Symbolic Restitution

I was intrigued by the following passage in Walter Burkert's Greek Religion:

The finds from the Neolithic town of Çatal Hüyük now make it almost imossible to doubt that the horned symbol which Evans called 'horns of consecration' does indeed derive from real bull horns. The serried ranks of genuine bull horns discovered in the house shrines at Çatal Hüyük are hunting trophies won from the then still wild bull and set up in the precinct of the goddess; in the background lies the hunter's custom of partial restoration, the symbolic restitution of the animal killed. (p.37)

Growing up in the Midwest where there are scores upon scores of hunters (especially deer hunters), I am used to seeing partially reconstituted animals tacked, for example, to the wall of the living room, sometimes (I think) near the hearth, if the house had a fireplace, but often elsewhere as well. I don't usually reflect on it too much, and think of them simply as trophies, a remembrance of accomplishment. But I wonder: is there any 'symbolic restitution' going on there, lurking 'in the background', as it were? I realize the contexts are different--a house as opposed to a 'house shrine', etc. But I'm curious. Any hunters in the audience care to enlighten me?

Ars Poetica

Archibald MacLeish's short Ars Poetica ends with the rather famous following two lines:

A poem should not mean
But be.

These lines are quoted fairly frequently. For example, they were the basis for an answer on Jeopardy last night. I confess that I don't understand what they mean. Based on the lines themselves, I suppose that's a silly question, since I suppose they just 'are'. Perhaps the point is to make interpretation seem ridiculous, but leaving that aside--what, really, does it mean (gasp) for a poem not to 'mean/ But be'?

The text can be found here or here. More interesting is an image of the original manuscript here.

UPDATE: To put it a little more clearly: a believer in MacLeish's axiom couldn't answer my question on grounds of principle, for to do so would be a violation of the axiom. It seems to be intended as a metapoetic comment on poetry as such, but, given that it comes in a poem, as soon as one extracts the comment--the 'meaning' of part of the poem--to apply it to how we read poems in general, he does violence to the principle that a poem does not 'mean/ But [is]'. Dennis' idea of paradox is a good way of looking at it. For the more cynical, 'nonsense' is another.

Zeus and Jupiter, arm in arm

Now this sounds completely ridiculous:

Sci Fi is developing the six-hour miniseries "Going Homer," from "Farscape" alum Ben Browder and Andrew Prowse. Taken from the Odyssey, project will revolve around a 12-year-old, Homer Ulysses Jones, who sets off on a journey from L.A. to New York in order to escape a custody battle. Homer is able to see what others can't: Greek and Roman gods are here on earth, walking among mortals. Some gods will aid his journey, while others will seek to kill him in order to prevent him from getting home.

Aesop Deconstructs Himself

After the episode recounted previously, the students chide Xanthos for what had happened to them. Xanthos responds that it was not his fault, but Aesop's. To prove it, he decides to have another dinner-party and to give his shopping instructions to Aesop in front of the students, so that, in case anything goes wrong, they will know that Aesop, with his language-games, is to be blamed. Since Aesop has a tendency to say that up is down, Xanthos tells him to buy something inferior (ch. 54):

καὶ δὴ καλέσας τὸν Αἴσωπον λέγει αὐτῷ “ἐπειδή σοι ἔδοξε τὰ ἄνω κάτω λαλεῖν, ἀπελθὼν εἰς τὴν ἀγοράν, εἴ τι σαπρόν, εἴ τι χεῖρον, αὐτὸ ἀγόρασον.”

Aesop, of course, buys tongues again. When he serves them the pickled tongues, the students say, 'What, tongues again?!', as Xanthos turns greenish or pale and the students conjecture that perhaps Aesop's intention is to cure them of yesterday's diarrhea:

οἱ σχολαστικοὶ εἶπον “τί ἐστι πάλιν τοῦτο, γλῶσσαι;” ὁ Ξάνθος ἀποχλωριᾷ. οἱ σχολαστικοὶ εἶπον “ἴσως ἀπὸ τῆς χθεσινῆς διαρροίας τὸν στόμαχον ἡμῶν θέλει τῷ ὄξει ἀνακτήσασθαι.”

But when he serves them a second tongue, this time roasted, they wonder whether he is trying to make them sick again:

Αἴσωπος παρέθηκεν ἑκάστῳ ὀπτὴν γλῶσσαν. οἱ σχολαστικοὶ εἶπον “οὐᾶ, τί ἐστι τοῦτο; ὁ χθεσινὸς ὑπόμωρος πάλιν διὰ γλωσσῶν ἀσθένειαν ἡμῖν κατασκευάζει;”

When asked for an explanation, Aesop has a philosophico-moral discourse at the ready (ch. 55):

Αἴσωπος εἶπεν “καὶ τί χεῖρον διὰ γλώσσης οὐκ ἔστιν; διὰ γλώσσης ἔχθραι, διὰ γλώσσης ἐπιβουλαί, ἐνεδρεῖαι, μάχαι, ζηλοτυπίαι, ἔρεις, πόλεμοι· οὐκοῦν χεῖρον οὐδέν ἐστι τῆς μιαρωτάτης γλώσσης.”

The students, though, are not impressed this time. Now, they think that listening to Aesop will lead to madness and that his interior is as unsightly as his interior:

εἷς τῶν σχολαστικῶν τῶν συνανακειμένων ἐν τῷ δείπνῳ τοῦ Ξάνθου λέγει “καθηγητά, τούτῳ ἐὰν πρόσσχῃς ταχέως σε εἰς μανίαν περιτρέψει· οἵα γὰρ ἡ μορφὴ αὐτοῦ τοιαύτη καὶ ἡ ψυχὴ αὐτοῦ. <ὁ> φιλολοίδορος καὶ κακεντρεχὴς δοῦλος οὗτος ὀβολοῦ ἄξιος οὐκ ἔστιν.”

In reading Aesop's thought on the evils of the tongue, I was reminded of James 3:5-11 (Greek text here):

5οὕτως καὶ ἡ γλῶσσα μικρὸν μέλος ἐστὶν καὶ μεγάλα αὐχεῖ. Ἰδοὺ ἡλίκον πῦρ ἡλίκην ὕλην ἀνάπτει: 6καὶ ἡ γλῶσσα πῦρ, ὁ κόσμος τῆς ἀδικίας, ἡ γλῶσσα καθίσταται ἐν τοῖς μέλεσιν ἡμῶν, ἡ σπιλοῦσα ὅλον τὸ σῶμα καὶ φλογίζουσα τὸν τροχὸν τῆς γενέσεως καὶ φλογιζομένη ὑπὸ τῆς γεέννης. 7πᾶσα γὰρ φύσις θηρίων τε καὶ πετεινῶν ἑρπετῶν τε καὶ ἐναλίων δαμάζεται καὶ δεδάμασται τῇ φύσει τῇ ἀνθρωπίνῃ: 8τὴν δὲ γλῶσσαν οὐδεὶς δαμάσαι δύναται ἀνθρώπων: ἀκατάστατον κακόν, μεστὴ ἰοῦ θανατηφόρου. 9ἐν αὐτῇ εὐλογοῦμεν τὸν κύριον καὶ πατέρα, καὶ ἐν αὐτῇ καταρώμεθα τοὺς ἀνθρώπους τοὺς καθ' ὁμοίωσιν θεοῦ γεγονότας: 10ἐκ τοῦ αὐτοῦ στόματος ἐξέρχεται εὐλογία καὶ κατάρα. οὐ χρή, ἀδελφοί μου, ταῦτα οὕτως γίνεσθαι. 11μήτι ἡ πηγὴ ἐκ τῆς αὐτῆς ὀπῆς βρύει τὸ γλυκὺ καὶ τὸ πικρόν; 12μὴ δύναται, ἀδελφοί μου, συκῆ ἐλαίας ποιῆσαι ἢ ἄμπελος σῦκα; οὔτε ἁλυκὸν γλυκὺ ποιῆσαι ὕδωρ.

Happy birthday, Julius Caesar

Today is supposed to have been your birthday. Or maybe it's tomorrow. Either way, felicem natalem! Even if you are dead.

Ginormous!

I was pleased to see that one of my favorite English adjectives, 'ginormous', has made it into Merriam-Webster's new collegiate dictionary, along with words such as 'crunk' and 'smackdown'.

"There will be linguistic conservatives who will turn their nose up at a word like `ginormous,'" said John Morse, Merriam-Webster's president.

Not I!

"But it's become a part of our language. It's used by professional writers in mainstream publications. It clearly has staying power."

One of those naysayers is Allan Metcalf, a professor of English at MacMurray College in Jacksonville, Ill., and the executive secretary of the American Dialect Society.

"A new word that stands out and is ostentatious is going to sink like a lead balloon," he said. "It might enjoy a fringe existence."

I don't know. From my observation, it seems to be becoming more common. Besides, neologisms are fun. Just ask Aeschylus.

But I didn't realize that the word had actually been around for a little while:

But Merriam-Webster traces ginormous back to 1948, when it appeared in a British dictionary of military slang. And in the past several years, its use has become, well, ginormous.

It was, moreover, urged on the dictionary by popular opinion, which is, it seems, how new coinages pass into popular speech.

Visitors to the Springfield-based dictionary publisher's Web site picked "ginormous" as their favorite word that's not in the dictionary in 2005, and Merriam-Webster editors have spotted it in countless newspaper and magazine articles since 2000.

That's essentially the criteria for making it into the collegiate dictionary — if a word shows up often enough in mainstream writing, the editors consider defining it.

But the fastidious can still avoid it if they want:

But as editor Jim Lowe puts it: "Nobody has to use `ginormous' if they don't want to."

For the record, he doesn't.

But I do!

The Seven Sights

Apologies if anyone else in the classical blogosphere has already issued a corrective at some point on this bit of misinformation, but it's been flooding my inbox so I need to address it:

Philon of Byzantium, a minor technical writer of the Hellenistic period (not a philosopher as at least one reporter has it), did not compile the famed Seven Wonders of the ancient world, nor was the document improperly attributed to him written in 200 BC, but rather much later.

The oldest lists, according to the handy OCD, do appear at this time, and contain the same sights as that attributed to Philon:

1. the pyramids of Egypt
   
2. the walls of Babylon
   
3. the hanging gardens of Semiramis at Babylon
   
4. the temple of Artemis at Ephesus
   
5. the statue of Zeus at Olympia
   
6. the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus
   
7. the colossus of Rhodes
   

You may notice something missing, especially if you teach with the Cambridge Latin Course: the lighthouse of Alexandria, named for the island on which it stood, Pharus. This, like many other, finds its way into other, later lists.

Well-meaning writers of the Christian period evidently lost the original sense of the Greek word θεάματα--'sights,' i.e., things to be seen--when they added Noah's ark to the list.

Now as to what has prompted this, the announcement a new list of seven wonders, one has to wonder at man's continued fascination with magical numbers.

Aesop on the Postmodern Priority of Language? (I Speak Tongue-in-Cheek)

In the G tradition of the life of Aesop (ch. 51), Aesop's master Xanthos decides to host a dinner for his students. He instructs Aesop to prepare some food that is useful for life. Aesop buys tongues--all tongues--and in each successive course of the meal serves tongues prepared in a different way (boiled, roasted, spiced). At first the students are impressed with the cuisine (Xanthos has chosen food fitting for the conversational aspect of a dinner-party), but by the third course the surfeit of tongues has become a problem and the students have become sick. Xanthos asks for soup. Aesop brings tongue-broth. The students protest, and Xanthos rebukes Aesop and says, to paraphrase, 'Didn't I tell you to get something useful for life?' Aesop, after an introductory remark, says (ch. 53):

"τί οὖν ἐστιν ἐν τῷ βίῳ γλώσσης χρησιμώτερον ἢ μεῖζον; μάθε ὅτι διὰ γλώσσης πᾶσα φιλοσοφία καὶ πᾶσα παιδεία συνέστηκεν. χωρὶς γλώσσης οὐδὲν γίνεται, οὐδὲ δόσις, οὐ λῆψις, οὐδὲ ἀγορασμός· ἀλλὰ διὰ γλώσσης πόλεις ἀνορθοῦνται, δόγματα καὶ νόμοι ὁρίζονται. εἰ οὖν διὰ γλώσσης πᾶς βίος συνέστηκεν, γλώσσης οὐδέν ἐστι κρεῖττον.”

The students are duly impressed by his answer, and tell Xanthos that he was mistaken to criticize Aesop:

οἱ σχολαστικοὶ εἶπον “νὴ τὰς Μούσας, καλὰ λέγει. σὺ ἥμαρτες, καθηγητά.”

But the impressiveness of his philosophical justification for serving tongues because of the power of language does not cure the physical effects that the meal had caused:

οἱ σχολαστικοὶ ἀνεχώρησαν. δι’ ὅλης τῆς νυκτὸς διαρροίᾳ ληφθέντες ἐδυσφόρουν.

Byzantium 1200

I just saw a note come through on the Byzans-L list about the Byzantium 1200 project. The date is significant for its proximity to the sack of Constantinople in 1204 by Western Christians in what is known as the Fourth Crusade.

Why no Byzantium 1450 project?

The images are neat and worth a look.

Ramble on, Odysseus.

Lino Bugeja, president of Ramblers Association of Malta (I'd love to join a club with a name like that), is campaigning against development on the island of Gozo, appealing to history and literature, and more specifically to the Odyssey, for Gozo has long been treated as Calypso's Ogygia. (The association is not limited to 'some Maltese patriots' as the Wikipedians would have it.)

You can read the whole literate plea for yourself, but I'll give you the end where Bugeja reallys hammers home his antipathy to land development:

As this Greek tragedy unfolds with its frightening nemesis, a distant choir pleads for the peace that comes from feeling part of something bigger, older and more potent than oneself.

Grief Lessons

Glen Bowersock reviews Anne Carson's recent book on Euripides, Grief Lessons: Four Plays by Euripides. A little from the beginning of the review on the immediate aftermath of the death of Euripides:

In early 406 BC the news reached Athens that far away in Macedonia the great dramatist Euripides had died. The leader of the chorus at the festival of the Dionysia that year happened to be his old rival, the aged Sophocles, who, in a public gesture of mourning, had his chorus and actors appear on stage without their customary crowns. We're told that the Athenians wept.

After a quarter-century during which Athens had been caught up, off and on, in the Peloponnesian War, the death of Euripides must have seemed ominous. It came in the same year as the voluntary exile of the charismatic Alcibiades, the leader in whom they had once placed great hope. The death of Sophocles himself within months of his tribute to Euripides only added to a presentiment of impending collapse. In 405 Aristophanes made, in his Frogs, a comic but poignant comparison of Aeschylus and Euripides to illustrate just how far Greek drama had come from the majestic verses of its first great dramatist. In that same year Euripides' horrifying play the Bacchae was produced posthumously at Athens. He had written it in Macedonia, and it depicted, as never before in literature, the destructive power of religious frenzy. In the ecstasy of Dionysiac possession a mother quite literally tore her own son apart. One year after the première of the Bacchae the war came to an end with the humiliating defeat of the Athe-nians by Sparta, and, as Xenophon tells us, a wailing went up along the long walls from Piraeus to the city.