[Plutarch] records that Augustus passed a winter on the island of Aegina, rather than in Athens, as a sign of his wrath toward the Athenians. Paul Graindor assumed that the most likely time for Augustus to have been angry with the Athenians was immediately after Actium, and so he dated [Plutarch]'s anecdote to the winter of 31/30. This is impossible.

This paper considers Pindar's diverse appropriations of elements of the sacred topography of Aegina for different purposes in epinikia composed for Aeginetan victors. It focuses on poems likely performed in the vicinity of the Aiakeion for their different mobilizations of a monument that we know from Pausanias stood beside the Aiakeion—the tomb of Phokos, an earth mound topped with the “rough stone” that killed him. The more speculative final part of the paper suggests that it may also be possible (...) to track a coherent ideology attached to the island's sacred topography across several Aeginetan odes, thereby detecting a broader structural unity that accompanies and frames the different individual appropriations of different poems. This part starts from Pausanias’ mythic narrative of the exemplary justice of Aiakos banishing his own son Telamon as the aetiology for a distinctive Aeginetan justice system inscribed in a whole set of man-made monuments that ring the island with concentric circles of rough stones. (shrink)

This paper considers Pindar's diverse appropriations of elements of the sacred topography of Aegina for different purposes in epinikia composed for Aeginetan victors. It focuses on poems likely performed in the vicinity of the Aiakeion for their different mobilizations of a monument that we know from Pausanias stood beside the Aiakeion—the tomb of Phokos, an earth mound topped with the "rough stone" that killed him. The more speculative final part of the paper suggests that it may also be possible (...) to track a coherent ideology attached to the island's sacred topography across several Aeginetan odes, thereby detecting a broader structural unity that accompanies and frames the different individual appropriations of different poems. This part starts from Pausanias’ mythic narrative of the exemplary justice of Aiakos banishing his own son Telamon as the aetiology for a distinctive Aeginetan justice system inscribed in a whole set of man-made monuments that ring the island with concentric circles of rough stones. (shrink)

Paul of Aegina's Pragmateiais the only extant Greek medical text from antiquity that discusses the extraction of arrows and small missiles. In his book on surgery, Paul details how to extract arrows according to their properties and the parts of the body which they have wounded. He prefaces his instructions by describing how arrows differ in their material, figure, size, number, mode, and power. Paul's account of arrow varieties appears to reflect the environment of his medical practice, seventh-century Alexandria, (...) for he refers to Egyptian arrow types when listing the material composition and sizes of different arrows. (shrink)

Mental Illness in Ancient Medicine: From Celsus to Paul of Aeginatraces the history of conceptions of mental disorder in Graeco-Roman medical writings, from the 1st century BCE to the 7th CE, with detailed studies of all significant authors.

Name der Zeitschrift: Klio Jahrgang: 99 Heft: 1 Seiten: 1-25.

The production of manuscripts can be an indication for the scientific, linguistic or medical interests of a community. In this paper the author argues that Parisinus Graecus 2293, a bilingual Greek-Arabic manuscript, containing parts of the first three books of Paul of Aegina's medical encyclopaedia, was produced in Sicily or Southern Italy, probably in Palermo during the reign of the Hohenstaufen. It is thus a testimony to the fervent scientific and medical interest of the Swabian court which promoted cultural (...) exchange between the East and the West. The purpose of the manuscript was not so much to help medical practice but rather to further bilingualism by giving the reader a tool with which he could improve his knowledge of either language. (shrink)

It is shown how a diagram on the reverse of a Greek coin of Aegina of the fifth century b.c.e., is simply constructed with the help of Proposition 36 of Euclid’s Book on Divisions [of Figures], and it is conjectured in the absence of contemporary evidence that, since Euclid expressly designated this proposition to be the last in the book, he may have had in mind the diagram, which, some 200 years after its appearance on the coinage, may still (...) have played a significant role in geometry. (shrink)

Originally published in 1967 Medieval Minds looks at the Middle Ages as a period with changing attitudes towards mental health and its treatment. The book argues that it was a period that that bridged the ancient with the modern, ignorance with knowledge and superstition with science. The Middle Ages spanned almost a millennium in the history of the humanities and provided the people of this period with the benefit of this knowledge. The book looks at the promise and progress which (...) was reflected by thinkers such as Augustin and Aurelianus, Alexander of Tralles and Paul of Aegina. The book also looks at martyrs like Valentine and Dympna, and the patrons of those afflicted with illnesses such as epilepsy and insanity. Written by the psychologist Thomas Francis Graham, this book provides a distinct and unique insight into the mind of those living in the medieval period and will be of interest to academics of history and literature alike. (shrink)

ABSTRACT This paper is concerned with landmarks in the history of the idea of cancerous contagiousness from the Renaissance to the Enlightenment. The origins of the idea of cancerous contagiousness is considered on the basis of Galen’s distinction between scabiesleprosy, cancer and elephantiasis. Paul of Aegina (seventh century) established the association between these latter diseases. In the fourteenth century, a ‘new line of inquiry’ developed concerning the transmission of diseases like plague, and G. Fracastoro (1546) applied this approach by (...) stating that putrefaction and inflammation notably produce elephantiasis, which is obviously contagious, as inflammation and heat, without putrefaction, produce cancer. J. Fernel (1548) applied the process of syphilitic contamination to ulcerated cancer, whose vapour ‘is widely dispersed’ and which ‘quickly kills by its malignancy’. G. Cardano (1564) reacted against these views, and declared that cancer was could not be transmitted by contact. But A. Zacuth (1629–1634) and N. Tulp (1652) provided instances of such transmission. D. Sennert, who is often said to have accepted Zacuth’s testimony, was doubtful and suggested, rather than contagion, transmission by heredity. This type of explanation was privileged during Classical Age, until experiments on animals or human beings infected by cancerous liquid took place during the Enlightenment in France and England. Pichler (1786) finally recommended forbidding marriage between people suffering from cancer. (shrink)

At Phaedo 59b Echecrates asks Phaedo who was present on the day when Socrates drank the hemlock in prison. Various Athenians are named , then various foreigners , but when Echecrates subsequently asks if two other foreigners, Aristippus and Cleombrotus, were present, Phaedo replies that they were said to be in Aegina . After this fleeting reference to Cleombrotus, Plato does not mention him again in the Phaedo or any other dialogue; and yet in later antiquity a certain Cleombrotus (...) of Ambracia rose to fame in connection with the Phaedo. Callimachus is our earliest source for the anecdote which immortalized the Ambracian : Επας ‘Ἥλιε αρε’ Κλεμβρτος μβρακιτης λατ' φ' Ψηλο τεεος ες δην, ζιον οδν δν θαντου κακν, λλ Πλτωνος ν τ περ Ψυς γρμμ' ναλεζμενος. (shrink)

In the Eighth Olympian, for Alcimedon of Aegina, Pindar recounts a story that, according to a notice in the scholia, is not found in earlier Greek literature. Aeacus was summoned from Aegina to Troy by Apollo and Poseidon to help in the construction of the city's fortifications. Smoke, says the poet, would one day rise from the very battlements Aeacus built. The wall newly completed, a portent appeared: three snakes tried to scale the ramparts but two fell to (...) earth while one succeeded in entering the city. Apollo immediately interpreted this sign: Troy would be taken ‘owing to the work of Aeacus’ hand' and would, moreover, be taken ‘by the first and the fourth generations’. If there is literary invention here, it would seem that Pindar has drawn inspiration from three passages of our Iliad: 7.452–3, Apollo and Poseidon toiled to build a wall for Laomedon; 6.433–4, there was one spot in the wall of Troy that was especially vulnerable; 2.308–29, the seer Calchas declares an omen involving a snake to signify the eventual destruction of Ilium. The general import of the passage is clear enough — descendants of Aeacus play a prominent part in the Trojan war and in the capture of the city. But the details of the portent and of the prophecy have caused much perplexity, for they cannot easily be made to correspond to the history they prefigure. It is the numbers in Pindar's account that are the chief source of confusion. On the model of the omen interpreted by Calchas the three snakes in the Pindaric story might reasonably be expected to represent the lapse of three generations before Aeacus' great-grandson Neoptolemus played his conspicuous part in the final agony of Troy. But this interpretation of the portent forces us to explain away the fact that Troy was also destroyed by Aeacus' son, Telamon, as Pindar repeatedly insists in his Aeginetan odes : if the snakes are taken to represent generations, one of the unsuccessful snakes in fact represents a successful conqueror. This is a disturbing inconcinnity. (shrink)

Some ancient Greek coins from the island state of Aegina depict peculiar geometric designs. Hitherto they have been interpreted as anticipations of some Euclidean propositions. But this paper proposes geometrical constructions which establish connections to pre-Euclidean treatments of incommensurability. The earlier Aeginetan coin design from about 500 bc onwards appears as an attempt not only to deal with incommensurability but also to conceal it. It might be related to Plato’s dialogue Timaeus. The newer design from 404 bc onwards reveals (...) incommensurability, namely in the context of ‘doubling the square’. It thereby covers the same topic but a different geometry as passages in Plato’s dialogue Meno (385 bc). This coin design incorporates important elements of ancient Greek geometrical analysis of the fifth century bc like the gnomon, Hippocrates’ squaring of the lunule (ca. 430 bc), and a geometrical version of monetary equivalence. Through this venue, the design’s conceptual lineage might be traced as far back as Heraclitus’ cosmology of about 500 bc. (shrink)

At Phaedo 59b Echecrates asks Phaedo who was present on the day when Socrates drank the hemlock in prison. Various Athenians are named, then various foreigners, but when Echecrates subsequently asks if two other foreigners, Aristippus and Cleombrotus, were present, Phaedo replies that they were said to be in Aegina. After this fleeting reference to Cleombrotus, Plato does not mention him again in the Phaedo or any other dialogue; and yet in later antiquity a certain Cleombrotus of Ambracia rose (...) to fame in connection with the Phaedo. Callimachus is our earliest source for the anecdote which immortalized the Ambracian : Επας ‘Ἥλιε αρε’ Κλεμβρτος μβρακιτης λατ' φ' Ψηλο τεεος ες δην, ζιον οδν δν θαντου κακν, λλ Πλτωνος ν τ περ Ψυς γρμμ' ναλεζμενος. (shrink)

To write a history “from antiquity to the present” of classical art or literature (or, worst of all, classicism) is the ultimate nightmare aspiration for a scholar whose colleagues are attentive methodologists. The product, when there is one (which I add because the aspiration can yield paralysis), is always in part an apologetic treatise on historical method. Professor Vout—of Christ's College, Cambridge—apologizes with the first word of her subtitle, A, which stresses that many differing histories may be as valid as (...) her own. The next two words, Life History, imply that her study is unauthorized, conjectural, a bit personal or informal, and reliant to an extent on unconfirmable stories. Her book, she tells readers, is of necessity an arrangement of “fragments” and “a mapping not of facts, but of ways in which Greek and Roman artifacts experience history.” She sets down, moreover, as a rule that “classical” is not “a self-standing category: it is always relational” (which historians of the novel have been telling us for many decades about “realism”).We might expect the result of Vout's axioms to be evenhanded diffidence when treating definitions of the classical, and indeed she entertains even the idea of Jeff Koons—maker of Balloon Venus (Orange) and Gazing Ball (Barberini Faun)—as a classical sculptor. There is, however, one approach that she dismisses out of hand: the obsession of classical humanism with authenticity and its renascence. She objects especially to research into the original conditions of objects and to the application of increasingly intrusive methods of restoring them. As she writes, “ ‘Real knowledge’ comes not from antiquities that have been ripped from their original context, cleaned and reconstituted for display in galleries and glass cabinets. ‘Real knowledge’ comes from antiquities that carry their dirt with them.”What Vout, as a critic of humanism, means by dirt is patina—the residue, interesting and sometimes beautiful in itself, of the use and misuse of objects. Dirt is a word that would occur to a humanist art historian when examining the patina of a Greek or Roman object. Vout's use of the word is a parodic expression of reverse snobbery. When studying changes, whether mistakes or enhancements, in a Greek or Roman document, a humanist literary historian would speak of corruption and edit the corrupt text by means of processes that humanist editors invented and perfected. Despite the humanists’ devotion to the recovery of classical learning, however, once a Renaissance edition of a manuscript was in print, the original, however rare, was often destroyed or lost. In effect, the work was reborn, better than new. Rebirth is not the same as preservation: though both are perhaps conservative (or better, in Ulysses's words, “rere regardant”), a renascence or a resurrection is cataclysmic.The humanist approach to the past can appear unlovable and is certainly arrogant, but it can also inspire awe and gratitude. The work of Michelangelo depended on it, and so (more to the point) did Martin Luther's. Vout's attitude toward dirt (patina, corruption, misprision, insertions, recontextualizations, bowdlerizations, misappropriations, translocations) resembles that of Catholic theologians to the depositum fidei. Restoring the original conditions of the Christian church involved methods of research learned from Renaissance humanists and the removal, often destructive, of the “deposit” or residue or patina that adhered to, distorted, discolored, and obscured the conditions of the “primitive church.” A Roman Catholic may well dislike the processes that Luther set in motion, but imagine a scholarly history of Christianity that mentioned Protestantism only to regret its existence.Still, Vout's reasoning, it seems to me, is more sophisticated in its defense of dirt and in its criticism of restoration than any offered against the Protestants’ reasoning during the Counter-Reformation. Consider, for instance, this inspiring passage: “When the curators at the Munich Glyptothek removed Thorwaldsen's restorations from the Aegina pediments, they did not so much take them back to a pristine state as out of the feedback loop, rendering them damaged goods. It was not a restriction of avenues or a change of direction that was being enacted here, but a refusal to speak the language, or rather an insistence that the only language worth speaking was an academic [humanist, restorationist] one.... In 2011, the Glyptothek marked the two hundredth year of the pediments’ discovery by putting new versions of Thorvaldsen's restored figures on display. They had relearned the lingo. For art to be ‘classical,’ it has to know its place in the discourse.” May lingo and feedback loop have successful careers in the lexicon of classical scholarship. “Far from producing a nostalgic narrative,” as Vout informs us, “the lessons learned from looking back ensure that we keep traveling.”. (shrink)

Just about every odd year in the early fifth century B.C. has been proposed as the date of the Nemean victory of Pytheas from Aegina, celebrated in Pindar's Fifth Nemean and Bacchylides' thirteenth ode. Scholars have attempted to date both odes with the help of Isthmian 6 and 5, which celebrate victories of a member of the same family and the latter of which at 48ff. refers to Salamis as a recent event. Various interpretations of the victory catalogues in (...) I. 6 and 5 have led to various dates for N. 5 and B. 13. The fullest analysis of the material is that by Severyns, who argues that N. 5 and B. 13 must be at least seven years earlier than I. 5. In his conclusion , however, he still suggests three possible dates for N. 5 and B. 13: 487, 489, and 485 B.C., in what he considers to be the order of likelihood. (shrink)

Cleopatra VII, the last of the Ptolemaic rulers of Egypt, reveled in perfume (Plutarch, Life of Marcus Antonius 26.2). She even used it in her seduction of the Roman general Marc Antony. Sailing up the river Cydnus to meet him, she reclined in a canopy spangled with gold, adorned like Venus in a painting. Boys dressed as cupids fanned her and wondrous scents from incense offerings wafted along the riverbanks. Not long after her death in August 30 BCE, a book (...) circulated under her name called Cleopatra’s Cosmetic, full of recipes for fragrant oils and cleansers (Totelin 2017: 114–18). (shrink)

Athenaeus of Attalia distinguishes two types of exercise or training (γυμνασία) that are required at each stage of life: training of the body and training of the soul. He says that training of the body includes activities like physical exercises, eating, drinking, bathing and sleep. Training of the soul, on the other hand, consists of thinking, education, and emotional regulation (in other words, 'philosophy'). The notion of 'training of the soul' and the contrast between 'bodily' and 'psychic' exercise is common (...) in the Academic and Stoic traditions Athenaeus is drawing from; however, he is the earliest extant medical author to distinguish these kinds of training and to treat them as equally important aspects of regimen. In this paper, I propose some reasons why he found this distinction useful, and I examine how he justified incorporating it into his writings on regimen, namely by attributing Plato's beliefs about regimen to Hippocrates, a strategy Galen would adopt well over a century later. (shrink)