentiated use of a single account of normativity: the aretaic and eudaimonic criterion as formulated at the beginning of Pol. VII. The best constitution is that which leaves enough room for those who can develop their virtues – and thereby achieve happiness – and which gives the political power precisely to these individuals. Aristotle’s aretaic and eudaimonic utopia is what is meant by the expression ‘city of prayer’ (kat’ euchên…poleôs); the other normatively attractive models, i. e. kingdom, aristocracy, polity (mixed constitution), and deliberative democracy are measured, I believe, according to a single scale based on the question to what extent it leaves room for virtue and happiness. One important challenge to the reading I am defending is the interpretation of Pol. VII provided by Stephen Salkever (2007). According to Salkever, we should limit the passage in which Aristotle develops the city kat’ euchên to the chapters VII.4– 12. By this limitation, Salkever wants to support his general thesis that Aristotle is an anti-utopian thinker. Aristotle’s normative ideal is formulated, according to Salkever, in books I and III; it is that of the mixed constitution. The foundation of the new city, done in Pol. VII – VIII following roughly the paradigm of Plato’s Laws, is hence ascribed to other (unnamed) theorists. One may find some support for that view in the fact that Aristotle, by the end of ch. 12, comes back to the formula of the polis kat’ euchên (or at least alludes to it by using the term euchê again): But now it would be a waste of time for us to linger over details like these. The difficulty is not in imagining but in carrying them out. Talking about them is a matter of prayer (τὸ μὲν γὰρ λέγειν εὐχῆς ἔργον ἐστί), but the execution of them will depend upon fortune. Therefore let us say no more about these matters for the present. (Pol. VII.12, 1331b18 – 23; revised Oxford translation)

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According to Salkever, the entire city kat’ euchên passage does not contain a serious Aristotelian proposal, but reproduces only a debate with unnamed adversaries. On this interpretation, the prayer in question is not Aristotle’s; the desirability of the model under consideration is ascribed to people who in fact are criticized by Aristotle.² If Salkever were correct, we had to locate Aristotle within the anti-utopian camp. Accordingly, one might read the above quotation as if Aristotle declared that he wants to put an end to a utopian line of thought, ascribed to other theorists. But what Aristotle in fact rejects in the quoted text is the mere thinking (noêsai) of a certain political model by contrast to a realization of it (poiêsai). As the quotation thus implies, Aristotle wants to finish here a topic that he himself endorses. It is hence not the case that he reproduces other people’s opinions, but he doesn’t want to continue with subtle details of a highly counterfactual proposal. And he adds that we must leave it to chance or fortune (tuchê). This exactly is the place where the prayer (or wish) comes in; goods which depend on luck (completely or partially) are not disposible and cannot simply be planned or intended – they must be objects of prayers. This is quite similar to what Plato says, in the Republic, about theia moira (V.492e – f) and the paradeigma en tois ouranois (IX.592b). Thus, as it turns out, Salkever’s reading rests on a mistake. Aristotle is not against a city kat’ euchên; what he usually rejects are models that are completely unrealizable. Note that, in Pol. II.6, Aristotle criticizes Plato’s normative ideal of the Laws as follows: Now it is true that all the discourses of Socrates possess brilliance, cleverness, originality and keenness of inquiry, but it is no doubt difficult to be right about everything: for instance with regard to the size of population just mentioned it must not be over-looked that a territory as large as that of Babylon will be needed for so many inhabitants, or some other country of unlimited extent, to support five thousand men in idleness and another swarm of women and servants around them many times as numerous. It is proper no doubt to assume ideal conditions, but not to go beyond all bounds of possibility (δεῖ μὲν οὖν ὑποτίθεσθαι κατ᾽ εὐχήν, μηδὲν μέντοι ἀδύνατον). (Pol. II.6, 1265a10 – 18).

Socrates as Plato’s mouthpiece develops, according to Aristotle, a model that actually cannot be realized. The idea of Magnesia in the Laws (presented not by Socrates, but by an Athenian) presupposes an enormous extension of the territory and hence it is not realizable. The line of demarcation between acceptable utopias kat’ euchên and unacceptable ones lies in the criterion whether or not a model is practically realizable or not. Note that Aristotle, in this passage, uses the formula kat’ euchên in favour, not against political models which are de-

 A view similar to that of Salkever has been developed by W.H. Ambler 1985.

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manding without being over-demanding. To corroborate this observation, we should look at a text from Pol. VII.4: And as we have prepared the way by this prefatory discussion of the subject, and have previously studied all the other forms of constitution, the starting-point for the remainder of our subject is first to specify the nature of the conditions that are necessary in the case of the city that is to be constituted in the ideally best manner (δεῖ τὰς ὑποθέσεις εἶναι περὶ τῆς μελλούσης κατ᾽ εὐχὴν συνεστάναι πόλεως). For the best constitution cannot be realized without suitable equipment. We must therefore posit as granted in advance a number of as it were ideal conditions, although none of these must be actually impossible (διὸ δεῖ πολλὰ προϋποτεθεῖσθαι καθάπερ εὐχομένους, εἶναι μέντοι μηθὲν τούτων ἀδύνατον). I mean for instance in reference to number of citizens and territory. (Pol. VII.4, 1325b32– 1326a8)

We saw that Aristotle, in the quotation from II.6, refuses the model of Plato’s Laws as unattainable. In this context, he explicitly affirms the legitimacy of an ideal conception (kat’ euchên). In the last quote from VII.4, he comes back to the very same point using even the same words: a city kat’ euchên should contain a model of an ideal constitution – but it is decisive that its preconditions must not be impossible. That is what our working definition above meant: a utopia (in the second sense of the term) is a desirable normative ideal that can be relatively unlikely, due to its demanding standards, but must basically be realizable. Moreover, when we look at its constitutive elements, it can easily be shown that the city kat’ euchên as developed in Pol. VII is not un-Aristotelian. On the contrary, it contains a number of characteristics which can unambiguously be traced back to Aristotle. The passage begins with a list of presuppositions (hupotheseis) which must be given for the establishment of a good polis: these are a limited number of citizens, the rule of law, and autarchy (ch. 4); these points are genuine convictions of Aristotle. In ch. 5, we find the detail that the territory should be big enough so that the citizens can live “in leisure generously and modestly” (1326b30 – 2) which also perfectly fits Aristotle’s virtue ethics. Ch. 7 repeats the famous (and infamous) Aristotelian theory of an immediate link between climate and ethnic character. Regarding the distribution of land, the fundamental point made in the text is to avoid a contrast between poor and rich citizens – which is, for Aristotle, the root of many basic social evils in democracies and oligarchies. In ch. 9, it is clearly Aristotle’s own voice when it is said that the best constitution is reached if the polis is happiest, and that this is the case if and only if virtue is realized. In ch. 10, there is the explicit remark that “we do not claim that possession of land should be common as others have maintained” (οὔτε κοινήν φαμεν εἶναι δεῖν τὴν κτῆσιν ὥσπερ τινὲς εἰρήκασιν: 1329b41– 2). What we hear in this phrase is Aristotle’s own voice. Hence, Pol. VII.4– 12 is

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doubtlessly mirroring Aristotle’s own standpoint. Furthermore, Salkever’s interpretation is contradicted by the fact that Aristotle continues his line of thought, in Pol. VII.13, by discussing the constitution of a desirable polis. He says e. g., in ch. 13, that all citizens must participate in the government. And there is no indication for a rupture between chs. 12 and 13. There are three more subtle observations adduced by Salkever in favour of his reading, namely first, unjust slavery, second, the appreciation of manliness (andreia), and third, conventional religion. Salkever believes that none of these three elements, as they appear in the passage, can be seen as genuinely Aristotelian. But in all of these three cases, one might find the reason for the untypical points which are in the text in the foundational situation of the city kat’ euchên as a colony. The availability of slaves even beyond the criterion of natural slavery and the appreciation of manliness can be traced back to the pragmatic conditions of a foundation. Concerning religion, I fail to see what might be the dissonance with Aristotle’s theological standpoint. Aristotle emphasizes in Pol. VII the need for eunomia and eutaxia, and he praises the divine worldorder in the same spirit in which he characterizes the universe in Metaphysics Lambda 10 (cf. Pol. VII.4, 1326a29 – 35; a similar passage in VII.3, 1325b28 – 30).

2 Which political constitution represents Aristotle’s normative ideal? Another challenge to my reading can be based on the observation that the political ideal as developed in Pol. VII – VIII is not the only normative model defended by Aristotle. To some extent, this is plausible in the cases of aristocracy, polity or ‘mixed constitution’ or for some forms of democracy. But it is even far more persuasive with regard to monarchy, at least for the so-called pambasileia at the end of Pol. III. One might think e. g. of the surprisingly strong Aristotelian claim, formulated in Pol. III.17, that an excellent personality needs to be the king of the city and hence must not be killed, banished, or ostracized: When therefore it comes about that there is either a whole family or even some one individual that differs from the other citizens in virtue so greatly that his virtue exceeds that of all the others, then it is just for this family to be the royal family or this individual king, and sovereign over all matters. For, as has been said before, this holds good not only in accordance with the right that is usually brought forward by those who are founding aristocratic and oligarchic constitutions, and from the other side by those who are founding democratic ones (for they all make their claim on the ground of superiority, though not the same superiority), but it also holds good in accordance with the right spoken of before. For it is not seemly to put to death or banish, nor yet obviously to ostracize,

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such a man, nor is it seemly to call upon him to take his turn as a subject; for it is not in the order of nature for the part to overtop the whole, but the man that is so exceptionally outstanding has come to overtop the whole community. Hence it only remains for the community to obey such a man, and for him to be sovereign not in turn but absolutely. (Pol. III.17, 1288a15 – 29)

In this text, Aristotle explicitly defends a monarchy as the best constitution. However, since a monarchy is not what he recommends in Pol. VII – VIII, there seems to exist a serious tension in his overall position. The basic problem of the last quotation is that Aristotle usually goes for political instititionalism and legalism – i. e. the rule of procedures, offices, and law uncontaminated by individual emotions or vices – instead of political personalism. Here, however, he explicitly leaves aside both the maxim of equality and the rotation principle, and he suspends the accumulation argument as we know it from the same book, namely from Pol. III.11. Nevertheless even this passage quoted from Pol. III.17 need not amount to a contradiction or some sort of normative pluralism. Aristotle rather seems to apply, within his general aretaic and eudaimonic perspective, his fundamental principle of cognitive superiority to cases in which an individual (or a family) turns out to be so outstandingly insightful that he outweighs all other persons. The normative ideal formulated in our quotation, i. e. the monarchical rule of the excellent individual, is compatible, to my mind, both with the idea of a polis kat’ euchên from book VII and with the model of a mixed constitution. Even if he believes that under normal circumstances a strictly legalist polis should follow the combined insight of a multitude, his competence principle leaves room for the exceptional case that there is an absolutely superior individual (or family) whose capacities even transcend the appropriateness of a well-organized constitutional order. Aristotle’s seeming tension should neither be traced back to some normative pluralism nor to different developmental stages in his life or biographical layers in his text as it has repeatedly been undertaken since the classical attempt of Werner Jaeger. We find that line of interpretation to some extent also in Eckart Schütrumpf impressive commentary on the Politics. ³ I think there is a much more attractive alternative: namely to accept that the best constitution is formulated in Pol. VII – VIII whereas other normative ideals are defended with regard to specific circumstances or with regard to more or less suboptimal conditions. I can refer here to an important claim made in the Nicomachean Ethics. In his discussion of the phusikon dikaion and the nomikon dikaion in EN V.7 (10), Aristotle explicitly claims that there is only one political constitution (politeia) which  See the explicit defense of this approach in Schütrumpf 2011.

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is by nature everywhere the best: ἀλλὰ μία μόνον πανταχοῦ κατὰ φύσιν ἡ ἀρίστη (1135a5). If we take this remark seriously and identify the naturally best politeia with what is said in Pol. VII – VIII, then there is still some room left for the appreciation of other excellent constitutions.⁴ In my opinion, there exists an attractive non-developmentalist way to understand the Aristotelian method of combining diverse normative perspectives. I think the key passage for an adequate solution is the beginning of bk. IV of the Politics. As we saw in Pol. VII.4, Aristotle raised the question how the preconditions (hupotheseis) for a polis of an ideal character have to look like. We have sufficient reason to believe that the city kat’ euchên (from VII.4, 1325b36) is appreciated by Aristotle as his highest normative ideal. Now, the expression kat’ euchên does also appear in Pol. IV.1, 1288b23, where Aristotle deals with suboptimal political conditions (and it comes back, additionally, somewhat later in this book, namely in IV.11, 1295a29). None of these uses of kat’ euchên contain the slightest indication that Aristotle is not formulating his own convictions.⁵ In Pol. IV ch. 1, he reflects on the constitution (politeia) in its ideal form and declares that it can only be attained “if there is no external impediment” (mêdenos empodizontos tôn ektos). He then contrasts the ideal form with the sort of politeia which might be realized under unfavourable circumstances. It is surprising to see how much attention Aristotle devotes to the study of suboptimal constitutions. Starting with book IV, he discusses this topic throughout the books IV, V, and VI, not without interruption, but coming back, again and again, to this problem. What is also astonishing is the fact that he is interested in the topic of suboptimal constitutions not only from an empirical and descriptive point of view – as if he was simply driven by some eagerness to collect curious political phenomena. He discusses them also from a normative point of view so that we can adequately apply the term ‘non-ideal political normativity’ as it has been coined, in contemporary political philosophy, by John Rawls. Aristotle’s goal in this part of his Politics is to foster the true statesman who should be able, as he declares, to help (boêthein) the existing constitutions (Pol. IV.1, 1289a5 – 7). Apparently, the first chapter of Pol. IV develops the concept of suboptimal political normativity. Book IV begins with some epistemological remarks that are supposed to be valid for “all arts and sciences which are not only fragmentary” (en hapasais tais technais kai tais epistêmais tais mê kata morion genomenais: 1288b10 – 1). Following Aristotle, a comprehensive art or science must be

 I follow in this respect the interpretations defended by R. Kraut 2002, F.D. Miller Jr. 2009 and P. Destrée 2015.  The occurrences are 1325b36; 1325b39; 1327a4; 1329b25 – 6; 1330a37; and 1332a29.

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able to cover all cases subsumed under it, both the ideal and the non-ideal ones. To illustrate that, Aristotle uses the example of the gumnastikê that is usually focused on training the best bodies; according to the Aristotelian requirement, it must be able to deal with all genera of bodies. He distinguishes between three different cases: (1) the best exercise, we are told, is that which is appropriate for the best body, (2) there must be a sort of exercise that is suitable for the majority of people, and (3) the coach or paidotribês must be capable to develop a training schedule for those who are contented with a lesser level than they could ideally achieve. Aristotle finishes these reflections by the remark that the same principle holds also for all other sciences (1288b11– 21). Two Aristotelian principles well-known from EN I.2 are present in the background here: First the principle of object-dependent accuracy which implies that a practical discipline always has to cover a wide field of cases, bot ideal and nonideal ones. Second, we find here the principle of action-directedness of all practical knowledge. We can learn from this passage that there are three non-ideal cases: either the external conditions are too defective or the character of the people to whom the constitution should be applied is insufficient or the intentions of those who want to realize a good constitution are less ambitious than they could be. Aristotle apparently believes that the attempt to realize the best possible constitution would make no sense under unfavourable circumstances (we will see what these conditions consist in) or if the people are inappropriate for it or if they don’t want an ideal polis to be realized. Moving then from gumnastikê to politikê, he is even more detailed with regard to the suboptimal cases: Hence it is obvious that the constitution too is subject of the same science, which has to consider what government is best and of what sort it must be, to be most in accordance with our wish (or prayer), if there were no external impediment (ποία τις ἂν οὖσα μάλιστ’ εἴη κατ’ εὐχὴν μηδενὸς ἐμποδίζοντος τῶν ἐκτός), and also what kind of government is adapted to particular individuals. For the best is often unattainable, and therefore the true legislator and statesman ought to be acquainted, not only with that which is best in the abstract, but also with that which is best relatively to circumstances. We should be able further to say how a state may be constituted under any given conditions; both how it is originally formed and, when formed, how it may be longest preserved; the supposed state being so far from having the best constitution that it is unprovided even with the conditions necessary for the best; neither is it the best under the circumstances, but of an inferior type. (Pol. IV.1, 1288b21– 33)

As far as I can see, this passage distinguishes between five different topics which must be discussed by a comprehensive political science (epistêmê): (i) the best possible constitution under ideal circumstances, (ii) the best possible constitution with regard to (certain) human beings, (iii) the best possible constitution under non-ideal circumstances, (iv) how the polis of (iii) is established, and

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(v) how the polis of (iii) can be stabilized and preserved. All of this seems to contain the programme for books IV and V (but also for VII and VIII). In the passage which immediately follows, we find a sixth point, namely the question: (vi) which is in fact the best constitution for the poleis that already exist and how can existing poleis be improved? Then Aristotle continues: For it is proper to consider not only what is the best constitution but also what is the one possible of achievement, and likewise also what is the one that is easier and more generally shared by all states. But as it is, some students inquire which is the highest form of all even though requiring much material equipment, while those who rather state some general form sweep aside the constitutions actually existing and praise that of Sparta or some other; but the proper course is to bring forward an organization of such a sort that men will easily be persuaded and be able in the existing circumstances to take part in it, since to reform a constitution is no less a task than to frame one from the beginning, just as to re-learn a science is just as hard as to learn it originally; in addition therefore to the things mentioned the student of politics must also be able to render aid to the constitutions that exist already, as was also said before. (Pol. IV.1, 1288b33 – 1289a7)

Aristotle maintains that it does not suffice to consider the best constitution in general without considering its practicability. Instead, it is necessary to consider models that are realizable or can be put into reality on the basis of the existing states. The circumstances must be good and a general acceptance by the citizens must be within reach. To put the Aristotelian argument into a comparative perspective, take the approach of Rawls. Ideal theory, according to Rawls, makes two types of idealizing assumptions about its subject matter. First, ideal theory assumes that all agents (i. e. citizens or societies) are generally willing to comply with whatever principles are chosen. Ideal theory thus idealizes away the possibility of law-breaking, either by individuals (e. g. crime) or societies (e. g. aggressive war). Second, ideal theory assumes reasonably favorable social conditions, wherein citizens and societies are able to abide by principles of political cooperation. Citizens are not so driven by hunger, for example, that their capacity for moral reasoning is overwhelmed; nor are nations struggling to overcome famine or the failure of their states. As we are informed in Pol. V.1 (1301b39 – 40), Aristotle believes that at his time the basic social conditions in the poleis are favourable for democracies and oligarchies, but disadvantageous for all other constitutions, especially for kingdoms and aristocracies. All of this provides good evidence for the thesis that Aristotle’s use of political normativity is unitarian rather than pluralistic. Aristotle emphasizes that the true statesman, the politikos, should be able, additionally to his other tasks, to help the existing constitutions (dio pros tois eirêmenois kai tais huparchousais politeiais dei dunasthai boêthein ton politikon: Pol. IV.1, 1289a5 – 7). In order to do so, he must know both the best possible state of a polis

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and the principles of non-ideal normativity: The best possible political state would be that in which an individual of superior insight would rule. In Aristotle’s Politics, we find a quite constant and affirmative reference to the Platonic idea that every sort of rule or leadership (archê) should be transferred to those individuals who are cognitively superior. One might call this the cognitionbased leadership principle. ⁶ As we are informed, this principle holds true for various relationships: that between masters and slaves, Greeks and barbarians, parents and children, males and females and, finally, for political governance, even if each of them has to be taken in a different sense. The general idea behind it seems to be that insight (phronêsis) is the most relevant virtue for a ruler, and insight is possessed by outstanding individuals – a principle defended by Aristotle, e. g., in Pol. III.4. According to this chapter, rulers should have full knowledge (epistêmê), while for the citizens it suffices to have true opinion (doxa alêthês: 1277b28 – 9). Aristotle’s use of the epistêmê-doxa alêthês-distinction reinforces the Platonic flavor of the principle. The main goal of this basic principle, however, seems to be to avoid the worst case. This worst case consists in that the legal order and constitutional arrangements of a polis get lost – as it is the case in an extreme form of democracy and in tyranny. Under such circumstances, i. e. separated from law and justice, human beings are, as is expressed in Pol. I.2, the most evil of all animals (chôristheis nomou kai dikês cheiriston pantôn: 1253a32– 3). Some of the strategies implicitly adopted by Aristotle in his discussion of non-ideal normativity are the following: (1) If there is no individual of superior insight at hand, the best one can do to guarantee a certain degree of political normativity is to rely on a strictly rulebased and law-oriented political system. The effect will be a considerable advantage for the common good. (2) If the given legal order in a polis is suboptimal, one should try to carefully improve it. (a) Always change as little as necessary of an existing legal and constitutional order. (b) When changing laws, one must respect the fundamental character of the constitution. (3) If the existing legal order of a polis is suboptimal, one can also try to improve the law-abidance.

 The most prominent passage is Pol. I.2, 1252a31– 4. I discuss the principle, especially with regard to Pol. III.11, in Horn 2016.

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(4) Sometimes a deviant constitution can be improved by transplanting an element into it which comes from another (deviant) constitution. (5) A constitution that cannot be considerably improved can at least be stabilized. (6) If there an existing constitution is endangered by the contrast between extreme social groups (especially the poor and the rich people), try to strengthen the middle class. In discussing non-ideal political normativity, Aristotle goes far beyond Plato. Even if one regards the Laws as an expression of the late Platonic intention to formulate a second-best political system (which is the former standard view that has come, in the past ten years, under pressure by the interpretations of Bobonich, Laks and others), Aristotle does much more than Plato accepted when he described Magnesia. Plato’s idea of non-ideal normativity is mainly that of replacing the philosopher-kings by legal rules and stable institutions. Aristotle is even prepared to sacrifice his own virtue-based approach in order to discuss what is best for the life of the majority of people. The following quotation provides a persuasive example for this: We have now to inquire what is the best constitution for most states, and the best life for most men, neither assuming a standard of virtue which is above ordinary persons, nor an education which is exceptionally favored by nature and circumstances, nor yet an ideal state which is a constitution of prayer (μήτε πρὸς πολιτείαν τὴν κατ’ εὐχὴν γινομένην), but having regard to the life in which the majority are able to share, and to the form of government which states in general can attain. As to those aristocracies, as they are called, of which we were just now speaking, they either lie beyond the possibilities of the greater number of states, or they approximate to the so-called constitutional government, and therefore need no separate discussion. And in fact the conclusion at which we arrive respecting all these forms rests upon the same grounds. For if what was said in the Ethics is true, that the happy life is the life according to virtue lived without impediment, and that virtue is a mean, then the life which is in a mean, and in a mean attainable by every one, must be the best. And the same principles of virtue and vice are characteristic of cities and of constitutions; for the constitution is in a figure the life of the city. (Pol. IV.11, 1295a25 – b1)

As I understand the passage, Aristotle declares that he adopted “in the Ethics” the unitary standard of aretaic and eudaimonic normativity. The best constitution remains that which he calls again “the constitution of prayer”. A politeia kat’ euchên, however, would presuppose, according to the text, the highest possible degree of virtue among its citizens. This being impossible in many concrete cases, one has to follow an attenuated version of the standard. It actually works on the basis of the doctrine of the mean (mesotês) as it is developed in EN II.6: citizens

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should then live according to the principle of the a virtuous mean “which is necessary for the best life and is attainable by every one” (τὸν μέσον ἀναγκαῖον εἶναι βίον βέλτιστον, τῆς ἑκάστοις ἐνδεχομένης τυχεῖν μεσότητος). The decisive point for my reading is that Aristotle reduces here the ideal normative standard to something which is attainable while preserving the fundamental principle. In this text, one can also clearly see how Aristotle connects the improvement of existing poleis with those constitutional models that they can or cannot arrive at. For most of the states, he says, it would be excluded to arrive at the level of an aristocracy, while the opportunity of becoming a polity lies within their reach. Aristotle’s alleged ‘political realism’ turns out, in this passage, to be deeply rooted in a unitary form of normativity, an axiological monism. But the normative standard can be applied, in various degrees, to ideal or non-ideal political circumstances.

3 Which criterion does Aristotle use for evaluating constitutions? A crucial theoretical precondition for a non-ideal conception of political normativity is a value-theory that allows its defender to distinguish between degrees of the alleged good that is realized in a certain polis or constitution. If you compare polis A to polis B, you must be able to evaluate them in terms of their diverse forms of this realization. In Pol. IV.11, we found a monistic theory of value which permits us to measure the normative quality of a polis according to a single criteriological scale. Now, in fact, Aristotle further develops, in Pol. VII, this sort of theory: Let us acknowledge then that each one has just so much of happiness as he has of excellence and wisdom, and of excellent and wise action. (Pol. VII.1, 1323b21– 3)

The criterion for the normative goodness of a polis is its realization of happiness and virtue. Already right at the beginning of Pol. VII, Aristotle claims that the investigation of the best constitution and the best human life must go hand in hand. He points out that the best constitution and the best life which can be attained is relative to the given circumstances (ek tôn huparchotôn autois: 1323a18 – 19). The politeia is better where people can lead a more virtuous and happier life. Aristotle parallels and connects the happiness of states and that of individuals:

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On the other hand it remains to say whether the happiness of a state is to be pronounced the same as that of each individual man, or whether it is different. Here too the answer is clear: everybody would agree that it is the same; for all those who base the good life upon wealth in the case of the individual, also assign felicity to the state as a whole if it is wealthy; and all who value the life of the tyrant highest, would also say that the state which rules the widest empire is the happiest; and if any body accepts the individual as happy on account of virtue, he will also say that the state which is the better morally is the happier. (εἴ τέ τις τὸν ἕνα δι᾽ ἀρετὴν ἀποδέχεται, καὶ πόλιν εὐδαιμονεστέραν φήσει τὴν σπουδαιοτέραν). (Pol. VII.2, 1324a5 – 13)

In this quotation, Aristotle explicitly formulates the idea of immediate correlatedness of individual virtue (and happiness) and the happiness of the polis. If it is permissible to add here what he says against Plato’s kallipolis in Pol. II.5, a state cannot be said to be happy without its citizens being happy – either all of them or the majority or at least some parts (1264b17– 19). We find a further formulation of Aristotle’s unitary normative standard in Pol. VII.8 where he claims: And the state is one form of partnership of similar people, and its object is the best life that is possible. And since the greatest good is happiness, and this is some perfect activity or employment of virtue, and since it has so come about that it is possible for some men to participate in it, but for others only to a small extent or not at all, it is clear that this is the cause for there arising different kinds and varieties of state and several forms of constitution (συμβέβηκε δὲ οὕτως ὥστε τοὺς μὲν ἐνδέχεσθαι μετέχειν αὐτῆς τοὺς δὲ μικρὸν ἢ [40] μηδέν, δῆλον ὡς τοῦτ᾽ αἴτιον τοῦ γίγνεσθαι πόλεως εἴδη καὶ διαφορὰς καὶ πολιτείας πλείους). [1328b] For as each set of people pursues participation in happiness in a different manner and by different means they make for themselves different modes of life and different constitutions. (Pol. VII.8, 1328a35 – b2)

This last quotation is perhaps the clearest presentation of the aretaic and eudaimonic principle in Aristotle’s Politics. It expresses in a quite unambiguous form the idea that the extent to which the constitution of the state can be organized optimally depends on the capacity of the citizens to participate in virtue and happiness. Since the state, he says, is a community of equals with the purpose of leading the best possible life, the diversity of constitutions is correlated with the ability of the individuals to partake in virtue and happiness. What is important about the idea of degrees of virtue and happiness and its correlation with political constitutions is that it rests upon the distinction between direct or indirect ways of realizing a normative standard. This distinction does also play a prominent role in the contemporary discussion about non-ideal political normativity. Also in the debate inaugurated by Rawls there is a distinction between direct and indirect ways to realize a value in politics (and morals).

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Michael Phillips e. g. claims that you can maintain a value sometimes only if you don’t follow it strictly, but defend its possibility (1985: 565): […] it is important to distinguish between acting directly on a value and acting for the sake of a value. We might characterize this distinction in relation to lists of actions that instantiate the relevant value. In the case of respect for persons, such a list might include truthtelling, promise keeping, not threatening, and so forth. We act directly on a value when our act conforms to some description on this list; we act for the sake of a value when we act with the intent to create a world in which this value is more widely realized.

Very interestingly, R. Kraut (1991) has identified a quite similar strategy in Aristotle which he calls ‘principle of approximation’: But I suggest that Aristotle has a broader notion of what it is to act for the sake of a certain goal: he thinks that when we try to come as close as we can to achieving an end, then we are acting for the sake of that end, even if we rightly believe that it is beyond our grasp. In other words, if what one wants most for a person (oneself or another) is to provide him with good A, and if one instead promotes good B because he cannot achieve A, and B is the closest approximation to A that he can achieve, then one is acting for the sake of A. (1991: 87)

Fred D. Miller Jr. added a second point to that which he calls the ‘principle of causal convergence’ and he describes his general line of interpretation as approximist. ⁷ Practicability regarding the external circumstances, regarding the character of the people involved, and regarding the willingness to accept the political order is essential for an appropriate political theory. Aristotle’s way of dealing with a concrete constitution may, at first glance, sound as if its main tendency is anti-utopian and ‘realistic’. Aristotle compares the ideal polis to the mythical isles of the blessed (VII.15 1334a31). In the Protrepticus we read (frg. 43 Düring=Iamblichus Protr. 53.2– 10): One might see that what we say is all the more true if someone transported us in thought, as it were, to the Isles of the Blessed, for in that place neither use nor benefit would be pro-

 Miller writes (2009: 542): “The second is the principle of causal convergence […]. Given that C causes E, then the more a cause resembles C the more its effect resembles E. The hotter the water the closer it comes to boiling.” And he continues (2009: 543): “Granted that these two principles apply to politics, then the ideal constitution is relevant to every politics. Even if it is not practically attainable, we can use it as a guide in reforming existing systems on order to come as close as possible to our policy objective. Although the Aristotelian statesman recognizes ideals, he is not a utopian perfectionist who remains aloof from politics because the ‘heavenly city’ is out of reach. For the statesman the best constitution serves as a regulative ideal. This approach may be described as approximist: Prcatical politics should aim at reforming existing systems so that they approximate this ideal as closely as feasible […].”

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duced in anything else, and only thinking and observation remains, which we say even now is a free way of life. If this is true, then surely any one of us would be rightly ashamed if, when the right was granted to us to settle in the Isles of the Blessed, he was by his own fault unable to do so. Thus the payment to humans of knowledge is not despicable, and the good that comes from it is no slight good. For just as the poets who are wise say that we harvest the fruits donated by justice in Hades, likewise it seems we harvest the ones donated by intelligence in the Isles of the Blessed.

The text gives us the background of Aristotle’s normative ideal of an optimal polis by describing the best indiviual life one can imagine: it would be that of practising philosophy as an intrisically valuable activity. Aristotle puts it as some sort of thought experiment, namely following the mythological image of the ‘Isles of the Blessed’. But he does not use that image as a utopia in the first of the two senses I distinguished above, that of a descriptive, strongly counterfactual scenario. He rather utilizes it to make clear what existing political communities should bring about: a life of leisure (scholê) that allows free citizens to do things of value and to reach their personal happiness.

References Alexander, L. (2000), “The Best Regimes of Aristotle’s Politics,” History of Political Theory 21: 189 – 216. Ambler, W.H. (1985), “Aristotle’s Understanding of the City,” The Review of Politics 47: 163 – 185. Dawson, D. (1992). Cities of the Gods. Communist Utopias in Greek Thought, New York/Oxford: Oxford University Press. Destrée, P. (2015), “Aristotle on Improving Imperfect Cities,” in T. Lockwood and T. Samaras (eds.), Aristotle. A Critical Guide, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 204 – 223. Horn, Ch. (2006), “Epieikeia: The Competence of the Perfectly Just Person in Aristotle,” in B. Reis (ed.), The Virtuous Life in Greek Ethics, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 142 – 166. Horn, Ch. (2013), “Law, Governance, and Political Obligation,” in M. Deslauriers & P. Destrée (eds.), The Cambridge Companion to Aristotle’s Politics, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 223 – 246. Horn, Ch. (2014), “Individual Competence and Collective Deliberation in Aristotle’s Politics,” in C. Arruzza and D. Nikulin (eds.), Philosophy and Political Power in Antiquity, Leiden/Boston: Brill, 94 – 113. Keyt, D. & Miller, F.D. Jr., eds. (1991), A Companion to Aristotle’s Politics. Oxford : Oxford University Press. Kraut, R. (1991), Aristotle on the Human Good. Princeton UP. Kraut, R. (1996), “Are There Natural Rights in Aristotle?,” The Review of Metaphysics 49: 755 – 774. Kraut, R. (2002), Aristotle: Political Philosophy. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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Lockwood, T. (2006), “The Best Regime of Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics,” Ancient Philosophy 26: 355 – 370. Miller Jr., F.D. (1995), Nature, Justice, and Rights in Aristotle’s Politics. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Miller Jr., F.D. (2007), “Aristotle’s Philosophy of Law,” in F. D. Miller Jr. & C. A. Biondi (eds.), A History of the Philosophy of Law from The Ancient Greeks to the Scholastics, vol. 6, Dordrecht, 79 – 110. Miller Jr., F.D. (2009), “Aristotle on the Ideal Constitution,” in G. Anagnostopoulos (ed.), A Companion to Aristotle, Malden/Oxford: Wiley. Mulgan, R.G. (1977), Aristotle’s Political Theory. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Patzig, G., ed., (1990), Aristoteles’ Politik. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Rupprecht. Salkever, S. (2007), “Whose Prayer? The Best Regime of Book 7 and the Lessons of Aristotle’s Politics,” Political Theory 35: 29 – 46. Samaras, T. (2007), “Aristotle’s Politics: The City of Book Seven and the Question of Ideology,” Classical Quarterly 68: 109 – 124. Schroeder, D.N. 1(981), “Aristotle on Law,” Polis 4: 17 – 31. Schütrumpf, E. (1991), Aristoteles, Politik Buch II/III. Berlin: Akademie. Schütrumpf, E. (2005), Aristoteles, Politik Buch VII/VIII. Berlin: Akademie. Schütrumpf, E. (2011), “Aristoteles’ Essays zur Verfassung – Politische Grundkonzeptionen in der Politik in einer genetisch-analytischen Interpretation. Eine Erwiderung”, Zeitschrift für Politik 58/3: 243 – 267. Waldron, J. (1995), “The Wisdom of the Multitude: Some Reflections on Book 3, Chap. 11 of Aristotle’s Politics,” Political Theory 23: 563 – 584.

Suzanne Husson

Utopia and the quest for autarkeia The fact that Diogenes of Sinope chooses to depict a utopian society in his Politeia is apparently inconsistent with the self-sufficiency (autarkeia) he habitually claims as a practical ideal. Can this contradiction be solved? The solution may lie in distinguishing different kinds or meanings of self-sufficiency in cynicism, in order to make them compatible with the design of a perfect society, but any such attempt runs the risk of being an artificial means of saving cynicism at all cost¹. So if the only way to understand its consistency is to make those distinctions, we have to demonstrate the appropriateness of distinguishing different kinds of self-sufficiency, not only in regard to cynicism but also in other contexts. If we focus on the relationship between autarkeia in the individual, as a moral goal elaborated by Greek philosophers and the consequences of that ideal at a political level – especially in the field of philosophical utopias – it seems at first glance that personal self-sufficiency is totally incompatible with the desire to be part of a community. Indeed, to be self-sufficient means to have no needs, either physical or psychological, so that in a perfect world a self-sufficient man or woman could live by him or herself, or in a very small community. It seems that when we look at the notion of self-sufficiency applied to the individual, we have the image of a hermit in mind, or, roughly, a follower of Thoreau. As a result, the man or woman claiming to be an authentic autarkes does have to prove it by being able to both desire and bear a solitary life. And, since a utopia is a description of a perfect society, it appears to be in contradiction with personal autarkeia. To summarize, as commonly believed, individual autarkeia leads to individualism, and the latter is incompatible with utopian thinking. This meaning of personal autarkeia would be sufficient for us, were it not the case that the two main examples of philosophical utopias in Hellenistic times (namely Plato’s and Aristotle’s) are written by thinkers, who moreover recommended individual self-sufficiency. So, why, while already convinced that human beings can only attain self-realization as citizens, do they maintain personal autarkeia as an ethical goal? Should we assent to the solutions they found Note: I’d like to thank the editors of this volume and also John Smith for reading and correcting my English. Any remaining errors are mine.  For a critique of the distinction of different meanings of autarkeia in cynicism see Dorion (forthcoming); for the opposite view see Husson 2011: 76 – 88. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110733129-010

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for reconciling personal autarkeia with perfect citizenship? And if we do, can we transpose their solutions to the problem of autarkeia in a cynic utopia?

1 Self-sufficiency in Plato: from God to human The clearest Platonic instance of self-sufficiency in the individual occurs in the Timaeus, when the Demiurge produces the world: we already know that the kosmos has to be made of four elements (31b – 32c) and that no other body can be left outside of it (32c – 33b). The question is now: what optimum form should it take ? It needs no eye (it has nothing to look at), neither respiratory nor digestive organs, since there is nothing outside to breathe in or eat: For nothing went out or came into it from anywhere, since there was nothing: it was designed to feed itself on its own waste and to act and be acted upon entirely by itself and within itself; because its framer thought that it would be better self-sufficient, rather than dependent upon anything else. (Plato, Timaeus, 33c – d²)

And the reason why the demiurge deems that it is better for a perceptible being to be self-sufficient is most likely a property of the good. Indeed, the world’s maker “was good; and in the good no jealousy in any matter can ever arise “, so that “ he desired that all things should come as near as possible to being like himself “ (29e), that means that “ as near as possible “ all visible beings should become good. The autarkeia of the good also appears in the Philebus, at the beginning of the dialogue, when it comes to the definition of what the human good consists in. As evidenced it cannot contain only pleasure or intelligence but a mixture of them: Socrates – Is it the fate of the good to be of necessity in the category of the perfect or of the imperfect? Protarchus – In that of the most perfect of all, of course. Socrates – And will the good be something sufficient? Protarchus – Of course. More so than anything else. Socrates – One thing about it one cannot readily deny is that everything capable of knowing pursues it, longing to take hold of it and possess it, and they all make no account of anything else unless its accomplishment involves some good. (Plato, Philebus, 20d³)

 All the quotations from the Timaeus are from Cornford (1997). For the Eleatic origins of this aspect of Plato’s cosmology, see Cornford 1997: 55 – 57.  All the quotations from the Philebus are from Gosling 1975.

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Because the good is an end needing no other goal to be fulfilled, it can be declared the most ἱκανὸν (l.3) of all things (that is to say, of all the things we might wish for). Furthermore, in 67a, autarcheia is explicitly attributed to it, as it is contrasted with both pleasure and mind. Οὐκοῦν παντάπασιν ἐν τούτῳ τῷ λόγῳ καὶ νοῦς ἀπήλλακτο καὶ ἡδονὴ μή τοι τἀγαθόν γε αὐτὸ μηδ’ ἕτερον αὐτοῖν εἶναι, στερομένοιν αὐταρκείας καὶ τῆς τοῦ ἱκανοῦ καὶ τελέου δυνάμεως; Socrates – So far as this argument is concerned thought and pleasure escape the burden at least of being the good itself, since each lacks self-sufficiency and the capacity to be satisfying and complete. (Plato, Philebus, 67a)

As we shall see, man is not a self-sufficient being, but his own good (to the extent that it is the ultimate end) on the contrary is autarkes. So between the human condition and human rational purposes there is somehow a discrepancy, which is not found in the most perfect visible living being, namely the cosmic divinity. There, we have a self-sufficient being, continuously attaining a self-sufficient good. We can find here the philosophical rationalization of the naïve picture of a self-sufficient individual, by which we can learn that this individual doesn’t exist, except on a metaphysical level⁴ or, if we take seriously the fact that Plato considers the Timaeus as a myth⁵, on a mythical plan. During his description, Plato characterizes the autarkeia of the God Universe at different levels. First, as already seen, he has no physical needs since he feeds himself, in a circular way, with his own wastage, and suffers no external aggression (33c – d). But his self-sufficiency has also a psychological side. After the Demiurge has extended the soul throughout the whole world’s spherical body, Plato says: οὐρανὸν ἕνα μόνον ἔρημον κατέστησεν, δι’ ἀρετὴν δὲ αὐτὸν αὑτῷ δυνάμενον συγγίγνεσθαι καὶ οὐδενὸς ἑτέρου προσδεόμενον, γνώριμον δὲ καὶ φίλον ἱκανῶς αὐτὸν αὑτῷ. διὰ πάντα δὴ ταῦτα εὐδαίμονα θεὸν αὐτὸν ἐγεννήσατο. he established one world alone, round and revolving in a circle, solitary but able by reason of its excellence to bear itself company, needing no other acquaintance or friend but sufficient to itself. (Plato, Timaeus, 34b)

 Because, of course, it’s very hard for us to think that there is such a physical God.  “A likely story”, “τὸν εἰκότα μῦθον”, Timaeus, 29d.

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This explanation implies that there is a specific kind of dependence: when a soul is not able to live without company, that is to say when she fundamentally needs the presence of fellows. So the self-sufficient soul is able to achieve happiness by means of this solipsist friendship. This concept is probably an oxymoron, but, for Plato, insofar as we, dependent beings, need each other’s company, an absolute self-sufficient soul would not. So is the autarkeia of the higher physical god, but what happens with humanity? According to Plato, it is clear that human individuals are not self-sufficient, it’s even the reason he gives to explain the birth of cities: The origin of a city lies, I think, in the fact that we are not, any of us, self-sufficient; we have all sorts of needs (τυγχάνει ἡμῶν ἕκαστος οὐκ αὐτάρκης, ἀλλὰ πολλῶν ὢν ἐνδεής). Can you think of any other reason for the foundation of a city? (Plato, Republic II, 369b⁶)

So, it seems very clear that humans are not autarkeis on a biological level. And, as is well known, the continuation of this text (370d – 371e) expounds the variety of vital human needs and the need for a division of labour and exchange of products. On the other hand, it appears that Plato claims a kind of self-sufficiency for the virtuous man. In book II, when he suggests censoring poetry, especially when heroes are shown crying and mourning because of the loss of a dear one, he says: ‒ Our view is that a good man (ὁ ἐπιεικὴς ἀνὴρ) does not regard it as a disaster when death comes to another good man, his friend. ‒ Yes, that is our view. ‒ So he certainly wouldn’t lament on his friend’s account, as if something awful had happened to him. ‒ No, he wouldn’t. ‒ But we also say that when it comes to living a good life, a good man is the most capable of meeting his own needs, and has less need of other people than anyone else has. ‒ True. ‒ So he least of all will regard it as a misfortune to lose a son, or a brother, or some money, or anything like that. ‒ Yes. ‒ And he least of all will grieve over the loss. He more than anyone can take it in his stride when an accident of this kind happens to him. ‒ He can indeed. (Plato, Republic III, 387d – e)

 All the quotations from the Republic are from Griffith 2000.

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In this passage, Plato doesn’t mean that the good man doesn’t need any friend or close relative to live with. The proof is that, at the end of book III, he forges the autochthonia myth, in order to persuade his fellow citizens that they are genuine brothers and that the territory of the city is their mother (414d – 415a). In the ideal city brotherhood is a useful, if not indispensable, feeling. And the radical community of life of the guards and rulers in the Republic indubitably shows that the aim of the philosophical life is not to imitate God’s loneliness. So, what does the autarcheia of the ἐπιεικὴς ἀνὴρ mean? Since it is not the fact that he could live, like God, without any friends but himself, the good man’s self-sufficiency is only the capacity to endure losses without being upset, and, may be, to have limited desires. In any case, this moral self-sufficiency, is a relative (and not absolute) one, for while Plato is careful to highlight that the good man is most of all men sufficient unto himself for a good life and “has less need of other people than anyone else has”, he does have needs, and is not absolutely self-sufficient, as the kosmos is, but his needs are minimal⁷. Consequently three kinds of self-sufficiency have been distinguished in Plato: ‒ The first one is the autarkeia of the Good as telos: let us call it a final selfsufficiency [1]. ‒ Secondly the God, in the Timaeus, has been characterized as an absolutely physically and psychologically self-sufficient being. Here is an example of absolute ontic self-sufficiency [2]. In this sense, a being is self-sufficient when he is able to attain this final self-sufficiency [1] by himself, which implies having no needs of any kind. ‒ The third type of self-sufficiency is an ethical one [3], which means a moral ideal that only applies to moral beings who are not ontically self-sufficient and yet in that way want to achieve that final self-sufficiency [1]. Hence the ethical autarkeia in the third book of the Republic, has only a psychological meaning for Plato; it rather refers to the capacity to suffer the loss of relatives or material possessions. Accordingly, it doesn’t imply an intention to rid oneself of economic dependency, or of human affections and relationships.

 The question of whether the self-sufficiency of the good man is compatible with philosophical and political friendship remains open, and is clearly asked in an aporetic mode in the Lysis, where the good man is said to be both self-sufficient and having friends (215a – c). Without discussing this difficult issue (see for instance Penner & Rowe 2005: 88 – 93, where the self-sufficiency of the good man, as interpreted by those two scholars, is nearly the same of the autarcheia of the ἐπιεικὴς ἀνὴρ, as it is understood in this paper), we can nevertheless acknowledge that in the Republic Plato thinks they are compatible.

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Two conclusions can be drawn from these differentiations: first of all, although they are not clearly underlined by Plato, there really are different philosophical meanings of autarkeia each of which is elaborated in a specific context. After all, if there were just gods i. e. absolute self-sufficient beings, we would not have to distinguish between final [1] and ontic [2] self-sufficiency, because, in that case, every being would have automatically attained that final autarkeia. But, precisely, there are human beings and they are not ontically self-sufficient although aspiring to final autarkeia: so we have to differentiate the autarkeia of the highest Good from ontic and ethical [3] autarkeia. Lastly, for Plato, it may be said that as long as it is not confused with the first two sorts, ethical autarkeia is totally compatible with virtuous citizenship in a virtuous state. And it doesn’t denote an apathy towards the interests of the state and fellow citizens, but only a capacity to overcome private frustrations. So the same individual can aim at both being as mentally autarkes as far as possible, and at becoming an upstanding citizen. Moreover only to the extent that he, as an individual, is autarkes, can he exercise political virtue, in as much as his mental autarkeia releases him from the desires which would arise from his soul’s lower parts and restrict his attention to bodily and private concerns.

2 Aristotle: from intellection to city Aristotle acknowledges the results of the Platonic theory, and, for instance, distinguishes the self-sufficiency of the good as ultimate telos [1] from the possible self-sufficiency of the substance attaining that good. Thus, as we read in the Nicomachean Ethics, that man, while not being self-sufficient unto himself, can attain a self-sufficient good : […] the final good is thought to be self-sufficient. Now by self-sufficient we do not mean that which is sufficient for a man by himself, for one who lives a solitary life, but also for parents, children, wife, and in general for his friends and fellow citizens, since man is born for citizenship. […] ; the self-sufficient we now define as that which when isolated makes life desirable and lacking in nothing; and such we think happiness to be […]. (I, 7, 1097b7– 16⁸)

On the contrary God is self-sufficient: while not described as such in Metaphysics book Λ [XII], the fact that the Prime Mover’s only activity and essence is self-con-

 All the quotations of the Nicomachean Ethics are from Ross 2009.

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templation⁹ shows that the first principle, insofar as it doesn’t need anything else to be and act, is perfectly self-sufficient. That’s precisely what Aristotle suggests in book XIV, in a difficult passage: θαυμαστὸν δ’ εἰ τῷ πρώτῳ καὶ ἀϊδίῳ καὶ αὐταρκεστάτῳ τοῦτ’ αὐτὸ πρῶτον οὐχ ὡς ἀγαθὸν ὑπάρχει, τὸ αὔταρκες καὶ ἡ σωτηρία. ἀλλὰ μὴν οὐ δι’ ἄλλο τι ἄφθαρτον ἢ διότι εὖ ἔχει, οὐδ’ αὔταρκες, ὥστε τὸ μὲν φάναι τὴν ἀρχὴν τοιαύτην εἶναι εὔλογον ἀληθὲς εἶναι. It would be surprising if what is primary and eternal and most self-sufficient did not possess this very thing – self-sufficiency and self-maintenance –primarily as a good. In fact it cannot be indestructible or self-sufficient because of anything other than being good. So saying that a principle has this character may very well be true. (Aristotle, Metaphysics N [XIV], 1091b16 – 21¹⁰)

The steps of the argument¹¹ appear to be that: 1. Whatever is primary and eternal possesses self-sufficiency. 2. The reason why it possesses self-sufficiency can only be the fact that it is a good. Maybe the second step is implicitly motivated by the self-sufficiency of the good as it is the ultimate end [1]. If the final good as such is self-sufficient, anything or anybody who in any way possesses self-sufficiency in a sense has to possess the good. Indeed, anything or anybody that attained the supreme good, live a “life desirable and lacking in nothing”; conversely, what is “indestructible or self-sufficient”, i. e. what lives a life “lacking in nothing”, may be thought of as a good. However that reasoning is only true when self-sufficiency means “lacking in nothing for good life (εὖ ζῆν) “, and not “lacking in nothing for life (ζῆν¹²)”, that is to say “self maintenance”, since a Manichean metaphysician could forge an indestructible bad principle, that would be both self-sufficient and bad. Accordingly the argument runs the risk of being a petitio principii: a self-sufficient principle is good because it lives a good life.

 Aristotle, Metaphysics Λ [XII] 9, 1074b – 1075a.  Translation Annas 1988.  I mean that this argument, which fits into a discussion challenging Platonism in book N [XIV], should be read independently of the first mover’s goodness demonstration in book Λ [XII] 7. That one, indeed, doesn’t infer the first mover’s goodness from its self-sufficiency, but from its capacity to move while remaining motionless. Here, the second step only appeals to the first principle’s self-sufficiency as such (which is not referred to as a principle of movement but of motionless beings), to infer from that that it is good.  See below p. 193.

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Nevertheless, if we bring that passage and Metaphysics Λ [XII] 7 together: to the extent that the prime mover is identified by Aristotle as the good (Metaphysics Λ [XII] 7, 1072a27 sq.), it has to be self-sufficient, and since it is the highest good, it has to be the most self-sufficient. But, what can be said about self-sufficiency as an ethical ideal for the individual [3], as we have already seen in Plato? It appears in Aristotle too, and with much more depth because the most self-sufficient and most desirable human activity is contemplation, as demonstrated in Nicomachean Ethics (X 7, 1177a12– b26). And precisely a life of contemplation provides the highest self-sufficiency available to men. And the self-sufficiency that is spoken of must belong most to the contemplative activity. For while a philosopher, as well as a just man or one possessing any other virtue, needs the necessaries of life, when they are sufficiently equipped with things of that sort the just man needs people towards whom and with whom he shall act justly, and the temperate man, the brave man, and each of the others is in the same case, but the philosopher, even when by himself, can contemplate truth, and the better the wiser he is; he can perhaps do so better if he has fellow workers, but still he is the most self-sufficient. (Nicomachean Ethics, X 7, 1177a27–b1)

As we have said, that doesn’t mean that the philosopher is, in all respects and at all times, self-sufficient: as a living being he relies on others and on the division of labour for the “necessaries of life”; when practicing moral virtues like justice, temperance or courage he needs external circumstances and human relationships; but at the very moment he contemplates, he only needs his own intellect. So perfect philosophical activity exemplifies the most self-sufficient life and the individual who succeeds in living a philosophical life is the most autarkes. As a matter of fact, this consequence of Aristotle’s noetic theory is troublesome, because, even though philosophical life is restricted to a small circle in the state, it identifies the climax of virtue and happiness with a solitary episode of intellectual activity. There is a risk that solitude would appear to be the horizon of perfection, which contradicts the political nature of man. But, actually, as is well known, solitude is not a moral choice for men, but a rather unnatural option: ἐκ τούτων οὖν φανερὸν ὅτι τῶν φύσει ἡ πόλις ἐστί, καὶ ὅτι ὁ ἄνθρωπος φύσει πολιτικὸν ζῷον, καὶ ὁ ἄπολις διὰ φύσιν καὶ οὐ διὰ τύχην ἤτοι φαῦλός ἐστιν, ἢ κρείττων ἢ ἄνθρωπος·

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From these things therefore it is clear that the city-state is a natural growth and that man is by nature a political animal, and a man that is by nature and not merely by fortune citiless is either low in the scale of humanity or above it. (Aristotle, Politics, I, 1, 1253a2– 5)¹³

To seek solitude, even in contemplation, would divert man from his social nature, maybe that’s why Aristotle seems to hesitate in saying that the sage can perhaps contemplate “better if he has fellow workers “. At some level, even contemplation, requires a community, maybe to make it easier, since continual activities are easier when performed in company¹⁴. In summary, while practicing intellection, the philosopher doesn’t need anything or anybody else, but since he is not a mere intellect, he has to perform ethical virtues, like generosity or justice for which the presence of others is needed. Thus, even thought his activity is autarkes he remains dependent, not only at the physical level but at the ethical too. Therefore, self-sufficiency of intellection is intercoupled with political dependence. But Aristotle goes a step further, since the individual’s political dependence is supposed to lead to a kind of autarkeia, by itself. While the end of the state is good living (εὖ ζῆν), and the good, as has been shown, implying some kind of autarkeia, is it possible, for an individual, to be autarkes at the very time that he fulfils himself as a citizen, that is to say at the point where his action focuses on others? The solution to this difficulty is to ascribe self-sufficiency to the state: ἡ δ’ ἐκ πλειόνων κωμῶν κοινωνία τέλειος πόλις, ἤδη πάσης ἔχουσα πέρας τῆς αὐταρκείας ὡς ἔπος εἰπεῖν, γινομένη μὲν τοῦ ζῆν ἕνεκεν, οὖσα δὲ τοῦ εὖ ζῆν […] ἔτι τὸ οὗ ἕνεκα καὶ τὸ τέλος βέλτιστον· ἡ δ’ αὐτάρκεια καὶ τέλος καὶ βέλτιστον. The partnership finally composed of several villages is the city-state; it has at last attained the limit of virtually complete self-sufficiency, and thus, while it comes into existence for the sake of life, it exists for the good life. […] Again, the object for which a thing exists, its end, is its chief good; and self-sufficiency is an end, and a chief good. (Aristotle, Politics, I, 2, 1252b27– 1253a1)

The self-sufficiency of the state is not only a matter of physical needs to ensure the simple act of living, (ζῆν); those are already met within the framework of the family and village. This political autarkeia is a more complex type and apparently has moral aspects which enable us not only to live, but also to live well¹⁵.

 All the quotations of the Politics are from Rackham 1932.  Cf. Arist. Eth. Nic., IX, 9, 1170a5 – 6.  See Stalley- Barker 1998: 320.

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So, if we summarize, for Aristotle, the individual aims at self-sufficiency [1], to the extent that the good is self-sufficient as telos. In addition, scientific enquiry towards the first principle leads to knowledge of a self-sufficient substance, performing an absolutely self-sufficient activity: the Prime Mover, which is an instance of ontic self-sufficiency [2]. The individual man is neither physically nor morally self-sufficient, nevertheless he can aim at a self-sufficient activity like intellection, thereby defining a new kind of self-sufficiency [4], the one concerning activity. He also aims to be an accomplished citizen and take an active part in a selfsufficient community, resulting in a political self-sufficiency [5]. Like Plato, Aristotle has not expressly clarified all these different meanings of self-sufficiency, but he was more aware than his master of the need to do it¹⁶, and these differentiations are required for reasons of consistency. Furthermore, it may be added that, since the meanings of being are as diverse as the categories, self-sufficiency may be polysemic too, for instance the self-sufficiency of a substance [2] like the Prime Mover is not the same as the self-sufficiency of action [4] (in intellection). But more generally, there is a real difficulty for both Plato and Aristotle, (a) the Good (I mean the ultimate end) is understood as self-sufficient and at the same time, (b) the divinity is also thought of as self-sufficient, and finally (c) human moral or intellectual perfection is thought of as a kind of imitation of God. Part of the solution they gave is to note that the imitation is never the same as the paradigm, so man (I mean the individual) isn’t expected to be perfectly or “divinely” self-sufficient, but only according to his own capacity. Nevertheless, despite that specification, political life doesn’t work very well within that framework, because it runs the risk of appearing only as a second choice good, which is totally inconceivable for both thinkers and for utopian thinking. Aware of that difficulty Aristotle designed the accomplished state as self-sufficient.

3 The Cynics: economic autarkeia and human relationships So, what then is the situation regarding cynicism? God’s autarkeia [2]; human moral good as an imitation of God and an approximation of his self-sufficiency are all included in the sentence attributed to Diogenes:  For example in Nicomachean Ethics I, 7, 1097b7– 16, cf. supra p. 190, where final self-sufficiency is distinguished from the ontic one.

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ὃς ἔφασκε θεῶν μὲν ἴδιον εἶναι μηδενὸς δεῖσθαι, τῶν δὲ θεοῖς ὁμοίων τὸ ὀλίγων χρῄζειν. who used to say that it was the privilege of the gods to need nothing and of god-like men to want but little (Diogenes Laertius, VI, 104¹⁷)

The problem is that they claimed, in a practical way, to be not only morally but economically self-sufficient and that was one of the meanings of their asceticism and renunciation of unnatural desires. The Cynics were supposed to constrain their desires to the point where the spontaneous fruits of nature could meet all their needs, and claimed that that way of life is the natural condition of mankind¹⁸. This implies a denial of the need for a division of labour, since each adult can satisfy his own needs, by collecting natural resources, day by day. And since, the division of labour explains the birth of the state for Plato, there might well be a contradiction between cynic self-sufficiency and the theoretical level of building a perfect community of cynic sages, as expounded in Diogenes’ Politeia or in the Crates’ poem “Pera” (the bag). There is a city Pera in the midst of wine-dark vapour, Fair, fruitful, passing squalid, owning nought, Into which sails nor fool nor parasite Nor glutton, slave of sensual appetite, But thyme it bears, garlic, and figs and loaves, For which things’ sake men fight not each with other, Nor stand to arms for money or for fame. (Diogenes Laertius, VI, 85)

If the origin of the state is, as in Plato’s Republic, the individual’s inability to meet his needs, we might be tempted to say that there is no logical need for the Cynics to live in cities or to imagine perfect cynic cities. After all: All the curses of tragedy, he used to say, had lighted upon him. At all events he was Without city, nor house, lacking of homeland A beggar, a wanderer, living from day to day. ἄπολις, ἄοικος, πατρίδος ἐστερημένος, πτωχός, πλανήτης, βίον ἔχων τοὐφ’ ἡμέραν. (Diogenes Laertius, VI, 38¹⁹)

In proclaiming himself ἄπολις, did Diogenes dismiss every sort of political life, or only the empirical cities of his time? Since he also wrote a Politeia, we are led to choose the second solution. But how can this be made logically coherent?

 All the quotations from Diogenes Laertius are from Hicks 1925.  Cf. D.L. VI 44 (SSR VB322), and Dio Chrysostom, Discourses, VI, 26 – 28 (SSR VB583).  Nauck, T.G.F.2, Adesp. 284 (trans. Hicks modified).

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The Cynics claimed to be self-sufficient above all on an economic level, but it doesn’t mean that they claimed to live solitary lives like Plato’s demiurge or Aristotle’s first mover. After all, the Cynics, who were not interested in theology²⁰, didn’t describe solitary gods, sustained by their own wastage, living solipsist lives and friendship, enjoying self-contemplation: those metaphysical speculations were not cynic, so why would they have been the victims of them. Besides, if we allow Plato and Aristotle to specify various levels of self-sufficiency in order to reconcile political life and their ideal of moral and theoretical perfection, why should we deny the Cynics this solution, and assign to them a monolithic autarkeia, incompatible with political life? So what is cynic self-sufficiency, if it doesn’t aim at solitude? Going back to Diogenes Laertius VI 104, we can see that the characterization of the sage’s selfsufficiency as an approximation of God’s is the conclusion of a passage concerning the cynic’s simple life: They also hold that we should live frugally, eating food for nourishment only and wearing a single garment. Wealth and fame and high birth they despise. Some at all events are vegetarians and drink cold water only and are content with any kind of shelter or tubs, like Diogenes, who used to say that it was the privilege of the gods to need nothing and of god-like men to want but little. (D.L. VI 104)

So, the fact that “god-like men […] want but little” is chiefly a matter of physical needs. As in Plato’s Euthyphro (15a), the gods are autarkeis, because they do not need help to meet their needs, or maybe they have no bodily needs, but that doesn’t imply that they live solitary lives, i. e. that they are self-sufficient at a psychological level²¹: these gods who “need nothing”, are many, so there is no reason why they wouldn’t form a community. Similarly, “god-like men”, despite the fact that they do have bodily needs, are able to minimize them to the point of not requiring other men to fulfil them. The autarkeia is an economic one [6], or, to be more specific, it’s the denial of economy itself as a management of earthly resources by men, and is replaced by nature. As we have already seen, this economical self-sufficiency is made possible through asceticism and a self-restriction of desires, which match roughly with the ethical autarkeia [3] encountered in Plato, although the cynic moral ideal encompasses, not only the capacity to endure losses, but far more, the abandonment of all desires for the things one can lose.

 Cf. D.L. VI 103 (SSR VB368).  Like the Demiurge or the Prime Mover.

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In addition, cynic self-sufficiency results in freedom from all social conventional links and values, like political domination, prestige and wealth. But, contempt for ordinary social norms like “wealth and fame” shouldn’t be taken to mean a global rejection of all human relationships. The Cynic can bear loneliness, but that is not his aim, that’s why Diogenes is looking for a man with a lit lantern in broad daylight²². He intends to live a human relationship coherent with economic autarkeia and moral liberty, that’s the reason why utopias like Diogene’s Politeia or Crates’ Pera, were written: they outline what a perfect society would be if it were not based on economic dependence, irrational desires and political subordination. Hence, because economic and moral autarkeia don’t involve psychological self-sufficiency and solitude, utopian thought is not contradictory with cynicism.

References Annas, J. (1988), Aristotle, Metaphysics, Books M and N, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Brown, L., Ross, D. (2009), Aristotle The Nicomachean Ethics. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Cornford, F.M. (1997), Plato’s Cosmology. The Timaeus of Plato, Indianapolis/Cambridge: Hackett Publishing Company. Dorion, L.-A., “L’autarcie et le fondement de la cité , Platon, Diogène et Aristote,” in S. Husson and J. Lemaire (eds.), Les trois Républiques, Platon, Diogène, Zénon. Paris: Vrin, forthcoming. Ferrari, G.R.F. (ed.), Griffith, T. (trans.) (2000), Plato: The Republic. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Gosling, J.C.B., trans. (1975), Plato Philebus. Oxford, Clarendon Press. Hicks, R.D. (1925), Diogenes Laertius. Lives of Eminent Philosophers. London/New York: Heinemann (Loeb Classical Library). Husson, S. (2011), La République de Diogène. Une cité en quête de la nature. Paris: Vrin. Rackham, H., trans. (1932), Aristotle, Politics, London/Cambridge (Mass.): Harvard University Press. Stalley, R.F., Barker, E. (1998), Aristotle. Politics. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

 Cf. SSR VB272– 279.

Gretchen Reydams-Schils

Were the later Stoics anti-utopians? Thomas More’s Utopia does not have deep connections to the ancient philosophical tradition, in part because of its focus on social justice in the first part of the work, Raphael Hythloday’s account of why he stays away from public life. Despite the fact that More is said to have written a dialogue on Plato’s common ownership of property and wives in his youth and despite the reference to the king-philosopher and philosopher-king (Rep. 473) in Book One, Utopia has more traits in common with Plato’s old Athens and Atlantis of Critias’ tale as well as his Laws than with the structure of the kallipolis in the Republic. ¹ Some features could reasonably remind one of the Cynics’ perspective, as when we are told that in Utopia future partners get to see one another naked before getting married, or when gold is used for chamber pots, slaves’ chains, or as markings of criminals, and jewels as children’s toys.² Its moderate hedonism is reminiscent of Epicureanism, and its emphasis on rationally ordered virtue and Providence of Stoicism.³ But as a whole the work’s allusions to the ancient philosophical traditions are limited. Yet it does raise the questions whether a wise man should attempt to advise a king and whether a better mode of life (if that is what it represents, given its satirical overtones) can be realized in existing communities or demands a radically different kind of community, such as Epicurus’ Garden, the philosophical schools (especially of the Platonists and their circles of hetairoi), or monastic settings. Contrary to Malcom Schofield (1999), I would argue that there is a clear utopian aspect to the Politeia which Zeno of Citium wrote as a counterpart to Plato’s Republic. The point cited by Philodemus that Zeno saw himself as contributing “something applicable to the places in which he found himself and the times in which he lived” is not sufficient to deny this utopian dimension, nor to call Zeno’s position anti-utopian.⁴ For one thing, Plutarch alludes to the ideal character of Zeno’s political construct as “picturing as it were a dream or image of a

 For More’s interest in Plato, see Erasmus’ portrait of More in a letter to Ulrich von Hutten, translated by Nichols 1918: 387– 401.  See also Chrysippus, Plutarch Stoic. rep. 1048B.  We are told in Book One that More’s character Raphael Hythloday, because of his interest in philosophy, had studied more Greek than Latin and that he did not have a high opinion of the contributions by the Romans except for some works of Seneca and Cicero.  De Stoicis col. 12.2 – 6 Dorandi: κατ’ ἀρχὰς τοῦ γρά[μ]ματος ἐμφαίνει τὸ πρόσφορον αὐτὴν ἐκτιθέναι καὶ τοῖς τόποις, ἐν οἷς ὑπῆρχε, καὶ τοῖς χρόνοις, καθ’ οὓς ἔζη. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110733129-011

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philosopher’s well-regulated politeia.”⁵ The political community outlined by Zeno has a function, I submit, that is analogous to that of the Stoic sage, who is either non-existent or very rare (Brouwer 2014: 92– 135).⁶ The very scarcity of the sage undermines the possibility of Zeno’s politeia being realized. Thus, while rejecting the intelligible dimension of reality that plays such a crucial role in Plato’s Republic, Zeno’s city is an ideal model in another sense. Just as the sage, however, is meant to guide ordinary human beings in their striving towards the goal of life as stipulated by the Stoics, an ideal political construct can still affect existing socio-political conditions if it is interpreted as a critique of prevailing practices. Zeno’s radical rejection of local laws and customs, his acknowledgment of only the common law (Plutarch De Alex. 329A – B), and his rejection of traditional social structures all underscore the utopian dimension of his politeia. By contrast to this model, the later Stoics appear to endorse a more realistic view of human socio-political interaction, and there is evidence that they rejected the more radical aspects of Zeno’s politeia. ⁷ Such a view would be in-line with the oft-repeated claim that later Stoicism represents a watered down version of the original doctrine, as a concession to Roman social practices. In a foundational article, however, Daniel Babut (1963) has already pointed out the flaw in this reasoning for human partnerships: it is much too simplistic to assume that Stoicism moved from an endorsement of homoerotic relationships to a more traditional stance of emphasizing heterosexual marriage. In this paper I make a similar proposal for the sociability that manifests itself in human communities. Two passages from later Stoics, one by Epictetus and the other by Marcus Aurelius, will allow us to frame the relevant questions. If one keeps together a number of claims that are attested also for the Early Stoa, the view that later Stoicism stands merely for a less radical version of political responsibility is not tenable, especially given that the Stoics of the Roman imperial period are as aware of the challenges of participating in the politics of existing communities as their predecessors of the Hellenistic era.

 Plutarch De Alex. 329B: ὥσπερ ὄναρ ἢ εἴδωλον εὐνομίας φιλοσόφου καὶ πολιτείας ἀνατυπωσάμενος … See also his Lyc. 31, in which he mentions Zeno together with Plato and Diogenes.  On this point, see also Bees 2011: 304, who, however, overlooks how rare the sage is.  Philodemus De Stoic. col. 9 – 12, 15; D.L. 7.34. For criticism of Chrysippus, see D.L. 7.187– 189.

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1 Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius A good starting point is provided by two key passages from Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius. (It often pays off to read the later Stoics in light of each other.) The passage from Epictetus goes as follows: For Socrates bore very firmly in mind that no one is master over another’s governing principle. He willed, accordingly, nothing but was his own. And what is that? [Not to try to make other people act] in accordance with nature, for that does not belong to one; but, while they are attending to their own business as they think best, himself none the less to be and to remain in a state of harmony with nature, attending only to his own business, to the end that they also may be in harmony with nature. For this is the object which the good and excellent man has ever before him. To become praetor? No; but if it be given him, to maintain his own governing principle in these circumstances. To marry? No; but if marriage be given to him, to maintain himself as one who in these circumstances is in harmony with nature. But if he wills that his son or his wife make no mistake, he wills that what is not his own should cease to be not his own. And to be getting an education means this: To be learning what is your own, and what is not your own (Epictetus Diss. 4.5.4– 7, trans. Oldfather).⁸

And here is the passage from Marcus Aurelius: The universal cause is a torrent, sweeping everything in its stream. So, man, what does that mean for you? Do what nature requires at this moment. Start straight away, if that is in your power: don’t look over your shoulder to see if people will know. Don’t hope for Plato’s Republic, but be content with the smallest step forward, and regard even that result as no mean achievement. How worthless are these little men in the public eye who think their actions have anything to do with philosophy! They are full of snot. And who will change their views? Without a change of view what alternative is there to slavery –men groaning and going through the motions of compliance? Go on, then, talk to me now of Alexander and Philip and Demetrius of Phalerum. I shall follow them, if they saw the will of universal nature and took themselves to her school.

 λίαν γὰρ ἀσφαλῶς ἐμέμνητο, ὅτι οὐδεὶς ἀλλοτρίου ἡγεμονικοῦ κυριεύει. οὐδὲν οὖν ἄλλο ἤθελεν ἢ τὸ ἴδιον. τί δ’ ἔστι τοῦτο; οὐχ† ἱκ .. ος οὗτος .. κατὰ φύσιν· τοῦτο γὰρ ἀλλότριον·ἀλλ’ ὅπως ἐκείνων τὰ ἴδια ποιούντων, ὡς αὐτος δοκεῖ, αὐτὸς μηδὲν ἧττον κατὰ φύσιν ἕξει καὶ εξάξει μόνον τὰ αὑτοῦ ποιῶν πρὸς τὸ κἀκείνους ἔχειν κατὰ φύσιν. τοῦτο γάρ ἐστιν, ὃ ἀεὶ πρόκειται τῷ καλῷ καὶ ἀγαθῷ. στρατηγῆσαι; οὔ· ἀλλ’, ἂν διδῶται, ἐπὶ ταύτης τῆς ὕλης τὸ ἴδιον ἡγεμονικὸν τηρῆσαι. γῆμαι; οὔ· ἄλλ’, ἂν διδῶται γάμος, ἐν ταύτῃ τῇ ὕλῃ κατὰ φύσιν ἔχοντα αὑτὸν τηρῆσαι. ἂν δὲ θέλῃ τὸν υἱὸν μὴ ἁμαρτάνειν ἢ τὴν γυναῖκα, θέλει τὰ ἀλλότρια μὴ εἶναι ἀλλότρια. καὶ τὸ παιδεύεσθαι, τοῦτ’ ἔστιν μανθάνειν τὰ ἴδια καὶ τὰ ἀλλότρια.

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But if they simply strutted a dramatic role, no one has condemned me to imitate them. The work of philosophy is simple and modest. Do not seduce me to pompous pride (Marcus Aurelius 9.29, trans. Hammond, slightly modified).⁹

So, what do these two passages have in common? First, they emphasize the importance of acting “in accordance with nature” (the κατὰ φύσιν, repeated throughout the Epictetus passage). As a crucial fragment from Chrysippus attests, by this stipulation the Stoics mean the alignment between the nature of an individual human being as rational and the nature of the universe (D. L. 7.87– 88). This point is confirmed in the passage from Marcus Aurelius in the injunction to do “what nature requires at this moment” and to follow the “will of universal nature.” (A comparison between D.L. 87– 88, 89, and this passage reveals that with “common nature”– ἡ κοινὴ φύσις—Marcus Aurelius does not refer to the reasoning ability shared by all adult human beings, but the nature of the whole, the universe.) One could object to this interpretation that, at first glance, Marcus Aurelius denies the ordered structure of the universe in his opening statement that “the universal cause is a torrent, sweeping everything in its stream.” Moreover, in other passages he appears to leave open whether the universe is governed by Providence or not.¹⁰ But the disjunction in which he typically couches this question (“either and ordered structure governed by Providence or randomness resulting from atoms”) does not imply a rejection of Providence and can be read as an a fortiori argument: if even an Epicurean can remain calm and rational in the face of challenges, how much more so should a Stoic because of his adherence to the notion of a rationally ordered universe. In this ordered structure, however, change is the expression of that order and does not undermine it, even

 Χειμάρρους ἡ τῶν ὅλων αἰτία· πάντα φέρει. ἄνθρωπε, τί ποτε; ποίησον ὃ νῦν ἡ φύσις ἀπαιτεῖ, ὅρμησον, ἐὰν διδῶται, καὶ μὴ περιβλέπου εἴ τις εἴσεται. μὴ τὴν Πλάτωνος πολιτείαν ἔλπιζε, ἀλλὰ ἀρκοῦ, εἰ τὸ βραχύτατον πρόεισι, καὶ τούτου αὐτοῦ τὴν ἔκβασιν ὡς οὐ μικρόν τί ἐστι διανοοῦ. ὡς εὐτελῆ δὲ καὶ τὰ πολιτικὰ ταῦτα καί, ὡς οἴεται, φιλοσόφως πρακτικὰ ἀνθρώπια· μυξῶν μεστά. Δόγμα γὰρ αὐτῶν τίς μεταβαλεῖ; χωρὶς δὲ δογμάτων μεταβολῆς τί ἄλλο ἢ δουλεία στενόντων καὶ πείθεσθαι προσποιουμένων; ὕπαγε νῦν καὶ ᾿Aλέξανδρον καὶ Φίλιππον καὶ Δημήτριον τὸν Φαληρέα μοι λέγε. ἕψομαι, εἰ εἶδον, τί ἡ κοινὴ φύσις ἤθελε, καὶ ἑαυτοὺς ἐπαιδαγώγησαν· εἰ δὲ ἐτραγῴδησαν, οὐδείς με κατακέκρικε μιμεῖσθαι. ἁπλοῦν ἐστι καὶ αἰδῆμον τὸ φιλοσοφίας ἔργον· μή με ἄπαγε ἐπὶ σεμνοτυφίαν.  For the range of variations of this disjunction, see 4.27, 6.10, 7.32, 8.17, 9.39 f., 10.7, 11.18, 12.14 f., 24. What has escaped general notice is that a similar approach can also be found in Seneca (Ep.16.4– 6) and in Epictetus (F1 Oldfather = 175 Schweighaüser). For a good overview of the secondary literature and issues at stake, see Gourinat 2012: 75 – 82.

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if that change can prove uncomfortable (in the ordinary, non-philosophical sense) for human beings.¹¹ The second feature Marcus Aurelius and Epictetus share in the quoted passages is their acceptance of traditional social functions and roles. We can safely assume that relinquishing his responsibility as emperor was not a viable option for Marcus Aurelius. For Epictetus, “maintaining one’s governing principle,” which he also parses as “remaining in a state of harmony with nature,” is compatible with the political function of a praetor and the social relationship of marriage. Third, both emphasize that one should have modest expectations for affecting outcomes. Marcus Aurelius enjoins that one should not “hope for Plato’s Republic” and be content with “even the smallest step forward.” In addition one should not strive towards having one’s actions be noted, because “the work of philosophy is simple and modest.” He explicitly draws a contrast with the grand role of rulers such as Alexander the Great, rejecting “pompous pride” (σεμνοτυφία). Epictetus relies on his crucial distinction between “that which is our own and that which is not our own” to register the point that one should do what circumstances require in the sense of accepting the roles that one is given. The main reason why one should have modest expectations in the socio-political sphere is that one has no control over another’s actions and values. Who can change the views of wrong-headed people? Marcus Aurelius asks. Strikingly, he does not consider it acceptable to force others into adhering to the right code of conduct. Such measures would lead to slavery, discontent, and the hypocrisy of a merely outward compliance. Epictetus draws on Socrates to state that no one can have any control over another’s governing principle. Thus it makes no sense to expect one’s son or wife not to make any mistakes. How another’s governing principle works is not up to us. Yet, Epictetus also throws out the enigmatic claim that one can attend to one’s own business with a view to (πρὸς τό) others being in harmony with nature. Against the backdrop of a harmony with nature, both the rational nature of human beings and the rational order of the universe, Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius present a picture of involvement in socio-political communities that leaves room for the traditional social functions and relationships and emphasizes the need for modest expectations because one cannot control the reasoning process of another human being. But how are these different components supposed to go together, and, if one cannot control others or force them to arrive at the correct value judgments, what does participation in public life look like? Finally, does

 On this point, see Musonius Rufus F42 Lutz, also listed among the fragments of Epictetus (F8 Oldfather), Epictetus Diss. 3.24.10, Marcus Aurelius 2.12, 17, 4.14, 43, 5.23, 33, 6.15, 7.18, 23, 25.

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this later Stoic perspective present a diluted version of Stoicism, and a more conformist position?

2 A Stoic in Politics The first indication that the later Stoics do not represent a radical break with the Hellenistic tradition can be found in Epictetus’ and Marcus Aurelius’ adoption of the Chrysippean view of harmony with nature (see above). But such a position could still allow for the co-existence of all rational beings, divine and human, at the level of the universe, the so-called cosmopolis, while endorsing a more conformist approach at the level of human communities. So we need to take the inquiry a step further, with the realizations that (i) a more realistic (but not conformist) alternative to the radical terms of Zeno’s politeia arises not only in later Stoicism; and (ii.) neither do attempts at bridging the gap between the sage and ordinary human beings through the notion of moral progress. The role of the sages is not limited to the ideal politeia. Our sources record as a general Stoic stance, also attributed to Zeno, that the sage will take part in politics in existing local communities and marry.¹² There is no reason to assume that the specific relevant passages from the so-called Arius Didymus doxography preserved by Stobaeus do not represent the original Stoic position. At the end of the doxography Arius mentions Chrysippus as his main source, and if there are different versions of a given position he lists individual Stoics. (If these passages represent original Stoic doctrine, we can draw on similar material from Cicero’s De officiis, for all its debt to Panaetius, and Seneca’s De otio and De tranquillitate): (1)…the wise man takes part in politics, especially in such political systems as display some progress (προκοπήν) toward being complete (or ’perfect,’ τελείας) political systems (Stob. 2.7.11b W., trans. Pomeroy; see also 11m).¹³ (2.a) The man with good sense (τὸν νοῦν ) will sometimes (ποτε) be king and associate with a king who shows natural ability (εὐφυΐαν) and the love of learning (φιλομάθειαν). For we said it is possible to take part in government in accord with preferential

 See D. L. 7.121, Cicero Fin. 3.68, Seneca De otio 3.2– 3. On the problem of the conflicting evidence for Zeno, see Pohlenz 1948: 138 – 139, Baldry 1959: 9 – 10, Schofield 1991: 119 – 127, and Asmis 1996. For a recent full assessment of the evidence, see now also Wildberger (2018), esp. sections 6, 7.1 and 8.4.3.  Ἑπόμενον δὲ τούτοις ὑπάρχειν καὶ τὸ πολιτεύεσθαι τὸν σοφὸν καὶ μάλιστ’ ἐν ταῖς τοιαύταις πολιτείαις ταῖς ἐμφαινούσαις τινὰ προκοπὴν πρὸς τὰς τελείας πολιτείας·

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reasoning (κατὰ τὸν προηγούμενον λόγον), … (Stob. 2.7.11m, p. 111 W., trans. Pomeroy; cf. also Sen. Ot. 3.3).¹⁴ (2.b) ‘… but [it is possible] also not to take part if something and especially if he was not going to benefit his country, but assumed that great and difficult dangers would follow directly from political life’ (Stob. 2.7.11m, p. 111, continued W., trans. Pomeroy; see also Seneca Ot. 3.3 – 4).¹⁵

The evidence preserved in Stobaeus starts with the general claim that the sage will take part in politics (1). The specific form this participation can take is in the role of advisor to a king, especially one who shows promise, in “natural ability” and “love of learning” (2a). If we are allowed to combine this evidence with Cicero’s, in his De officiis, it becomes apparent that there are legitimate exceptions to this general principle, given that it falls under the heading of “preferential reasoning,” if (i.) one has a special aptitude for philosophy in the strict sense (Off. 1.71), but with the important proviso that philosophers always serve the common good in their own manner, for instance by teaching and framing laws¹⁶; (ii.) one suffers from ill health (Off. 1.71); and (iii.) one “was not going to benefit one’s country” and run into “great and difficult dangers.”¹⁷ The first exemption would let the Early Stoics off the hook for the damaging charge of a contradiction: while recommending participation in politics, they themselves abstained from such activity. We will return to the challenge of the third exemption (see Section III). One aspect of the Stobaeus passages deserves our special attention in this context, the idea that the sage’s political participation is warranted in systems that “display some progress toward being complete (or “perfect”).” Moral progress, in other words, is not limited to individuals, but can also be at work in socio-political communities.¹⁸ The claim that later Stoicism is less concerned with the sage and more with ordinary human beings who strive towards this type of progress, while legitimate to some extent, needs to be used with caution. If the Stobaeus evidence, again, can be seen as reflecting the general Stoic stance, then the notion of progress is already operative at the early stage and the later Stoics’ approach could well represent a mere shift in emphasis. As in the Stobaeus passage, Dio of Prusa, who allegedly like Epictetus studied with  Καὶ βασιλεύσειν τέ ποτε τὸν νοῦν καὶ βασιλεῖ συμβιώσεσθαι καὶ εὐφυΐαν ἐμφαίνοντι καὶ φιλομάθειαν. Ἔφαμεν δ’ ὅτι καὶ πολιτεύεσθαι κατὰ τὸν προηγούμενον λόγον οἷόν ἐστι … For a different perspective on this topic, see also Plutarch Stoic. rep. 1043B–D.  μὴ πολιτεύεσθαι δὲ ἐάν τι καὶ μάλιστ’ ἂν μηδὲν ὠφελεῖν μέλλῃ τὴν πατρίδα, κινδύνους δὲ παρακολουθεῖν ὑπολαμβάνῃ μεγάλους καὶ χαλεποὺς ἐκ τῆς πολιτείας.  Cicero Off. 1.155 – 156; see also Seneca Ep. 14.14; Ot. 6.4– 5; Arius Didymus ap. Stob. 2.7.11b.  On this point, see also Graver 2012: 79.  On the notion of moral progress, see especially Roskam 2005.

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Musonius Rufus, points out that although all human communities pale in comparison with the cosmopolis, one can find better and worse ones—implying that it is the better communities that deserve our efforts (Or. 36.23).¹⁹ The motif of the double fatherland also allows the Stoics to take on political responsibility in communities as they are, in circumstances as they are given: ideally one can serve the cosmopolis through one’s local community, though often local politics is not in line with the rational order of the universe.²⁰ As Seneca presents this motif: Let us grasp the idea that there are two commonwealths – the one, a vast and truly common state, which embraces alike gods and men, in which we look neither to this corner of earth nor to that but measure the bounds of our citizenship by the path of the sun; the other, the one to which we have been assigned by the accident of birth. … Some yield service to both commonwealths at the same time – to the greater, and to the lesser— some only to the lesser, some only to the greater (De otio 4.1; trans. Basore).²¹

Related to this motif is the very important issue of the connection between human laws and the law that governs the universe as a whole, expressed in its rational order. Such a connection, wherever it is posited, however, is extremely difficult to articulate—a major challenge faced by all natural law systems, and as we have seen, in his Politeia Zeno appears to have pitted the common law against the laws of specific communities (Vimercati 2019). But who are the full members of the cosmopolis? For Zeno and possibly Chrysippus only the sages would truly belong with the gods.²² Here again, however, the evidence for Zeno is conflicted, because a passage in Plutarch might seem to indicate that all human beings would belong (De Alex. 329A – B).

 As I have argued elsewhere (Reydams-Schils 2016), following Brunt (1973) and Schofield (1991, Or. 36: 57– 64, 84– 92), Dio’s orations contain much valuable information about the Stoic view of politics. Vogt (2008) does not include this evidence.  See also Ep. 68; Epictetus Diss. 1.9.10 – 17; Cicero De natura deorum 2.154, Leg. 1.23; Dio Or. 36.38; Marcus Aurelius 3.11, 6.44. On this point, see also Laurand 2014: 444– 450 and 478 – 507.  Duas res publicas animo complectamur, alteram magnam et vere publicam, qua dii atque homines continentur, in qua non ad hunc angulum respicimus aut ad illum, sed terminos civitatis nostrae cum sole metimur; alteram, cui nos adscripsit condicio nascendi. … Quidam eodem tempore utrique rei publicae dant operam, maiori minorique, quidam tantum minori, quidam tantum maiori.  For Zeno, see D.L. 7.32– 33; for Chrysippus, see Philodemus De pietate PHerc. 1428 col. 7.12– 8.4: φρόνιμοι. But note that the full expression of Chrysippus’ view also contains the broader notion of the community of gods and human beings: τὸν κ[όσ]μον ἕνα τῶν φρονίμ[ω]ν, συνπολειτευ[ό]μενον θεοῖς καὶ ἀνθρώποις, 7.21– 26.

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Katja Vogt (2008: 86 – 110, esp. 99) has attempted to resolve this tension by positing different levels of membership for sages and ordinary human beings, reflected in Plutarch’s distinction between δημόται and πολῖται. Another solution could be that the membership stipulation is context dependent: limited to the sage in contexts in which the Stoics want to emphasize the gulf separating the sage and ordinary human beings, expanded when they want to underscore all adult human beings’ capacity for reasoning. In most cases we do not have any context for the fragments of the Early Stoics. But we can see variations at work in the later Stoics. In a passage from Marcus Aurelius, for instance (4.4), we can see how a reflection on a human being’s withdrawal into him- or herself leads to a crucial nuance in the view that all human beings share reason and a common law, and hence Marcus Aurelius here limits the membership of the cosmopolis to human beings. In the course of one oration (36), Dio, for his part, goes through three different views of who belongs in the cosmopolis: (i) when he emphasizes that all human beings are children in comparison to the gods, he limits the cosmopolis to the gods (36.23)²³; (ii.) then he leaves the membership open to all human beings (36.29 – 31), positing reason as the only dependable foundation of community and justice; and (iii.) finally he focuses on those who partake of reason and φρόνησις (36.38), which can be read in a more restrictive sense. However one may be inclined to interpret these variations, it remains the case that the most common expression to capture the membership of the cosmopolis, if we take all the Stoic accounts together, is ‘the community of gods and human beings.’ Included in this material is the following passage in Eusebius, which he claims to have gotten from Arius Didymus’ Epitome: The universe is called also the habitation of gods and human beings (θεῶν καὶ ἀνθρώπων) and the organization of gods and human beings and the things which have come into being for their sake. For just as city is spoken of in two ways, as the habitation and as the organization of the inhabitants along with the citizens (τῶν ἐνοικούντων σὺν τοῖς πολίταις), so also the universe is as it were a city consisting of gods and human beings, the gods exercising the leadership, the human beings subordinate. Community exists between them because they partake in reason, which is natural law; and all else has come into being for their sake (Eusebius PE 15.15; trans. Schofield 1991: 66, slightly modified).²⁴

 Philo of Alexandria, because of his own emphasis on the divide between the human and the divine, in one passage limits membership to God alone (Cher. 120 – 121).  Λέγεσθαι δὲ κόσμον καὶ τὸ οἰκητήριον θεῶν καὶ ἀνθρώπων καὶ τῶν ἕνεκα τούτων γενομένων συνεστῶτα. ὃν γὰρ τρόπον πόλις λέγεται διχῶς, τό τε οἰκητήριον καὶ τὸ ἐκ τῶν ἐνοικούντων σὺν τοῖς πολίταις σύστημα, οὕτως καὶ ὁ κόσμος οἱονεὶ πόλις ἐστὶν ἐκ θεῶν καὶ ἀνθρώπων συνεστῶσα, τῶν μὲν θεῶν τὴν ἡγεμονίαν

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This cosmopolis, once again, consists of the gods and human beings, as partaking in reason (λόγος). Note that in this context too there appears to be distinction between mere inhabitants and citizens. But if we can map the second distinction between rulers and governed onto this first one (which is not certain, given the lapidary style of doxographies), the first distinction would refer to the gods as citizens and the human beings as inhabitants. Alternatively, the “inhabitants” could refer to other living beings besides humans. In any case there is no distinction between sages and ordinary human beings operative in this text (pace Vogt 2008: 92, who supplies the distinction). The membership of the cosmopolis also brings up the question in which sense the sage can be used as a model for other human beings. One important aspect of this question is the manner in which the Stoic philosophers themselves defined their authority in their rapport with their students. The Early Stoics refrained from presenting themselves as sages, and this attitude is very pronounced in later Stoicism (Reydams-Schils 2011, Brouwer 2014: 92– 135). Epictetus systematically averts attention from himself and the Early Stoics by using Socrates and the ideal Cynic as models. He adopts a low authority profile for himself, and pupils are not meant to attach themselves permanently to his philosophical school, but to return to their original social environments to apply what they have learned. The philosophical motivations for Epictetus’ stance point to the importance of the moral agency of individuals, as we have seen in the passages from Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius with which I started out. Students of Stoicism are meant to interiorize the norms that are taught, and these need to be portable precisely in function of assuming one’s role in society. The theme of being an advisor to kings –a king with an interest in philosophy in a real, existing society rather than Plato’s philosopher-king—as mentioned in the Arius Didymus material preserved by Stobaeus, is also clearly present in Musonius Rufus, who sees the good king as ‘ensouled law’ (νόμος ἔμψυχος, Ramelli 2006). Unfortunately, it has been very difficult to establish any direct connections between Marcus Aurelius’ actions as a Roman emperor and the philosophical content of his Meditations, even though Marcus Aurelius, apparently, did show his philosophical leanings in public (Gourinat 2012: 66– 75). The general Stoic injunction appears to be that the sage, and by implication anyone who aspires to being one, will participate in politics if certain conditions are met. The notion of moral progress applies not only to individuals but also to communities. The latter option allows one to serve the cosmopolis through the

ἐχόντων, τῶν δὲ ἀνθρώπων ὑποτεταγμένων. Κοινωνίαν δ’ ὑπάρχειν πρὸς ἀλλήλους διὰ τὸ λόγου μετέχειν, ὅς ἐστι φύσει νόμος· τὰ δ’ ἄλλα πάντα γεγονέναι τούτων ἕνεκα.

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specific socio-political community to which one belongs. As the community that encompasses all local communities, the cosmopolis is open to all human beings insofar as they partake in reason. In a Stoic like Epictetus we find the injunction to make philosophical norms portable, to be applied in whichever circumstances one finds oneself, connected to a low-authority profile of the teacher of philosophy. The role of being an advisor to kings is a specific form of the philosopher’s responsibility in society. As this summary shows, if we read all these features together, including the later Stoic sources, they reinforce one another, and a nonutopian picture of a Stoic in politics emerges.

3 Challenges There are, however, major challenges that confront this alternative approach, of assuming one’s responsibilities in existing communities. The first of these we already encountered in the passages from Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius, namely the problem of convincing others of the correct value assessments. One has no control over someone else’s governing principle, as Epictetus states, and if one does not manage to convince others, outward compliance turns into slavery, according to Marcus Aurelius. But how would this perspective leave room for the punitive aspects of human law, or what Hazistravou in his contribution to this volume calls ‘the institutionally controlled use of reason’? An even greater challenge is posed by the problem that possibly no existing human political community would be good enough, or show enough progress, to merit one’s involvement (a point for which there is a precedent in Plato’s Republic, Rep. 487c – d; 496c–d; Graver 2012: 82). This more pessimistic streak is attested not only for Chrysippus (SVF 3.324; 694) but also for the later Stoics, so on this point there is a strong continuity as well. This pessimism creates a noticeable tension in Seneca’s (incomplete) On Leisure. The work, given its topic, leans towards the defense of leisure and dedicating oneself to the pursuit of philosophy and to the contemplation of the order in the universe, yet it also emphasizes, as we have seen above, how even such a pursuit serves the common good. Seneca too attributes to Zeno the general claim that ‘the sage will engage in public affairs unless something prevents him’ (accedet ad rem publicam, nisi si quid impedierit, De otio 3.2– 3). Among the legitimate exceptions, he, like the source of Stobaeus (see above) lists the bad condition of a given state (as well as lack of influence and ill health):

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If the state is too corrupt to be helped, if it is wholly dominated by evils, the wise man will not struggle to no purpose, nor spend himself when nothing is to be gained (Ot. 3.3; trans. Basore).²⁵

The ending of the work as it has been preserved, however, turns that condition into a quasi necessity: But what difference does it make in what manner the wise man arrives at leisure –whether because no state is available to him or because he is not available to the state—if he is nowhere to find a state? Besides, no state will ever be available to the fastidious searcher. I ask you to what state should the wise man attach himself? … [examples of Athenians who killed Socrates and from whom Aristotle fled, and Carthaginians]. If I should attempt to enumerate them one by one, I should not find a single one which could tolerate the wise man or which the wise man could tolerate. But if that state which we dream of can nowhere be found, leisure begins to be a necessity for all of us, because the one thing that might have been preferred to leisure nowhere exists (De otio 8; trans. Basore).²⁶

But even if no good enough state can be found at any given point in time, that in itself does not preclude the possibility of better opportunities arising in the future (or in a community one does not know of as yet), and thus the option of taking part remains viable. This real possibility of progress, I take it, is fundamentally different from mythical or fictional constructions of an ideal past or future and of an ‘elsewhere,’²⁷ and as such would not be affected by the scarcity of the sage. One could argue that perhaps Seneca’s view here is colored by his own negative experiences with Nero (see also the Preface to Book Three of his Naturales Quaestiones). This interpretation is not incompatible, however, with the claim that a streak of this pessimism runs through the entire Stoic tradition. It is present also in Dio of Prusa, who pushes this line of thought even further. Like Plutarch (Stoic. rep. 1033B–1034B), Dio mentions the charge against the Early Stoics that they contradicted their own teachings about political responsibility and honoring one’s fatherland by abandoning their own fatherlands or not taking part in politics, and like the source in Stobaeus, he allows for exceptions

 Si res publica corruptior est quam ut adiuvari possit, si occupata est malis, non nitetur sapiens in supervacuum nec se nihil profuturus impendet.  quid autem interest, quomodo sapiens ad otium veniat, utrum quia res publica illi deest, an quia ipse rei publicae, si non ubivis futura res publica est? semper autem deerit fastidiose quaerentibus. Interrogo, ad quam rem publicam sapiens sit accessurus. … Si percensere singulas voluero, nullam inveniam, quae sapientem aut quam sapiens pati possit. Quodsi non invenitur illa res publica, quam nobis fingimus, incipit omnibus esse otium necessarium, quia quod unum praeferri poterat otio, nusquam est.  On Plato’s Atlantis story and fiction see Gill (1979).

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to this injunction if circumstances are too adverse (Or. 47.2– 3, Reydams-Schils 2016: 139 – 141). He presents the same pessimistic streak we have already encountered that no political community may be good enough to warrant participation (Or. 73.5 – 7), but extends it even to the level of the cosmopolis: Yet the whole sky, beneath which we all have been from the beginning, is of no avail toward producing concord, neither is our partnership in the universe, a partnership in things divine and majestic, but only, on the contrary, our partnership in things which are petty and worthless. … the common father of all, of “both men and gods” [Zeus] cannot check or prevent the unrighteousness of men (Or. 74.26; trans. Lamar Crosby).²⁸

Even the kinship between all human beings that is anchored in the order of the universe is to no avail in this context, and even Zeus has no control over the governing principle of human beings. But this view is not Dio’s and the Stoics’ last word on the matter, and in Dio’s orations we can detect two strategies for coping with this challenge (ReydamsSchils 2016: 141– 144)—strategies that, I would argue, address Raphael Hythloday’s reservations, in More’s Utopia, about taking on a public role. The first strategy one could call ‘dogged persistence,’ a form of sustained care for others that does not abdicate even in the face of the possibility of failure (Or. 77/78.38–end). The second strategy entails that one can serve the common good wherever one finds oneself (Or. 47.4– 7), because one always remains a member of the cosmopolis, the community of gods and men, insofar as one strives towards the Stoic life of reason. In the tradition Musonius Rufus became especially known for this attitude of a Stoic philosopher in exile (Reydams-Schils 2005: 83 – 113, esp. 103 – 106). No matter how many human beings are oblivious of its existence, the cosmopolis for the Stoics is always here already, in reality, and so it is not a ‘utopia,’ but rather an ‘everywhere.’

References Asmis, E. (1996), “The Stoics on women,” in J. Ward (ed.), Feminism and Ancient Philosophy, New York-London: Routledge, 68 – 92. Babut, D. (1963), “Les Stoïciens et l’amour,” Revue des Études Grecques 76: 55 – 63.

 ὁ δὲ σύμπας οὐρανός, ὑφ’ ᾧ πάντες ἐσμὲν ἀρχῆθεν, οὐδὲν ὠφελεῖ πρὸς ὁμόνοιαν οὐδὲ ἡ τῶν ὅλων κοινωνία θείων οὖσα καὶ μεγάλων, ἀλλὰ τοὐναντίον ἡ τῶν μικρῶν καὶ οὐδενὸς ἀξίων. … ὁ δὲ κοινὸς ἁπάντων ἀνδρῶν τε θεῶν τε‛, ἐξ οὗ πάντες γεγόναμεν … οὐ δύναται κατασχεῖν οὐδὲ κωλῦσαι τὴν ἀδικίαν τῶν ἀνθρώπων.

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Baldry, H. C. (1959), “Zeno’s ideal state,” Journal of Hellenic Studies 79: 3 – 15. Bees, R. (2011), Zenons Politeia. Leiden: Brill. Brouwer, R. (2014), The Stoic Sage: The Early Stoics on Wisdom, Sagehood and Socrates. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Brunt, P. A. (1973), “Aspects of the social thought of Dio Chrysostom and of the Stoics,” Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Society 199 (n.s. 19): 9 – 34. Gill, C. (1979), “Plato’s Atlantis story and the birth of fiction,” Philosophy and Literature 3: 64 – 78. Gourinat, J.-B. (2012), “Was Marcus Aurelius a philosopher?,” in M. van Ackeren and J. Opsomer (eds.), Meditations and Representations: The Philosopher and Emperor Marcus Aurelius in an Interdisciplinary Light, Wiesbaden: Reichert, 65 – 85. Graver, M. (2012), “Seneca and the contemplatio veri: De otio and Epistulae morales,” in T. Bénatouïl and M. Bonazzi (eds.), Theoria, Praxis, and the Contemplative Life after Plato and Aristotle, Leiden: Brill, 75 – 100. Laurand, V. (2014), Stoïcisme et lien social: Enquête autour de Musonius Rufus. Paris: Classiques Garnier. Nichols, F. M. (trans.) (1918), Epistles of Erasmus, vol. 3. London: Longmans and Green. Pohlenz, M. (1948), Die Stoa: Geschichte einer geistigen Bewegung. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Ramelli, I. (2006), Il basileus come nomos empsychos tra diritto naturale et diritto divino: Spunti platonici del concetto et sviluppi di età imperiale et tardo-antica. Naples: Bibliopolis. Reydams-Schils, G. (2016), “Dio of Prusa and the Roman Stoics on how to speak the truth to oneself and to power,” in C. Arruzza and D. Nikulin (eds.), Philosophy and Political Power in Antiquity, Leiden: Brill, 134 – 147. Reydams-Schils, G. (2011), “Authority and agency in Stoicism,” Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies 51: 296 – 322. Reydams-Schils, G. (2005), The Roman Stoics: Self, Responsibility, and Affection. Chicago, London: University of Chicago Press. Roskam, G. (2005), On the Path to Virtue: The Stoic Doctrine of Moral progress and its Reception in (Middle‐)Platonism. Leuven: Leuven University Press. Schofield, M. (1999), “Zeno of Citium’s anti-utopianism,” in M. Vegetti and M. Abbate (eds.), La Repubblica di Platone nella tradizione antica, Naples: Bibliopolis, 49 – 78. Schofield, M. (1991), The Stoic Idea of the City. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Vimercati, E. (2019), “La restauration du nomos dans la Politeia de Zénon et dans le stoïcisme orthodoxe, in B. Collette-Dučić, M.-A. Gavray, and J.-M. Narbonne (eds.), L’ésprit critique dans l’antiquité, vol. I, Critique et licence dans la Grèce antique, Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 391 – 414. Vogt, K. M. (2008), Law, Reason, and the Cosmic City: Political Philosophy in the Early Stoa. New York: Oxford University Press. Wildberger, J. (2018), The Stoics and the State: Theory-Practice-Context. Baden-Baden: Nomos.

Sean McConnell

Cicero and the Golden Age Tradition In his dialogues De re publica and De legibus Cicero engages in sophisticated ways with utopian models of the ideal state and the ideally rational and just society.¹ As Jed Atkins argues in Cicero on Politics and the Limits of Reason,² Cicero ultimately takes a nuanced position in these dialogues: he is happy to use utopian models of the ideal state for reflective contemplation and inspiration (they show what we should be striving towards), and as a mirror on imperfect political realities (they help us to diagnose the ways in which we are falling short); but, at the same time, he highlights the very real practical limits when it comes to implementing such ideal models—by stressing the non-rational aspects of human nature, the importance of the contingencies of history, and the dangers of implementing political ideals in the face of established traditions and customs, Cicero shows that such utopian models are, in fact, never achievable fully in practice. Atkins is right to draw the sober conclusion that in De re publica and De legibus Cicero does not advocate implementation of the ideal state, despite the real value he sees in utopian models and aspirations.³ The ideal state, although very important, is not the only utopian element in Cicero’s political thought. In this chapter I draw attention to Cicero’s engagement with another utopian tradition that has a rather different relationship to history and what is practicable given worldly limitations—the tradition of the golden age, which is prominent not only in Greek myth and literature but also in Plato and the Peripatetic and Stoic philosophical traditions. I make the case that Cicero draws on philosophical accounts of the golden age—most significantly that of the Peripatetic Dicaearchus of Messana (c.350 – c.285 bc)—in his analysis of the Roman res publica and the nature of Roman political virtue. In particular, I argue that his portrayal of the defining characteristics of the Roman people recalls closely the attributes of Dicaearchus’ “golden race.” This allows Cicero to appear more optimistic about the achievability of utopian ideals than he does when engaging with the ideal state tradition of utopian thought, for an identification of the Roman people with the golden race implies that the Romans collectively have the capacity to realise a golden age in the present, just as they did in the past.  For detailed critical discussion see, for example, Atkins 2011 and 2013; Amis 2005 and 2008; Gallagher 2001.  Atkins 2013.  See in particular Atkins 2013: 61– 69, 96 – 99, 229 – 238. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110733129-012

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In the first section I address briefly the criticisms of the analytical method of Plato’s Republic, which appear in the second book of Cicero’s De re publica, so as to illustrate the preference for ideal models that are rooted in tangible human history and customs rather than in abstract theorising. In the next section I show how fundamental features of utopian golden age narratives accord with the analytical method of De re publica on a broad structural level. In the final section I critically assess the full extent of Cicero’s engagement with the golden age utopian tradition, which shifts the focus to Dicaearchus.

1 History and Ideal Models in De Re Publica Cicero’s philosophical engagement with utopian political ideals is most apparent in his partially extant dialogue De re publica, which, as Cicero says in a letter to his brother Quintus, “concerns the best constitution and the best citizen” (de optimo statu civitatis et de optimo cive, Q. fr. 3.5.1).⁴ This interest in ideals, in the normative question of what is best (and what, therefore, all things being equal, is “most to be desired”; Rep. 1.45), situates Cicero in a tradition of utopian political thinking that is distinguished most of all by Plato’s Republic. However, despite a number of obvious parallels between De re publica and Plato’s Republic,⁵ in the second book of the dialogue Cicero clearly seeks to distance himself from both the method that Plato uses and the conclusions that he reaches (2.3, 2.21– 22, 2.51– 52). Consider in particular the following two passages: quam ob rem, ut ille solebat, ita nunc mea repetet oratio populi Romani originem; libenter enim etiam verbo utor Catonis. facilius autem, quod est propositum, consequar, si nostram rem publicam vobis et nascentem et crescentem et adultam et iam firmam atque robustam ostendero, quam si mihi aliquam, ut apud Platonem Socrates, ipse finxero. (Rep. 2.3) Scipio: I will therefore follow his [Cato’s] model and take my start from the origin of the Roman people; I am happy to make use of Cato’s own word. I will have an easier time in completing my task if I show you our commonwealth as it is born, grows up, and comes of age, and as a strong and well-established state, than if I make up some state as Socrates does in Plato. (trans. Zetzel) videtisne igitur unius viri consilio non solum ortum novum populum neque ut in cunabulis vagientem relictum, sed adultum iam et paene puberem?

 Unless otherwise indicated, all translations are my own.  The title of Cicero’s dialogue is a direct homage to Plato; both works share a focus on formulating an account of the best state; both works are concerned to show how all citizens in the state might flourish and live good lives, individually and collectively, so long as “the best” are in a position to lead or rule; and so forth.

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tum Laelius: nos vero videmus, et te quidem ingressum ratione ad disputandum nova, quae nusquam est in Graecorum libris. nam princeps ille, quo nemo in scribendo praestantior fuit, aream sibi sumsit, in qua civitatem extrueret arbitratu suo, praeclaram ille quidem fortasse, sed a vita hominum abhorentem et moribus, reliqui disseruerunt sine ullo certo exemplari formaque rei publicae de generibus et de rationibus civitatum; tu mihi videris utrumque facturus; es enim ita ingressus, ut, quae ipse reperias, tribuere aliis malis quam, ut facit apud Platonem Socrates, ipse fingere et illa de urbus situ revoces ad rationem, quae a Romulo casu aut necessitate facta sunt, et disputes non vaganti oratione, sed defixa in una re publica. quare perge, ut instituisti; prospicere enim iam videor te reliquos reges persequente quasi perfectam rem publicam. (Rep. 2.21– 22) Scipio: Do you see that the judgement of one man not only created a new people but brought it to full growth, almost to maturity, not leaving it like some infant bawling in the cradle? Laelius: We do see that, and we see that you have introduced a new kind of analysis, something to be found nowhere in the writings of the Greeks. That great man, the greatest of all writers, chose his own territory on which to build a state to suit his own ideas. It may be a noble state, but it is totally alien to human life and customs. All the others wrote about the types and principles of states without any specific model or form of commonwealth. You seem to me to be doing both: from the outset, you have preferred to attribute your own discoveries to others rather than inventing it all yourself in the manner of Plato’s Socrates; and you ascribe to Romulus’ deliberate planning all the features of the site of the city which were actually the result of chance or necessity. Moreover, your discussion does not wander but is fixed on one commonwealth. So go on as you have begun; I think I can foresee a commonwealth being brought to perfection as you go through the remaining kings. (trans. Zetzel)

Scipio and Laelius both express reservations about Socrates’ method of formulating the ideal state, for two reasons: first, because it is easier (facilius) to look at a real historical example, in this case the Roman res publica,⁶ rather than to create something from scratch; second, Socrates’ ideal state is alien to actual human life and customs, and so it appears unattainable in practice, whereas a historical example evidently avoids such worries.⁷ On the other hand, Laelius also suggests that Socrates’ approach is valuable in so far as he offers a normative model of the best state and does not merely describe the sorts of state that exist and the political principles that they instantiate, which

 Scipio states explicitly at the end of the first book that the historical example of the Roman res publica is an exemplum that he will use to illustrate the character of the ideal state (1.70): simul et qualis sit et optimam esse ostendam expositaque ad exemplum nostra re publica accommodabo ad eam, si potero, omnem illam orationem, quae est mihi habenda de optimo civitatis stat.  Cicero makes the same point at De oratore 1.224– 225, in this instance attributing the account of the ideal state to Plato himself rather than to the character Socrates.

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is what “others” do.⁸ Laelius states that Scipio’s major innovation is to unite the best of both approaches: with the use of a tangible historical example, the Roman res publica, he offers a normative model of an ideal that is rooted in actual human life and customs.⁹ There is, however, some degree of tension between the two aspects of Scipio’s analytical method. Laelius acknowledges that the facts of Roman history are prone to be fabricated or modified in order to fit the demands of the ideal (2.22): he observes that some aspects of the site of Rome were really unavoidable or arbitrary, the result of chance or necessity rather than Romulus’ deliberate design (et illa de urbus situ revoces ad rationem, quae a Romulo casu aut necessitate facta sunt); other details might similarly be amended. This has implications for how we read the account of Roman history in the second book of De re publica. ¹⁰ It is stressed that the most important feature of Scipio’s approach is that the model of the ideal state is located in historical rather than purely conceptual space, not that the model is strictly historically accurate so far as the Roman res publica is concerned.¹¹ We are, therefore, warned to maintain a healthy degree of scepticism about the veracity of the historical narrative, and in places such scepticism comes strongly to the fore in the text itself. A good example is the discussion of the fantastic accounts of Romulus’ deification, which are categorised as fabulae (“stories”) rather than facta (“facts”), but nonetheless accepted as true since they have social utility and have been passed on by ancestral tradition (2.4, 2.18 – 19). There is also a telling remark about the paucity of evidence available concerning the early kings: sed obscura est historia Romana, siquidem istius regis matrem hebemus, ignoramus patrem (“But Roman history is dark, if we only have the mother of this king and do not know who his father was,” 2.33). The balance between the two aspects of Scipio’s analytical method is thus clear: Scipio strives to give clarity and substance to the nature of the ideal state by using illustrations and examples purportedly drawn from the history of Rome (2.55), but the focus remains capturing the defining characteristics

 These “others” are usually identified as the Peripatetics; see Büchner 1984: 190 and Zetzel 1999: 39 n. 22.  See further Büchner 1984: 188 – 191 and Atkins 2013: 56 – 61.  For further discussion of Cicero’s presentation of Roman history in the second book of De re publica, see, for example, Hathaway 1968; Rawson 1972: 35 – 37; Ferrary 1984; Zetzel 1999: 39 n. 23; Cornell 2001; Fox 2007: 80 – 110; Asmis 2014.  On this point, see in particular Asmis 2014, who argues that Scipio’s account of the development of the Roman republican constitution from its monarchical beginnings to its ideal state is in fact a myth of Cicero’s creation. Fox 2007: 80 – 110 also stresses the idealisation of Roman history in the service of illustrating the characteristics of the ideal constitution.

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of the ideal—which he admits can be done without any model (exemplum) at all (2.66)—rather than providing a fully accurate positivist history of the development of the Roman res publica (2.64– 66).¹² Laelius’ claim that Scipio’s approach offers a superior new kind of analysis, nowhere to be found among the writings of the Greeks, is perhaps accurate with regard to the tradition of “ideal state” utopian thinking. There is, however, another established mode of utopian thinking that shares a number of features in common with it: philosophical narratives of the golden age contain a similar blend of the historical and the ideal.

2 Golden Age Narratives and Scipio’s Mode of Analysis Hesiod’s account of the five races in Works and Days (106 – 201) portrays an original utopian situation—the golden age or age of Cronus—in which a golden race of men live happily together with the gods, their every need being met, which is followed by a steady decline through various stages (punctuated by the race of heroes) to the miserable state of human life in the present with the race of iron.¹³ The notion of the golden age also features prominently in Greek political philosophy. Thus, for instance, in the dialogues Laws (676a – 679e, 713a – 714b) and Statesman (268d – 274e), Plato offers an account of human life in the golden age, stressing its political character and the justice and good laws that prevailed under divine rule. He also alludes to Hesiod’s five races in the “noble lie” at the end of the third book of the Republic (414c – 417b), where he defines a golden kind of human—the philosophers—who are superior to the relatively debased silver, iron, and bronze kinds.¹⁴ And in the Timaeus (21a – 27b) and Critias, the Myth

 This emphasis is reinforced when Scipio says that the model of nature (imago naturae)—the rational order of the heavenly bodies—could be used to illustrate the best state instead of the historical example of Rome or indeed any other human pattern at all (2.66). Hence, he uses the model of Rome to illustrate the nature of the best constitution, while acknowledging that the model of Rome is imperfect and arbitrary in various ways. The concluding Dream of Scipio emphasises even further the pure cosmic ideal in comparison to the base and imperfect earthly reality. For critical discussion of Cicero’s use of models, see Atkins 2013: 56 – 72 with further references to earlier literature.  For detailed critical discussion of Hesiod’s account and the literary tradition that follows, see in particular van Noorden 2015 and Kubusch 1986, with further references.  Later, in the eighth book of the Republic, it is stated explicitly that these categories are the “races of Hesiod” (τὰ Ἡσιόδου . . . γένη, 547a).

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of Atlantis describes a golden period in the past (the memory of which just barely survives), an era that is ultimately destroyed by creeping moral degeneracy and a great flood.¹⁵ The Peripatetic Dicaearchus begins his Life of Greece, a comprehensive historical account of the development of the Greek city-states from human prehistory onwards, with a portrayal of the golden age in which ancient humans lived blessed lives enjoying the natural bounty of the earth (Varro, De rust. 2.1.3; Porphyry, De abs. 4.2.1– 9; Jerome, Adv. Iov. 2.13; Codex Vaticanus 435; = frags. 36, 54, 56 A – B Mirhady).¹⁶ The Cynics address the topic (Dio Chrys. Orat. 6.21– 9), and there is also a Stoic tradition, most evident in Seneca’s Epistle 90, which contrasts the simple and happy lot of early human beings with the corrupted and miserable situation that is evident in the present.¹⁷ These philosophical golden age narratives share a number of features in common. As a general rule, they offer a normative account of the best mode of human existence, the life or form of political community that all things being equal should be desired. To this end, they illustrate what the full expression of human nature looks like; and, in particular, they outline certain conditions (either necessary or sufficient) in which that nature might be realised. In Hesiod’s account of the golden age, the gods are disposed benevolently towards the golden race, and the world is ordered so that they suffer no harms, have no unfulfilled desires, and so live pleasurably without toil. The kindly attitudes of the gods suffice to make the life of the golden race blessed. The philosophers offer something rather different. Plato stresses the importance of doing philosophy and having a rational and just form of political organisation if human beings are to overcome their base instincts and flourish (Laws 713a – 714b; Statesman 271d – 274e). The Stoics and Dicaearchus—who, as we shall see in the next section, exercises the most influence on Cicero in this regard—stress the point that in the golden age there was nothing to stymie or corrupt the full expression of intrinsically good human nature, which, among other things, involves the proper practice of politics since human nature is political (Varro, De Rust.

 For further discussion of Plato’s treatment of the golden age, see, for example, Vidal-Naquet 1978; Boys-Stones 2001: 10 – 14; Schofield 2006: 203 – 212; van Noorden 2015: 89 – 167.  The most detailed report is given by Porphyry. The author of Codex Vaticanus 435 is recorded as Plutarch or Caecilus in the manuscript, but both the date and authorship are uncertain. See further McConnell 2012: 321– 335; Saunders 2001; Schütrumpf 2001; Ax 2001; Boys-Stones 2001: 14– 17.  For detailed critical discussion, see in particular Boys-Stones 2001: 7– 10, 18 – 59; also McConnell 2012: 327– 333.

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2.1.3; Porphyry, De abs. 4.2.1– 6; Codex Vaticanus 435 = frag. 36 Mirhady; Sen. Ep. 90).¹⁸ It is important to stress that these golden age accounts or models of the best mode of human existence are, to stronger or weaker degrees, situated in historical rather than purely conceptual space, since they posit a continuous causal connection between “then” and “now.” Indeed, they all offer explanations for why present human life and customs differ and have declined from the happy situation in the past, by identifying causes that purport to be rooted in empirical fact, in key events that took place in the past (even if, as Plato notes, those events are so ancient as to be essentially unknowable with any degree of certainty—Statesman 268e – 269c; Laws 678a; Timaeus 20e – 27d). This implies that present-day human beings can also achieve in practice the best life that is epitomised by those in the golden age: for, unless conditions have changed irrevocably in the world, or unless human nature itself is different, there would appear to be no fundamental barrier to attain what humans in the past achieved. To be sure, in Hesiod’s account such factors have clearly changed irrevocably: he divorces the golden age from the present by stressing that there have been fundamental changes both in human nature (we are not the golden race) and the external environment (the gods are no longer disposed kindly towards us). Similarly, for Plato, given certain insurmountable practical limits, we can at best achieve a likeness of the ideal forms of political organisation that pertained under the direct rule of Cronus (Laws 713a – 714b). Seneca states that human beings in the golden age were ignorant of virtue and vice, but they were of lofty spirit and in their innocence they enjoyed a blessed existence under just rule; presently, however, we are only able to recapture this blessed state through the practice of philosophy and the attainment of virtue (Ep. 90.44– 46). In contrast, Dicaearchus is careful to maintain a high degree of continuity: human nature remains the same, and nature in general remains the same; the cause of any failure to maintain the original golden age scenario lies elsewhere, and he points the finger at the development of technai and the value placed on the possession of property that emerges as a result of the pursuit of first pastoral and then agricultural farming (Varro, De Rust. 1.2.15 – 16; Porphyry, De abs. 4.2.5 – 9; Codex Vaticanus 435 = frag. 36 Mirhady).¹⁹ But there is no reason to think that the negative impact of such developments is necessary or insurmountable.

 See further McConnell 2012: 321– 335; also Boys-Stones 2001: 14– 27.  Porphyry notes that Dicaearchus removes much of the mythical element that is present in the traditional accounts of the poets, instead casting things in natural terms (De abs. 4.2.3). Porphyry also notes that Dicaearchus is keen to ally his developmental narrative about the shifts

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At this point we can appreciate that there are significant affinities between Scipio’s supposedly innovative mode of analysis in De re publica and philosophical golden age narratives. First, the concern about the practical realisation of abstract ideal models (2.21) is countered by looking to the tangible historical example of the Roman res publica, but certain accounts of the golden age—in particular that of Dicaearchus—could readily perform the same role. Second, in golden age narratives the positivist question whether or not everything actually happened as described is clearly subordinate to the normative role such narratives play: they illustrate the ideal mode of human existence, and the “facts” are fabricated or modified to suit. As discussed in Section 1 above, this accords with Scipio’s method in treating early Roman history in De re publica. Third, the structure of the account of the development of the Roman republican constitution matches closely the structure of golden age narratives. To be sure, they obviously differ in that golden age narratives start with an original scenario that is good and then track a process of decline, whereas Scipio, following the example of Cato, traces the development of the res publica from its origin, through various imperfect stages, to the ideal (2.3, 2.22, 2.30, 2.64 – 66). Following Scipio’s account, however, Cicero, in the prefaces to Books 3 and 5, offers commentary in his own voice on the decline that has been taking place to the present, diagnosing various faults and outlining remedies that might restore the res publica to a state of health (3.4– 7, 5.1– 2).²⁰ This intervention by Cicero himself allows us to see that the basic structure of golden age narratives is still intact in De re publica as a whole: there is an ideal period followed by a decline; it is just that the “golden age” is not the original position at the ultimate starting point of human existence, or even at the origin of the Roman res publica, but rather it is located in quite recent history.²¹ These similarities between golden age narratives and the analytical method of De re publica pertain on a broad structural level, but the specific details of Cicero’s exploitation of earlier Greek source material are not yet clear. In the next section I flesh out the full nature and extent of Cicero’s engagement with the utopian golden age tradition of political thought.

from the golden age to pastoralism and then to agriculture with the inquiries of others who have researched ancient matters (4.2.7– 8).  For further critical discussion, see, for example, Zarecki 2014: 77– 131; Asmis 2005; Zetzel 1995: 27– 29; Girardet 1983.  See further McConnell 2012: 343 – 345.

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3 The Golden Age and the Golden Race in Cicero’s Political Thought Direct evidence for Cicero’s explicit engagement with the golden age utopian tradition is relatively thin on the ground.²² In a letter to Quintus Lepta from early 45 bc he recommends that his young son should learn Hesiod by heart (Fam. 6.18.5), implying that he has done so himself. However, explicit references to Hesiod’s verse either take the form of essentially proverbial quotes in Greek (Fam. 6.18.5; Att. 13.12.3)²³ or concern his directive on the proper repayment of debts (Brut. 15; Off. 1.48 ~ Hes. W&D 349 – 350); there is no evidence of any engagement with his account of the five races or the golden age.²⁴ Let us turn then to Plato. It is not clear that Cicero was familiar with Plato’s Statesman, but he certainly had good working knowledge of the Laws and Republic. There is no indication that Cicero engaged with the noble lie of Plato’s Republic,²⁵ nor are there any obvious allusions to the golden age account in the fourth book of the Laws. ²⁶ The account of the formation of political communities in the third book of the Laws, which contains some motifs reminiscent of the depiction of the golden age (676a – 679e), is an important influence on the account of the development of the Roman res publica in the second book of De re publica. ²⁷ In the Laws Plato accounts for the development of laws and constitutions as a matter of historical circumstance. However, there is nothing really historical in the sense of looking at the evidence from the past and seeking to establish facts; rather Plato showcases a compelling form of philosophical anal It is easy, but relatively uninteresting, to detect in Cicero’s writing a general sense of nostalgia and the notion of a superior situation in the past, followed by decline into the present-day. Indeed, much has been written on Cicero’s practice as a writer of history, the moral value that he sees in history, his use of historical exempla, his antiquarian interests, his nostalgia for the past, and so forth—see further, for example, Rawson 1972; Fox 2007; Asmis 2014. In contrast, in this section I seek to trace firm links to earlier figures in the “golden age” tradition of utopian thought.  Thus, at Fam. 6.18.5: τῆς δ’ ἀρετῆς ἱδρῶτα (“sweat before excellence”) ~ Hes. W&D 289; at Att. 13.12.3: nam hoc etiam Hesiodus ascribit, αἴ κε δύνηαι (“for even Hesiod adds, ‘if you can’”) ~ Hes. W&D 350.  It is worth noting that at De natura deorum 1.36 and 1.41 Cicero refers to the Stoic interest in reconciling Hesiod’s traditional gods with their own theology, citing Zeno’s interpretation of Hesiod’s Theogony (possibly a treatise) and Book 2 of Chrysippus’ Nature of the Gods.  He does make a joke about the obscurity of the nuptial number in a letter to Atticus (7.13.5).  Note that there are explicit references to other passages from the fourth book of the Laws (Leg. 2.14 ~ Laws 718b–723d; Leg. 2.16 ~ Laws 722d; Leg. 2.41 ~ Laws 716e; Fam. 1.9.12 ~ Laws 711c).  See further Ferrary 1984 and Atkins 2013: 80 – 119.

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ysis suited to empirical and historical subjects where there is no available documentary evidence, a method in which one works backwards from current facts to the processes and first principles that explain the current state of affairs. Cicero adopts the same sort of method in the second book of De re publica, but there is no real indication that he also engaged with a Platonic model of the golden age. Cicero’s translation of Aratus’ epic poem Phaenomena covers the account of the golden age and the decline of humankind (Cic. Arat. 100 – 141 ~ Arat. Phaen. 96 – 136);²⁸ and in the second book of De natura deorum the Stoic spokesman Balbus presents a quote from Cicero’s translation in the context of a lengthy Stoic argument that the world as a whole, and everything within it (the heavenly bodies, the plants, the animals, and so forth), exist for the use and benefit of humankind (2.154– 168): quid de bubus loquar? quorum ipsa terga declarant non esse se ad onus accipiendum figurata, cervices autem natae ad iugum, tum vires umerorum et latitudines ad aratra [ex]trahenda. quibus cum terrae subigerentur fissione glebarum, ab illo aureo genere, ut poetae loquuntur, vis nulla umquam adferebatur; ferrea tum vero proles exorta repente est ausaque funestum prima est fabricarier ensem et gustare manu vinctum domitumque iuvencum. (= Aratea 134– 136)²⁹ tanta putabatur utilitas percipi e bubus ut eorum visceribus vesci scelus haberetur. (DND 2.159) What should I say about oxen? The very shape of their backs reveals that they do not exist for the purpose of carrying burdens, but on the other hand their necks are born for the yoke, and moreover the strength and size of their shoulders exist for the purpose of dragging the plough. Since the earth was tilled by them through the breaking of clods, by that golden race, as the poets say, no violence was ever used against them; But then the iron race suddenly sprang up, And first dared to forge the deadly sword, And to eat the ox bound and tamed by its hand. So great was the utility thought to have been got from oxen that to eat their flesh was held a crime.

 At line 118 Cicero explicitly refers to the “golden race” (haec manet, in sanctis dum gens manet aurea terris).  Although this quote is from Cicero’s own translation of Aratus, certain details of the golden age and the decline of humankind do not match what we see in the Phaenomena. Most obviously, the reference to the iron race, so prominent in Hesiod’s account, is not present in Aratus’ poem: he only covers the gold, silver, and bronze races. In Aratus’ poem the bronze race are the first to kill and eat the oxen (Phaen. 130 – 132). As an explanation for the translation choice, Johnston 1980: 27 n. 16 hazards that Cicero is trying to align the accounts of Aratus and Hesiod. For detailed discussion of Aratus’ account, and his relation to Hesiod, see van Noorden 2015: 168 – 203.

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The key feature of this Stoic account is that the golden race did not act violently towards oxen, and in particular did not kill and eat them, for oxen do not serve the purpose of providing their flesh as food, but rather their bodies are designed for the human pursuit of agriculture.³⁰ Implied is a natural harmonious co-existence where the labour of the oxen tilled the earth, and the golden race reaped the benefits of the crops.³¹ It is interesting to see solid evidence that Cicero was aware of the Stoic tradition on the golden age, and the model in which human beings live in accordance with nature, by pursuing a humble agricultural mode of life, is certainly very influential on Roman utopian thinking in the imperial period;³² but it is hard to discern much of substance in terms of influence on Cicero’s own political thought.³³

 The act of butchering and eating one’s oxen evidently heralds the arrival of the iron race. The abstention from eating oxen turns on the idea of acting unnaturally—for oxen serve the purpose not of providing their flesh as food but of providing the labour to till the fields for crops. On the other hand, certain animals such as the pig serve the purpose of providing human beings with food (Cic. DND 2.160). As such, the Stoics do not portray the golden age as involving a vegetarian mode of life. Complete abstinence from meat is, however, a feature of certain philosophical golden age narratives: for instance, it appears in Plato’s Statesman (271– 272b), where humans are so close to animals as to be able to converse with them (272b – d); and it is a core feature of Dicaearchus’ account, where the golden race “killed no being with a soul” (μηδὴν φονεύειν ἔμψυχον) (Porphyry, De abs. 4.2.2; Jerome, Adv. Iov. 2.13) and lived in harmony with the plant and animal kingdoms, with the earth providing its bounty of its own accord (Porphyry, De abs. 4.2.3 – 4; Jerome, Adv. Iov. 2.13).  This image of simple agricultural life accords straightforwardly with Aratus’ account of the golden age (Phaen. 105 – 114; cf. Hes. W&D 109 – 121), but it is explicitly absent in the accounts of Plato (Statesman 272a), Dicaearchus (Varro, De Rust. 1.2.15 – 16; Porphyry, De abs. 4.2.5 – 9; Jerome, Adv. Iov. 2.13), and interestingly enough Seneca (Sen. Ep. 90.36 – 40), for all of whom agriculture is a feature of the decline of humankind. The position of Seneca is indicative of some discrepancy in the Stoic tradition. This is best explained by looking at Posidonius, whose account of early human history Seneca critiques throughout Epistle 90. Posidonius condones the place of agriculture in the golden age since it is a creation of the wise (90.21); in keeping with the account of providence in De natura deorum, agriculture is a natural human enterprise that utilises the oxen that have been provided us for this end. Seneca perhaps disagrees for much the same Stoic reasons: nature itself provides enough of everything that is necessary for humans without any need for the toils of agriculture or any other science or craft (90.18 – 43)—so, the argument would go, the fact that oxen are suited for agriculture does not make it a necessity for humans to pursue it, particularly when the (avoidable) negative by-products of the enterprise are factored in as well.  See, for example, Johnston 1980 and Evans 2008 with further references.  Note, however, that in De re publica the second king Numa is credited with softening the war-like nature of the original Romans and turning them towards peace and justice by encouraging the general pursuit of agricultural life (2.25 – 26).

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It is Dicaearchus’ distinctive treatment of the golden age that exercises the most influence on Cicero.³⁴ In his Life of Greece Dicaearchus presents an original historical scenario in which ancient human beings led “the best life” (τὸν ἄριστον ἐζηκότας βίον, Porphyry, De abs. 4.2.1), which is characterised by the proper pursuit of good activities: for example, friendship, marriage, and politics (Porphyry, De abs. 4.2.5 – 6; Codex Vaticanus 435 = frag. 36 Mirhady).³⁵ The golden race led blessed lives because nature provides what is necessary (Porphyry, De abs. 4.2.2– 5) and, more importantly, they “were naturally the best” (βελτίστους τε ὄντας φύσει, Porphyry, De abs 4.2.1)—although they were ignorant of philosophy and the art of persuasive speech, they had good character traits that straightforwardly found expression in good deeds (Codex Vaticanus 435 = frag. 36 Mirhady), in the bios praktikos or life of practical action (Cic. Att. 2.16.3).³⁶ Cicero’s portrayal of the defining traits of the Roman people resonates with this depiction of the golden race. In De re publica the Roman people are described as originally war-like under Romulus (2.25), but Numa then softens that propensity through an egalitarian distribution of land: ac primum agros, quos bello Romulus ceperat, divisit viritim civibus docuitque sine depopulatione atque praeda posse eos colendis agris abundare commodis omnibus amoremque eis otii et pacis iniecit, quibus facillime iustitia et dides convalescit, et quorum patrocinio maxime cultus agrorum perceptioque frugum defenditur. (Rep. 2.26) And first he divided among the citizens the fields, which Romulus had won in war, giving each a share, and he taught them that by the cultivation of their fields they could have an abundance of every kind of commodity without ravaging and plunder. And he implanted in them the love of leisure and peace, with which justice and good faith most easily grow stronger, and under whose protection the cultivation of the fields and the enjoyment of its fruits are most secure.

 From the numerous explicit citations in his own writing, Cicero was evidently familiar with a great deal of Dicaearchus’ work (Att. 2.2.2, 2.12.4, 2.16.3, 6.2.3, 7.3.1, 13.30.2, 13.32.2, 13.33.2; Leg. 3.14; Tusc. 1.21, 1.24, 1.41, 1.51, 1.77, 4.71; Div. 1.5, 1.113, 2.100, 2.105; Acad. 2.124; Fin. 4.79; Off. 2.16 – 17), including in all likelihood the Life of Greece (Att. 6.2.3), which contains the account of the golden age and is cited explicitly by name by Cicero’s learned friend and contemporary Varro (De rust 1.2.16). For further discussion of the range of Dicaearchus’ work that was available to Cicero and his peers, see McConnell 2012: 317– 319.  See McConnell 2012: 333 – 335.  For a detailed analysis of the specifics of Dicaearchus’ argument, including interpretative issues concerning the textual evidence, see McConnell 2012: 321– 333.

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With the reforms of Numa the Romans develop a tranquil nature in which the negative effects of their martial character are mitigated, and good faith (fides) and justice (iustitia) prevail. Cicero then attributes the progression of the res publica to its best state to the wisdom (sapientia), insight (consilium), and discipline (disciplina) of these ancient Romans (2.30). In line with this depiction in De re publica, in the Tusculan Disputations, written in 45 bc, Cicero presents a detailed list of native Roman virtues when arguing for the superiority of the Roman people over the Greeks and all others: iam illa, quae natura, non litteris adsecuti sunt, neque cum Graecia neque ulla cum gente sunt conferenda. quae enim tanta gravitas, quae tanta constantia, magnitudo animi, probitas, fides, quae tam excellens in omni genere virtus in ullis fuit, ut sit cum maioribus nostris comparanda? (Tusc. 1.2) Now, with those things that are attained from nature and not from letters, they cannot be compared either with the Greeks or with any other people. Where, indeed, has such seriousness, such firmness of purpose, greatness of soul, honesty, good faith, where has such preeminence in every kind of virtue been in anyone else, so that it might be compared with our ancestors?

The explicit reference to natura here is telling: these are not traits that are taught or that develop owing to a process of formal learning or philosophical reflection, but rather the virtues pertain naturally as intrinsic qualities in the Roman people of old.³⁷ These good native traits all find expression in the life of practical action that Cicero, in line with Dicaearchus, consistently advocates as best (e. g., Rep. 1.1– 13, 3.4– 7; Off. 1.62– 91; Att. 2.16.3, 7.3).³⁸ Indeed, in De re publica Cicero stresses that the Romans of the past led this mode of life, as evident from their great deeds, which they performed, like the golden race, despite a lack of theo-

 See further Schofield 2009: esp. 199 – 201. These same sentiments are expressed in other speeches and philosophical works. For example, in his speech Pro Flacco, delivered in 59 bc, Cicero states: haec enim ratio ac magnitudo animorum in maioribus nostris fuit ut, cum in privatis rebus suisque sumptibus minimo contenti tenuissimo cultu viverent, in imperio atque in publica dignitate omnia ad gloriam splendoremque revocarent (“For this moderation and greatness of soul was in our ancestors so that, although in their private matters and their expenses they lived content with a little, with the smallest luxury, in the empire and in the honor of the state they referred everything to glory and splendor,” 28). In Pro Sestio, delivered in 56 bc, he portrays the Romans as having the national traits of gravitas and magnitudo animi (139, 141). Note also his comment in the De officiis: maximeque ipse populus Romanus animi magnitudine excellit (“And most of all the Roman people themselves are celebrated for greatness of soul,” 1.61).  For critical discussion of Cicero’s treatment of the life of practical action, see further Müller 1965; Büchner 1984: 69 – 74; Blößner 2001; McConnell 2012: 333 – 345.

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retical or philosophical insight (1.1– 13, 3.4– 7).³⁹ The parallels with Dicaearchus are strong and recurrent, and it is not unreasonable to identify Cicero’s depiction of the Romans of old with Dicaearchus’ golden race.⁴⁰ In Cicero’s assessment of the Roman people there is also a narrative of decline that echoes Dicaearchus. Consider in particular the preface to the fifth book of De re publica: itaque ante nostram memoriam et mos ipse patrius praestantes viros adhibebat, et veterem morem ac maiorum instituta retinebant excellentes viri. nostra vero aetas cum rem publicam sicut picturam accepisset egregiam, sed iam evanescentem vetustate, non modo eam coloribus eisdem, quibus fuerat, renovare neglexit, sed ne id quidem curavit, ut formam slatem eius et extrema tamquam liniamenta servaret. quid enim manet ex antiquis moribus, quibus ille dixit rem stare Romanam? quos ita oblivione obsoletos videmus, ut non modo non colantur, sed iam ignorentur. nam de viris quid dicam? mores enim ipsi interierunt virorum penuria, cuius tanti mali non modo reddenda ratio nobis, sed etiam tamquam reis capitis quodam modo dicenda causa est. nostris enim vitiis, non casu aliquo, rem publicam verbo retinemus, re ipsa vero iam pridem amisimus. (Rep. 5.1– 2) And so, before our time, ancestral morality provided outstanding men, and great men preserved the morality of old and the institutions of our ancestors. But our own time, having inherited the commonwealth like a wonderful picture, not only has failed to renew its original colors but has not even taken the trouble to preserve at least its shape and outlines. What remains of the morals of antiquity, upon which Ennius said the Roman stood? We see that they are so outworn in oblivion that they are not only not cherished but are now unknown. What am I to say about the men? The morals themselves have passed away through a shortage of men; and we must not only render an account of such an evil, but in a sense we must defend ourselves like people being tried for a capital crime. It is because of our own vices, not because of some bad luck, that we preserve the commonwealth in name alone but have long ago lost its substance. (trans. Zetzel)

In Dicaearchus’ account the humans of today are different to the golden race (Porphyry, De abs. 4.2.1): they do not live the same lives since their values have been corrupted by the development of various technai (Codex Vaticanus 435 = frag. 36 Mirhady; Varro, De Rust. 1.2.15 – 16; Porphyry, De abs. 4.2.5 – 9). Following the model of Dicaearchus, decline must be because of certain corrupting

 There are similar details in Seneca’s Stoic description of the men of the golden age: he declares that they possess greatness of soul as an intrinsic property, before any acquaintance with philosophy (Ep. 90.44– 46).  The author of Codex Vaticanus 435 makes such an identification in explicit terms, aligning the ancient Romans with the golden race described by Dicaearchus: τοιούτους πείθομαι καὶ τοὺς ὑμετέρους γενέσθαι πατέρας εἶναι γὰρ ἀγαθοὶ ἐβούλοντο καὶ τούτου τοῖς ἔργοις ἐφικνοῦντο (“I believe that your ancestors were also this way; for they wanted to be good and they achieved this through their deeds,” 435.19 – 21).

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factors that have taken hold in Roman culture rather than some fundamental change in Roman nature. The alternative is to argue that present-day Romans are collectively debased in comparison to the Romans of the past, and there are certainly some inklings of this idea in this passage from De re publica. However, the corruption is not in the essential nature of the Roman people but rather in the values—the mores—to which they subscribe and which motivate their actions. Such a change in Roman morals is not irrevocable or insurmountable: it can be rectified through an appropriate process that mitigates against the corrupting influences of the present and returns the Romans to their ancestral values, which provide “outstanding men,” presumably by fostering positive native Roman qualities such as magnitudo animi and letting them find proper rather than twisted expression.⁴¹ At this point we can appreciate that Cicero is more optimistic about the practicability of golden age utopian ideas than he is about the implementation of the ideal state in practical politics. Dicaearchus offers a model in which we might get the original ideal position back, by living the life of practical action and by making sure that the negative impact of various corrupting factors are avoided. Cicero offers much the same model in the context of the Roman res publica. The nature of the Roman people is ultimately the same as it was in the past: the Romans still have their superior native talents and are still in essence the golden race, but the current socio-political environment is not conducive to the straightforward proper expression of such traits. However, the corrupting factors are of the Romans’ own design—bad values and their associated vices have taken hold—and so long as they can be purged (a goal towards which Cicero’s own philosophical enterprise is, at least in part, directed), there will be a return to the mode of life epitomised by the great men of the past.

4 Conclusion In addition to the ideal state tradition of utopian thought, Cicero also engages with Dicaearchus’ account of the golden age, which offers scope for greater positivity about the practicability of utopian ideals. Cicero draws on the golden age tradition when assessing the Roman res publica and the nature of Roman political virtue, identifying the characteristics of Dicaearchus’ golden race with the  Magnitudo animi is a positive native quality that has potential for both good and bad, depending on the values to which the individual subscribes—Cicero discusses this at length in De officiis 1.62– 91. For detailed discussion of Cicero’s treatment of greatness of soul, see McConnell (2017).

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native qualities of the Romans themselves. By emphasising the intrinsic virtues of the Roman people, and the need to ensure the conditions that allow them to find proper expression in political life, he offers an achievable means for the Roman res publica to attain its best state, exemplified by its glorious past: rather than advocate an unworkable and problematic top-down imposition of a utopian model of an ideal state, Cicero has faith that the best state will come to be from the bottom-up, if the superior nature of the Roman people is simply allowed its full natural expression.

References Asmis, E. (2005), “A new kind of model: Cicero’s Roman constitution in De republica,” American Journal of Philology 126: 377 – 416. Asmis, E. (2008), “Cicero on natural law and the laws of the state,” Classical Antiquity 27: 1 – 33. Asmis, E. (2014), “Cicero mythologus: The myth of the founders in De republica,” Classical Journal 110: 23 – 42. Atkins, J. W. (2011), “L’argument du “De re publica” et le Songe de Scipion,” Les Études philosophiques 99: 455 – 469. Atkins, J. W. (2013), Cicero on Politics and the Limits of Reason: The Republic and Laws. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Ax, W. (2001), “Dikaiarchs Bios Hellados und Varros De vita populi Romani,” in W. W. Fortenbaugh and E. Schütrumpf (eds.), Dicaearchus of Messana: Text, Translation, and Discussion, New Brunswick: Transaction Publishers, 279 – 310. Blößner, N. (2001), “Cicero gegen die Philosophie: eine Analyse von De re publica 1 – 3.” Nachrichten der Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Göttingen aus dem Jahre 2001, Philologisch-Historische Klasse, 197 – 271. Boys-Stones, G. R. (2001), Post-Hellenistic Philosophy: A Study of its Development from the Stoics to Origen. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Büchner, K. (1984), M. Tullius Cicero. De Re Publica. Heidelberg: Carl Winter. Cornell, T. J. (2001), “Cicero on the origins of Rome,” in J. G. F. Powell and J. A. North (eds.), Cicero’s Republic, London: Institute of Classical Studies, 41 – 56. Evans, R. (2008), Utopia Antiqua: Readings of the Golden Age and Decline at Rome. London: Routledge. Ferrary, J.-L. (1984), “L’Archéologie du De re publica (2, 2, 4 – 37, 63): Cicéron entre Polybe et Platon,” Journal of Roman Studies 74: 87 – 98. Fox, M. (2007), Cicero’s Philosophy of History. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Gallagher, R. L. (2001), “Metaphor in Cicero’s De re publica,” Classical Quarterly 51: 509 – 519. Girardet, K. (1983), Die Ordnung der Welt: Ein Beitrag zur philosophischen und politischen Interpretation von Ciceros Schrift De Legibus. Weisbaden: Franz Steiner. Hathaway, R. F. (1968), “Cicero, De re publica II, and his Socratic view of history,” Journal of the History of Ideas 29: 3 – 12.

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Johnston, P. A. (1980), Vergil’s Agricultural Golden Age: A Study of the Georgics. Leiden: Brill. Kubusch, K. (1986), Aurea saecula: Mythos and Geschichte. Frankfurt am Main: Lang. McConnell, S. (2012), “Cicero and Dicaearchus,” Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 42: 307 – 349. McConnell, S. (2017), “Magnitudo animi and cosmic politics in Cicero’s De re publica,” Classical Journal 113: 45 – 70. Mirhardy, D. C. (2001), “Dicaearchus of Messana: The sources, text and translation,” in W. W. Fortenbaugh and E. Schütrumpf (eds.), Dicaearchus of Messana: Text, Translation, and Discussion, New Brunswick: Transaction Publishers, 1 – 142. Müller, R. (1965), “Der Wertung der Bildungsdisziplinen bei Cicero. πρακτικὸς βίος und Bildung,” Klio 43 – 5: 77 – 173. Rawson, E. (1972), “Cicero the historian and Cicero the antiquarian,” Journal of Roman Studies 62: 33 – 45. Saunders, T. J. (2001), “Dicaearchus’ historical anthropology,” in W. W. Fortenbaugh and E. Schütrumpf (eds.), Dicaearchus of Messana: Text, Translation, and Discussion, New Brunswick: Transaction Publishers, 237 – 254. Schofield, M. (2006), Plato: Political Philosophy. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Schofield, M. (2009), “Republican virtues,” in R. K. Balot (ed.), Companion to Greek and Roman Political Thought, Oxford: Wiley, 199 – 213. Schütrumpf, E. (2001), “Dikaiarchs Βίος Ἡλλάδος und die Philosophie des vierten Jahrhunderts,” in W. W. Fortenbaugh and E. Schütrumpf (eds.), Dicaearchus of Messana: Text, Translation, and Discussion, New Brunswick: Transaction Publishers, 255 – 277. van Noorden, H. (2015), Playing Hesiod: The ‘Myth of the Races’ in Classical Antiquity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Vidal-Narquet, P. (1978), “Plato’s myth of the Statesman, the ambiguities of the golden age and of history,” The Journal of Hellenic Studies 98: 132 – 141. Zarecki, J. (2014), Cicero’s Ideal Statesman in Theory and Practice. London: Bloomsbury. Zetzel, J. E. G. (1995), Cicero: De Re Publica. Selections. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Zetzel, J. E. G. (1999), Cicero: On the Commonwealth and On the Laws. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Iris Sulimani

All Over the World: The Utopian Idea in Diodorus Siculus

The “utopian genre” evolved into a fashionable literary category in the Hellenistic period. Diodorus Siculus illustrates this well, describing six island utopias in the mythological section of his Bibliothēkē, and incorporating various utopian motifs in his discussions of different parts of the oikoumenē throughout his work. Preserving the now lost accounts of authors such as Euhemerus and Iambulus, Diodorus depicts at quite some length the imaginary islands of Panchaea and the Island of the Sun, as well as the Island(s) in the Atlantic Ocean, Hespera, the Island of the Hyperboreans, and the Island in the River Triton.¹ His descriptions reveal several recurrent motifs. All the islands, for instance, are fertile and provide an abundance of food for their inhabitants; their climate is mild, thus contributing to the inhabitants’ good health. Coexistence of peoples and races, prosperity, happiness, and peace are also found in Diodorus’ accounts of the utopian islands. Interestingly, such motifs appear in Diodorus’ descriptions of real places, notably India, Eudaimōn Arabia, Lipara, and Lesbos. In this study, I explore the utopian notion in Diodorus. I show that, by using various means and methods, the historian locates the utopian islands, situated on the edges of the inhabited world, on the actual map of the world. Concomitantly, he mingles not a few of the utopian islands’ characteristics in his descriptions of real lands and islands all over the world. Hence, the first section of this paper examines Panchaea in depth, and refers briefly to other utopian islands, as examples that demonstrate the means by which Diodorus portrays imaginary islands as part of the real world. The second section traces the utopian motifs in accounts of real lands and islands. Furthermore, comparing Diodorus’ idyllic descriptions with utopian and dystopian narratives of classical and Hellenistic authors, and contrasting his accounts of real lands with those of other writers, I offer reasons for the distinctions. Finally, I attempt to shed light on Diodorus’

 The accounts of the latter four islands are based, respectively, on Timaeus of Tauromenium, Dionysius Scytobrachion, Hecataeus of Abdera and, again, Dionysius Scytobrachion. All the descriptions of utopian islands appear in the first pentad, which survived in its entirety, except for part of Euhemerus’ account, found in the fragmentary Book 6 and known to us from Eusebius’ summary (Praep. Evang. 2.2.59B – 61A). Euhemerus’ Hiera Anagraphe is also preserved in Lactantius’ Institutiones Divinae, with references to Ennius’ now lost translation of Euhemerus’ work into Latin. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110733129-013

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motivations for portraying the world in such idyllic colours and to explain the development of the utopian thought in the Hellenistic period.

1 At the Edges of the Earth: Utopian Islands on the Actual Map of the World Descriptions of islands pervade Diodorus’ first six books, which form the mythological section of his Bibliothēkē. The author even dedicates the entire fifth book of his universal history to islands, naming it ἡ βίβλος νησιωτική (5.2.1). Being a proud Greek islander and a Sicilian patriot, his special interest in islands should not surprise us. His particular interest in imaginary islands, however, is not so obvious.

1.1 Panchaea Diodorus discusses the island of Panchaea twice in his Bibliothēkē (5.42.4– 46.7; 6.1.1– 11). Although he omits the name of his source for the island’s depiction in Book 5, it is widely agreed that he employed Euhemerus for both places.² Yet here, as elsewhere in his work, Diodorus did not simply reproduce his sources. He altered and adapted them by inserting additional information, which he found in other authorities or heard or saw himself, and by expressing his own thoughts and ideas.³ His descriptions of the utopian islands under discussion here illustrate this well. Although they are drawn from various sources, these descriptions strikingly resemble each other, thus allowing us to see Diodorus’ own motives for incorporating the accounts of the utopian islands in his work and presenting them as part of the real world. Panchaea is depicted as a fertile island, well–watered and rich in trees, plants, beasts, and birds of all sorts. It also possesses mines of gold, silver, copper, tin, and iron. Owing to its features, the island provides the inhabitants with every kind of food, contributing to their health and good life. How does Diodorus make an island, painted in such idyllic colours, a part of the real world? I suggest that he accomplishes this by his working methods, as well as by clarifying the

 See, e. g., Gabba 1981: 59; de Angelis and Garstad 2006: 212; Honigman 2009: 1– 2; Winiarczyk 2013: 9. For the collection of Euhemerus’ testimonia, see Winiarczyk 1991.  See Sulimani 2011: 57– 108 (see also 4– 6 for further studies).

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islands’ location, incorporating them in journeys, both ’real’ and ’imaginary’, and making them resemble real islands. To begin with Diodorus’ working methods, it is significant that Diodorus, who puts emphasis on the organization of his work, does not separate the description of Panchaea from the rest of his discussion, but places it in the appropriate section of his Bibliothēkē, that is, in the chapters dealing with the islands of the south–eastern part of the world within the fifth book (5.41.1).⁴ He begins elaborating on Panchaea by stating “concerning Panchaea itself, it possesses many things which are worthy of historical record” (τῆς ἱστορικῆς ἀναγραφῆς ἄξια, 5.42.4). Diodorus’ pointed comment about the ’historical’ classification of Panchaea is significant. It employs a wording similar to that used at the beginning of his description of the south–eastern islands, including the adjective ’historical’, and in his entire discussion of Panchaea he never suggests that it has any kind of imaginary dimension. It is interesting to recall here Diodorus’ reference to Euhemerus in Book 6. Recounting the views regarding the origin of the gods, Diodorus distinguishes between the notions of the historians and those of the writers of myth. Whereas Homer, Hesiod, and Orpheus are given as examples for the latter, Euhemerus is singled out as a writer of history (6.1.3, 11). The second feature of Diodorus’ work, indicating that he intended to place Panchaea on the actual map of the oikoumenē, is his effort to clarify the location of the island. At the beginning of his account, Diodorus precisely locates Panchaea in real geographical space. He states that “several islands lie opposite the extremities of this land (i. e. Eudaimōn Arabia) that borders on the Ocean”. Three of these islands are “worthy of historical record” (ἄξιαι τῆς ἱστορικῆς ἀναγραφῆς): the first is called Hiera; the second lies near it, at a distance of 7 stades; the third island lies 30 stades distant from Hiera toward the eastern part of the Ocean. It is many stades in length, and from its easternmost promontory one can catch sight of India (5.41.4, 42.3). The last is evidently Panchaea; Diodorus refers to it by name in the next sentence, which opens his detailed description of the island (5.42.4).⁵ The concluding remark of Diodorus’ discussion (5.46.7) includes another statement concerning the location of this island: “regarding the islands (lying) in the Ocean opposite Arabia, we will be satisfied with the things that have been said.” Furthermore, Diodorus includes Panchaea in two journeys, one of which is ‘real’ and the other ‘imaginary’. It is necessary, first, to explain my use of the terms ‘real’ and ‘imaginary’ – and their parallels ‘historical’ and ‘mythical’ –

 For Diodorus’ emphasis on the organization of his work, see Sulimani 2011: 109 – 162.  See, e. g., Brown 1946: 259 – 260; Winiarczyk 2013: 79 – 81.

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that appear frequently in the following discussion. Prima facie, these are opposing pairs; yet, given the fact that the distinction between these terms is not clear–cut in antiquity in general, and in Diodorus in particular, clarification is needed.⁶ ‘Historical’ and ‘mythical’ figures are those that Diodorus considered ‘historical’ and ‘mythical’ respectively. Indeed, he occasionally ascribes ‘real’ features to ‘mythical’ figures (or places), but he continues to regard them essentially as mythical. On the other hand, Diodorus may include certain mythical elements in the stories of ‘historical’ figures, but he ultimately defines them as historical. Hence, a journey such as that of Euhemerus is referred to as ‘real’ – although one may justifiably argue that it is fictitious – since Diodorus considered Euhemerus a ‘historical’ figure (6.1.3).⁷ Conversely, Zeus’ journey is ‘imaginary’, being made by a god, a ‘mythical’ figure (1.13.4), although it is based on actual geographical data and although one may argue that Diodorus accepted a Euhemerist position on Zeus, as he did on Heracles and other mythical figures. Moreover, a place such as the island of Lipara is ‘real’, for it is undoubtedly located on the actual map of the world. The utopian islands, however, are ‘imaginary’ or ‘mythical’, because of their vague location and ‘mythical’ nature. Since one of this study’s aim is to show that the utopian islands are regarded by Diodorus as part of the actual world, this use of the adjective ‘imaginary’ may seem contradictory, but it allows us to see how blurred the line is between ‘real’ and ‘imaginary’ in Diodorus. It is also compatible with the term ‘utopia’. Coined by Thomas More, ’utopia’, consisting of the Greek words οὐ and τόπος, is ‘nowhere’.⁸ To resume the discussion of the incorporation of Panchaea in journeys, Diodorus states that Euhemerus set sail from Eudaimōn Arabia and, while making a voyage in the Ocean for many days, he put in at the islands in the open sea, one of which was called Panchaea (6.1.4) (see Figure 1). The journey of the mythical figure, Zeus, is more detailed (see Figure 2). Visiting Babylon as the guest of Belus, Zeus made his way to Panchaea, an island that lies “near the Ocean”.⁹ He then travelled through Syria and met Casius, the ruler of the country, who gave

 Diodorus considered mythological tales an essential part of his universal history (1.3.2, 3.6, 4.1.1– 4), and though sometimes acknowledging the distinction between myth and history (1.25.4, 98.10), he often blurs it. For myth and history in ancient authors, see, e. g., Buxton 1994: 9 – 17; Fowler 2013: xi–xxi; Fowler 2015: 195 – 209; for these terms in Diodorus and his complex view of the myths, see Sulimani 2011: 10 – 13. See also Sacks 1990: 55 – 82.  For the idea of fictionality in Hellenistic geographical writing, see Romm 1992: 172– 214; for fictionality in Euhemerus, see Whitmarsh 2013: 49 – 62, and 31– 32 for Iambulus.  See, e. g., Clay and Purvis 1999: 1– 15.  πρὸς τῷ ὠκεανῷ, perhaps “in the ocean” is meant.

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his name to Mount Casius. Cilicia was Zeus’ next destination. Diodorus concludes that Zeus visited many other peoples and that he was honoured as a god by all of them (6.1.10). Both expeditions deserve equal attention, since both are based on actual geographical data. In fact, the mythical journey is much more revealing.¹⁰ Since Diodorus habitually uses real geographical data in his accounts of imaginary journeys throughout the mythical section of his work, the journey of Zeus may contribute to our understanding of Panchaea’s location in Diodorus’ thought. The account of Euhemerus’ voyage, although brief, nevertheless reflects the actual features of the Red Sea.¹¹ It is also clearly situated within Hellenistic history: Euhemerus was a friend of King Cassander and was required by him to carry out certain royal affairs as well as great journeys to foreign lands; hence, he took a trip southwards to the Ocean (6.1.4). This indicates that Diodorus connects Panchaea to the geographical developments following Alexander’s campaign; concomitantly, he echoes the impact of the deeds of Alexander, the Hellenistic kings, and the Romans on his writing.¹² Leaders throughout the Hellenistic period sent men to investigate foreign lands, both out of curiosity and for commercial purposes.¹³ Zeus, according to Diodorus, passed through five sites; except for Panchaea, all of them are not only real, but also significant places. Syria and Cilicia were traversed by Alexander the Great, as recorded by Diodorus himself (17.27.7, 52.7), a valuable detail, considering the Macedonian king’s impact on Diodorus. The historian himself describes the features of Cilicia and the Cilician Gates, as the pass through the Taurus mountain range is called (14.20.1– 2). Babylon, although losing some of its former eminence, continued to be one of the most important cities of the Seleucids.¹⁴ Finally, Mount Casius, situated near the mouth

 It may be argued that Euhemerus, Diodorus’ source, who was engaged in writing a work of mythic rationalization (see, recently, Hawes 2014: 25 – 29 with further references), made an effort to historicize the stories about Zeus and hence used real geographical data to present his journey as realistic. Nonetheless, in my opinion, Diodorus had his own aims. He regarded myths as an integral part of history and as such employed them to convey real geographical and historical data. For him Zeus was a mythological figure who travelled along real routes and spread the cult of himself, just like Osiris, Heracles, and other heroes, whom Diodorus often used to create precedents for the acts of historical figures and to illustrate various Hellenistic ideas. See, further, Sulimani 2011. For Zeus’ religious mission, see Garstad 2004.  According to Diodorus, the Red Sea usually refers to the modern Persian Gulf and the Arabian Sea, but it may also include the modern Red Sea (the ancient Arabian Gulf), as in 3.18.3.  For the impact of Alexander the Great on the ’the story of Utopia’, see Ferguson 1975: 98 – 110.  For examples of such expeditions, see Sulimani 2011: 169 – 170.  See Sulimani 2005: 46 – 48.

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of the Orontes River (Jebel–el–Akra on the Syrian–Turkish border), is a conspicuous landmark.¹⁵ Moreover, Zeus is described as travelling from one site to another in a logical order, and his route seems to accord with the actual road network. Although Zeus’ path from Babylon to Panchaea is not clear, his return journey demonstrates that he made his way along the trade route that leads from Syria to Asia Minor via the Syrian Gates and Cilicia.¹⁶ This trade route, elsewhere in Diodorus, is traversed by both historical and mythical figures. Cyrus the younger, for instance, made his way from Sardis to Babylon, passing through Cilicia, the Cilician Gates, the Syrian Gates, and Syria (14.20.1– 21.7), while Alexander the Great marched through Cilicia, the Syrian Gates, and Syria (17.27.7, 32.2– 4, 52.7). Since Diodorus’ mythical journeys reflect real roads, the expedition of Myrina is also worth mentioning. The Amazon queen came to Syria and, crossing the Taurus mountain range, entered Asia Minor (3.54.1– 7, 55.4– 11). Finally, it is remarkable that Diodorus introduces Panchaea into a mythical journey, in which Zeus visited three sites reached by Alexander, and then continued as far as Panchaea, “which lies in the Ocean” (6.1.10; cf. 5.42.3), whereas the king’s campaign came to an end at the river Hyphasis (17.93.1). Diodorus emphasizes elsewhere in his work the expansion of empires beyond the territory that was conquered by Alexander. Sesostris, for instance, crossed the river Ganges and arrived at the Ocean, and reached Scythia (1.55.1– 4). These regions attracted later rulers, such as the Seleucid kings, the Ptolemies, and, in Diodorus’ day, Caesar and Octavian. Zeus, however, not merely reached a place where Alexander never set foot; he visited a utopia. Both points show that the Hellenistic era left its mark on Diodorus’ account. One further aspect should be introduced to demonstrate that Diodorus intended to integrate the utopian island of Panchaea into the actual map of the world. Diodorus’ description of Panchaea reveals a salient resemblance to his accounts of real islands, namely, Lipara and Lesbos. To deal with all the similarities in detail would require too long a discussion and hence I only briefly mention some of them.¹⁷ Like Panchaea, Lipara, which lies near Sicily, is the largest

 E. g., Strab. 16.1.12 C 741– 742, 2.5 C 750; Pliny, HN, 5.80; Amm. Marc. 22.14.4; Solin. 36.3 (Mommsen); Pompon. 1.61. See Cook 1925: 981– 983; Lane Fox 2008: 255 – 272. Cf. Apollodorus’ version of Zeus’ journey, which includes Cilicia, Mount Casius, and Syria, but not Panchaea (Bibl. 1.6.3).  Strab. 14.2.29 C 663 (cf. Strab. 12.2.10 C 539 – 540; Xen. An. 1.2.5 – 21, 4.1– 6). See, e. g., Mitchell 1993: esp. 124– 136); Syme 1995: 3 – 23; Ma 1999: 35, 115 – 116.  For a thorough comparison of Lipara and Panchaea, see de Angelis and Garstad 2006: 225 – 230, who argue that Euhemerus, a Sicilian, inspired by Sicilian cultural and political experience,

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of a group of islands which also includes an island called Hiera (5.7.1; cf. Strab. 6.2.10 C 275). Both Panchaea and Lipara possess healing springs (5.44.3 – 4, cf. 43.1– 2; 5.10.1), an abundance of fruit–bearing trees (5.10.3; 5.43.1– 3), natural resources, and rich mines (5.10.2, 5.46.4). There is a notable city on both Lipara and Panchaea (5.7.1, 5, 10.1; 5.42.5), and the inhabitants of both islands consist of natives and various other peoples who coexist (5.7.6; 42.4– 5, 44.6). Similarities occur also in the mythical past of Lipara and Panchaea. Both islands have stories of a hero who travelled to the island, left his impression, and later received a certain honour from the hands of the inhabitants. Zeus, who operated in Panchaea, was revered as a god by all the peoples that he had visited (5.42.6, 46.3, 6.1.6, 10), while Liparus, after whom both the island of Lipara and the city which he founded on it were named, received honours equal to those of heroes after his death (5.7.5 – 6). Finally, Lipara and Panchaea resemble each other in their social structure and their system of common ownership. In Lipara, the land and the possessions of the inhabitants are made common property; the Liparaians are divided into two groups, one of which cultivates the land, while the other fights the Tyrrhenian pirates (5.9.4– 5). The Panchaeans are divided into three parts, the priests, the farmers, and the soldiers. The farmers are engaged in tilling the soil and bring the fruits to the common store (5.45.3 – 5). Lesbos, in Diodorus’ account, is also painted in colours similar to those of Panchaea. The historian stresses the beauty of the land and its fertility, emphasizing the richness of its soil, its good crops, wholesome air, and mild climate (5.82.2– 4). Diodorus mentions the notable cities of Lesbos (5.81.7) and discusses its population, which consisted of various peoples (5.81.1, 4). He also elaborates on the island’s mythical past, referring to the arrival at the island of three figures (Xanthus, Macareus, and Lesbus) and to their accomplishments, including portioning out the land between the inhabitants (5.81.2– 7). It is also significant that some of the parallel motifs reflect the culture of the Hellenistic era and, more importantly, recur in the Bibliothēkē. One such motif is the notion that an individual gains honours equal to those of gods and heroes because of the benefits that he has conferred upon mankind. This idea, echoed in the legends of Zeus and Liparus, is found throughout Diodorus’ work, in relation to gods and heroes, kings and leaders – notably Alexander the Great and Julius Caesar.¹⁸ Another example is the idea of the coexistence of various peoples and races in empires, states, and cities. This reminds us of the practice

used Lipara as one of the models for his depiction of Panchaea, and hence the similarities. De Angelis and Garstad completely ignore Diodorus’ contribution.  Alexander: 17.102.4; Caesar: 1.4.7, 4.19.2, 5.21.2, 5.25.4, 32.27.1, 3. See Sulimani 2011: 64– 82.

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of Alexander, who settled Greek mercenaries, his camp followers, and local inhabitants in the cities which he founded, as recorded by Diodorus himself (17.83.2).¹⁹ Since Diodorus is accustomed to using actual data in his mythical tales, he ascribes similar operations to Heracles in Alesia (4.19.1– 2) and to Myrina in the land of the Atlantians (3.54.5). This practice, in addition, is related to the notion of the unity of mankind, attributed to Alexander and developed during the Hellenistic era. Diodorus was well aware of it and introduced it in his work.²⁰ The depiction of ’utopian’ islands as resembling real islands bears out Diodorus’ originality. This is strengthened by his use of sources. He probably employed Timaeus of Tauromenium for his account of Lipara and Lesbos, while Euhemerus is his source for Panchaea. The similarities in both style and content suggest that he did not simply copy his sources. I am not unaware of the fact that Euhemerus could have been inspired by the actual features of Lipara, especially if he was a native of the Sicilian Messene.²¹ Yet Diodorus was also a Sicilian and familiar with Lipara. Moreover, descriptions of islands, both real and imaginary, that bear a resemblance to Panchaea and Lipara may be detected elsewhere in his work, regardless of the author whose writings were used: the Island in the Atlantic Ocean (5.19.1– 20.4) is based on Timaeus of Tauromenium; Hespera in Lake Tritonis (3.53.4– 5) and the Island in the River Triton (3.67.4– 69.4) are drawn from Dionysius Scytobrachion; the Island of the Hyperboreans is based on Hecataeus of Abdera (2.47.1– 6); and for the Island of the Sun Diodorus employed the narrative of the Greek merchant Iambulus (2.55.1– 60.3).²² A comparison with the description of Lipara and Lesbos in other authorities further reinforces Diodorus’ original thought. Pausanias tells of the settlement of Lipara by colonists from Cnidus, pointing out that they expelled the inhabitants if these islands were already populated (10.11.3 – 4), in marked contrast to the coexistence of various peoples described by Diodorus. Strabo seems to be more in-

 Diodorus does not mention Macedonian veterans, who also settled in Alexander’s cities. The foundation of cities is in itself a typical act of Hellenistic rulers; see Sulimani 2011: 265 – 280. Although Diodorus does not attribute the establishment of Panara on Panchaea to Zeus, he does associate the city with him: Panara’s citizens are called ’suppliants of Zeus Triphylius’ (5.42.5).  E. g., 3.64.7, 5.65.3, 18.4.4. See Sulimani 2011: 319 – 330. Cf. de Angelis and Garstad 2006: 230, who, again, ignore Diodorus and argue that Euhemerus was inspired by the Sicilian experience rather than Alexander the Great’s empire.  De Angelis and Garstad 2006: 213 – 218.  Iambulus is an obscure figure, mentioned only in Diodorus and Lucian (who describes him as the author of a delightful false story, Ver. Hist. 1.3, 22– 26). It is assumed that he wrote in the second or the first century BCE. See, e. g., Winston 1976; Clay and Purvis 1999: 46 – 48, 107– 117.

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terested in the history of Lesbos and its famous men (13.2.1– 4 C 616 – 618), while summarizing the assets of Lipara in a short sentence, mentioning its fruitful soil, mine, and hot springs (6.2.10 C 275).²³ Although Tacitus calls Lesbos ’the famous and pleasant island’ (insula nobilis et amoena, Ann. 6.3), no other author offers as idyllic a picture as Diodorus’. Furthermore, the way in which the imaginary islands are described in other sources proves that none of the authors makes them look so ‘utopic’ and, at the same time, so real, as Diodorus does. The Roman poets – Virgil (G. 2.139), Tibullus (3.2.23), and Ovid (Met. 10.308) – refer to Panchaea as a land rich in aromatic materials such as frankincense. Strabo has little to say about Panchaea, but it is the context in which he mentions the island that is of interest: quoting Apollodorus’ criticism of poets and historians who invented marvellous tales, he counts Euhemerus among such historians, because of his ‘Land of Panchaea’ (7.3.6 C 299; cf. 2.4.2 C 104). Plutarch is harsher, arguing that Euhemerus produced an incredible mythology and made a voyage to Panchaea, which does not exist anywhere on earth (De Is. et Os. 23 [Mor. 360a – b]). By contrast, Diodorus used Euhemerus’ itinerary to make Panchaea a part of the oikoumenē.

1.2 Other Utopian Islands Diodorus depicts, as mentioned, five other mythical islands: the islands of Iambulus and the Hyperboreans, as well as the islands in Lake Tritonis, the River Triton, and the Atlantic Ocean. Like Panchaea and the real islands of Lipara and Lesbos, these islands are blessed with fertile land that affords the inhabitants all the necessities of life. They are rich in fruit–bearing trees or crops, fish of every variety or goats and sheep. Also, in some of the islands there are springs, of both warm and cold sweet water, effective for relieving fatigue and contributing to good health. The climate of the islands is mild and in most cases Diodorus emphasizes their healthful nature. Furthermore, characteristics of communal life are attested in the island of Iambulus (2.58.1), like in Lipara, while the Island in the Atlantic Ocean supplies everything which contributes to luxury (5.19.2, 4), again, like Lipara. Except for portraying the utopic islands like real islands, Diodorus uses his working methods, as well as actual geographical data (while clarifying the location of imaginary islands and incorporating them in journeys), in order to integrate these islands into the real map of the world. The account of Iambulus’ is-

 See also Arist. Hist. Animal. 9.37; Hor. Carm. 1.17; Pliny, HN, 37.54.

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land is a good example to illustrate Diodorus’ working methods. It begins after Diodorus concludes his discussion of Arabia (2.54.7), stating that he will now turn to an island that has been discovered in the Ocean to the south and to the marvels told concerning it (2.55.1– 2). Although Diodorus uses the verb παραδοξολογεῖν (to tell marvels), nothing indicates that he meant to relate a myth, but rather, to reveal the wonders of the land.²⁴ Another example is Diodorus’ description of the Island in the Atlantic Ocean, which follows his remark that, having discussed the islands that lie within the Pillars of Heracles, he will describe those that are in the Ocean (5.19.1). Later, as he turns to the Phoenician enterprise, he states: “In ancient times it was undiscovered because of its distance from the entire inhabited world, but it was found later for such reasons” (5.20.1). Diodorus also takes pain to clarify the location of each island. Thus, Hespera lies in the lake Tritonis, which is near the Ocean that surrounds the earth and received its name from a certain river Triton that emptied into it; this lake is also near Ethiopia and the Atlas Mountain that touches the Ocean (3.53.4). Another example is that of the Island of the Hyperboreans, which is no smaller than Sicily, situated in the north and lies in the Ocean beyond the land of the Celts (2.47.1). The case of the Island in the Atlantic Ocean is particularly interesting.²⁵ Diodorus’ pastoral portrayal of the island corresponds with the descriptions of Homer (Od. 4.560 – 568), Hesiod (Op. 167– 173), and Pindar (Ol. 2.68 – 74), who also locate the island(s) in the Ocean at the western extremity of the world. However, whereas the poets regard it as paradise, a faraway place to which those who were close to the gods arrive in the afterlife, Diodorus provides actual geographical data: the island lies out at sea off the coast of Libya; it is situated in the Ocean a number of days voyage from Libya to the west (5.19.1). Attempts to identify the imaginary islands as real may help illustrate Diodorus’ effort to place the imaginary islands not just anywhere on the actual map, but on the edges of the universe. According to some scholars, both Panchaea and Iambulus’ island may be identified with Taprobane (Sri Lanka), on the south–

 Cf. Diod. 5.18.1, where παράδοξον (incredible) is used in reference to the real Balearic Islands (5.17.1).  Although Diodorus does not name this island, the similarities between his description and those of the poets mentioned in the following discussion (notably its location and natural resources) indicate that the Islands of the Blessed– or, rather, the Elysian Fields – are probably meant. Perhaps Diodorus never ascribes the name μακάρων νῆσοι to his Atlantic island, due to its divine connotation. Interestingly, he uses this name only to describe a real island, Lesbos (5.82.2, 3).

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eastern extremity of the oikoumenē. ²⁶ The Island of the Hyperboreans, whether or not Britain is meant, lies on the northern edge of the world, while the Island in the Atlantic Ocean, identified by some scholars as the largest island of the Madeira group, marks the western extremity of the universe.²⁷ The neighbouring Hespera and the Island in the River Triton are regarded by Diodorus as lying in the extreme west, judging from his statement that these islands were far to the west, near the Atlas Mountain. In Graeco–Roman literature, this mountain range sometimes forms the western edge of the oikoumenē. ²⁸ This location, as will be seen, is essential for understanding Diodorus’ reasons for including the utopian islands in the map of the world. Each of Diodorus’ utopian islands is, in addition, incorporated into journeys made by either real or imaginary figures. The journey of Iambulus is interesting not only from the geographical point of view, but also because of its Hellenistic reflections (see Figure 3). After being captured by robbers while travelling inland to the spice–bearing region of Arabia, Iambulus and one of his companions were taken to the coast of Ethiopia, where they were ordered to navigate towards the south until they came to a certain fertile island. Having sailed for about four months, they reached this island, lived there for seven years, but were compelled to leave. Resuming their voyage, Iambulus’ companion lost his life when they were shipwrecked on a sandy and marshy coast of India. Iambulus was brought by the natives to Palibothra, a city that was many days’ journey from the sea, and with the help of Palibothra’s philhellene king, Iambulus passed over into Persia and later arrived in Greece (2.55.2– 5, 60.1– 3). As one may clearly see, the geographical details, even the geomorphological data of the Indian coastline, combined in this journey, are accurate.²⁹ Moreover, the description of Iambulus’ adventures alludes to events of the Hellenistic period, hence illustrating another aspect that contributes to the authenticity of the story. Palibothra, for instance, which was the starting point of the major highway that ended in Seleucia on the Tigris, was visited by ambassadors sent by the Seleucid kings (Strab. 2.1.9 C 70, 15.1.36 C 702; Pliny, HN, 6.63; Ptol. Geog. 1.12.9). Yet what catches the attention is the reference to Julius Caesar, and not only to his abduction by pirates (Plut. Caes. 1.4– 2.4). The imaginary inhabitants of the Island of the Sun

 For various identifications of Panchaea and criticism, see Winiarczyk 2013: 18. For Iambulus’ island, see, e. g., Schwarz 1982; Weerakkody 1997: 171– 177.  For the Island of the Hyperboreans, see Bridgman 2005: 127– 140 with further references. For the Island in the Atlantic Ocean, see, e. g., Oldfather 1935: 36 – 37 n. 2; Konrad 1994: 106 – 109 with further references.  E. g., Hesiod, Virgil, and Ovid; see Sulimani 2011: 185.  E. g., Ahmad: 126 – 131; Nayak 2005: 555 – 556.

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are described by Diodorus as benevolent men (ἐπιεικεῖς ἀνθρώπους), who treated the strangers kindly (ἐπιεικῶς, 2.55.4, 56.1). In fact, Diodorus conveys here one of the recurrent motifs, expressed in almost the same wording in various parts of his work and inspired by clementia Caesaris. ³⁰ Real geographical data and references to contemporary historical figures appear also in Diodorus’ account of the Island in the Atlantic. He states that from ancient times the Phoenicians made voyages for commercial purposes, during which they founded many settlements in Libya and the western regions of Europe. Following their successes, they decided to voyage beyond the Pillars of Heracles into the sea called ‘Ocean’, establishing the city of Gadeira, in which they built a temple of Heracles. This temple was held in extraordinary honour from ancient times down to Diodorus’ own day. Distinguished Romans who had accomplished great deeds offered vows to Heracles, vows that they fulfilled after they had achieved success. Diodorus adds that the Phoenicians, while exploring the coast outside the Pillars, were carried off by strong winds into the Ocean. After many days they were brought to the island under discussion and, learning of its nature and prosperity, they revealed it to all (5.20.1– 3). Diodorus’ account is significant not only because of its accurate historical and geographical data, which make the Island in the Atlantic Ocean part of the real world, but also because of the allusion to the author’s own day. First, the Phoenicians’ voyages and their commercial operations were well known, and Diodorus himself records their deeds, including the foundation of Gadeira, in the historical section of his work (25.10.1). Even the story that they were blown off course accords with reality, for they could have landed in the Madeiras or the Canaries. Secondly, the reference to ’distinguished Romans’ plainly alludes to Caesar, for whom Diodorus had special admiration. Diodorus may well have heard the story of Caesar’s visit to the temple of Heracles in Gadeira, where he had seen the statue of Alexander, asked for his discharge, and later conferred Roman citizenship upon the people of Gadeira, an act that was interpreted as a way of showing his gratitude towards the city in which he first felt that he was destined for glory (Suet. Iul. 7.1; Cass. Dio, 37.52.2, 41.24.1– 2; cf. Livy, Per. 110; Caes. B Civ. 2.18). Notwithstanding the problematic nature of this story, Diodorus may have echoed it in his work, as he echoed Caesar’s deification and clemency. By integrating utopia into the real map of the world Diodorus uses the mythological section of his work to describe the expanded oikoumenē of his age. In this oikoumenē, even the extremities become reachable, since the idyllic

 Sulimani 2011: 82– 109.

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islands are situated at the edges of the earth. It may well be that he modified the accounts of his sources to suit this purpose. Hence, Diodorus’ islands stand in marked contrast to Plato’s Atlantis. Indeed, the island of Atlantis was fertile and contained trees and animals of every kind as well as warm and cold springs of water; its inhabitants, provided with all the provisions they needed, were kind and noble, conducting themselves with both gentleness and wisdom. However, this island was located at a distant point in the Atlantic Ocean, beyond the Pillars of Heracles and, moreover, its inhabitants changed their ways and became arrogant. Consequently, the island of Atlantis was swallowed up by the sea, and the Ocean at that spot became impassable (Pl. Ti. 24e – 25d, Criti. 108e – 109c, 113c – 121c).³¹

2 All Over the World: Utopian Motifs in Descriptions of Real Lands and Islands Several utopian motifs, appearing in Diodorus’ accounts of the imaginary islands in the mythological section of his Bibliothēkē, recur throughout his work. These motifs are related to real lands and islands in various regions of the world. One conspicuous motif is the idyllic description of the fertility of the land and its products. Some of the places, visited by Alexander the Great and depicted by Diodorus in his account of the king’s campaign, are illuminating examples. Thus, Bagistanē, situated near Media, is a magnificent region full of fruit trees and all other things that bring pleasure to human beings (17.110.5). The country of the Uxii, located between Susiana and Persis, is watered by many streams and rich in fruits of all kinds that contribute to the enjoyment of life (17.67.3). Similarly, the oasis of Ammon is covered with trees of every variety, especially fruit trees. It is also watered by many springs, one of which is called the ’Spring of the Sun’, for the temperature of its waters changes peculiarly in accordance with the times of day (17.50.1, 4– 5). The Fortunate Villages of Hyrcania in the south of the Caspian Sea rightly deserve their name, according to Diodorus, for they are rich in crops and vines that produce wine in abundance.³² Fruitful fig trees also grow in these villages, as well as a unique tree, from the leaves

 Cf. Iambulus’ island: the inhabitants asked Iambulus and his friend to leave, because they were malefactors and educated towards evil habits. For the impact of Plato’s Atlantis on Diodorus’ authorities, see, e. g., Honigman 2009.  Eudaimōnes kōmai. Cf. Eudaimōn Arabia below.

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of which honey drops. The inhabitants take great pleasure from this honey, as from sweat liquor, made by a winged animal, smaller than the bee. Moreover, the grain that falls to the ground at the harvest grows without being sown and brings an abundant harvest (17.75.3 – 7). The notion of foodstuffs produced of themselves is particularly interesting. Emphasized twice in the story of Iambulus (2.57.1, 59.3), it appears also in Diodorus’ description of Sicily and India. He states that in the plain of Leontini and many other parts of Sicily the wheat still grows wild in his day (5.2.4).³³ The Heraean Mountains, also in Sicily, are rich in fruits, since vines and various other fruit trees, found there in profusion, spring up of their own accord. In addition, a multitude of great oak trees which bear fruit of extraordinary size exist on these mountains. Highlighting the fact that the area produces an abundant supply of food, Diodorus tells the story of a huge Carthaginian army that was saved there when it was facing starvation. (4.84.1). In India, some of the fruits grow wild; these and the roots that sprout in the marshy areas are remarkably sweet, providing the people with a great quantity of food (2.36.5). In fact, Diodorus’ long discussion of India (2.35.3 – 39.4) follows closely his portrayal of the utopian islands. India abounds in all kinds of animals, both beasts and birds, notable for their great size and strength. The land of India is rich in all sorts of fruit trees, as well as grain, millet, rice, and many other plants useful for food. The country is well irrigated by the abundance of water supplied by a multitude of rivers and has two rainy seasons. As a result, the land yields two excellent crops each year, as in the Island of the Hyperboreans (2.47.1). Moreover, the numerous large and fertile plains, remarkable for their beauty, are covered with many gardens, while cool winds blow in the hill–country and the waters flow pure at their very sources. Hence, the inhabitants enjoy an abundant supply of food and, since they also drink water of the finest quality and breathe a pure air, their height and bodyweight exceed the norm and they are extremely skilled in the arts. Adding to the idealization of India, Diodorus states that the Indians have never suffered a famine due the custom, according to which, although they are engaged in wars, they never ravage the land of their enemies, nor do they injure those who are engaged in tilling the soil.

 On this occasion, Diodorus also cites Od. 9.109 – 111, where the poet depicts the land of the Cyclopes, stating that wheat, barley, and vines grow there uncultivated. Yet the land of the Cyclopes is more of a dystopia. Pastoral as it was, Odysseus and his friends met there Polyphemus, a savage man who knew nothing of justice or of law, and experienced horrible events (Od. 9.116 – 566). Thus, whereas Diodorus’ heroes visited pleasant islands and encountered hospitable people, Odysseus hoped in vain for the Cyclopes to entertain him as is the due of strangers (Od. 9.266 – 275).

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Lands depicted in a pastoral fashion are detected in all parts of the world. Further examples from the west include Sardinia and a region of Iberia. Sardinia gained so much fame for the profusion of its fruits that the Carthaginians went through many struggles to gain possession of it (4.29.6), while in Iberia the Celtiberians were provided with an abundance food, notably a great quantity of honey (5.34.2).³⁴ In the southern part of the universe, Eudaimōn Arabia received its name, according to Diodorus, because of the multitude of fruits and other good things that grow there. Stating that the land produces every plant that has a spicy scent and every kind of aromatic material in profusion, Diodorus mentions plants and materials such as myrrh, frankincense, and cinnamon and specifies their uses. He adds that the earth itself is full of a vapour resembling sweet incense (2.49.1– 5). Utopian motifs are incorporated in Diodorus’ description of other regions of Arabia. The land of the Debae, for instance, has many springs of sweet water as well as a river that carries down gold dust, whereas its mountain is covered with thickets of trees of every variety (3.45.1– 5).³⁵ Interestingly, Diodorus highlights one of his most typical ’utopian’ characteristics in his account of two regions in Ethiopia – the territory on the west bank of the Nile and the land of the Rhizophagi (both provide food in great abundance, 3.10.1– 4, 23.1– 3) – even though these are not pleasant places to live in, since a multitude of either elephants or lions disturb the lives of the inhabitants. This strengthens the idea that Diodorus considered utopia as part of the real world, as I argue below. Moderate climate and its contribution to the inhabitants’ good health is another utopian motif incorporated in Diodorus’ description of actual lands. Places visited by Alexander are, again, good examples. Surrounded by hot regions, the oasis of Ammon has, according to Diodorus, a temperate climate that reminds one of spring; thus it offers the people a mild temperature (17.50.1). Founded and planned by Alexander the Great, Alexandria in Egypt was built in such a way so that the north–western winds of summer blow across a vast area of sea and cool the air of the city. Thus, Alexander furnished the inhabitants with a moderate climate and good health (17.52.2). The Heraean Mountains

 See also Diodorus’ account of Hecatompylus (4.18.1; probably Capsa in Numidia, see Sulimani 2011: 171– 175), the Baliares (5.17.2), and Sybaris (12.9.2).  See also Diod. 3.45.6 – 8: the land of their neighbours, the Alilaei and the Gasandi, produces everything and is exceptionally fertile.

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(4.84.1) and India (2.36.1, 38.4) are also singled out by Diodorus for their pure air and enjoyable weather.³⁶ In his idyllic descriptions, Diodorus underlines the magnificence of the country and its beauty, as well as its contribution to the health, relaxation, and enjoyment of the inhabitants. At times, he even stresses the luxury enjoyed by the inhabitants. Like the Island in the Atlantic Ocean and Lipara, mentioned above, Alexandria (17.52.5), Persia (19.22.3), and India (2.16.4) offered the people everything needed for luxury and wealth. Being one of the sources of wealth, mines of gold, silver, copper, tin, and iron are found in India (2.36.2), as in Panchaea, and Diodorus emphasizes the existence of various mines in the lands along the coasts of the Arabian Gulf (3.45.7) and in Britain (5.22.1).³⁷ Apart from the idyllic descriptions of the land and its assets, utopian motifs that reflect the culture of the Hellenistic era and recur in the Bibliothēkē are also found in Diodorus’ depictions of real places. Like those of Iambulus’ island, the inhabitants of Britain are hospitable to strangers (5.22.1), whereas the Arabian Debae also welcome foreigners, though only Boeotians and Peloponnesians, because of the friendship shown by Heracles for them (3.45.5). The Gauls invite strangers to their meals, inquiring only afterwards who they are and what they need (5.28.5). The Indians appoint magistrates to make sure that no foreigner will be ill–treated; if any foreigner falls sick, they bring him a physician and, in case of death they bury him and turn over his property to his relatives (20.42.3). The Celtiberians are another striking example. Although they are cruel towards enemies and criminals, Diodorus stresses that they are benevolent and humane (ἐπιεικεῖς καὶ φιλάνθρωποι) towards strangers, using the same wording that reappears in various parts of his work to convey the idea of kindness (5.34.1).³⁸ The notion of magnanimity towards the ’other’ is well connected with the coexistence of various peoples, another Diodoran ’utopian’ motif. As already noticed, Alexander’s practice inspired Diodorus, and hence it is not surprising to find his remark that the new settlers and the natives of Lipara had equal rights (5.7.6), and that in Alesia, since the locals surpassed the others in multitude, all the inhabitants were barbarized (4.19.1– 2). Diodorus also underlines that India,

 Diodorus discusses the importance of the sun and the the effect of climate on peoples and their cultures on several occasions, e. g., 2.51.3 – 53.7; 3.2.1, 33.7– 34.8. See also his reference to the sun in his accounts of utopian Panchaea (5.44.3) and Iambulus island (2.59.7).  Cf. 3.45.5: the river that carries down gold dust in the land of the Arabian Debae.  See the discussion of Iambulus’ island above. See also Diodorus’ account of the Egyptian king Psammetichus, who took measures to secure the lives of foreigners, since his predecessors had consistently closed Egypt to strangers, either killing or enslaving those who came to Egypt from abroad (1.67.9 – 11). Cf. Diodorus’ mythical tales in 3.56.2 and 5.7.7.

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perhaps his best instance of utopia in the real world, is inhabited by many peoples of every kind (2.38.1).³⁹ Moreover, he states that all the Indians are free and that they respect the principle of equality in all human beings (2.39.5), like the people of Iambulus’ island (2.55.4, 58.1), but they are divided into seven castes (2.40.1– 5), similar to the Panchaeans (5.45.3). The principle of equality appears also in Diodorus’ discussion of Rhodes (5.59.6) and the Vaccaei in Iberia (5.34.3), while peaceful coexistence is also a feature of Britain (5.21.6) and among the Rhizophagi (3.23.2), as in Iambulus’ island (2.55.4). These notions accord well with the idea of homonoia, the unity of mankind, mentioned above. The Ethiopians, according to Diodorus, live in freedom and concord (homonoia) with one another (3.2.4), and the oracle given to Lycurgus of Sparta declared that the greatest attention should be devoted to both concord (homonoia) and manly spirit (7.12.23). The impact of Alexander the Great is obvious: recording the last plans attributed to the king, Diodorus maintains that Alexander intended to establish cities and to relocate populations from Asia to Europe and from Europe to Asia, in order to bring the continents to homonoia and friendship of kinsmen through marriages and family ties (18.4.4).⁴⁰ To illustrate the influence of the utopian idea on Diodorus’ real world, it is worth mentioning his description of Demetrius Poliorcetes’ rebuilding of Sicyon in 303 BCE. Destroying the part of the city near the harbour because it was insecure, Demetrius moved the people of Sicyon into the acropolis, for its area was level and large, surrounded on all sides by cliffs. Additionally, it had an abundance of water that helped the inhabitants to develop rich gardens. Demetrius assisted them in building their houses and restored their free government. Thus, he provided the people of Sicyon both comfort in time of peace and safety in time of war. Repeating one of his recurring notions, Diodorus concludes that Demetrius received divine honours from those whom he had benefited (20.102.20 – 4). A comparison with the accounts of Strabo (8.6.25 C 383) and Pausanias (2.7.1), who merely note that Demetrius rebuilt the city upon a fortified hill, reinforces Diodorus’ unique approach. A thorough comparison with other authors would make this paper too long. Hence, I will briefly present a few further examples illustrating Diodorus’ distinctive perception. To begin with the oasis of Ammon, Curtius Rufus emphasizes that, although it is located in the desert, it is covered by many trees and has many springs of sweet water. He also praises its mild climate but, whereas Di Diodorus, however, was aware that coexistence sometimes failed, for he tells of the Greeks who had been settled in Bactria and Sogdiana who were unhappy to live with other peoples, thus revolting after Alexander’s death (17.99.5).  Cf. Plut. Alex. 68.1; Arr. Anab. 7.1.2; Curt. 10.1.17– 18.

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odorus underlines especially the oasis’ fruit trees (17.50.1), using almost the same wording as in his accounts of Panchaea (5.43.1), Hespera (5.53.5), and the Islands in the Atlantic Ocean (5.19.3) and the river Triton (3.68.5), Curtius omits this essential utopian motif (4.7.16 – 17). Herodotus (2.32) and Strabo (17.3.23 C 838) indeed mention the oasis’ palm–trees and supply of water, yet they refer to the site almost in passing and do not give it much attention. India in Strabo’s detailed account is fertile, well–watered, and produces plenty of food. However, the nature of his discussion, which includes scientific explanations and citations of not a few authorities, is quite different from that of Diodorus.⁴¹ Furthermore, unlike Diodorus, Strabo adds ’shortcomings’ such as his statement that both healing and poisonous herbs grow in India, and makes a comparison to ’better lands’, stating, for instance, that the Nile has more advantages than the rivers of India and that the Seres live longer than the Indians. Another feature that makes Strabo’s description of India more realistic than Diodorus’ is his references to similarities with the Greeks, saying, for example, that some of the Indians use vigorous young men instead of slaves, as the Cretans use the Aphamiotae and the Laconians the Helots (15.1.20 – 22 C 693 – 5, 1.34 C 701– 2).⁴² Moreover, although referring to the fertile vines and trees of Hyrcania, Strabo does not mention its Fortunate Villages but, rather, emphasizes its inability to prosper as it should have (11.7.2 C 508 – 509). Describing the territory of the Uxii, Strabo does not mention its fertility at all (15.3.6 C 729). One final example should be introduced. Polybius, who, like Diodorus, visited Alexandria in Egypt, describes the social conditions in the city which, in his opinion, were unbearable.⁴³ He states that the inhabitants were divided into three classes: the mercenaries, who were numerous, severe, and unmanageable; the native Egyptians, quick to anger and not inclined to deal with affairs of state; and the Alexandrians, who also did not find political affairs appealing. The latter were a mixed group of people, but thought better than the native Egyptians, since they were originally Greeks and aware of the Greek customs (quoted in Strab. 17.1.12 C 797). Apart from revealing a lack of unity in a Hellenistic city, Polybius’ approach differs from that of Diodorus, for he considered the Greeks better than the local inhabitants. Diodorus, underlining the idea of the coexistence of various peoples and races in cities on several occasions, never mentions

 Cf. Strabo’s discussion of Alexandria (17.1.7 C 792– 793). See also Curtius (4.8.1– 2, 5 – 6), whose description of Alexandria is brief and lacks Diodorus’ ’utopian’ highlights.  See also Strabo’s account of Eudaimōn Arabia (16.4.2 C 767– 8, 25 C 782– 3) and the Debae (16.4.18 C 777).  For Diodorus’ visit in Egypt, see Diod. 3.38.1, 17.52.6, with Sacks 1990: 85 – 86, 118 n. 3; Sulimani 2011: 129 – 131.

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Alexandria’s social stratification when discussing the amount of its population and the census held in the city at the time of his visit (17.52.6).

Conclusions The significance of the utopian idea in Diodorus’ thought is revealed by his description of six imaginary islands, locating them on the actual map of the world and highlighting their resemblance to real places, as well as by his habit of incorporating utopian motifs in his accounts of real lands and islands throughout the Bibliothēkē. The distinctions between Diodorus’ idyllic accounts and the utopian or dystopian narratives of other authors, and the differences between his portrayals of real lands and those of other writers, further underline the prevalence of the utopian motif in his work. Diodorus was obviously interested in the evolving ‘utopian genre’ that, following the conquests of Alexander, was influenced by the flowering of geographical literature, travel tales, and ethnographic accounts.⁴⁴ But this interest alone does not explain the prominence of the utopian element in his description of the world. The explanation may be found in Diodorus’ awareness of the impact of Alexander’s campaign and its subsequent developments, as well as the politics of his own day. Diodorus depicts journeys of gods and heroes in realistic ways throughout the mythological section of his work. One receives the impression that he draws the map of the world known in his day through these journeys. Thus, by establishing the utopian islands at a defined geographical site, he hints that, although far away, they are within reach. ‘Utopia’ is not a Greek word, yet its components are Greek. Contrary to the negative ou, however, Diodorus’ utopian island has a topos. Simultaneously, known lands and islands that bear resemblance to the utopian islands may be found either in the remote parts of the universe or nearby. Painting the world in such a fashion is perfectly compatible with the longing of Diodorus’ contemporaries for a better world after years of wars and their destructive consequences. Furthermore, Diodorus uses his utopian description of both real and imaginary sites to convey contemporary notions, perhaps even to deliver a message. He recounts the coexistence of various peoples in a certain place and, although the inhabitants of this place have different cultures from that of the Greeks, they are situated inside the world. This recalls the notion of the unity of mankind, and

 See, e. g., Gabba 1981: esp. 55 – 60; Hägg 1983: 117– 118; Holzberg 2003: 621– 628; Whitmarsh 2010.

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the change in the treatment of the ’other’ in the Hellenistic era. By the time of Diodorus, when Caesar’s accomplishments became no less influential than those of Alexander, acceptance of and tolerance towards the ’other’ existed along with conservatism and distinctions between peoples according to racial and cultural factors.⁴⁵ Diodorus expresses both these conflicting approaches in his work.⁴⁶ The impact of Alexander and Caesar may also explain Diodorus’ decision to incorporate the utopian islands into the actual map of the world. It may well be that the historian intended to offer an ancient and well–established precedent for the conquests of both leaders.⁴⁷ To take the Island of the Hyperboreans as an example, in light of Diodorus’ high regard for Caesar and his constant allusions to the Roman leader’s conduct, it is quite possible that Caesar’s invasion of Britain inspired Diodorus to include it in his work.⁴⁸ Moreover, Diodorus may have had a personal reason, that is, to glorify islands, and especially his home island, as the best place for human beings to live. Significantly, he compares both the island of the Hyperboreans and Britain with Sicily (2.47.1, 5.21.3). With these aims in mind, accompanied by his enthusiasm for geography and his idea of the important role that mythology had in the general purpose of history, Diodorus adds a new dimension to the utopian literature that was widespread in his day.⁴⁹ However, despite the idyllic colours in which he portrays the world, Diodorus’ world is not perfect. His map of the universe includes dystopia, as in Ethiopia mentioned above, and in Iberia, where the miners were slaves, engaged in digging underground day and night, and consequently dying in large numbers (5.36.3, 38.1). Yet such dystopic places do not refute the idea that Diodorus considered utopia as part of the actual world; on the contrary, they make the world imperfect and thus – real.

 Some of Caesar’s deeds accord well with the theory of the unity of mankind. For instance, he allowed men who had been given Roman citizenship into the senate, including half–barbarian Gauls, if Suetonius is to be trusted (Suet. Iul. 76, 80; cf. Cic. Fam. 9.15.2), yet he also depicted a certain German king as a barbarian, irascible and thoughtless (Caes. B Gall. 1.31).  Sulimani 2011: 315 – 330, 342– 343.  See, however, Gabba 1981: 59, maintaining that these islands interested those ’who longed to escape from the present to an egalitarian dream–world’. Cf. Honigman 2009: 35.  It is interesting to mention the similarities between my conclusion here and the deductions of scholars such as Hunter (1993; 1996) and Stephens (2003; 2008; 2011) that, in writing his Argonautica, Apollonius Rhodius had the Ptolemaic context in mind and that he produced a myth for Ptolemaic rule in North Africa.  For Diodorus’ interest in geography and his high regard for mythology, see Sacks 1990 and Sulimani 2011 with further bibliography.

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Figure 1: The Journey of Euhemerus

Figure 2: The Journey of Zeus

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Figure 3: The Journey of Iambulus

References Ahmad, E. (1972), Coastal Geomorphology of India. New Delhi: Orient Longman. de Angelis, F. and B. Garstad (2006), “Euhemerus in Context,” Classical Antiquity 25: 211 – 242. Bridgman, T.P. (2005), Hyperboreans: Myth and History in Celtic–Hellenic Contacts. New York and London: Routledge. Brown, T.S. (1946), “Euhemerus and the Historians,” Harvard Theological Review 39: 259 – 274. Buxton, R.G.A. (1994), Imaginary Greece: The Contexts of Mythology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Clay, D. and A. Purvis (1999), Four Island Utopias. Newburyport: Focus Publishing. Cook, A.B. (1925), Zeus: A Study in Ancient Religion. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. vol. 2 pt. 2. Ferguson, J. (1975), Utopias of the Classical World. London: Thames and Hudson. Fowler, R.L. (2013), Early Greek Mythography, Vol. II: Commentary. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Fowler, R.L. (2015), “Myth and History,” in E. Eidinow and J. Kindt (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of Ancient Greek Religion, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 195 – 209. Gabba, E. (1981), “True History and False History in Classical Antiquity,” Journal of Roman Studies 71: 50 – 62. Garstad, B. (2004), “Belus in the Sacred History of Euhemerus,” Classical Philology 99: 246 – 257. Hawes, G. (2014), Rationalizing Myth in Antiquity. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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Hägg, T. (1983), The Novel in Antiquity. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. Holzberg, N. (2003), “Utopias and Fantastic Travel,” in G. Schmeling (ed.), The Novel in the Ancient World, 2nd ed., Boston and Leiden: Brill, 621 – 628. Honigman, S. (2009), “Euhemerus of Messene and Plato’s Atlantis,” Historia 58: 1 – 35. Hunter, R. (1993), The Argonautica of Apollonius: Literary Studies. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hunter, R. (1996), “The Divine and Human Map of the Argonautica,” Syllecta Classica 6: 13 – 27. Konrad, C.F. (1994), Plutarch’s Sertorius: A Historical Commentary. Chapel Hill and London: University of North Carolina Press. Lane Fox, R. (2008), Travelling Heroes: Greeks and Their Myths in the Epic Age of Homer. London: Allen Lane. Ma, J. (1999), Antiochus III and the Cities of Western Asia Minor. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Mitchell, S. (1993), Anatolia: Land, Men and Gods in Asia Minor. Oxford: Clarendon Press. vol. 1. Nayak, G.N. (2005), “Indian Ocean Coasts, Coastal Geomorphology,” in M.L. Schwartz (ed.), Encyclopedia of Coastal Science, Dordrecht: Springer, 554 – 557. Oldfather, C.H. (1935), Diodorus of Sicily. Loeb Classical Library. London and Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Romm, J.S. (1992), The Edges of the Earth in Ancient Thought: Geography, Exploration, and Fiction. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Sacks, K. (1990), Diodorus Siculus and the First Century. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Schwarz, F.F. (1982), “The Itinerary of Iambulus: Utopianism and History,” in G.D. Sontheimer and P. Kota Aithal (eds.), Indology and Law: Studies in Honour of J. Duncan M. Derrett, Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner Verlag, 18 – 55. Stephens, S.A. (2003), Seeing Double: Intercultural Poetics in Ptolemaic Alexandria. Berkeley, Los Angeles and London: University of California Press. Stephens, S. (2008), “Ptolemaic Epic,” in T.D. Papanghelis and A. Rengakos (eds.), Brill’s Companion to Apollonius Rhodius, 2nd ed., Leiden and Boston: Brill, 95 – 114. Stephens, S. (2011), “Remapping the Mediterranean: The Argo adventure in Apollonius and Callimachus,” in D. Obbink and R. Rutherford, Culture in Pieces: Essays on Ancient Texts in Honour of Peter Parsons, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 188 – 207. Sulimani, I. (2005), “Myth or Reality? A Geographical Examination of Semiramis’ Journey in Diodorus,” Scripta Classica Israelica 24: 45 – 63. Sulimani, I. (2011), Diodorus’ Mythistory and the Pagan Mission: Historiography and Culture– heroes in the First Pentad of the Bibliotheke. Leiden and Boston: Brill (Mnemosyne Supplements, 331). Syme, R. (1995), Anatolica: Studies in Strabo. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Weerakkody, D.P.M. (1997), Taprobane: Ancient Sri Lanka as Known to the Greeks and Romans. Turnhout: Brepols. Whitmarsh, T. (2010), “Prose Fiction,” in J.J. Clauss and M. Cuypers (eds.), A Companion to Hellenistic Literature, Malden, MA and Oxford: Wiley–Blackwell, 395 – 411.

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Whitmarsh, T. (2013), Beyond the Second Sophistic: Adventures in Greek Postclassicism. Berkeley, Los Angeles and London: University of California Press. Winiarczyk, M. (1991), Euhemeri Messenii Reliquiae. Stuttgart and Leipzig: Teubner. Winiarczyk, M. (2013), The Sacred History of Euhemerus of Messene. Berlin and Boston: De Gruyter. Winston, D. (1976), “Iambulus’ Islands of the Sun and Hellenistic Literary Utopias,” Science Fiction Studies 3: 219 – 227.

Inger N.I. Kuin

Laughter in Lucian’s Utopias of the Dead David Hume, the Scottish Enlightenment philosopher, found solace in reading the works of Lucian of Samosata on his deathbed, in particular his works about death and dying. According to Adam Smith, Hume enjoyed the piece Downward Journey, and possibly also some of the Dialogues of the Dead, during the final days of his life. In the former piece Charon, Hermes, and Clotho transport the tyrant Megapenthes, whose name means ‘greatly suffering,’ to the underworld, along with the poor cobbler Micyllus, whose name can be translated as ‘little one.’ While Micyllus gladly leaves his humdrum earthly existence behind, Megapenthes keeps trying to convince the underworld personnel to let him stay among the living a little longer, but without any success. Dialogues of the Dead is a collection of exchanges between philosophers, poets, kings, and, occasionally, regular people set in the underworld. As in Downward Journey, in these exchanges dying is much harder for the formerly rich and powerful than for the detached philosopher or the poor man. In Lucian’s writing the underworld is presented as an egalitarian utopia: wealth or power do not matter anymore, finally everybody is equal. The anecdote that Hume read Lucian on his deathbed has come down to us in two letters. Aside from Adam Smith, William Cullen mentions the story in a letter to John Hunter. Both letters date to the fall of 1776, shortly after Hume’s death. Smith’s letter contains more detail, and is worth citing at some length. Writing to William Strahan on November 9, 1776, Smith describes Hume’s engagement with Lucian’s texts as follows: [A]mong all the excuses which are alleged to Charon for not entering readily into his boat, he could not find one that fitted him: he had no house to finish, he had no daughter to provide for, he had no enemies upon whom he wished to revenge himself. “I could not well imagine,” said he, “what excuse I could make to Charon, in order to obtain a little delay. I have done every thing of consequence which I ever meant to do, and I could at no time expect to leave my relations and friends in a better situation than that in which I am now likely to leave them: I therefore have all reason to die contented.” He then diverted himself with inventing several jocular excuses, which he supposed he might make to Charon, and with imagining the very surly answers which it might suit the character of Charon to return to them. “Upon further consideration,” said he, “I thought I might say to him, “Good Charon, I have been correcting my works for a new edition. Allow me a little time that I may see how the public receives the alterations.” But Charon would answer, “When you have seen the effect of these, you will be for making other alterations. There will be no end of such excuses; so, honest friend, please step into the boat.” But I might still urge, “Have a little patience, good Charon, I have been endeavouring to open the https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110733129-014

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eyes of the public. If I live a few years longer, I may have the satisfaction of seeing the downfall of some of the prevailing systems of superstition.” But Charon would then lose all temper and decency. “You loitering rogue, that will not happen these many hundred years. Do you fancy I will grant you a lease for so long a term? Get into the boat this instant, you lazy loitering rogue.”¹

The excuses that Hume considers but rejects – finishing a house, providing for his family, exacting revenge from enemies – all come from Downward Journey, from the mouth of Megapenthes. The two excuses that he does attempt are also reminiscent of the tyrant’s requests: he, too, wants to know how things are going among the living, and his desire to get just a little more time “to complete the conquest of the Pisidians, and to impose tribute on Lydia” is as unrealistic as Hume’s request to stay alive to see the downfall of superstition.² Charon’s role, as imagined by Hume, functions in two ways. It allows Hume through Charon (and through Smith) to make a final snide remark about his countrymen’s alleged superstition. Secondly, through gentle self-mockery Hume highlights the utopian egalitarianism of the underworld: Charon can call a famous philosopher a rogue with impunity in his realm. By emulating Lucian’s text Hume is able to joke about his own impending demise. The anecdote about Hume reading Lucian on his deathbed highlights the potential of Lucian’s underworld texts to alleviate people’s fears of death and dying through humour. This chapter will consider Lucian’s utopian eschatological scenarios with two central questions in mind. First, what message do these pieces send about (ancient) utopianism? Second, what is the function of making these eschatological utopias humorous? Scholars have recognised the utopian features of Lucian’s underworld texts, but they have been studied primarily for their connection to Cynic philosophy, on the one hand, and their influence on early

 Adam Smith to William Strahan on November 9, 1776, published in Birkbeck Hill 1888: xxxiv – xl.  The relevant passages in Downward Journey are 8 – 9 and 11– 12. In his letter Smith writes in fact that Hume was reading Dialogues of the Dead, but the contents of that work do not fit with the rest of the anecdote; Cullen has a truncated version of the same anecdote and does mention the correct piece, Downward Journey; in another letter by Smith, to Alexander Wedderburn, Hume is simply said to be reading Lucian’s dialogues and thinking of excuses to delay death, cf. Baier 2008: 100 – 110. Perhaps Smith got his Lucian texts mixed up, or perhaps he knew that Hume had been reading both, and thought it necessary only to mention the Dialogues of the Dead because his correspondent would recognize the other piece from Hume’s parody.

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modern utopian thought on the other (Thomas More in particular).³ I focus, instead, on the meta-utopian and humorous aspects of Lucian’s underworld(s), which are vital to our understanding of these works. The post-mortem setting of Lucian’s utopianism stands in a long tradition of using the great beyond to think through idealising world visions. The katabaseis in Aristophanes and Vergil are good examples, as well as the afterlife myths in Plato’s Gorgias and Republic, and, perhaps, a now lost utopian katabasis narrative by Menippus. The question arises why the afterlife was seen as a suitable canvas for utopian thought. The ancients did not have a dogmatic, unified vision of life after death – in fact ancient ideas about eschatology were often quite bleak – so when authors present a positive version of the underworld they have made a conscious decision to do so.⁴ One reason why the afterlife was a natural space for utopian thought may be that, as the great unknown, it accommodates speculative scenarios that cannot be unproven. Additionally, death can be understood as a state of hindsight: it makes sense to attribute to those who have departed from life a special, disinterested insight into how it might be lived best. Ideally they would put these insights, we might imagine, into practice in their own community of the dead. In Lucian’s underworld texts the hindsight of the dead translates into two types of afterlife. On the one hand, there is a group of pieces (Downward Journey, Dialogues of the Dead, and Menippus) where the underworld represents an idealized egalitarian community: differences in wealth and status have fallen away, and all dead shades are equal. On the other hand, in the novel True Histories the blessed ones enjoy a diet of unending milk, honey, and mirth, ‘living’ in a land of luxurious abundance. Into both scenarios, however, Lucian inserts major question marks. Would everybody be happy with an egalitarian afterlife? If there were abundance of everything, would (dead) people really stop fighting each other over resources? By raising these questions inside his utopian fantasies Lucian undermines the ideal scenarios from within. I will suggest that in Lucian the unfeasibility of a utopian existence even in death – leaving aside the difficult issue of whether there can be any ‘existence’ in death at all – can be read as a comment on utopian thought as such. Even beyond the dark notion

 Lucian’s underworld and Cynicism: Baldwin 1961; Relihan 1987. Lucian’s underworld and early modern utopian thought: Robinson 1979: 130 – 133; Branham 1985; Romm 1991; Marsh 1998: 193 – 197; Raisch 2016.  On diversity of and changes in attitudes towards death see Sourvinou Inwood 1995 (her survey only goes to the end of the classical period; by Lucian’s lifetime attitudes had become, if anything, even more diverse on account of the rise of new cults like Mithraism). See Edmonds 2004: 1– 28 on katabasis literature.

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of having to die to reach utopia, Lucian’s dream worlds expose themselves through their inner contradictions as ou-topias, ‘no places,’ rather than eu-topias, ‘good places.’ The second issue that this chapter will take up is the possibility that Lucian’s utopian underworld scenarios were intended to have a therapeutic effect through humour. The inner contradictions of his utopian underworlds are accompanied by laughter on the part of the characters, and, in response to this, on the part of the audience. Freud, in his analysis of humour, paid special attention to laughter in unlikely, dire circumstances, which he termed ‘gallows humour.’ He viewed this type of laughter as a coping mechanism to dispel negative emotions about death, providing release both to the joker and the audience of the joke. I will suggest that Lucian’s preoccupation with death and the afterlife as a source of humour, at least in part, aimed at alleviating people’s fear of death and dying. Even if they are in fact ou-topias, Lucian’s utopias of the dead are helpful if not vital imaginary worlds to escape to for a laugh. The structure of this chapter will be as follows. In the next section I will discuss Freud’s account of gallows humour, as well as more recent approaches to this phenomenon. In the third section I turn to Lucian’s seemingly paradisiacal eschatological scenario in True Histories, and its darker corners. In the fourth section I treat the three Lucianic pieces (Downward Journey, Dialogues of the Dead, and Menippus) that together represent the egalitarian version of Lucian’s underworld. I will conclude this chapter with some brief reflections on the role of humour in utopianism, using Lucian’s most famous follower, Thomas More, as an example.

1 Gallows humour A criminal who was being led out to execution on a Monday remarked: “Well, the week is beginning nicely.” Freud uses this anecdote as an example of humour twice, both in Jokes and Their Relation to the Unconscious, and in his later essay titled “Humour.”⁵ Many variations on this anecdote exist, with prisoners about to be executed asking for a scarf so as to not catch a cold, or someone before a firing squad declining a last cigarette because he is trying to cut down.⁶ The punch line in each instance is the same: the prisoner who is about to die a violent death denies his imminent demise by casually referring to his (near)

 Freud 1960 [1905]: 284; cf. 1999 [1927]: 4541.  Scarf joke: also Freud 1960 [1905]: 285 – 286; cigarette joke: Thorson 1993: 23.

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future self. In his book on jokes Freud describes Galgenhumor, or gallows humour, as “the crudest case of humour,” but also as having “something like magnanimity.”⁷ Humour differs from joking in that it requires the participation of only one person, namely the person who makes a humorous remark about his or her own circumstances.⁸ A joke is a three way transaction, involving one person making a joke, a second person laughing at the joke, and a third person (absent or present) who is the victim of the joke.⁹ For Freud humour, then, occurs in more or less dire circumstances, and as such amounts to strong or mild gallows humour. In Jokes Freud explains the function of humour as “a means of obtaining pleasure in spite of the distressing affects that interfere with it; it acts as a substitute for the generation of these affects, it puts itself in their place.”¹⁰ In the essay “Humour” Freud elaborates on the grandeur of gallows humour, describing it as “a triumph of narcissism.” It makes the ego invulnerable by fending off the emotions or affects to which a distressing situation would normally give rise. Instead, traumas are shown to be merely occasions for the ego to gain pleasure.¹¹ Freud locates the strategy of humour in the super-ego, which uses it to console and protect the ego in a father-like manner.¹² Although for humour, unlike a joke, interaction is not a prerequisite, an onlooker will be affected. (Also, given that these anecdotes have entered oral traditions, someone heard them and passed them on.) According to Freud, prior to hearing the humorous quip, the onlooker had prepared to call up the emotional impulses that he or she expected the situation of the sufferer to produce. This expectation is disappointed when the individual, instead of crying or moaning, makes a jest. The anticipated sympathetic emotion in the onlooker is replaced with humorous pleasure.¹³ On this interpretation, gallows humour serves as a coping mechanism both for the suffering individual and for the witness or witnesses to the suffering: the humour enables both parties to escape negative emotions that would otherwise most likely arise from the situation. In his account of gallows humour Freud also includes literary forms of the phenomenon. A writer or narrator can describe the behaviour of real or imaginary people in a humorous manner, whether or not the characters display any hu-

 Freud 1960 [1905]: 285.  Freud 1960 [1905]: 285; cf. 1999 [1927]: 4544.  Freud 1960 [1905]: 118.  Freud 1960 [1905]: 284.  Freud 1999 [1927]: 4542.  Ibid.: 4544– 4545.  Ibid.: 4541.

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mour themselves. In other words, the audience can derive pleasure from the fact that the suffering of others is presented humorously, even if the character within the narrative does not participate in the jesting at all.¹⁴ In contemporary scholarship the terms ‘gallows humour’ and ‘dark humour’ are used most often to describe the jesting among medical workers and other professionals frequently exposed to death. The crude humour that can be prevalent among doctors, fire fighters, policemen, or undertakers is commonly understood as a means of adapting to repeated contact with extreme human suffering and death. This kind of scholarship clearly takes as a starting point Freud’s analysis of gallows humour as a strategy to dispel anticipated negative emotional reactions to death or suffering. It departs from Freud’s approach, however, in that in the situations described the jesting is undertaken not by the sufferers, nor by a narrator or writer, but by the witnesses. Thorson has expanded Freud’s notion of gallows humour to include this type of jesting about someone else’s (impending) death. He defines gallows humour as necessarily intentional and having a coping motive; and, he distinguishes humour to cope with one’s own suffering and jesting about the suffering of others, respectively, as higher and lower forms of the same phenomenon.¹⁵ The ancient Greek jokebook Philogelos contains quips that are remarkably close to modern examples of gallows humour. In two jokes the punchline revolves around an unhealthy location being a downside to a particular spot for a gravesite.¹⁶ Like anecdotes about prisoners asking for a scarf or declining a cigarette, these jokes are funny because they allude to future risks of ill health that are entirely irrelevant as they are precluded by imminent (or even already actual) death. The dating of this collection is vexed, because the jokes evidently come from various sources and periods, but it is at the very least likely that many of them circulated in Lucian’s lifetime.¹⁷ The register, then, of joking about death and dying, and even more specifically the mechanism of gallows humour where-

 Ibid.: 4541.  Thorson 1993. For gallows humour among professionals dealing with death see e. g. Watson 2011 (on doctors); Sliter et al. 2014 (on fire fighters); Vivona 2014 (on crime scene investigators).  Nos. 26 and 73 Dawe. On death, dying, and funerals compare also nos. 18, 22, 29, 38 – 40, 57, 69 – 70, 77, 90, 97, 123, 139, 154, 168, 171, 174, 176, 185, 187, 201, 214, 227, 229, 231, 247– 248, 257– 258 Dawe. In other words, there are thirty-two jokes concerning (human) death and dying, which is a rather significant number in a collection of 265 jokes in total.  No. 62 Dawe can securely be dated to 248 CE. The collection as a whole is conventionally dated to roughly the fourth century CE, Thierfelder 1968: 12– 15; cf. Baldwin 1983: iv-viii; Dawe 2000: v; Troca Pereira 2013: 13 – 14; Beard 2014: 186 – 201.

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by the imminent demise of death is denied through laughter, was current already in or close to Lucian’s lifetime. In this chapter I am considering the humour created by Lucian about death, dying, and the underworld. This means that by definition we are dealing with humorous descriptions of the emotions of others in extreme circumstances by an author. Such descriptions, as discussed by Freud, can prevent audience members from feeling the negative, empathic affects that would be the anticipated response to these literary depictions of suffering. Within Lucian’s narratives we will also encounter, however, examples of ‘first order’ gallows humour, when the author has characters make fun of their own plight; in these cases the anticipated empathic response of the audience is also prevented. This process is analogous to the relief felt by ‘live’ onlookers when someone jests about their own extreme circumstances. The relief provided by both types of gallows humour in Lucian, the ‘literary’ and the ‘onlooker’ kind, goes beyond the realm of empathy in an important way. When audience members laugh about fear and grief experienced by Lucian’s characters this laughter is transferable: while the laughter is prompted by the fear of death, or a lack thereof, of fictional characters, on a deeper level this laughter can also target and thereby pre-empt their own fears. Sooner or later death comes for everyone and (some degree of) fear of death can be understood as a near-universal affliction.¹⁸ When Lucian, as a performer, makes fun of topics surrounding death he is in the same circumstance as his audience: all are under the certain threat of death and have to cope with the uncertainty of what dying entails. Lucian’s humour is capable of at least temporarily dispelling shared anxieties about one’s own death, or about the loss of loved ones; in this way it comes quite close to the ‘first order’ gallows humour directed at oneself. David Hume’s parody of Lucian’s Downward Journey is an example where literary gallows humour instigated a moment of such real life gallows humour.

2 The utopia of the Island of the Blessed At the beginning of the second book of True Histories a weary traveller named ‘Lucian’ puts in at the Island of the Blessed (VH 2.5 – 29), having already visited

 I understand fear of death broadly here, including the fear of being dead, of one’s life ending, of the process of dying, and of premature death, cf. Warren 2004: 1– 16.

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a number of marvellous places, some extra-terrestrial, in the first book. ¹⁹ In the True Histories the Island has room for any deceased individuals deserving of a beautiful afterlife, not, as in archaic Greek poetry, only for the heroes. Lucian’s account of the Island of the Blessed incorporates features of the afterlife as described in epic, as well as aspects of other, non-eschatological epic locales. Additionally, it contains elements from descriptions of utopian places in prose authors, most notably Plato’s Republic. The character ‘Lucian’ and his companions are allowed to enter the Island alive only by exceptional dispensation from Rhadamanthus (VH 2.10), which mirrors the katabasis-motif from epic and drama.²⁰ Lucian’s detailed, fantastical description of life on the Island of the Blessed turns the place into a crossover between the New Jerusalem of John’s Apocalypse and Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory.²¹ The Island smells of flowers, while bird song and rustling leaves provide a pleasant soundtrack (VH 2.5). The city on the Island is opulent: it is surrounded by a large river of myrrh, has a wall made of emerald, foundations of ivory, seven gates of cinnamon, and beryl temples with amethyst altars for all the gods (VH 2.11). The inhabitants are naked but for the purple spider webs they wear (VH 2.12). Nobody grows old, it is always dawn and always spring (VH 2.12). Food and drink grow and flow freely: grapevines yield twelve times a year and fruit-trees thirteen times, bread grows readymade on reeds, there are 365 springs of water, 365 springs of honey, 500 springs of myrrh, seven rivers of milk, and eight rivers of wine (VH 2.13). The inhabitants lie down for dinner on couches made of flowers. Their wine cups fill automatically, much like the self-filling mixing-bowl in Ovid’s story of Baucis and Philemon (Met. 8.682– 686), and they pass the time with music, poetry (Homer!), and laughter (VH 2.14– 15). It will be necessary to take a closer look at the depiction of the laughter of the inhabitants of the Island of the Blessed. According to the narrator laughter is an integral part of their blessedness:

 The first-person narrator reveals his name in VH 2.28. On the distinction between narrator and author in VH see Georgiadou and Larmour 1998: 58; Von Möllendorff 2000: 420 – 423; Ní Mheallaigh 2014: 254– 258.  At VH 2.10 the Island’s inhabitants are called heroes, but many non-heroes do reside there, and ‘Lucian’ is promised a spot if he behaves well at VH 2.27– 28, cf. Cat. 24; for there being only dead heroes on the Island see Hes., Op. 167– 176, Pi., O. 78 – 80 and, Hom., Od. 4.561– 569. On the many sources for Lucian’s description of the Island see Hall 1981: 339 – 354; Rütten 1997: 62n7; Georgiadou and Larmour 1998: 182– 184; Von Möllendorff 2000: 286 – 308, 321– 338.  Compare John, Apoc. 21.11– 22.5; cf. Betz 1961: 92– 96; Georgiadou and Larmour 1998: 189 – 190; Von Möllendorff 2000: 318 – 321.

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The greatest thing that they have for the purpose of good cheer, are two springs next to the table, one of laughter, and one of pleasure. They all drink from each when the revels begin and from then on pass the time enjoying themselves and laughing.²²

Only in Lucian do we find springs of laughter and pleasure on the Island of the Blessed, though scholars have pointed to some possible intertexts. Theopompus’ dystopian city Anostos is surrounded by a river of sorrow and a river of pleasure (Ael., VH 3.18), and Plutarch also describes laughter as an important ingredient of the blessed afterlife (De sera 565 f– 566a).²³ The presence of laughter in a utopian afterlife setting is in some sense unsurprising. In Greek thought it is a key ingredient of festivity, and laughter can even be presented as a life force on a par with food and drink (for instance in Homeric Hymn to Demeter 200 – 205). What does seem quite surprising, however, is the fact that the inhabitants of the Island of the Blessed consume laughter and pleasure from springs. The Island of the Blessed, in Lucian’s description, offers its residents an idealized, utopian post-mortem existence that caters to all the senses. On this first account the inhabitants appear to enjoy a never-ending symposium, so how can they still need springs for pleasure and laughter? Should endless food and drink, pleasant smells, and music not already provide sufficient pleasure, and induce blissful laughter? One possibility is that the inhabitants become so accustomed to their perpetual utopian bliss, that they do not automatically derive pleasure and mirth from it anymore. The springs perhaps serve as “a refresher of their feeling of happiness akin to narcotics,”²⁴ reminding them that they in fact are experiencing pleasure, and should be enjoying laughter. While at first it seemed simply like the opposite of the laughter elicited by gallows humour – pure mirth produced by pure bliss – the laughter on the Island of the Blessed is actually more complex. Imagining shades that have been so dulled by happiness that they need to be reminded of their joys is darkly humorous. On this interpretation the two springs represent the first cracks in the utopia of the Island of the Blessed: eternal bliss is impossible, the author seems to tell us, precisely because it is eternal.²⁵

 VH 2.16: μέγιστον δὲ δὴ πρὸς εὐφροσύνην ἐκεῖνο ἔχουσιν˙ πηγαί εἰσι δύο παρὰ τὸ συμπόσιον, ἡ μὲν γέλωτος, ἡ δὲ ἡδονῆς˙ ἐκ τούτων ἑκατέρας πάντες ἐν ἀρχῇ τῆς εὐωχίας πίνουσιν καὶ τὸ λοιπὸν ἡδόμενοι καὶ γελῶντες διάγουσιν. Texts are from Macleod’s OCT edition; translations from the Greek are my own.  Connection to Theopompus: Hall 1981: 347; cf. Georgiadou and Larmour 1998: 194; to Plutarch: Von Möllendorff 2000: 327.  Rütten 1997: 70n33. The translation from the German is mine.  Compare Halliwell (2008: 443 – 454) on Charon for the idea that in Lucian a positive feature of the human condition is our ability to find genuine value in our finite existences.

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On the Island of the Blessed the fulfilment of sexual desire is also amply provided for. Lucian tells us that the shades enjoy much sexual liberty: they have the women in common, the boys give themselves freely, and they have sex out in the open. The narrator comments: “they are in this respect the most Platonic.”²⁶ This is both an allusion to Plato’s Republic, where it is notoriously proposed that men should share wives (R. 457c), and to the role of some form of homoerotic love between boys and men in Platonic thought. Lucian also teasingly competes with Plato as a utopian author, since his utopia is even more Platonic than Plato’s. For modern audiences there is an additional joke: in part due to the influence of Marsilio Ficino, nowadays Platonic of course means the opposite of what Lucian intends here – the non-sexual, spiritual love that Socrates, according to Plato, practiced with his companions.²⁷ From the traveller’s general description of the conditions on the Island the narrative moves on to a catalogue of the dead, and several events that unfold during the stay of ‘Lucian’ and his companions. In the catalogue of the dead Plato is notably absent. The narrator offers the following comment: Plato alone was not there. And it was said that instead he was living in the city fashioned by him, under the government and the laws he himself wrote.²⁸

With this remark Lucian, again, presents his Island of the Blessed as a rival to Plato’s Republic. As it turns out most everyone has ‘chosen’ his utopia over Plato’s. Other philosophers who are absent include the Stoics: they are still climbing up their steep hill of virtue. The Academicians are also missing, because they cannot decide whether the Island exists or not. The Island is inhabited, in addition to the heroes, by Cynic and Epicurean philosophers, famous historic rulers and politicians, and various writers and poets. Socrates is present, always in the company of beautiful boys. The narrator believes Hyacinthus must be his favourite, because he refuses him the most (VH 2.17). The inhabitants of the Island do not spend all their time idling. One thing they like to do is litigate. Archon Rhadamanthus has to judge several court cases, which ‘Lucian’ and his companions witness when they first arrive. Rhadamanthus decides that Ajax can sit with the heroes, as long as he allows himself

 VH 2.19: εἰσὶ περὶ τοῦτο μάλιστα Πλατωνικώτατοι. For another Lucianic reference to R. 457c see Fug. 18; for a similar use of the adjective Platonic see Str., 7.3.7.  See Wurm 2008 for Ficino on love in Plato.  VH 2.17: Πλάτων δὲ μόνος οὐ παρῆν, ἀλλ᾽ ἐλέγετο [καὶ] αὐτὸς ἐν τῇ ἀναπλασθείσῃ ὑπ᾽ αὐτοῦ πόλει οἰκεῖν χρώμενος τῇ πολιτείᾳ καὶ τοῖς νόμοις οἷς συνέγραψεν. On other notable exclusions see Georgiadou and Larmour 1998: 195 – 200; Von Möllendorff 2000: 345 – 363.

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to be treated for insanity by Hippocrates first (VH 2.6 – 7). Helen should live with Menelaus, instead of Theseus, because the former had suffered much more on account of her (VH 2.8). Rhadamanthus decides that Alexander outranks Hannibal, and should be seated next to Cyrus of Persia.²⁹ In addition to litigating, the Island dwellers also have to fight wars. The inhabitants of the Island of the Wicked attack, and Achilles and Socrates excel in the battle that ensues (VH 2.23). In another attack a mythical king of Cyprus, Cinyras, tries to steal away Helen. He is assisted by three of ‘Lucian’s’ comrades, while the narrator himself, he claims, happened to be taking a nap under the table at the time. The attempt is thwarted, but Rhadamanthus orders ‘Lucian’ and his comrades to leave the Island (VH 2.25 – 26).³⁰ As they are about to depart Odysseus manages to slip the narrator a letter for Calypso with remarkable content: he promises to return to her as soon as he can get away from the Island of the Blessed (VH 2.29, 2.35)! While the presence of springs of pleasure and laughter seemed to undermine implicitly the utopian quality of existence on the Island of the Blessed, the events that ‘Lucian’ the narrator describes do so explicitly. The Island dwellers are quarrelling with each other over status (Alexander and Hannibal) and women (Theseus, Menelaus, and Cinyras). Odysseus wants to leave the Island of the Blessed. And we learn that even in the underworld there is no safety from war. Some of these events seem to be inconsistent with Lucian’s initial description: if women are in common, how come everybody is still competing for Helen? Other elements just appear very out of place: how can the shades possibly fight over who sits where at a table full of self-filling wine cups? It has been argued that the narrator’s depiction of life on the Island of the Blessed serves to ridicule human nature, since even under the most blessed circumstances, it turns out, we humans manage to be profoundly unhappy as a result of our own attitudes.³¹ On this interpretation the ennui and over-satisfaction discussed above, which the springs of pleasure needed to solve, are part of a larger problem of unhappiness on the Island. On the one hand Lucian’s account of afterlife paradise raises the philosophical question whether unlimited and uncompounded pleasure can produce unlimited blessedness. The presence of the springs suggests that they do not. The other problem is whether humans are ca-

 Compare D. mort. 25 where Scipio convinces Minos of the same, saying that he, Scipio, is certainly lesser than Alexander but still defeated Hannibal.  At VH 2.10 Rhadamanthus had promised that they could stay seven months; they are expelled after six and a half months. For Cinyras compare Ov., Met. 10.298 – 518, where he engages in incest with his daughter Myrrha.  Rütten 1997: 66 – 67, 78 – 79.

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pable or even suited to live in such a state of bliss. The events on the Island suggest that a major threat to a utopian locale is the fact that its inhabitants bring their bad natures with them. The conflicts of the Island dwellers expose the utopia of the Island of the Blessed as an ou-topia: even if one wanted to believe that such a place could exist, the inhabitants would spoil it right away. Lucian’s account of the Island of the Blessed casts doubt on (eschatological) utopianism by pointing out that ideal circumstances are insufficient for humans (as they are) to lead an ideal existence. This criticism is perhaps simplistic – it is noteworthy that aside from Socratic conversation in his Necracademy (VH 2.23) there is no system of education on the Island to potentially mitigate the problem – but the underlying issue, whether perhaps humans need finitude for happiness, is not easily resolved. At the same time, Lucian’s True Histories is anything but a philosophical treatise. Its primary, stated purpose is to provide its audience some educated entertainment (VH 1.2– 3). Does the humour of the episode on the Island of the Blessed succeed? And to what extent can it be understood as gallows humour? Aside from quick jokes at the expense of Plato and other philosophers, a strong comic incongruity between the fantastical features described and the methodical, detached tone used to describe them pervades the account of the Island of the Blessed as a whole. Through his emphatic specificity (e. g., regarding the number of springs of honey), and his political language (Rhadamanthus is archon and “guards” and “patrols” protect the Island, VH 2.6), Lucian appears to be parodying the historiography of Herodotus and Thucydides, among others.³² Life on the Island is clearly too good to be true, yet Lucian stubbornly insists on its truthfulness through his serious reporting. Another powerful comic incongruity is the contrast, just discussed, between the idyllic circumstances and the pettiness of the characters. The baroque, over the top description evokes in the audience’s imagination comically scandalous images of drunk shades dressed in purple spider webs having sex out in the open. Lucian’s account exposes the Island of the Blessed, at least in part a parody of earlier utopian thought, as an ou-topia, and the dead themselves are to blame. This rather pessimistic message, undermining both visions of post-mortem bliss and utopian ideals for the living, is presented through humour. Some audience members might indeed have had an idealised vision of what happens after death, some may have had negative expectations, and some no expectations  The patrols (περίπολοι) are a reference to ephebes that guarded the frontiers in Athens, Georgiadou and Larmour 1998: 186. At VH 1.1– 4 the narrator explicitly announces that he will parody historiography, cf. Saïd 1994: 150 – 163; Georgiadou and Larmour 1998: 28 – 40, 183, 192– 193; Kim 2010: 144– 157.

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at all. Whatever one’s outlook is, however, nobody can ever be absolutely sure about the existence and nature of the afterlife. Lucian’s True Histories presents the audience with a best-case scenario: there is an afterlife and it is paradise. But even the best-case scenario quickly turns sour because, it appears, human misery is incorrigible, and gets imported into afterlife utopia. The many strands of humour accompanying the episode of the Island of the Blessed throughout pre-empt, I suggest, the customary fear and apprehension that thinking about the afterlife – whatever one’s expectation might be – typically evokes. It is in this sense that the humour of this section of True Histories can be understood as a kind of gallows humour. Audience members are invited to laugh at the incongruities of the miserable paradise of the Island of the Blessed. In doing so they are also making fun of their own fears and expectations: there is no reason to think that, if they should ever make it to the Island, they would behave any better. The next section of this chapter is concerned with the much more sober version of the afterlife in Lucian’s egalitarian underworld pieces, but before turning to those texts there is one example of gallows humour on the part of the narrator in True Histories, concerning the also gloomy Islands of the Wicked, that deserves brief mention. After their departure the narrator ‘Lucian’ and his comrades put in at one of the five Islands of the Wicked, and it is the polar opposite of the Island of the Blessed. The rocky and infertile island, sown with sword blades and surrounded by rivers of mud, blood, and fire, smells terrible, looks murky, and the sounds are scourges and wailing instead of bird song and rustling leaves (VH 2.29 – 30).³³ ‘Lucian’ becomes afraid, but he alleviates this fear through a joke about himself: [T]hose who told lies while they were alive and who had written untrue things suffered the severest punishments of all, among them were Ktesias of Knidos and Herodotus and many others. On seeing them, I had good hopes for the future, for I was not aware of ever having told a lie.³⁴

 On the possible sources of this description see Georgiadou and Larmour 1998: 213 – 215; Von Möllendorff 2000: 427– 432.  VH 2.31: καὶ μεγίστας ἁπασῶν τιμωρίας ὑπέμενον οἱ ψευσάμενοί τι παρὰ τὸν βίον καὶ οἱ μὴ τὰ ἀληθῆ συγγεγραφότες, ἐν οἷς καὶ Κτησίας ὁ Κνίδιος ἦν καὶ Ἡρόδοτος καὶ ἄλλοι πολλοί. τούτους οὖν ὁρῶν ἐγὼ χρηστὰς εἶχον εἰς τοὐπιὸν τὰς ἐλπίδας˙ οὐδὲν γὰρ ἐμαυτῷ ψεῦδος εἰπόντι συνηπιστάμην. It seems remarkable for Homer and Hesiod to be spared this punishment (both are on the Island of the Blessed, VH 2.22), but within the program of VH as an exploration of the fault lines between truth and lies it is rather apt, cf. Von Möllendorff 2000: 432– 436.

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This joke is a reference to the opening of True Histories. There the narrator harshly criticises the historiographers for lying, while announcing that he is about to tell a story entirely made up of lies, truthful only in its honesty about being deceitful (VH 1.3 – 4). The narrator ‘Lucian’ is quick to leave the Island of the Wicked precisely because he does know that he is a liar.³⁵ ‘Lucian’ tries to suppress his fear of death provoked by the gruesome spectacle with a self-conscious jest.

3 The egalitarian afterlife The underworld of the pieces Dialogues of the Dead, Menippus, and Downward Journey, in sharp contrast to VH’s Island of the Blessed, appears as a destitute and dark place. From the viewpoint of numerous important Lucianic characters, however, this is actually a good thing. In all three pieces death is depicted as the great equaliser, erasing the differences between the rich and the poor, the powerful and the powerless, and the beautiful and the ugly. Lucian repeatedly shows this egalitarian underworld through the eyes of characters that experience it as a utopia because of their philosophical bent, or simply because of the lowly station they had in life. Those who enjoy the egalitarianism of this underworld utopia express their pleasure often through laughter. I begin with a brief example from the piece Menippus to illustrate how much joy an egalitarian underworld can bring to a philosopher. This dialogue describes Menippus’ katabasis, forming a diptych of sorts with Icaromenippus, which featured his ascent to heaven. Menippus, wanting to talk about the best life with Teiresias, finds a Chaldaean sorcerer who helps him gain access to the underworld by means of an elaborate ritual and a Heracles-disguise. Heracles, of course, travelled to the underworld to capture Cerberus, and is therefore a good model; Menippus’ Heracles-disguise is also an imitation of Dionysus’ costume in Aristophanes Frogs, who copied the hero’s attire for the same reason. Upon Menippus’ arrival in the underworld he learns that all the dead are stripped of their earthly possessions and status, and he is delighted: After stripping off all their splendour, I mean their wealth and their lineage and their power, they stood there naked with hanging head, reviewing point by point their happy

 The first person narrator of the introduction of VH and the narrative are one and the same, cf. ibid.: 62– 63, 432– 436; contra Georgiadou and Larmour 1998: 216, who distinguish between the two, and Ní Mheallaigh 2014: 173 – 174, who, in similar vein, attributes a Homer-Odysseuslike relationship to the narrators.

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life among us [i. e. the living] as if it had been a dream. I was enjoying myself thoroughly seeing all this…³⁶

Menippus continues to describe how he went up to the formerly rich to remind them of their pleasant previous existence among the living, and upset them even more (Men. 12). Additionally, the philosopher is pleased to find out that the ugly Thersites and beautiful Nireus have become indistinguishable (Men. 15), and in Dialogues of the Dead (5.1) he enjoys seeing that even Helen has become just a skull!³⁷ Another philosopher who enjoys Lucian’s egalitarian underworld is the Cynic Diogenes. In Dialogues of the Dead he laughs with delight at Alexander the Great, who thinks he might still become a god, even though he is stuck in Hades with Diogenes (D. mort. 13.4). Alexander is brought to tears when Diogenes lists the luxuries and privileges that he, Alexander that is, had to leave behind on earth.³⁸ Menippus and Diogenes both seem to take pleasure in the grief of the formerly rich at being deprived of their status. An important reason for the philosophers’ pleasure is that it retroactively justifies their scorn for the rich and powerful while they were still alive. Thinkers like Menippus and Diogenes, unlike most everyone else, were prepared for this version of the afterlife: they knew that death would mean the end of having and benefitting from worldly goods. Lucian has Diogenes connect the underworld laughter of Cynic philosophers like himself and Menippus with their well-known laughter among the living. The ancient traditions about both men contain frequent reference to their joking and laughing at people less enlightened than them. At the opening of Dialogues of the Dead Diogenes convinces Menippus to come down to the underworld with the promise of much laughter. He sends Pollux to fetch him with the following message: Diogenes bids you, Menippus, if you have laughed enough at the things on earth, to come down here to laugh much more. On earth your laughter was fraught with uncertainty and many people there wonder: ‘Does anyone have full knowledge of the things that come after

 Men. 12: οἱ δὲ ἀποδυσάμενοι τὰ λαμπρὰ ἐκεῖνα πάντα, πλούτους λέγω καὶ γένη καὶ δυναστείας, γυμνοὶ κάτω νενευκότες παρειστήκεσαν ὥσπερ τινὰ ὄνειρον ἀναπεμπαζόμενοι τὴν παρ᾽ ἡμῖν εὐδαιμονίαν˙ ὥστ᾽ ἔγωγε ταῦτα ὁρῶν ὑπερέχαιρον…  A striking second century CE Greek funerary inscription makes the same point asking “Who can say, having looked at a fleshless corpse, whether it was Hylas or Thersites, passer-by?” (IG 14.2131, cf. Cook 1987: 26). It sadly is impossible to know whether the text had humorous intent.  There was a tradition that Diogenes and Alexander died on the same day, Plut., Quaest. conv. 717c; D.L., 6.2.79 (citing Diogenes of Magnesia’s Homonymoi).

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life?’ But here you will not stop laughing, without any doubts, just as I do now, and particularly when you see rich men and satraps and tyrants so lowly and insignificant, only recognisable by their groans, because they are weak and contemptible as they recall their life above.³⁹

Diogenes is relieved that the views he held when he was alive are confirmed in the underworld. At the same time, he admits retroactively that while he was still alive he was not entirely sure that he would be right about what happens after death. Cynic laughter among the living is predicated in large part on the premise that worldly goods ought not to matter to us because of our own and their finitude, but this notion can only truly be proven in death. Lucian’s egalitarian afterlife is a dream come true for Cynic philosophers: their laughter, which in life was hypothetical, is confirmed, and can finally be given free rein. Unlike the philosophers, the cobbler Micyllus from the piece Downward Journey – Hume’s deathbed reading – does not have a stake in being right about the afterlife, yet he enjoys the egalitarian utopia as much as Diogenes and Menippus. After the tyrant Megapenthes’ many unsuccessful attempts at staving off death the poor cobbler Micyllus explains that his life was so full of toil and misery that dying came as a relief: By heaven I already see that everything is splendid here among you, the fact that everyone has equal rank and that nobody is any better than his neighbour is, to me at least, more than pleasant. And I infer that debtors do not have to pay back their loans here and that there are no taxes, and, above all, that there is no freezing in winter or falling ill or being flogged by powerful men. Everything is at peace and the tables are turned: for we paupers laugh while the rich are distressed and lament.⁴⁰

 D. mort. 1.1: ὦ Μένιππε, κελεύει ὁ Διογένης, εἴ σοι ἱκανῶς τὰ ὑπὲρ γῆς καταγεγέλασται, ἥκειν ἐνθάδε πολλῷ πλείω ἐπιγελασόμενον˙ ἐκεῖ μὲν γὰρ ἐν ἀμφιβόλῳ σοὶ ἔτι ὁ γέλως ἦν καὶ πολὺ τό ‘τίς γὰρ ὅλως οἶδε τὰ μετὰ τὸν βίον;’ ἐνταῦθα δὲ οὐ παύσῃ βεβαίως γελῶν καθάπερ ἐγὼ νῦν, καὶ μάλιστα ἐπειδὰν ὁρᾷς τοὺς πλουσίους καὶ σατράπας καὶ τυράννους οὕτω ταπεινοὺς καὶ ἀσήμους, ἐκ μόνης οἰμωγῆς διαγινωσκομένους, καὶ ὅτι μαλθακοὶ καὶ ἀγεννεῖς εἰσι μεμνημένοι τῶν ἄνω. Ancient traditions about Cynic laughter: Menippus: D.L., 6.8; Diogenes: D.L., 6.2.24, 36; cf. Relihan 1987 (on Menippus); Branham 1989: 52– 55; Halliwell 2008: 372– 387; Kuin 2019 (on Diogenes).  Cat. 15: καὶ νὴ Δί᾿ ἤδη καλὰ τὰ παρ᾿ ὑμῖν πάντα ὁρῶ· τό τε γὰρ ἰσοτιμίαν ἅπασιν εἶναι καὶ μηδένα τοῦ πλησίον διαφέρειν ὑπερήδιστον ἐμοὶ γοῦν δοκεῖ. τεκμαίρομαι δὲ μηδ᾿ ἀπαιτεῖσθαι τὰ χρέα τοὺς ὀφείλοντας ἐνταῦθα μηδὲ φόρους ὑποτελεῖν, τὸ δὲ μέγιστον, μηδὲ ῥιγοῦν τοῦ χειμῶνος μηδὲ νοσεῖν μηδ᾿ ὑπὸ τῶν δυνατωτέρων ῥαπίζεσθαι. εἰρήνη δὲ πᾶσα καὶ πράγματα ἐς τὸ ἔμπαλιν ἀνεστραμμένα· ἡμεῖς μὲν γὰρ οἱ πένητες γελῶμεν, ἀνιῶνται δὲ καὶ οἰμώζουσιν οἱ πλούσιοι.

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Micyllus’ comment used to be taken as evidence for Lucian’s advocacy for the poor, and it is easy to understand why. Though this interpretation has fallen out of favour for Lucian’s corpus as a whole for good reasons, here Micyllus’ appetite for class warfare – excuse the anachronism – is quite clear.⁴¹ The cobbler is overjoyed to have arrived in a world where all are equal and where the exploitive socio-economic structures of the living no longer apply. Micyllus is also happy, however, because it is payback time: the formerly poor are laughing while the formerly rich lament. The cobbler’s comment exposes Lucian’s egalitarian utopia as actually containing a fundamental inequality. The unequal distribution of laughter in Lucian’s underworld undermines his egalitarian eschatological utopia. Those who were privileged in life experience great grief at losing their comforts, while those who were badly off in the world above are enjoying themselves tremendously by laughing at the grief of the formerly rich and famous – Cerberus even reports that Menippus and Diogenes entered the underworld laughing.⁴² An even more fundamental problem for Lucian’s egalitarian eschatological utopia comes from the Cynics themselves. According to them in death everyone is reduced “to the same pile of bones.”⁴³ This of course also applies to cobblers and Cynic philosophers. If Menippus and Diogenes too have become just bones, from which vantage point are they to enjoy their underworld laughter at the fact that their suspicions about the equality of death have been proven? The Cynic’s egalitarian utopia is as much a ‘no place,’ ou-topos as the Island of the Blessed in VH. ⁴⁴ The dreamed egalitarian afterlife, a revenge fantasy of sorts for the poor and the Cynics, is another eschatological utopia that cannot be. But even if this laughter cannot materialise anywhere, what might be the function of imagining it? It is difficult to interpret the laughter of Menippus, Diogenes, and Micyllus described by Lucian, as gallows humour within the narrative. None of these Lucianic characters have a hard time coping with seeing the grief of other underworld dwellers, which they view as laughably misguided, since to them death is either a good or, at worst, a neutral outcome. They laugh at the grief of those who do not understand this, not as a way to stave off negative empathic emotions, but rather in mirth or even derision. Unlike VH’s self-soothing joke

 Baldwin 1961: 199 – 208; cf. 1973: 107– 113; contra Hall 1981: 221– 241; Jones 1986: 81– 82. Baldwin’s analysis falls short already for the underworld pieces: not only money and power are taken away, but also physical beauty and even philosophical pretence, D. mort. 20.5 – 8.  D. mort. 4.2; see also D. mort. 3.1– 2, 13.4, 22.1 and Men. 17, 20 – 21.  Halliwell 2008: 458; compare Men. 15 and D. mort. 5.1.  Menippus to some extent escapes this problem, because its protagonist is still alive during his katabasis, but few, if any, Cynics or cobblers will have such an experience.

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by ‘Lucian’ (see above), these pieces, then, do not show gallows humour being used by characters. Nonetheless, the imagined laughter of the philosophers, and other comic elements in Dialogues of the Dead, Menippus, and Downward Journey can still function as gallows humour for audience members, many of whom would – unlike the enlightened philosophers and cobblers in Lucian’s pieces – normally suffer negative emotions in response to thinking about death and dying with respect to themselves or others. The humour of the author’s egalitarian eschatological utopia can serve to dispel such negative emotions, just like the humour contained in his account of the underworld in VH. The ‘enlightened’ laughter of Menippus et al. at fearful and grieving underworld dwellers draws in audience members to laugh along, precisely in order to laugh away their own unenlightened fears. It would be especially easy to share in the Schadenfreude at the excessive grief of the formerly rich, famous, and beautiful. Another highly comical element is that in these pieces Lucian makes the underworld resemble the bureaucracy of the world above: the underworld personnel have targets to meet and supplies to buy.⁴⁵ This banal familiarity is at odds with audience expectations. In other ancient literature Hades is typically a place of fear, mystery, and monsters (even, for instance, in Aristophanes’ Frogs). A recurring comic element is that those who should be as comfortable in the underworld as Menippus and Diogenes, if not more so, are shown to actually be quite afraid. In Menippus Rhadamanthus himself (Men. 10) is frightened by the sound of the earth opening to receive Menippus into Hades. Similarly, Hermes is portrayed as being reluctant to enter to the underworld, even after very many visits (Cat. 2). Socrates also, contrary to the report of Plato’s Phaedo, was afraid when he arrived in Hades (D. mort. 4.1). Finally, the paradoxical nature of the laughter of the Cynic philosophers and the poor cobblers is in itself a source of comedy: the certain vindication that Diogenes holds out to Menippus (D. mort. 1.1, see above) as an enticement to come to the underworld is based on a false promise, that can be fulfilled only in the literary imagination. It is as much of an illusion to think that you will be able to take your philosophical victories with you in death, as it is to expect that you will be able to hold on to your worldly riches. Ultimately none of Lucian’s underworld(s) offer any sincere utopian solutions. Instead, they give receptive audience members an opportunity to (temporarily) laugh away their fears of loss, death, and dying.

 On meeting targets: Cat. 1– 7, Char. 1– 2; on getting supplies: D. mort. 14. This Lucianic comical motif bears a striking resemblance to the depiction of the afterlife in NBC’s recent comedy series The Good Place, which ran for four seasons from 2016 to 2019.

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4 Laughter, utopianism, and friendship The relationship between utopianism and humour is complex for many reasons, a full account of which goes well beyond the scope of this chapter. It is clear, nonetheless, that utopian thought typically proposes a radical overturning of life as we know it: a new, (supposedly) better place with new rules and mores. Because utopianism puts established customs on their head to create a different framework, it is by definition incongruous with what people are familiar with, and in this way some comic overtones are often inherent to utopian scenarios. In contemporary political activism the phrase ‘utopian enactment’ is in fact used for humorous forms of protest; these can show “how society could be more generous and fun” by demonstrating “that alternatives to the prevailing order are possible here and now, however fleeting and temporary.”⁴⁶ Humour is seen as effective in this context because it makes protesters seem less dangerous, and is able to deflect tension. Utopianism, in essence, is about the idea that life could be different. The boldness of this proposition makes it surprising, and thereby potentially humorous. In turn, its humorous element deflates the urgency and potency of the utopian ideal put forward, which, depending on your political bent, is either a weakness or a safeguard. In the case of Lucian’s eschatological underworld scenarios humour clearly contributes to their deflation as utopian visions, but the author in fact rejects them in far more fundamental ways. The eternal happiness of the Island of the Blessed is undermined by the deleterious effect of the faults of human nature persisting even there, and with the springs of laughter and pleasure Lucian may be suggesting that unending bliss is impossible in principle. The egalitarian underworld turns out to be not only inegalitarian in its distribution of (emotional) suffering, but also logically impossible: if in death we all become nothing more than a pile of bones, there is no vantage point from which this utopian (partial) equality of circumstances can be enjoyed. Against this background, Lucian’s dismissal of Plato in VH 2.17 (see above) should perhaps be read as a comment on utopian thought as such. Plato, according to Lucian, took his utopian vision so seriously that he chose to live in it. This is a dangerous error. For Lucian utopian visions are useful imaginative and humorous counterpoints to life as it is, rather than prescriptive scenarios – doomed to fail in any case – for how life should be. The fact that Lucian has located his utopian visions in an underworld context means that the laughter he seeks to provoke with them from his audience members can be interpreted specifically as gallows humour. The negative emotions  Sørensen 2016: 194 and 188.

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that for most people arise when thinking about losing loved ones, dying, and death are, at least temporarily, dispelled by laughter. The degree of influence of Lucian’s utopianism of VH on Thomas More’s Utopia is often measured by how humorous the latter work is – the more humorous the more Lucianic and vice versa. Giulia Sissa has recently argued that Utopia should be read as a friendly parody of the utopianism of More’s friend and equally avid reader of Lucian, Erasmus. The character of Raphael Hythloday, the complex narrator of the second part of Utopia whose speaking name in playful Lucianic fashion means ‘idle-talker,’ was Erasmus.⁴⁷ If we accept this interpretation, we find at the heart of More’s Utopia a strong resonance of Lucian’s view of utopianism: visions of beautiful future worlds have value primarily as vehicles for sobering humour. And, as the accounts of David Hume’s final days show, they have special value indeed if they are able to make us laugh in the face of death.

References Baier, A. (2008), Death and Character: Further Reflections on Hume. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Baldwin, B. (1961), “Lucian as social satirist,” CQ 11.2: 199 – 208. Baldwin, B. (1973), Studies in Lucian. Toronto: Hakkert. Baldwin, B. (1983), The Philogelos or Laughter-Lover. Amsterdam: Gieben. Beard, M. (2014), Laughter in Ancient Rome: On Joking, Tickling, and Cracking Up. Berkeley: University of California Press. Betz, H.D. (1961), Lukian und das Neue Testament: Religionsgeschichtliche und paränetische Parallelen. East-Berlin: Akademie-Verlag. Billault, A., ed. (1994), Lucien de Samosate. Actes du colloque international de Lyon organisé au Centre d’Etudes Romaines et Gallo-Romaines les 30 septembre – 1er octobre 1993. Paris/Lyon: de Boccard. Birkbeck Hill, G. (1888), Letters of David Hume to William Strahan. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Branham, R.B. (1985), “Utopian Laughter: Lucian and Thomas More,” Moreana 86, 23 – 43. Branham, R.B. (1989), Unruly Eloquence: Lucian and the Comedy of Traditions. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Cook, B.F. (1987), Greek Inscriptions. London, Berkeley: British Museum, University of California Press. Dawe, R.D. (2000), Philogelos. Berlin: De Gruyter. Edmonds, R.G. III. (2004), Myths of the Underworld Journey: Plato, Aristophanes, and the ‘Orphic’ Gold Tablets. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Freud, S. (1960) [1905], Jokes and Their Relation to the Unconscious. New York, London: Norton.

 Sissa 2012. For the bibliography on Lucian and More see n. 3.

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Freud, S. (1999) [1927], “Humour,” in J. Strachey (trans., ed.), The Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud. New York, London: Norton, 4541 – 4546.. Georgiadou, A., Larmour, D. H. J. (1998), Lucian’s Science Fiction Novel True Histories. Leiden: Brill. Hall, J. (1981), Lucian’s Satire. New York: Arno Press. Halliwell, S. (2008), Greek Laughter: A Study of Cultural Psychology from Homer to Early Christianity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Jones, C.P. (1986), Culture and Society in Lucian. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Kim, L. (2010), Homer Between History and Fiction in Imperial Greek Literature. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kuin, I.N.I. (2019), “Diogenes vs. Demonax: Laughter as Philosophy in Lucian,” in P. Destrée and F. Trivigno (eds.), Laughter, Humor, and Comedy in Ancient Philosophy. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 263 – 284. Marsh, D. (1998), Lucian and the Latins. Humor and Humanism in the Early Renaissance. Ann Arbor: Michigan University Press. Ní Mheallaigh, K. (2014), Reading Fiction with Lucian: Fakes, Freaks, and Hyperreality. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Raisch, J. (2016), “Humanism and Hellenism: Lucian and the Afterlives of Greek in More’s Utopia,” English Literary History 83: 927 – 958. Relihan, J.C. (1987), “Vainglorious Menippus in Lucian’s Dialogues of the Dead,” ICS 12.1: 185 – 206. Robinson, C. (1979), Lucian and His Influence in Europe. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Romm, J. (1991), “More’s Strategy of Naming in the Utopia,” The Sixteenth Century Journal 22: 173 – 183. Rütten, U. (1997), Phantasie und Lachkultur: Lukians “Wahre Geschichten.” Tübingen: Narr Verlag. Saïd, S. (1994), “Lucian ethnographe,” in Billault 1994: 149 – 170. Sissa, G. (2012), “Familiaris reprehensio quasi errantis. Raphael Hythloday, between Plato and Epicurus,” Moreana 187/188: 121 – 150. Sliter, M.; Kale, A. & Yuan, Z. (2014), “Is humor the best medicine? The buffering effect of coping humor on traumatic stressors in firefighters,” Journal of Organizational Behavior 35: 257 – 272. Sørensen, M.J. (2016), Humour in political activism: Creative nonviolent resistance. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Sourvinou-Inwood, C. (1995), ‘Reading’ Greek Death. To the End of the Classical Period. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Thierfelder, A. (1968), Philogelos. Der Lachfreund von Hierokles und Philagrios. Munich: Heimeran. Thorson, J.A. (1993), “Did You Ever See a Hearse Go By? Some Thoughts on Gallows Humor,” The Journal of American Culture 16: 17 – 24. Troca-Pereira, R.M. (2013), Philogelos (O Gracejador). Coimbra: Imprensa da Universidade de Coimbra. Vivona, B.D. (2014), “Humor Functions Within Crime Scene Investigations: Group Dynamics, Stress, and the Negotiation of Emotions,” Police Quarterly 17: 127 – 149.

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Von Möllendorff, P. (2000), Auf der Suche nach der Verlogenen Wahrheit: Lukians Wahre Geschichten. Tü bingen: Narr Verlag. Warren, J. (2004), Facing Death: Epicurus and His Critics. Oxford, New York: Oxford University Press. Watson, K. (2011), “Gallows humor in medicine,” Hastings Center Report 41: 37 – 45. Wurm, A. (2008), Platonicus Amor. Lesarten der Liebe bei Platon, Plotin und Ficino. Berlin: De Gruyter.

David Engels

Tao Yuanming’s ‘Peach Blossom Source’ and the Ideal of the ‘Golden Age’ in Classical Antiquity: Utopias in Ancient China and Classical Antiquity 1 Introduction Cultural comparatism, exceedingly popular during the first half of the 20th century and shunned during its second half, is now making its gradual return into the historical sciences. The reason for this development is obvious: the fall of the Iron Curtain has initiated a period of history where the ancient ideological fault lines between capitalism and communism have been replaced by a global order increasingly dominated not by political systems, but rather by cultural units, and the return of China, India or the Islamic world to the forefront of world history has, once again, underlined the astonishing resilience of civilisations erroneously considered, for many decades, as irremediably out of touch with ‘modernity’. Consequently, the classical paradigm of the teleology of progress, leading towards ever more democracy, liberalism and technological prowess, seems more inadequate than ever in order to explain the complex developments of world history, and rather calls for a comparative approach in order to discern what trends can be explained from the perspective of human history as a whole, and what evolutions rather belong to the specific development of individual societies or cultures.¹ One of the most promising approaches in recent years has been the comparison of Chinese with Greco-Roman history, an approach already sketched by Spengler and Toynbee² and now complemented by a growing number of in depth-studies of selected single aspects, such as, for example, the similarities between the Shang-dynasty and Minoan and Mycenaean Greece³, between Socrates and Confucius⁴, between the ‘Spring and Autumn’ Period and Early Mod-

 Cf. also Engels 2015a.  Spengler 1923; Toynbee 1934/1954; see now also Demandt 1997; Gehler and Rollinger 2014 and Engels 2021a.  Breuer 2014.  Jaspers 1949. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110733129-015

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ern Europe,⁵ between Sima Qian and (respectively) Herodotus, Polybius, Livy and Tacitus,⁶ between ethical prescripts⁷ and rhetorical traditions⁸ in China and the classical Mediterranean world, between the role of the Chinese and the Roman armies in imperial succession,⁹ and, most popular of all, between the advent of the Qin- and Han-dynasty and the ascension of imperial Rome,¹⁰ e. g. through the comparison of Caesar and Augustus with Qin Shi Huangdi and Han Gaotsu.¹¹ It is notable that most of these studies focus on institutional, historiographical and economic issues; nevertheless, it seems difficult, if not impossible to understand the political actions of past societies without confronting the concrete events to the political thought that lies behind it, as reality and ideal form an inseparable pair, both conditioning each other.¹² Political thought, however, finds its most clear expression in the description of ideal societies. Hence, the study of political utopias should be treated as a crucial part in the study of political philosophy, on the same level as, e. g., the analysis of more descriptive treaties concerning the virtues and shortcomings of individual constitutions or political ideas, in China as well as in the West.¹³ This is why it seems long overdue to complement the comparison of Greco-Roman and Chinese statecraft with the investigation of the development of historical ideas and ideals. In order to pave the way for such a future endeavor, we will, in the following, try to experimentally analyse what is probably the most popular Chinese utopia, Tao Yuanming’s famous tale ‘The Peach Blossom Source’, and put it in the broader context of its own times as well as of Greco-Roman utopias in order to establish to what extent anthropological constants, general morphological structures common to all human civilisations and local historical and po-

 Hui 2005.  Herodotus: Martin 2010; Polybius: Bonnaud 2007; Livy: Mutschler 2008; Tacitus: Mutschler 2006 and Mutschler 2007. For a general comparison between Greco-Roman and Chinese historiography, see also Mutschler 1997 and Mutschler 2003.  King and Schilling 2011.  Lu 1998.  Hsing 1980.  Teggart 1939; Gizewski 1994; Dettenhofer 2006; Mutschler and Mittag 2009; Scheidel 2010 and Scheidel 2015; Auyang 2014.  Engels 2017a; Engels 2020 and Engels 2021b.  Cf. on the theoretical background of these reflections the relevant parts in Engels, Geis and Kleu 2010.  Cf. in this sense, with special reference to Tao Yuanming’s ‘Peach Blossom Source’, Rüsen, Fehr and Rieger 2002; Fokkema 2011 and Zhang 2015: 103 – 122; though without allusion to Classical Antiquity. A general introduction to the subject of Utopias (in the West) can be found in Geus 2011.

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litical traditions interacted with each other in the formation and development of the literary genre of ‘utopias’.¹⁴

2 The Peach Blossom Source – Text and Context Though Tao Yuanming¹⁵ came from a family of government officials – he was the great-grandson of the Eastern Jin general Tao Kan (259 – 334) –, he was raised in a situation of material want and only very moderate political means. Born in 365 (or 352) in Chaisang (modern Jiujiang in Jiangxi province), he was actively engaged during more than 10 years in the civil and military service of the Jin-dynasty during the period of the ‘Six Dynasties’, when China was deeply divided into numerous kingdoms competing for imperial reunification.¹⁶ The death of his sister and his disappointment with the everyday-realities of politics and administration, already hinted at in his earlier poems and prompting a first, short retirement between 395 and 399, convinced him to resign his current position as aide-de-camp to a local commanding officer in Spring 405, refusing henceforth to ‘bow like a servant in return for five bushels of grain’; an expression that has become, since then, proverbial.¹⁷ He changed his name into Tao Qian (‘Qian’ meaning ‘recluse’), took up a live as gentleman farmer, focused on his family (he had 5 sons) and lived in seclusion for the next 22 years until his death in 427. Tao Yuanming, whose biography is mainly known from allusions coming from his own works, from an autobiography written quite early in his life and from a number of later biographies,¹⁸ left approximately 130 works, most of which are poems or short essays dealing with country life and simple pleasures such as returning home after the peripeties of court live, tending to one’s fields

 We should stress here that the present paper primarily deals with Chinese and Greco-Roman utopias, not with ‘ideal states’ (such as Plato’s or Cicero’s Republic). Of course, the limits between both historical genres are, as already remarked by Cicero himself (cf. e. g. Rep. 2.11.22), somewhat fluctuating, but as a general guideline, we can consider that an ideal state is conceived with the idea of its practical realisation, and be it only in approximation, and thus deals very much with technical issues, whereas the utopian state belongs rather to the romanesque genre and is more preoccupied with the description of harmony than with the way that may ultimately lead to it.  On Tao Yuanming, cf. in general Holzman 1961; Hightower 1970; Ashmore 2010; Yuan and Knechtges 2014.  On the historical and cultural background, cf. Dien 2007.  On the topos of the ‘disengagement’ from the world, cf. Berkowitz 2000.  See the short biographical notes in the Song shu (488), the Jin shu (648) and the Nan shih (659), reprinted in David 1983.

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or drinking one’s own, homemade rice wine. The combination between the seemingly modest subjects of his works, the tone of gentle nostalgia and the plain, yet elegant style, building upon the example set by the ‘Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grove’ and prefiguring the later ‘Old-Style-Verse’-movement of the Tang dynasty, led to Tao Yuanming’s gradual fame as a poet, his best-known work being the ‘Peach Blossom Source (Táohuā Yuán Jì).¹⁹ As the Western reader may not be so familiar with ancient Chinese literature, it seems appropriated to quote first the prose-narrative in its entirety, following the excellent translation by A.R. Davis:²⁰ During the T’ai-yüan period [376 – 396] of China a man of Wu-ling, who made his living as a fisherman, ascended a stream, forgetful of the distance he travelled. Suddenly he came upon a grove of peach trees in blossom. They lined the banks for several hundred paces: among them were no other kinds of tree. The fragrant herbage was fresh and beautiful; fallen blossoms lay in profusion. The fisherman, in extreme wonder, again went forward, wishing to go to the end of the grove. The grove ended at the stream’s source, and there he found a hill. In the hill was a small opening from which a light seemed to come. So he left his boat and went in through the opening. At first it was very narrow, barely allowing a man to pass, but as he went on form some tens of paces, it came out into the open air, upon lands level and wide with houses of a stately appearance. There were fine fields and beautiful pools, clumps of mulberries and bamboos. The field dykes intersected; cocks crowed and dogs barked to each other. The clothes of the men and women who came and went, planted and worked among them were entirely like those of people outside. The white-haired and the children with their hair in tufts happily enjoyed themselves. When they saw the fisherman, they were greatly surprised and asked from what place he came. When he answered all their questions, they invited him to come back to their home, where they set out wine, killed a chicken and made a meal. They told him that their ancestors, fleeing from the troubles during the Ch’in period [221– 208 BC], had brought their wives and children and neighbours to this inaccessible spot and had not gone out again. Thus they became cut off from people outside. They asked what dynasty it was now: they did not know that there had been Han [206 BC – AD 220], nor of course Wei [220 – 265] or Chin. The fisherman told them all he knew, item by item, and at everything they sighed with grief. He stayed for several days and then took leave of them. The people of this place said to him: ‘You should not speak of this to those outside.’ When he had gone out, he found his boat and followed the route by which he had come: everywhere he noted the way. When he reached the commandery, he called on the prefect and told him this story. The prefect immediately sent a man to go with him and

 On the reception of the ‚Peach Blossom Source’-narrative in later poetry and prose, especially the works of Meng Haoran (689 – 740), Wang Wei (701– 761), Liu Yuxi (772– 842), Wang Anshi (1021– 1086) and Kang Yuzi (12th c.), cf. Yang 2007 and Smilack 2010; for painting, cf. e. g. ChenCourtin 1979; for Kon Shangren’s (1648 – 1718) play ‘The Peach Blossom Fan’, cf. e. g. Lu 2001: 154– 159.  Davis 1983.

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seek out the places he had previously noted, but they went astray and could not find the way again. Liu Tzu-chi of Nan-yang, who was a scholar of lofty ideals, heard of it and joyfully planned to go. Soon after, before he had carried out his plan, he fell ill and died. Afterwards there was no one who ‘sought the ford’.

This prose account is then immediately followed by a version in poetry; a combination not altogether uncommon in Chinese literature, where poems often repeat parts of the action or situation previously described in prose. As the verses add some significant details to the prose text, the poem also deserves to be quoted in full: When the Ying upset the heavenly order, Worthy men fled from their age. Huang and Ch’i went to Mount Shang, And these men also went away. The traces of their going were gradually hidden; The paths they came by became weedy and abandoned. Bidding one another, they work hard at farming; At the sun’s going down they go to their rest. Mulberries and bamboos let fall abundant shade; Beans and millet are weeded according to season. From spring silkworms they collect long threads; On autumn harvest there is no king’s tax. Uncultivated paths intersect into the distance; Cocks crow and dogs bark to one another. Ritual vessels are still of ancient pattern; In clothes there are no new fashions. Children at will run and sing; Grey-heads joyously go visiting. By plants flowering they know the season’s mild; By trees’ leaf-fall realize the wind is harsh. Although there is no calendar’s record; The four seasons themselves complete the year. Joyfully possessing abundant happiness, Why should they toil for knowledge and cleverness? Their strange course was hidden five hundred years, When one morning discovered their divine land. But the pure and shallow have different sources; At once it became again secret and secluded. May I ask the gentlemen who wander within the world, How they measure what is beyond the dust and noise? My desire is to tread the light air And soar high, seeking my fellows.

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The precise symbolical, philosophical and historical signification of the ‘Peach Blossom Source’ (located not so far from Tao Yuanming’s actual native region²¹) is one of the most debated questions in Chinese literature, but as the focus of the present papers lies not so much on this narrative alone than rather on a comparison of this text with classical Greco-Roman utopias, we may confine ourselves to a very short presentation of the main issues. A first point concerns the political message of the text. Very obviously, the tale contains a barely disguised criticism of political power as such: the people of the ‘Peach Blossom Land’ not only sought shelter during the period of the late ‘Warring States’ and the rise of the Qin Empire and thus deserted their former overlord – an act of political high-treason, after all –, but they also seem scarcely enthusiast when learning about the formation of the Qin, Han, Wei and Jin empires, although at least the Han empire was held to be, throughout the entire Chinese history, an ultimate summit of classical Chinese civilisation. This obviously anarchistic subtext of the ‘Peach Blossom Land’ corresponds to an attitude deeply embedded in the history of Chinese thought and generally associated with the school of thought labelled, often somewhat simplistically, as ‘Daoist’.²² Already very early,²³ Chinese philosophers and mystics idealised the period either preceding the rise of ‘civilisation’ proper or corresponding to the rule of the mythical ‘Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors’ as a Golden Age of freedom, harmony, simplicity and abundance.²⁴ They also advocated the idea that only a return to this primeval state of society through the eradication of everything linked to the numerous superfluous achievements of civilisation could create happiness, and thus cultivated a somewhat critical attitude towards all types of statecraft; an attitude also influencing currents of Warring States historiography such as the Rong Sheng shi.²⁵ Thus, in the Daodejing, the sage was advised to retire from public affairs and go seek happiness in a secluded existence,²⁶ whereas the leg-

 The Wu-ling Mountains (today a Unesco World Heritage Site), situated west of Chaisang, run from Chongqing and East Guizhou to West Hunan and are peopled, not the least because of their rugged terrain, by many pockets of non-Han ethnic groups, such as the Tujia, Miao, Dong, and Bai.  On Daoism, cf. in general Waley 1958; John 1993; Pas and Leung 1998; Kohn 2000; Kim 2003; Kirkland 2004.  Cf. in general Bauer 1974.  On the idealisation of the pre- or protohistoric past in Chinese thought, cf. Ching and Guisso 1991; Kuhn 2008; Pines 2009a; Pines 2009b.  Cf. Pines 2010.  Daodejing 2 (transl. J. Legge): “Therefore the sage manages affairs without doing anything, and / conveys his instructions without the use of speech. / All things spring up, and there is not one which declines to show / itself; they grow, and there is no claim made for their ownership; /

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islator should focus on guaranteeing the utmost simplicity, even primitivism of the concerned state: In a little state with a small population, I would so order it, / that, though there were individuals with the abilities of ten or a / hundred men, there should be no employment of them; I would make the / people, while looking on death as a grievous thing, yet not remove elsewhere (to avoid it). / Though they had boats and carriages, they should have no occasion / to ride in them; though they had buff coats and sharp weapons, they / should have no occasion to don or use them. / I would make the people return to the use of knotted cords (instead of the written characters). / They should think their (coarse) food sweet; their (plain) clothes / beautiful; their (poor) dwellings places of rest; and their common (simple) ways sources of enjoyment. / There should be a neighbouring state within sight, and the voices / of the fowls and dogs should be heard all the way from it to us, but I / would make the people to old age, even to death, not have any / intercourse with it.²⁷

This political trend somewhat contrasted with the school associated with the traditionalist and often antiquarian²⁸ thought of Confucius and his pupils who refrained from focusing too much on the earliest, barely known history of China as political example for present times, and preferred to concentrate on the era of the Western Zhou-dynasty (1046 – 771) with its complex ritualism and its hierarchised society,²⁹ as becomes clear when reading Xun Kuang: These are the king’s regulations: they do not seek to pattern themselves on anything earlier than the Three Dynasties, they do not reject the model of later kings. Seeking a pattern in the age before the Three Dynasties will lead to confusion; rejecting the model of later kings will lead to inelegance.³⁰

The ideological conflict between the defenders of primitivism on the one hand and of a highly refined traditionalism on the other was to dominate the entirety of classical Chinese thought. It sometimes even led to paradoxical political constellations, such as the use of Confucianist traditionalism by the authoritarian

they go through their processes, and there is no expectation (of a / reward for the results). The work is accomplished, and there is no / resting in it (as an achievement).” Cf. e. g. Berkowitz 2000.  Daodejing 80 (transl. J. Legge). See in general Hendrischke 1992.  See, e. g., Confucius, Lunyu 7.1 and 7.20 (transl. Legge): “A transmitter and not a maker, believing in and loving the ancients, I venture to compare myself to old Peng. […] I am not one who was born in the possession of knowledge; I am one who is fond of antiquity, and earnest in seeking it there.”  On the later idealisation of the Zhou, cf. Elman and Kern 2010.  Xunzi 5 (transl. B. Watson).

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Han Empire, as advocated already in the orations of Lu Jia,³¹ or the implicit understanding between Daoism and the philosophy of Legalism during the Warring States period. Here, it was held possible by authors such as Han Fei (280 – 233), who also wrote a commentary on the Daodejing, that ultimate simplicity and bliss could only be guaranteed by an authoritarian government based on the ruthless use of force in order to punish even the slightest offenses:³² Indeed, the sage, in ruling the state, does not count on people’s doing him good, but utilizes their inability to do him wrong. If he counts on people’s doing him good, within the boundary there will never be enough such persons to count by tens. But if he utilizes people’s inability to do him wrong, an entire state can be uniformed. Therefore, the administrator of the state affairs ought to consider the many but disregard the few. Hence his devotion not to virtue but to law.³³

It is an irony of history that the unification of China by the Qin dynasty was based exactly on just this partly Daoist, partly Legalist school of thought – with the paradoxical consequence for the understanding of our poem that the later inhabitants of the ‘Peach Blossom Land’ fled into exile in order to escape precisely the one dynasty which pretended to install, through the force of law and punishments, the political ideal of simplicity and harmony the secluded villagers later on managed to realise…³⁴ Another important, though less apparent aspect in the analysis of the ‘Peach Blossom Land’ is the chiastic opposition between the inhabitants of the utopian land on the one hand and the fisherman accidentally discovering their abode on the other. While the first ones fled the political authorities of their times and wish to remain hidden, the latter, in reversion, immediately and without apparent necessity, contacts the authorities and tries to lead them, despite his initial promise, towards the hidden vale. It would fall short of the dimension of the tale to consider it as a mere variation on the old topos of Lot’s wife or Orpheus and Eurydice³⁵ (a nearly achieved blissful state of existence is cancelled by the breaking of a promise), as it is not curiosity or another innocent desire that leads to the sin and the following loss: the fisherman’s decision to contact the authorities is as conscious as unnecessary. This can only imply one thing: Tao Yuanming wanted to contrast the utopian anarchists of the ‘Peach Blossom Land’ with the obvious-

 Cf. the new edition and commentary by L’Haridon and Feuillas 2012.  On Legalism, cf. Li 1977, Fu 1996.  Han Feizi 50.8 (transl. W.K. Liao).  On the Qin und their use of Legalism, cf. in general Li 1985; Loewe 2006; Lewis 2007; Portal 2007; Pines et al. 2014.  On this topos, cf., e. g., Bremmer 2004.

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ly less happy citizen of the ‘modern’ world who, either out of a sense of misled civic duty, or out of the wish to benefit from a rich reward, breaks his promise and, as seems implicitly suggested by the tale, forgoes all chances to find the way back. The message is obvious: The transformation of the Chinese man into a thorough homo politicus by the ideological conditioning of 500 years of imperial power have erased any chance of finding back the way into the Golden Age of primeval harmony; the only hope lies in the hazard of a fleeting moment’s discovery… This seems even more obvious as, in contrast to other, later renderings of the ‘Peach Blossom Source’,³⁶ Tao Yuanming clearly indicates that the inhabitants of the valley are perfectly normal human beings and not immortals, as in some later treatment of the story, probably influenced by late Daoist or Buddhist thought. At the same time, these later renderings also omit to mention the fisherman’s decision to contact the authorities and merely describe his wish to return to the hidden land, thus depoliticising the tale even more.³⁷ This leads, of course, to the question of the date of the utopia of the ‘Peach Blossom Land’. The most conservative and probably also prudent position is to consider it as an invention by Tao Yuanming himself; inspired perhaps, but not necessarily, by recent political events³⁸ or by popular legends such as the myth of Shambhala, well-known in Buddhism and thus probably also in 4th century China,³⁹ though Tao Yuanming’s treatment of the narrative itself seems rather tributary of Daoist than of Buddhist thinking.⁴⁰ However, this causes an admit-

 See also Davis 1983: 2.199, who, however, believes that the initial story described the inhabitants of the ‘Peach Blossom Land’ as being immortals and that it was Tao Yuanming who transformed them into normal human beings.  See, e. g., the account of the Shu-yi chi B 3a, attributed to Jen Fang (460 – 508), but probably not earlier than 800: “Wu-ling Source lies in Wu-chung. On the hills there are no other trees, but only peaches and plums grow there. It is commonly called Peach and Plum Source. Above the source there is a rocky cavern in which there is a milky stream. By tradition it was here that in the disorders at the end of Ch’in that the men of Wu-chung fled to escape the trouble. Those who eat the peaches and plums all become immortals.” Similarly, Wang Wei (699/701– 759/71) wrote in his Tao-Yuan Xing (6. 7a, l. 19 – 20): “At first by withdrawing to a land apart, they left the world; / Then they were reported to have become immortals and so did not return.” (translations follow David 1983: 2.199).  Cf. Chen 1936, who contextualised the origins of the story in the time of the Kingdom of the Former Qin under Fu Jian (357– 385), whose inhabitants fled into the North-West and where discovered there by emperor Wu of the Liu Song dynasty in 417 when he overthrow the Jin, which lead him to replace the Wu-ling region (in the South) by Hung-nung or Shang-lo (in the North).  Cf. e. g. Bernbaum 1980.  Cf. e. g. the allusion to the dogs barking, the cocks crowing and the criticism of ‘knowledge’ and ‘cleverness’, direct quotations from the Daodejing (resp. ch. 80 and 18). It should also be stressed that later authors, such as Kang Yuzi, insisted even more on what they must have per-

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tedly minor, though interesting problem: As Tao Yuanming wrote during the ‘Six Dynasties’ (220 – 589), a period marked by the disintegration of imperial unity and the permanent warfare between numerous smaller kingdoms, the dating of the story into the later period of the imperial unification by the Qin dynasty may seem somewhat surprising. Indeed, the tale is founded on the opposition between the harmonious anarchy of the villagers on the one hand and the establishment of the well-functioning, omnipresent and ultimately oppressive imperial state of the Qin on the other hand. This situation of the rise of a universal empire forcing into exile a previously harmonious population seems not quite pertinent for the times of Tao Yuanming, with the result that the intended analogy between the exiles from the Qin-era and the wish of Liu Tzu-chi to join their community appears somewhat asymmetrical. Hence, it may not be impossible to imagine that the story originated from a tale already in circulation during the reign of the Qin or the Han and then transmitted throughout time, until it was re-actualised by Tao Yuanming.⁴¹ This may not only give a much better explanation for the choice of the Qin-dynasty as chronological setting of the tale, but may also be the reason behind the double structure of the narrative, where the same story is, first, presented in prose, then in verse. As the first contains a series of concrete historical allusions (justifying the inclusion, by the editors of Tao Yuanming’s works, into the category ‘wen’, i. e. ‘Historical records’⁴²) and was obviously written in the late 4th or early 5th century, the verse part could perhaps indeed reproduce the general spirit of a poem from the Qin- or

ceived as an anti-Confucian edge, as the villagers of the ‘Peach Blossom Land’ only admit the voyager after he insists that he is neither functionary nor scribe, two typically Confucian occupations.  It would point into the same direction that the Soushen Houji, a compilation of supernatural stories from the early 5th century, wrongly attributed to Tao Yuanming, contains a version of the prose story of the ‘Peach Blossom Source’ providing names for the fisherman (Huang Tao-chen) and the prefect (Liu Xin), but omits the reference to the ‘sage of lofty ideals’ (who is later made the principal character of a story quite parallel to the ‘Peach Blossom Source’: 1.4a – b). Similarly, a fragment from a Wu-ling chi by Huang Min, probably dating from the 6th, perhaps even 4th or 5th century, also mentions the story and provides the name of the fisherman (Huang Tao-chen), but describes him as coming from Lin-yuan, the seat of the prefect of the commandery of Wu-ling. All this would suggest that the story was circulating in different versions already very early and could thus be inspired by accounts others than the one by Tao Yuanming. Cf. also Davis 1983: 2.198 – 199. Nevertheless, see the influential article by Chen 1936, attributing the differences quoted above to the independent circulation of different stages in the completion of the text by Tao Yuanming himself.  For a discussion of the issue see Davis 1983: 2.197 f.

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Han-period.⁴³ Of course, it may very well be possible that Tao Yuanming invented the whole story and thus the entirety of the text all by himself, and even if he did not, he must have wanted to make a certain point by taking the story over and adapting it to his own period. Perhaps it was less the establishment of the empire than the analogy between the current state of political disintegration of China during the ‘Six Dynasties’ and the period of the ‘Warring States’ he had in mind, focusing thus less on the parallelism of two historical situations evolving from fragmentation to unification, but rather the impression that the apex of the Han-Empire set in motion a reverse tendency of history leading down again from unity to disparity. In this perspective, the first discovery of the hidden ‘Peach Blossom Land’ since its disappearance under the Qin could be read, at first view, as a sign of hope that the disappearance of the empire made it possible to see the rise of a harmonious, non-political society. However, such an optimistic interpretation would be wholly naïve, as it falls short of explaining the end of the story: even the ‘scholar of lofty ideals’, the hermit Liu Tzu-chi of Nanyang, is incapable to realise his desire to ‘find the ford’⁴⁴, and Tao Yuanming explicitly states that, after him, nobody even tried.

3 Classical and Chinese Utopias Let us now consider some similarities and dissimilarities with the utopias of the Classical World.⁴⁵ Indeed, many elements of the ‘Peach Blossom Land’ may seem quite familiar to those acquainted with classical Greco-Roman utopias, though their specific combination is unique and their analysis rendered extremely complex because of the uncertainty concerning the initial dating of Tao Yuanming’s poem. It is obvious that the ideal state of mankind is described and thus perceived in a quite parallel fashion as well in classical Antiquity as in Ancient China. Thus, peace, simplicity, abundance and harmony without any or at  This is not in fundamental opposition to the poem’s only historical reference, the fleeting allusion to a period of ‘500 years’: the (inexact) chronological mention may either be an addition by Tao Yuanming himself, or even be a part of the original text, intentionally taking a future perspective well in line with the self-representation of the Qin (and the Han) Empire as ‘eternal’ and never-ending. This would also explain the round number 500 which does not correspond at all to the actual time span of rather 600 years between the time of the late Qin (before 221) and the Taiyuan period (376 – 396).  This expression is an allusion to Confucius’ Lunyu (18.6) and is not infrequent in the works of Tao Yuanming.  Cf. in general Gatz 1967; Ferguson 1975; Günther and Müller 1988; Bichler 1995; Demandt 2000.

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least very little need for the State are already classical features of Homer’s Phaeacians, the secluded island dwellers: These dwelt of old in spacious Hypereia hard by the Cyclopes, men overweening in pride who plundered them continually and were mightier than they. From thence Nausithous, the godlike, had removed them, and led and settled them in Scheria far from men that live by toil. About the city he had drawn a wall, he had built houses and made temples for the gods, and divided the ploughlands; but he, ere now, had been stricken by fate and had gone to the house of Hades, and Alcinous was now king, made wise in counsel by the gods.⁴⁶

Similarly, we may recall Hesiod’s ‘Golden Age’-race⁴⁷: First of all the deathless gods who dwell on Olympus made a golden race of mortal men who lived in the time of Cronos when he was reigning in heaven. And they lived like gods without sorrow of heart, remote and free from toil and grief: miserable age rested not on them; but with legs and arms never failing they made merry with feasting beyond the reach of all evils. When they died, it was as though they were overcome with sleep, and they had all good things; for the fruitful earth unforced bare them fruit abundantly and without stint. They dwelt in ease and peace upon their lands with many good things, rich in flocks and loved by the blessed gods.⁴⁸

However, it may seem to be a major difference between Tao Yuanming’s utopia and the early Greek poets’ descriptions that the latter generally established a more or less explicit connection between the ideal state of society and the deeds of the Gods: In Hesiod, it is Cronos who created the race of the Golden Age and thus ‘biologically’ conditioned their readiness for happiness, whereas in Homer, the prosperity of the Phaeacians is not only due to the secluded and privileged situation of their island, but also to their semi-divine descent from the Giants and even from Poseidon. Even in Vergil, Horace and Ovid, the coming of the Golden Age is intimately linked with the re-establishment of the reign of Apollo.⁴⁹ In Tao Yuanming, however, the gods are wholly absent and play no role whatsoever, which is all the more interesting as this purely human setting of the story if quite in contrast with the later treatments of the

 See, e. g., Hom., Od. 6.4– 12 (transl. S. Butler); cf. in general Wolf 2006.  On the Golden Age, cf. Kurfess 1950; Baldry 1952; Van der Waerden 1962; Veit 1960; Kubsch 1986; Sauzeau and Sauzeau 2002.  Hes., Op. 109 – 120 (transl. H.G. Evelyn-White (Loeb); cf. in general Baldry 1956; Mirgeler 1956; Vernant 1996.  Concerning the importance of Apollo during the Late Republic and Early Empire, cf. Gagé 1955; Engels 2017b, 455 – 484.

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story, as we saw. Of course, the absence of gods as major actors of human history is not at all unusual in Chinese thought, which has always assumed a somewhat distant and prudent attitude when it came to reflect on the interactions between men and gods. Admittedly, it is undeniable that in the Greco-Roman world, at least the everyday approach of the gods was conditioned by a pragmatism not dissimilar to that of the Chinese and was mainly based on the famous do ut des, implying a purely contractual relationship between man and god and being rather oblivious of questions such as ‘belief’, ‘redemption’ or ‘purity of heart’. Nevertheless, though the Chinese never faltered in keeping up the rituals prescribed by their ancestors and, through numerous divination practices, tried to establish a link between the moral actions of the rulers and the actions of the forces of nature, the gods were only meant to react, not to act, and men to fulfil their obligations without intruding too much on the dangerous terrain of the immortals. Thus, Confucius most prominently exhorted his pupils to ‘Respect ghosts and spirits, but keep them at a distance’⁵⁰ and asked: ‘While you are not able to serve men, how can you serve their spirits? […] While you do not know life, how can you know about death?’⁵¹

Consequently, even in classical Daoism, theology is generally less interested in ontology and spirituality than in magical or mystical practices.⁵² In this regard, Tao Yuanming’s utopia reflects an attitude towards the supernatural that is much more reminiscent of Hellenistic utopias such as Euhemerus (ca. 340 – 260) and perhaps also Jambulus (3rd c. BC⁵³), where the gods responsible for the respective social harmony were described as mere human legislators, later on symbolically deified out of mere gratitude (or ignorance): On this island he saw the Panchaeans who dwell there, who excel in piety and honour the gods with the most magnificent sacrifices and with remarkable votive offerings of silver and of gold. The island is sacred to the gods, and there are a number of other objects on it which are admired both for their antiquity and for the great skill of their workmanship, regarding which severally we have written in the preceding Books. There is also on the island, situated upon an exceedingly high hill, a sanctuary of Zeus Triphylius, which was established by him during the time when he was king of all the inhabited world and was still in the company of men. And in this temple there is a stele of gold on which is inscribed in sum-

 Confucius, Lunyu 6.20 (transl. Legge).  Confucius, Lunyu 11.11 (transl. Legge). On the attitude of Confucianism towards religion, cf. Fingarette 1972; Chen 2012.  On Daoism and Religion, cf. Maspero 1950; Fowler 2005.  Concerning Jambulus, cf. Winston 1976; Baldassari 1973; di Capua 1989; Schwarz 1982; Holzberg 1996.

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mary, in the writing employed by the Panchaeans, the deeds of Uranus and Cronus and Zeus. Euhemerus goes on to say that Uranus was the first to be king, that he was an honourable man and beneficent, who was versed in the movement of the stars, and that he was also the first to honour the gods of the heavens with sacrifices, whence he was called Uranus or ‘Heaven’.⁵⁴

Furthermore, we have to stress the obvious fact that, in China as in Antiquity (and in most ancient societies), the furthering of harmony and bliss was not conditioned by ‘progress’ in the sense of refinement and complexity or even technology, but, to the contrary, by the return to the traditions of the forefathers and their institutions: the Roman mos maiorum, the Greek patrios nomos ⁵⁵ or the Chinese xiào, the ‘filial piety’.⁵⁶ Hence, it is not surprising that as well Qin Shi Huangdi as Roman social reformers and emperors were confronted with the reproach of enacting ‘new’ laws and tried to defend themselves against this accusation by stressing (or sometimes inventing) the existence of historical examples for their political and social projects.⁵⁷ In this perspective, Tao Yuanming’s poem is an extreme, but by no means unusual form of the typically Chinese longing for Antiquity, though in China, the wish to go back to the simplicity and soundness of the past was often so strong that it prompted many philosophers to advocate the return to an idealised pre-historical society⁵⁸ which even implied the dissolution of the state; a form of primitivism only rarely encountered in Classical Antiquity. However, it is noteworthy that the immediate setting of the actually existing ‘Peach Blossom Land’ is not situated, such as Hesiod’s Golden Age or the Chinese speculations about pre- and proto-history, at the beginnings of historical time, but rather at its end, as is exemplified by Tao Yuanming’s explicit mention  Fragment from: Diod. Sic. 6.1.4– 8 (transl. C.H. Oldfather, Loeb). On Euhemerus, cf. Brown 1946; Zumschlinge 1976; Winiarczyk 2002; Colpe 1995.  Concerning the mos maiorum and patrios nomos, cf. Rech 1936; Hölkeskamp 1996; Linke and Stemmler 2000.  Concerning the filial piety, cf. Traylor 1988.  Concerning this use of the ‘argument from Antiquity’, cf. Pilhofer 1990; Gnilka 2005; for China, see Ching and Guisso 1991 and Kuhn 2008. Concerning the specific case of Augustus and Qin Shi Huangdi, cf. Engels 2017a; Engels 2020 and Engels 2021b. Thus, concerning Qin Shi Huangdi, we can refer to the inscription on Mount K’uai-chi, 13 – 15 (transl. Kern (2000: 45): “The Sage of Ch’in looks down on his state, / initially determines achieved forms and their claims, / manifests and displays the old statutes”. Concerning Augustus, cf. Aug., Res gestae 8 (transl. F.W. Shipley [Loeb]): “By the passage of new laws I restored many traditions of our ancestors which were then falling into disuse, and I myself set precedents in many things for posterity to imitate.”  On the idealisation of the ‚village’ in the post-Han period, see also Michio 1985.

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of the imperial unification of China under the Qin. This is not without recalling the political escapism and the idealisation of rural Italy (or Arcadia) so popular in Ovid, Horace and Virgil, where the Golden Age is not only described as a past ideal, but also as an immediate future, even present, such as in Virgil’s much discussed and tremendously influential 4th Eclogue⁵⁹: Now is come the last age of the Cumaean prophecy: / The great cycle of periods is born anew. / Now returns the Maid, returns the reign of Saturn: / Now from high heaven a new generation comes down. / Yet do thou at that boy’s birth, / In whom the iron race shall begin to cease, / And the golden to arise over all the world, / Holy Lucina, be gracious; now thine own Apollo reigns.⁶⁰

Nevertheless, there is a major difference between the Golden Age of the imperial Roman authors and Tao Yuanming’s ‘Peach Blossom Land’. Whereas the Chinese hidden valley is the fruit of an apolitical, even anarchistic decision and refrains from any supra-regional political designs, the Golden Age advertised by Virgil and Horace is profoundly linked to the political hegemony of the Roman Empire and the hegemonic aims of its politicians, most of all Augustus, as is exemplified in Virgil’s Aeneid: Let now thy visionary glance look long / On this thy race, these Romans that be thine. / Here Caesar, of Iulus’ glorious seed, / Behold ascending to the world of light! / Behold, at last, that man, for this is he, / So oft unto thy listening ears foretold, / Augustus Caesar, kindred unto Jove. / He brings a golden age; he shall restore / Old Saturn’s sceptre to our Latin land, / And o’er remotest Garamant and Ind / His sway extend; the fair dominion / outruns th’ horizon planets, yea, beyond / The sun’s bright path, where Atlas’ shoulder bears / Yon dome of heaven set thick with burning stars.⁶¹

Thus, whereas the inhabitants of the ‘Peach Blossom Land’ achieve peace not through, but against government, the Roman poets advertise the inseparable link between the Golden Age and Imperial Rome as well as between Saturn

 Concerning Virgil’s 4th eclogue, cf. as general introduction to this complex text, cf. Norden 1924; Corssen 1924; Jeanmaire 1930; Alföldi 1930; Carcopino 1930; Boll 1950; Radke 1959; Hommel 1966; Römisch 1970; Nisbet 1978; Benko 1981; Naumann 1981; Binder 1983; Clausen 1995; Lefèvre 2000.  Verg., Ecl. 4.4– 11 (J.W. Mackail). On the revolutionary nature of the political re-actualisation of the topos of the Golden Age, cf. Engels 2009.  Verg., Aen. 6.788 – 797 (transl. Th.C. Williams). On Vergil and Aeneas, cf. in general Norden 1901; Binder 1971; Rieks 1981; Buchheit 1963; von Stauffenberg 1976; Pöschl 1981; Strasburger 1983; Froesch 1984.

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and Augustus,⁶² who, by choosing this new name, clearly showed his wish to associate his person with the most ancestral layers of Roman religion. Of course, we should not forget that this apparent asymmetry in content is due, to some extent, to a certain asymmetry of sources. Thus, on the one side, it is notable that the hope of a new Golden Age was by no means an invention by the Augustan regime, but was already present in the contemporaries’ minds a long time ago, only to be adopted (and adapted) by Augustus once he was in a position of power.⁶³ Furthermore, even under Augustus, it is obvious that, despite censorship and the burning of books,⁶⁴ many authors continued to cling to a more apolitical ideal of the ‘Golden Age’ and sometimes even hinted, more or less openly, at the inner contradiction between Augustus’ authoritarian reforms and the ‘real’ Golden Age. Even Virgil stated that Aeneas entered the underworld not by using the gate of truth (porta cornea), but of dream (porta eburna), thus implicitly deconstructing all his ulterior visions of an impending Augustan ‘Golden Age’,⁶⁵ while Ovid ironically compares Hesiod’s ‘Golden Age’, where man participated in the gods’ divinity, to his own present times, where only rulers such as Caesar or Augustus claim to be revered with divine honors.⁶⁶ On the other side, we have to remember that the increasingly negative view on Qin Shi Huangdi as developed during the Han-era and the destruction of the imperial library during the Civil War led to the loss of many Qin-era testimonies in favor of the old regime. However, the few scattered remains suggest that these texts must have contained features quite similar to the ones from early imperial Rome. Thus, the inscriptions set up by the first emperor of the Qin as well as his deliberate choice of the name ‘Shi Huangdi’ clearly show his wish to be associated with the period of the ‘Three Sovereigns’ (the ‘huang’) and the ‘Five Emperors’ (the ‘di’) and to usher in a new ‘Golden Age’.⁶⁷ At the same time, the great

 Concerning Augustan ideology, cf. e. g. Béranger 1973; Guizzo 1974; Castritius 1982; Eder 1990; Bleicken 1991; Binder 1993; Zanker 2003; Borgies 2017.  Cf. in general Brisson 1992; Fabre-Serris 1998: 27– 38.  On the censorship and political persecutions under Augustus, cf. Clarke 1972; Hennig 1973; Engels 2021b.  Virg., Aen. 6.893 – 896.  Cf. e. g. the end of the Metamorphoses. See in general Schmitzer 1990; Urban 2005.  Cf. Sima Qian, Shiji 6 (Shi Huangdi) (transl. Watson 1961: 42– 43): “’We have respectfully consulted with the court scholars, who tell us that in antiquity there was the Heavenly August, Earthly August, and Greatly August, of which the Greatly August was the most exalted. Therefore on pain of death we venture to propose this title, namely, that the king shall be known as Greatly August. His commands shall be known as edicts and his orders as decrees, and the Son of Heaven shall refer to himself by the pronoun zhen.’ The king said: ‘We will drop the Greatly, keep the August, and adopt the title used by the emperors of high antiquity, calling ourselves Huangdi or

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Han-historian Sima Qian clearly refers to the contemporary resistance against the new rule and its ideological foundations. Thus, he relates the numerous measures of censorship and purges against the oppositional forces,⁶⁸ retells the story of the scholars entrusted by Shi Huangdi with the mission of fetching the pharmaceutics assuring the emperor an eternal life – a topos typically associated with Daoism and the ‘Golden Age’ – and describes the ideological disputes between the emperor’s claim to rewind history until the age of the primeval emperors and the scholars’ advise to rather respect the institutions and traditions of recent history.⁶⁹ In this context, we also have to mention the historical ‘Sitz im Leben’ of Tao Yuanming’s ‘Peach Blossom Source’ and go back to the question of its date. Indeed, whereas an early (Chinese) imperial dating of the legend of the ‘Peach Blossom Source’ would make even more sense in the light of the many analogies with early (Roman) imperial utopias, a dating several centuries later seems, at least at first view, somewhat paradoxical, as the debate about the advantages and disadvantages of the imperial unification of the Qin and Ha Empire and the longing for pre-historical simplicity seem somewhat out of date in the 4th or even 5th century. However, should the story indeed have been conceived by Tao Yuanming alone and not have much earlier roots, the interest for a cultural debate long bygone cannot but recall the place of utopias in Mediterranean Late Antiquity.⁷⁰ Thus, the author of the ‘Historia Augusta’, probably written around the end of the 4th or the beginning of the 5th century and thus at the same time than Tao Yuanming’s ‘Peach Blossom Source’, developed a similar fascination for the idea of the Augustan ‘Golden Age’. This becomes most clear

August Emperor. Other matters shall be as in the proposal.’” See e. g. the inscription on Mount Lang-yeh, 69 – 70 (transl. Kern 2000: 33): His merits surpass those of the Five Thearchs. Mount I, 26 – 29: Kern 2000: 13: “One [rule] followed another down to the Five Thearchs, / And no once could prohibit or stop them. / Now today, the August Thearch / has unified all under heaven under one lineage.” For the context, e. g. Puett 2002.  Concerning the opposition to the Qin and the burning of books, cf. Chan 1972; Neininger 1982; Petersen 1995.  Sima Qian, Shiji 6 (Shi Huangdi) (transl. Watson 1961: 54): “[…] another academician, a man of Qi named Chunya Yue, came forward and said: “I have heard that the kings of the Yin and Zhou dynasties ruled for 1,000 years or more, for they enfeoffed their sons and younger brothers and their meritorious ministers to aid an support them. Now Your Majesty possesses all within the seas, yet your sons and younger brothers are mere commoners. […] I have never heard of any undertaking that failed to imitate the example of antiquity and yet was able to endure for long.” Cf. in general Engels 2017a, Engels 2020 and Engels 2021b.  Concerning the personal experience of the decline of the Roman Empire by the late Antique authors, cf. Vittinghoff 1964; Heinzberger 1976; Maier 1980; Feichtinger 1998.

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when reading the Vita of the emperor Probus, which not only allies, similarly to the feelings expressed by Tao Yuanming, hope and despair, but is also characterised by a certain learned nostalgia. This feeling is not only typical for the last pagan aristocrats, lost between the decaying Roman and the rising Empire of the Franks, but also for the thinkers writing between the end of the Hanand the advent of the Sui-Empire. Thus, we read in the ‘Vita Probi’: He, truly conscious of his powers, stood in fear of neither barbarian nor pretender. What great bliss would then have shone forth, if under his rule there had ceased to be soldiers! No rations would now be furnished by any provincial, no pay for the troops taken out of the public largesses, the commonwealth of Rome would keep its treasures forever, no payments would be made by the prince, no tax required of the holder of land; it was in very truth a golden age that he promised. There would be no camps, nowhere should we have to hear the blast of the trumpet, nowhere fashion arms. That throng of fighting-men, which now harries the commonwealth with civil wars, would be at the plough, would be busy with study, or learning the arts, or sailing the seas. Add to this, too, that none would be slain in war. O ye gracious gods, what mighty offence in your eyes has the Roman commonwealth committed, that ye should have taken from it so noble a prince?⁷¹

Similarly, Rutilius Namatianus, also writing at the beginning of the 5th century, conjured, on the one hand, the image of a Rome reborn from her present afflictions and preparing to rise, once again, to her ancient position.⁷² On the other hand, however, it becomes clear from the overall nostalgia of the ‘de reditu suo’ and the description of the desolate coasts of Late Antique Italy, that the old days of Republican and classical imperial Rome were long bygone. An analogous feeling is expressed by Boethius (480 – 524) in his Consolatio philosophiae, where he compared the ideal of the ‘Golden Age’, described as a period of simplicity and peace quite similar to the society described in Tao Yuanming’s ‘Peach Blossom Source’, to the sorry state of his own present times, where the love of money and power make it impossible to entertain any hope for the return of primeval felicity: O happy was that early age of men, / contented with their trusted and unfailing fields, / nor ruined by the wealth that enervates. / Easily was the acorn got / that used to satisfy their longwhile fast. / They knew not Bacchus’ gifts, / nor honey mixed therewith. / They knew not how to tinge with Tyre’s purple dyes / the sheen of China’s silks. / Their sleep kept health on rush and grass; / the stream gave them to drink as it flowed by: / the lofty

 SHA, Prob. 23.1– 4 (transl. D. Magie). See in general von Haehling 2012.  Rut. Nam. 1.139 – 140: Illud te reparat, quod cetera regna resolvit: / Ordo renascendi est crescere posse malis. On Rutilius, see Merone 1951 ; Lana 1961 ; Portergield 1971 ; Doblhofer 1972 ; Quillante 2005 ; Engels 2015b. Concerning the topos of Roma aeterna, cf. Koch 1952; Paschoud 1967; Fuhrmann 1993.

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pine to them gave shade. / Not one of them yet clave the ocean’s depths, / nor, carrying stores of merchandise, / had visited new shores. / Then was not heard the battle’s trump, / nor had blood made red with bitter hate / the bristling swords of war. / […] Would that our times could but return / to those old ways! / but love of gain and greed of holding burn / more fiercely far than Etna’s fires. / Ah! who was the wretch / who first unearthed the mass of hidden gold, / the gems that only longed to lie unfound? / For full of danger was the prize he found.⁷³

4 Conclusion In conclusion, and while it is undeniable that the evolution of political institutions throughout world history confronts us with a bewildering variety of the most diverse facts, types and evolutions, it does not come as a great surprise that a comparison of Chinese and Greco-Roman utopias reveals great similarities. Throughout time and space, Chinese classics such as Laotse, Confucius, Han Fei and Tao Yuanming, or Greek and Roman authors such as Homer, Hesiod, Euhemerus, Virgil, the writer of the Historia Augusta and Boethius, all valued goods such as abundance, peace, beauty, good health or social harmony as highest goals of a history integrated these features into most, if not all utopian narratives. However, despite these analogies, it is interesting to note that Chinese and Greco-Roman thought often tread different paths when it came to the place of the State and of religion in a utopian society. While in the classical Mediterranean World of the polis-state, only few writers were able (or willing) to imagine a utopian society without intimate links to the gods or a proper government (with the notable exceptions of the anarchism of the Cynic school and the rationalist approach of Euhemerism), Chinese philosophers of the pre-Buddhist era were generally adverse to depict their utopias as set up and guaranteed by the gods, and preferred to place their success in the hand of humans alone; an attitude typical for the pragmatic and empiricist thinking of Chinese philosophy, that also extended, in some way, to the place of the State. Here too, though with some exceptions such as Legalism, we see an approach preferring to rely on individual morals rather than on the power of institutions, the best State generally not being the most complex or refined, but rather the one the least visible; an approach enhanced by the deeply embedded primitivist ideal of early Chinese

 Boeth., Cons. Phil. 2 m 5. Concerning Boethius vision of history in the Consolatio, cf. Scheible 1972 and Gruber 2006.

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thought, focusing on the village and the peasantry as ‘normal’ state of life, not on the city and the artisan. Despite these differences, which are doubtlessly rooted in what could be described as fundamental differences in Greco-Roman and classical Chinese ‘worldviews’, we cannot but underline the surprising symmetry in the evolution of utopian thinking in Chinese and Mediterranean Antiquity. Thus, after a period characterised by a bewildering variety of philosophical schools, be it Hellenistic philosophy, be it the ‘Hundred Schools’, the imperial unification of the respective cultural area, long thought in itself to be a purely ‘utopian’ idea, brought with it considerable unease. On the one hand, the new empire itself consciously instrumentalised previous utopias longing for a ‘Golden Age’ of universal peace and prosperity in order to legitimise its new power, such as the Qin-interpretation of Daoist and Legalist political thinking or Augustus’ re-actualisation of the ideal of the Hesiodian ‘Golden Age’. On the other hand, the crude reality of power – oppression, censorship, corruption, hypocrisy – prompted many thinkers to fight against what they saw as a cynical manipulation of deeply felt political and social hopes, and to devise alternative utopian narratives more or less explicitly opposed to the respective imperial propaganda, be it Ovid or some early imperial historians, be it the Qin-age Confucian and partly also Daoist thinkers. This opposition between an ‘imposed’ and a ‘real’ ‘Golden Age’ becomes most clear in Tao Yuanming’s story of the ‘Peach Blossom Source’, a narrative not only combining these two fundamental threads of the history of the ‘Golden Age’ as political utopia, but also linking them to the context of Chinese Late Antiquity. Indeed, in China as well as in the late Roman Empire, the demise of the universal state gave an additional depth to the idea of the lost ‘Golden Age’ by integrating a nearly post-historical perspective into the narrative, where the dreams of the pre-imperial as well as of imperial history have both become tales from a long bygone past. Hence, despite its treacherous simplicity, Tao Yuanming’s ‘Peach Blossom Source’ enables the reader to access the most different layers of Chinese political and social thought as through a historical kaleidoscope, and if ever a text called for a comparatist methodology in order to fully exploit all its philosophical and anthropological depth and dimensions, it is the story of Tao Yuanming’s longing for the Hidden Valley.

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Index locorum Aristophanes Acharnenses 47 – 54 Aves 33 – 41 1271 – 1276 1313 – 1316 1318 – 1322 1436 – 1445 1482 – 1489 1537 – 1541 1706 – 1712 Ecclesiazusae 174 – 188 209 672 – 673 Aristoteles Athenaion Politeia 8 41.1 – 42.1 Ethica Nicomachea I.7,1097b7 – 16 IV.7, 1127a – b X.6, 1176b10 – 11 X.7, 1177a12 – b1 Metaphysica XII.7, 1072a27 sq. XIV.4, 1091b16 – 21 Politica I.1, 1253a2 – 5 I.2, 1252b27 – 1253a1 II.6, 1265a10 – 18 II.8, 1267b30 – 37 III.17, 1288a15 – 29 IV.1, 1288b21 – 33 IV.1, 1288b33 – 1289a7 IV.4, 1291b30 – 1292a17 IV.11, 1295a25 – b1 VII.1, 1323b21 – 3 VII.2, 1324a5 – 13 VII.4, 1325b32 – 1326a8 VII.12, 1331b18 – 23

15 14 27 27 28 27 28 28 28 14 13 47 – 48

94 80 190 20 48 – 49 192 192 191 – 192 192 – 193 193 170 80 172 – 173 175 176 94 178 179 180 171 169

https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110733129-016

Rhetorica I.9.33 I.9.40

5 5

Boethius Consolatio Philosophiae 2m5

295

Cicero De finibus 3.68 204n12 De natura deorum 2.159 222 De officiis 1.71 205 De re publica 1.45 214 2.3 214 2.21 – 22 215 2.26 224 2.30 225 2.33 216 5.1 – 2 226 Epistulae ad Quintum fratrem 3.5.1 214 Tusculanae disputationes 1.2 225 Confucius Lunyu 11.1

289

Cratinus fr. 176 KA (Ath. 6.267e) 44 – 45 Daodejing 80

283

Dio Chrysostomus Orationes 36 36.23 47.2 – 3

207 206 210 – 211

306

Index locorum

47.4 – 7 73.5 – 7 74.26 77/78.38-fin. Diodorus Siculus Bibliotheca historica 2.49.1 – 5 2.55.1 – 2 2.55.2 – 5 2.55.4 2.56.1 2.60.1 – 3 3.53.4 5.10.1, 2, 3 5.20.1 5.42.4 – 46.7 5.82.2 – 4 6.1.1 – 11 6.1.4 – 8 17.50.1, 4 – 5 17.67.3 17.75.3 – 7 17.110.5

211 211 211 211

245 240 241 242 242 241 240 237 240, 242 232 – 234 237 232 – 236 289 – 290 243 243 244 243

Diogenes Laertius Vitae philosophorum 6.38 6.85 6.104 7.34 7.87 – 89 7.121 8.54

195 195 194 – 195,196 200n7 202 204n12 97

Epictetus Dissertationes 4.5.4 – 7

201

Euhemerus fr.

289 – 290

Eusebius Praeparatio evangelica 15.15

207 – 208

Han Feizi 50.8

284

Herodotus Historiae 1.5 1.59 – 64 1.99 1.196 1.199 2.172 3.22 – 23 3.38 3.80 – 82 4.7 4.161

59, 65, 66, 73 60 62 70 71 62, 72 63 64, 66, 72 58, 69 – 70 63 69

Hesiodus Opera et dies 109 – 120 109 – 126

288 79

Homerus Odyssea 6.4 – 12 19.109 – 114

288 79

Isocrates Areopagiticus 6–7 12 15 – 17 23 27 37 39 39 – 42 47 48 52 – 53 57 Busiris 4 13 15 16 – 18 21 – 23

92 92 92 – 93 93 93 93 93 94 94 94 92 77 95 96 96 96 – 97 97

Index locorum

27 – 28 31 – 32 Helenae encomium 35 – 36 Nicocles 17 – 18 Panathenaicus 129 – 131 Panegyricus 23 – 24 39 75 – 87 78 Lucianus Cataplus 15 Dialogi mortuorum 1.1 Menippus 12 Saturnalia 2.10 – 11 Verae historiae 2.16 2.17 2.19 2.31 Marcus Aurelius Meditationes 4.4 9.29

97 97

Pausanias Graeciae descriptio 10.30

52

Philodemus De Stoicis col. 9 – 12 col. 12.2 – 6

200n7 199n4

Pindarus fr. 129 Maehler

52 – 53

84 96 84 92 10 93 94

270 269 – 270 268 – 269 46 263 264 264 267

207 201 – 202

Thomas Morus (ed. Logan et al.) Utopia I, 21 4 I, 34 73 I, 35 74 II, 75 – 76 57 II, 83 – 84 68 Musonius Rufus Dissertationum a Lucio digestarum reliquiae VIII 208

Plato Critias 108e – 109c 113c – 121c Euthyphro 15a Gorgias 489e Leges I, 644d7 – 645b1 II, 656d1 – 657b8 VII, 799a1 – b8 VII, 811c – e IX, 874e – 875a IX, 875b6 – d3 Lysis 206e Menexenus 238d Philebus 20d 48c – 50b 67a Politicus 271e7 – 8 292d2 – 3 Res publica I, 337a II, 369b – 371e II, 374d – 376d II, 375e6 – 7 III, 387d – e III, 412c – d III, 412d – e III, 413c

243 243 196 18 199 160 97 97 117n17 113n12 159 – 160 45 – 46 17 186 16 187 79 150 18 188 129 130 188 – 189 31 32 30

307

308

Index locorum

III, 414d – 415a III, 415d IV, 423e – 424a IV, 425 – 427 IV, 441e4 – 5 IV, 442c10 – d3 IV, 445d V, 449a – 451b V, 449c – 451c V, 450c6 – d2 V, 456b1 – c9 V, 456c V, 456c – e V, 457b7 – c2 V, 457c10 – d3 V, 457d4 – 5 V, 458a – b V, 462a2 – 7 V, 464c – d V, 471c4 – 7 V, 472a1 – 7 V, 472c4 – 473a4 V, 473 V, 473a5 – b2 V, 473b4 – 9 V, 473d – e V, 473e2 VI, 487b – 488a VI, 487c – d VI, 488a – d VI, 488a – 489d VI, 493a – b VI, 494a VI, 496c – d VI, 498d1 – 8 VI, 499a11 – d6 VI, 499d10 – 500a7 VI, 502c9 – d2 VI, 511b4 – c2 VII, 531c9 – d8 VII, 532a5 – b5 VII, 533b1 – 3 VII, 534b3 – c5 VII, 540a – b VII, 540d1 – e2 VII, 540d1 – 541b1 VIII, 544d – e

189 31 125 107n6 147 148 30 125 62 125 128 – 129 129 128 128n23 130 130n26 127 107n5 109n10 130n28 132 133 199 134 135 73 135 136 136 – 137, 209 33 139 30 – 31 33 209 139 137 – 138 140 126 152 153 – 154 153 153 153 11 126 106n4 30

VIII, 546a1 – 3 VIII, 557d4 – 5 VIII, 558b – c IX, 590c8 – 591a3 IX, 592a – b IX, 592b2 – 3 Symposium 216e 218d Timaeus 24e – 25d 29e – 33d 33c – d 34b

135n34 65 32 146 – 147 105, 134n32 11 18 18 199 243 186 187 187 – 188

Plutarchus De Alexandri Magni fortuna aut virtute 329a – b 200, 206 De Iside et Osiride 360a – b 239 De Stoicorum repugnantiis 1033b – 1034b 210 Porphyrius De abstinentia 4.2.1 – 6

224

Seneca De otio 3.2 – 3 3.3 – 4 4.1 8 Naturales Quaestiones Praefatio

204n12, 209 – 210 205 206 210 3 210

SHA Vita Probi 23.1 – 4

294

Sima Qian Shiji 6

292 – 293

Stobaeus Anthologium 2.7.11b

204 – 205

Index locorum

2.7.11m

204 – 205

Stoicorum Veterum Fragmenta III.324 209 III.694 209 Strabo Geographica 7.3.6, 299

239

Tacitus Annales 6.3

239

Tao Yuanming Peach Blossom Source 277 – 303 Teleclides fr. 1 KA (Ath. 6.268a – d) 43 – 44 Thucydides Historiae 2.37.1 2.41.1 Vergilius Aeneis 6.788 – 797 Eclogae 4.4 – 11 Xenophon Agesilaus 8.7

10 10

291

Cyropaedia 1.1.6 1.2 1.2.3 1.2.4 1.2.16 7.5.86 8.8 8.8.2 8.8.13 8.8.15 Lacedaimonion Politeia 1.1 1.1 – 2 2.1 6.1 7.1 10.1 10.8 12.1 13.1 13.1 – 10 14.1 14.1 – 7 15.1 15.1 – 9 Memorabilia 1.2.57 Oeconomicus 1.19 – 20

89 88 89 89 90 88, 90 88, 91 90 91 91 84 85 84 85 – 86 85 84 85 84 84 87 84, 86 86 84, 87 87 48 48

291 Xunzi 5 88

283

309