The basic methods of constructing the sets of mutually unbiased bases in the Hilbert space of an arbitrary finite dimension are reviewed and an emerging link between them is outlined. It is shown that these methods employ a wide range of important mathematical concepts like, e.g., Fourier transforms, Galois fields and rings, finite, and related projective geometries, and entanglement, to mention a few. Some applications of the theory to quantum information tasks are also mentioned.

Este estudo tem como principal objetivo uma análise do conceito de determinação em Espinosa. Historicamente, o pensamento de Espinosa foi assimilado a uma filosofia acosmista, isto é, uma filosofia que nega a realidade das coisas finitas em um mundo onde apenas Deus ou a substância seria real. Tal interpretação se consolida a partir das considerações hegelianas em suas Lições sobre a História da Filosofia e na Ciência da Lógica, em que Hegel lê todo o sistema de Espinosa a partir do (...) princípio "omnis determinatio est negatio". Nosso estudo se desenvolve então, primeiramente, apresentando as consequências contemporâneas desta leitura hegeliana; em seguida analisamos a interpretação hegeliana e algumas contribuições de Deleuze a respeito do conceito de determinação em Espinosa; e, por fim, analisamos no texto espinosano a função que o conceito de determinação desempenha e como ela se distancia do consagrado marco de leitura hegeliano de que “omnis determinatio est negatio”. (shrink)

Poderíamos caracterizar a obra de Gregor Moder, Hegel and Spinoza: Substance and Negativity, como uma obra não ortodoxa dos estudos tanto hegelianos quanto spinozistas, como uma tentativa quase heroica de recepcionar de forma nova e original a tão problemática relação existente entre hegelianismo e spinozismo e, também, como uma tentativa de “fazer justiça” a ambos os lados da discussão.

Traveling-wave solutions of the standard and compound form of Korteweg–de Vries–Burgers equations are found using factorizations of the corresponding reduced ordinary differential equations. The procedure leads to solutions of Bernoulli equations of non-linearity 3/2 and 2 (Riccati), respectively. Introducing the initial conditions through an imaginary phase in the traveling coordinate, we obtain all the solutions previously reported, some of them being corrected here, and showing, at the same time, the presence of interesting details of these solitary waves that have been (...) overlooked before this investigation. (shrink)

The European Legacy, Volume 17, Issue 4, Page 550-551, July 2012.

This book is a state-of-the-art review on the Physics of Emergence. Foreword v Gregory J. Chaitin Preface vii Ignazio Licata Emergence and Computation at the Edge of Classical and Quantum Systems 1 Ignazio Licata Gauge Generalized Principle for Complex Systems 27 Germano Resconi Undoing Quantum Measurement: Novel Twists to the Physical Account of Time 61 Avshalom C. Elitzur and Shahar Dolev Process Physics: Quantum Theories as Models of Complexity 77 Kirsty Kitto A Cross-disciplinary Framework for the Description of Contextually Mediated (...) Change 109 Liane Gabora and Diederik Aerts Quantum-like Probabilistic Models Outside Physics 135 Andrei Khrennikov Phase Transitions in Biological Matter 165 Eliano Pessa Microcosm to Macrocosm via the Notion of a Sheaf (Observers in Terms of t-topos) 229 Goro Kato The Dissipative Quantum Model of Brain and Laboratory Observations 233 Walter J. Freeman and Giuseppe Vitiello Supersymmetric Methods in the Traveling Variable: Inside Neurons and at the Brain Scale 253 H.C. Rosu, O. Cornejo-Perez, and J.E. Perez-Terrazas Turing Systems: A General Model for Complex Patterns in Nature 267 R.A. Barrio Primordial Evolution in the Finitary Process Soup 297 Olof Gornerup and James P. Crutchfield Emergence of Universe from a Quantum Network 313 Paola A. Zizzi Occam's Razor Revisited: Simplicity vs. Complexity in Biology 327 Joseph P. Zbilut Order in the Nothing: Autopoiesis and the Organizational Characterization of the Living 339 Leonardo Bich and Luisa Damiano Anticipation in Biological and Cognitive Systems: The Need for a Physical Theory of Biological Organization 371 Graziano Terenzi How Uncertain is Uncertainty? 389 Tibor Vamos Archetypes, Causal Description and Creativity in Natural World 405 Leonardo Chiatti . (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:After the War DAVID GOMES CÁSSERES invocation: athena for PLP Grey-eyed Athena had no childhood. She stepped out of the old god’s terrible skull a grown young goddess and began her apprenticeship: running sex-driven cults among the hunters and gatherers, collecting snakes and owls, her aegis looming behind the altars, over her priestesses, prophetic crones and breathless temple prostitutes, sacrificed animals bleeding and burnt ears of grain She gained (...) a reputation: she liked clever men, not that way, no, but she did them favors, paid attention to their deeds and needs and risks and wounds and wants. Her admiration was something a clever man could count on; she would give protection, opportunities, good luck. There was a catch, of course: you had to be clever again, you had to keep impressing the grey-eyed one, and so men lasted a while but couldn’t keep it up, and fell, and well, she forgot them. She was busy. But Odysseus: He was another kind. One stratagem after another, he built up so much credit that she saved him even when he disgraced himself one time or another. (Olympus might have disapproved if they’d noticed, but she had walked far away from that rabble of archetypes, totems, fertilities, boogeymen and witch-mothers, nightwalkers, netherdwellers, sexpots and satyrs. She owned her firmament.) Odysseus was something new to her in his little flick of mortality. So when she stood alone in Penelope’s bedchamber watching the reunion, the circling dance of man and woman arion 27.2 fall 2019 step by step negotiating what they knew after so many years their carefulness like oil on water, leveling out the fresh reek of murder from the great hall below them the suitors’ teeth driven into the earthen floor Odysseus striped with their blood Penelope before her loom, many-stringed weapon of her own warfare weaving each other in that long rite of recognition: Her grey eyes saw words forming and fading unsaid As they circled in the salt red sunset Ionian air. And saw the end of her story with Odysseus; goddess and all, it took away her breath. In the end she had this much to show for her years with this clever man: He came home from the war alive, with all his teeth. 2 after the war First published as “Athena,” in Arion 21.3, Winter 2014 telemachus 1. It’s like this. I come to manhood at fourteen and my life’s just misery and shame. There’s no King in Ithaka and my mother, the Queen, is like a prisoner. All our warriors are scattered in the sea somewhere by Athena’s great storm. Our home, the palace of godlike Odysseus, is full of parasites and pirates, We live there paralyzed, taunted by those swarming men and the people who cling to them, even some of my mother’s maids, girls my age or a little older— nasty girls who know all the ways to mock and mortify a boy squirming into manhood without a father. Of course I run away, of course I go looking for wily Odysseus, the King, my father. I never find him, it’s for him to find me, later. But I did learn to tie seamen’s knots, and I have a traveler’s tale: One night I was at the house of Menelaus and Helen, drinking good wine late into the night. They sent the servants to bed, and the three of us sat in the red light of the dying fire. Menelaus, still handsome with some grey in his red hair, spoke of my father Odysseus: “Do you know what he said? He said to me, we are better than the gods; we are kings. And kings must die, as the gods cannot. He said it to me when we were striding with our swords in hand through the broken gates of Troy, and as calmly as he might say it to you.” As he spoke, Menelaus of the great war-cry was fondling the arm of his wife, Helen, for whose beauty all that blood was shed. I was sitting with the people the poets sing... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Epigram into Lyric: Francis Bacon Translates from the Greek Anthology GORDON BRADEN If sir francis bacon did not exactly invent modern science and technology, he did predict it, with remarkable accuracy. The unfinished project of which the writings of his later years were to be component parts is a reformation of the life of the human mind from the ground up—“a complete Instauration of the arts and sciences and (...) all the learning of mankind, raised upon proper foundations ”1—and the most (arguably the only) successful such plan ever drafted. It foresaw both the previously unimaginable worldly triumph of the human race over nature in the centuries that followed and the intellectual means by which that triumph was to be achieved. He also wrote poetry. It is no surprise that someone of his time and place and station should have done so, and its existence is not in itself remarkable. Not much of it has survived, and we have no particular reason to think there was more; and, despite the extensive scholarly and critical scrutiny that Bacon’s work has received, very little attention has been given to this part of it. Still, one poem has achieved something of an afterlife and is worth attention, especially alongside the triumphalism of Bacon’s Magna Instauratio. It concerns hopelessness. Serious attention has been given to Bacon’s remarks on literature and the imagination, including his proposal, amid all his other plans, for what he calls “literary history” (historia literarum).2 But his poems are a different matter. They can be found in the great 19th-century edition of Bacon’s collected works, tucked in between his Prayers and his Christian Paradoxes.3 Most of the poems are from a small volume of psalm translations published under his own name the year before arion 27.1 spring/summer 2019 his death; these are now available in one of the published volumes of the new Oxford edition of Bacon’s works.4 There is also 12-line poem in hexameter couplets that begins sounding like a translation of Horace’s Integer vitae but goes on to be a fairly straightforward completion of its opening thesis and never gets around to sweetly laughing, sweetly speaking Lalage; a manuscript in the British Library attributes it to Bacon, though it is also printed in two of Thomas Campion’s books of airs as if it were one of his.5 My own interest is in the one remaining poem, a 32-line translation of a 10-line poem from the Greek Anthology (9.359 in the Palatine Anthology, though known in Bacon’s time from the Planudean). It first appears in print in 1626, anonymously, as “Certaine verses concerning the present estate of Man,” appended with other “characters, and many other witty conceits ” to an edition of Thomas Overbury’s poem “A Wife.”6 Three years later the classical scholar Thomas Farnaby prints it with an ascription to Bacon in a selection of poems from the Greek Anthology, along with the original text of the Greek poem, a Latin translation of it, and the editor’s facing translation of Bacon’s poem back into Greek.7 Bacon’s poem can also be found, both complete and in fragmentary form, in quite a few manuscripts, which are being collated for the first time for The Oxford Francis Bacon, though the editors have not yet decided where to put it. Isolated citations and quotations of the poem occur over the next several centuries; Francis Turner Palgrave includes it in his much-reprinted Golden Treasury, with the title “Life.”8 But there has been little discussion of the poem. It is the subject of an excellent scholarly article by Herbert Grierson, but that was over a hundred years ago.9 Paul Fussell has some sharp observations on Bacon’s use of his stanza form, but they fit onto a single page.10 Other comment is mostly incidental. I want to gather and slightly enhance what has been learned or said about the poem, and explore why it has snagged my interest. The Greek original is variously attributed; the most commonly mentioned name is Posidippus, probably the Mace50 epigram into... (shrink)

En días pasados tuvimos como huésped de honor en nuestra universidad al filósofo francés René Schérer, uno de los más ilustres representantes del pensamiento contemporáneo en el ámbito internacional. Egresado de la célebre Escuela Normal Superior de París (rue d’Ulm), René Schérer es actualmente profesor emérito de la Universidad París 8 (Vincennes-Saint Denis). Inicialmente se dio a conocer gracias a sus trabajos sobre estética fenomenológica y fenomenología de la comunicación, así como por su traducción, del alemán al francés, de las (...) Investigaciones lógicas de Husserl y por la biografía y ensayo crítico del filósofo alemán que escribió en colaboración con su amigo el filósofo Arion Kelkel. Se consagró, luego, al estudio de problemas filosóficos vinculados con la defensa de la utopía, el sentido de la hospitalidad, la crítica de la pedagogía, el reconocimiento de la diferencia y la inclusión del otro, el cosmopolitismo y la relación entre la universidad y la política. Entre sus libros más importantes de los últimos 20 años, de una obra prolífica, cabe mencionar: El alma atómica (1986) escrito en colaboración con Guy Hocquenghem, Apuesta sobre lo imposible (1989), Zeus hospitalario (1993), Utopías nómadas (1996), Miradas sobre Deleuze (1998), La pedagogía pervertida (1999), La Ecosofía de Charles Fourier (2000), Infantiles (2003), Hospitalidades (2004) y su último libro, sobre el cineasta italiano Pier Paolo Pasolini (2005). (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:From the Front NICOLAS ALIFERIS (Translated by Avi Sharon) The poems in Nicolas Aliferis’s 1998 collection “From the Front” offer a panorama of postcard views and epistolary voices from across the Greek oikoumene during the years 1897 through 1922. While the title has military tones, they are not all soldier’s letters. In point of fact, this was a period when the territorial limits of Greece, “the Front,” were undergoing (...) near constant alteration—“like the ink drunk in by blotting paper” as Seferis wrote in a poem about Europe at the beginning of the Second World War. The front, therefore, could be almost anywhere during this period, and certainly in the minds of almost every Greek. The Greco-Turkish War of 1897, stemming from irredentist forces in Crete, was the earliest outbreak, and put that island on a path toward union with the mainland. After that came the string of Balkan conflagrations before, during, and after ww i, that would more than double the land mass and population of Greece. The sequence of Treaties that, one by one, concluded each stage in these disputes (from that of Constantinople in 1897, to Sevres in 1920) brought Crete, Epirus, much of Macedonia, and then Thrace and the Dodecanese islands within the limits of Greece proper. The “front” was therefore more an idea than a line on a map, and the experience of it was not limited to actual soldiers in real trenches. The distinct personae that animate each poem range from conscripts in training camps to villagers turned mercenaries to city-bound merchants and other figures, high and low. The poems themselves are drawn from various sources: some were personal letters in the poet’s own family archive, others were drawn from written history arion 28.2 fall 2020 124 from the front and newspaper scraps, while some are more purely hypothetical. They present an imaginary memento of the experiences and voices of that period, and the struggle, personal and national, that helped inform the shape and meaning of what Greece is today. Nicolas Aliferis 125 the death of chakalarov We did away with Chakalarov and Popov, those terrors to the villages. They’d collect our lira then make their way to the north. When word reached Macedonia it was a huge relief. Now we’re in the mountains, all sixteen of us, walking the trails covered in fog, holed up in the rocks, always on lookout. The cold is fierce: ice, snow, gnashing teeth. Our enemies raging and the Bulgarians wild as bears. So much blood, deep red. Beyond to the east, gleaming peacefully, the lakes, Ostrovou and Sorovitz. 126 from the front dombro betser I received your letter. With so much happening here there was little time to write. But we haven’t forgotten you; every day there’s some mention of your name. How are you finding Macedonia— her mountains, her rivers? You were not joking with our neighbors, I see. Where will this story end for us? The teacher from the Monastery, she asks about you: “And Mr. Pelopidas...” she begins, then lowers her eyes. Here the knives are out. Oh Lord, will we ever get over it? Nicolas Aliferis 127 adrianople 1920 I am well and wish you the same. Living is cheap here— a chicken costs just two and a half drachmas. Lately I’ve gotten to know all the upper level subordinates and quite a few merchants, Turks and Jews. In the evening there’s either study or cards. As for what you write: I say we should learn from the Belgians, Pantelis, just a little. Otherwise, I’m afraid, our race is finished! 128 from the front training camp, 1918 I’ve sent three letters and received none. Only yesterday I heard news from the trenches: the deeds of Yanni and Bicha, how they died. It rained today and is raining still. I sit alone (it’s been a while...) and write you. My comrades are outside, their eyes glued to the open spaces. How necessary for the soul— amid this solitude— to feel human. The need to hear the breath of a comrade, to stand above his gaze, to half close your... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:The Keats Bicentennial u To commemorate the bicentennial of the death of John Keats, the Institute for Digital Archaeaology, in collaboration with the Keats Shelley Memorial Association, has commissioned a series of poems inspired by the poet’s life and works, including the following pieces by UK Poet Laureate, Simon Armitage and poet and performance artist, Scarlett Sabet. All of the commissioned poems will be available in a new anthology (...) entitled Avernus’ Springs to be published by the Acensious Press in 2022. Roger L. Michel, Jr. u arion 28.3 winter 2021... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Three Poems JANE BLANCHARD Persephone This business of dividing time is not The easiest. Six months below with him; Six months above with her—such means a lot Of moving out and settling in. For them, I must abandon home and habits twice A year and never have a moment to Myself. It seems the greater sacrifice Is mine than theirs. I come and go when due As set forth (...) in a compromise once made Or rather ordered. Being loved so much Is less a blessing than a curse. Afraid I may get used to staying out of touch, My husband and my mother have proved loath To understand I always care for both. arion 26.3 winter 2019 Midas Whatever touched would turn to gold! Allowed one wish, he made his choice, Then reached to grasp all he could hold: Whatever touched would turn to gold! The impact could not be controlled. The wish he wished he could unvoice? Whatever touched would turn to gold! Allowed one wish, he made his choice. 70 three poems Sisyphus I roll the bolder up the hill. The bolder rolls back down again. There is to be no standing still. My efforts take no thought or skill; The next is what the last has been: I roll the bolder up the hill. Repeatedly, I find no thrill In this relentless discipline. There is to be no standing still. Time after time, the selfsame drill Gets old and even older when I roll the bolder up the hill. The chance of any change is nil. Since I am doomed, to my chagrin, There is to be no standing still. According to some greater will, The bolder rolls its rolls, and then I roll the bolder up the hill. There is to be no standing still. Jane Blanchard 71... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:An Epiphany in Munich LINCOLN PERRY W hen I used to say the sentence (softly and to myself ) “I hate palms” or “Palms are not beautiful; possibly they are not even trees,” it was a composite palm that I had somehow succeeded in making without even ever having seen, close up, many particular instances. Conversely, when I now say, “Palms are beautiful,” or “I love palms,” it is (...) really individual palms that I have in mind. This quote from Elaine Scarry’s On Beauty and Being Just applies perfectly to an experience I recently had regarding a painting by an artist I had assumed I didn’t much care for. Perhaps it would be best to lead into my epiphany gradually, to recreate the preparation that might have been necessary to have my realization. Actually, I speak of a double epiphany, in that it was shared by the friend I was travelling with when we saw the artwork in question. He and I are both painters, and have much in common, both in terms of our own work and our voracious appetite for seeing museums, so when I planned a trip for late October 2018 to see thirty museums in two weeks in Germany and Austria, I knew just whom to call. David Carbone and I have known each other, and appreciated each other’s work, since leaving graduate school in 1975, meeting at the College Art Association held that year in Washington, DC, where people compete for jobs while trying to maintain a veneer of civility. David made less of an effort than most, and I vividly remember him in saddle shoes he had painted bright blue, wearing a tie featuring a burlesque dancer, sipping champagne in the garden courtyard of the National Gallery. All the nearby aspiring art historians were immaculately dressed and scrupulously behaved, but David finished his drink, and in imitation of a arion 27.1 spring/summer 2019 Russian toast, threw his empty glass against the wall, where it noisily shattered. I like this guy, thought I. Over the next few days, visiting DC’s museums together, I recognized the brilliance of his commentaries on the art we saw. And his wit: He told of studying with his painting professor, who became frustrated with David’s pace in painting and said “David, painting is really very simple!” The reply: “But, what if you’re not simple?” I can’t conjure a single artist about whose work we’ve disagreed in the course of the fortythree years we’ve known each other. Meeting often in New York, where he lives with his wife Donna (who, like my wife, is always perfectly willing to let us go museum schlepping without them), we’ve also travelled in central Italy, and even flew to Fort Worth to see a show of the Le Nain brothers. A very sweet guard there asked us, “Who ARE you?” and when we said we were painters, she said, “Oh, because I’ve never seen anybody look at paintings this long, or talk about them so much!” Berlin is a treasure trove, where we visited ten fine museums, then flew to Vienna, which was hosting an extensive exhibit of Bruegel’s paintings, though feast might be a more apt word. A visual feast, but one that didn’t leave one sated, jaded, or bloated, but rather improved, made less ambivalent about membership in a questionable species. Yes, the viewer consumed a meal of war, famine, foolishness, and pride, but the chef made it not just palatable but beautiful, thought-provoking and humorous. Bruegel and his contemporary Rabelais seem kindred spirits, skeptical but amused, bawdy but tender, creating not just works but micro to macro worlds, an alternate world view, in fact. Each painting mesmerized anyone looking long and carefully enough, discovering that a tiny girl on a sled is able to get a purchase on the ice not just with her diminutive sticks, but by the miniscule iron nails in which they end, painted with a one hair-brush. From this minutia we graduate to a wider and wider view, one that comes to imply infinity. Bruegel’s brilliant guidance doesn’t confront us... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:The Arrows of Apollo BROOKE CLARK To Aachchi If thou beest he; But O how fallen, how changed From him who in the happy realms of light Clothed with transcendent brightness didst outshine Myriads though bright— —Milton, Paradise Lost i. Today, slumped at my desk, I glimpsed the sun. I wasn’t certain how long I had sat facing my own face’s dim reflection in my computer screen—chin ringed with (...) fat, the sharp-lined contours of my youth long gone, my cheekbones hidden, my bright gaze gone flat— and then—there—on the left side of my face a glow my slightest movement would erase. How that stippling brought me back to life: I felt like I was walking once again through woods where sunlight touched the trees in leaf. I felt warmth prickle up beneath my skin as though the flesh responded to the brief caress of light which brought hope rushing in, as though Apollo had reached down and laid his brilliant fingertips on what he’d made. A sharp, metallic rattle cut the air; Helen had stood up to close the blinds— Helen, too devoid of soul to care that some of us might greet the sun as friends. Her only comment was, “Jeez, what a glare!” arion 27.2 fall 2019 Sweet moments often come to such harsh ends: some people are too coarse for fragile joys, and spoil light with darkness, peace with noise. Helen was such a woman: lumpy, heavy, seemingly formed exclusively of fat, barely mobile yet constantly sweaty, like some malevolent Buddha, she sat and meditated acts of petty cruelty; each time she closed the blinds I heard, “Take that!” in their harsh snap, and felt as if she knew I longed for light, so wouldn’t let it through. Another bitter, desk-bound endomorph (although she would have seemed an Aphrodite to those who carved the Venus of Willendorf), and fated by her own obesity to be struck down and swiftly carried off by a sudden, massive coronary, in line at some all-you-can-eat buffet— she wasn’t worth my notice anyway, although she kept impinging on my sight, but then I caught the slight trace of a smirk when I turned back towards the vanished light (instead of going quietly back to work) and said, “The blinds were fine—it’s not too bright for me—without a window, it feels dark.” Helen snorted: “No thanks—too hot out there. I’m roastin’ like a turkey over here.” Who would not hate the court from which there lies no avenue or hope for an appeal? Her desk was on the coveted window side while mine sat boxed against an inside wall, and that gave Helen power over blinds and sunlight—that was office protocol. 64 the arrows of apollo I longed to feel Apollo’s fingertips but this slug-goddess ruled in grim eclipse. I felt like Milton’s Satan when he fell, plumbing so great a depth from such a height and measuring the lowest pits of Hell, prostrate, near dead—I sat, deprived of light, walled in by my grey-sided cubicle, and sank beneath my own despair’s dead weight. But why should Helen have the power to plunge me into darkness? I deserved revenge— revenge for all the time I’d wasted here, revenge for every hope that slowly died, revenge for every minute of every year, revenge for every bold attempt untried, revenge for every lonely, bitter tear I’d swallowed, choked back, or held in, uncried. Helen became, in that one poisoned moment, the symbol and the source of all my torment. Brooke Clark 65 ii. Boredom was my soul mate; the days slid by unused and empty; I sat and watched them go, hardly recalling that once even I had clung to aspirations—but it was so uncomfortably easy to let them die. I’d turned into a man I didn’t know: in youth, I’d never compromise or settle— so it seemed now—but memory gilds the nettle. Instead of working, I listened to the flies that mobbed the windows, struggling to get out; freedom stretched away... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content: Unmasking the Maxim: An Ancient Genre And Why It Matters Now W. ROBERT CONNOR We live surrounded by maxims, often without even noticing them. They are easily dismissed as platitudes, banalities or harmless clichés, but even in an age of big data and number crunching we put them to work almost every day. A Silicon Valley whiz kid says, Move Fast and Break Things. Investors try to Buy (...) Low and Sell High. Investigative reporters Follow the Money. Others Follow their Bliss. The lavish host thinks, The More the Merrier, while the Modernist architect is sure that Less is More. Captains of Industry whisper to themselves, Me First; captains of sinking ships shout, Women and Children First. Be Prepared was the Boy Scouts’ marching song, while the Proud Boys Stand Down and Stand By, awaiting their marching orders. Maxims are perhaps the smallest members in a large family of speech acts, which among the Greeks included proverbs, oracles, riddles, blessings, curses and lamentations. Not all of these continue in use, but maxims have found companions—mottos, mantras, advertising tag lines and jingles, slogans, political rallying cries, hashtags, three- or four-letter acronyms and 280 character tweets from the goddess Twitter. Familiarity, however, can breed contempt, or at least inattentiveness to the full range of their influence. Sometimes what sounds at first like empty verbiage turns into action. Bruce Lee adapted an old Taoist saying when he said, Be Water, and thereby provided what was for a while a surprisingly effective strategy for protesters in Hong Kong. arion 28.3 winter 2021 6 unmasking the maxim Maxims empower, for good or ill. In the hands of bigots or ideologues, they can turn deadly. Sic Semper Tyrannis shouted John Wilkes Booth after shooting Abraham Lincoln. A manufacturer of assault rifles urged potential customers to Earn Your Man Card. How better to earn it than to obey 8chan, a web site favored by white nationalists, with its own maxim, Embrace Infamy. A devotee of the site did just that, perpetrating a mass shooting in El Paso, Texas. Maxims, then, should not be lightly dismissed. Since the ancient Greeks so relished maxims, they should surely be interrogated to help us better understand the power of these often underestimated speech acts. Before turning to the Greeks, however, the English word maxim needs a closer look. english “maxim” english borrowed maxim from a Latin phrase and boiled it down for everyday use. In Latin writings about logic, the expression maxima propositio, biggest proposition, denoted a statement that did not need to be proved, but could provide the basis for proof of other, lesser propositions. This phraseology goes back at least to Boethius in the sixth century of our era. It’s the equivalent of the generalizations that serve as the major premises in syllogistic logic. If this makes maxims sound like the axioms of geometry, that is historically right. The starting points of plane geometry are propositions that deserve to be accepted; even without proof that they are worthy of belief. That’s the meaning of the term axiōma. No one needs to prove that things equal to the same thing are equal to each other. Think about it; after a while it seems self-evident. It is worthy of assent. We might equally well call such an axiom a maxim; indeed, the earliest (1426) attested use of maxim in English is described in the Oxford English Dictionary as “an axiom; a self-evident proposition assumed as a premise in mathematical, or dialectical reasoning.” W. Robert Connor 7 This usage is now obsolete, but Thomas Jefferson understood the idea behind it, since he believed that there were such truths, waiting to be put to work in building a society where all people were equal and possess certain inalienable rights. He did not feel he had to prove these propositions; they were in his view self-evident. In using these ideas in his draft of the Declaration of Independence, he was, in effect, transferring to politics what Euclid had done in geometry. It was a swift, strategic stroke on his part, for, since self-evident truths require no argument or explanation, they focus discussion not on... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:When Hyperbole Enters Politics: What Can Be Learned From Antiquity and Our Hyperbolist-In-Chief W. ROBERT CONNOR introduction: an age of hyperbole Everywhere we turn these days we encounter hyperbole—in the colloquialisms of every day speech, advertising, salesmanship, letters of recommendation, sports-casting, and not least in political discourse. This may be a good moment, then, to open a conversation between ancient and modern understandings of verbal “over-shoot,” as the Greek (...) term for exaggeration might be rendered in English. The evidence gathered in H. Lausberg’s Handbook of Literary Rhetoric1 shows that while ancient rhetoricians agreed that hyperbole should be counted among the “figures of speech,” they found much to argue about: was hyperbole a violation of the Aristotelian middle course, hence an extreme to be avoided, or was it a legitimate form of augmentation (auxēsis in Greek, amplificatio in Latin)? Could diminution (meiōsis ) also be regarded as a form of hyperbole? In the interpretation of texts hyperbole poses a further difficulty —unlike simile, alliteration or some other figures of speech, it is “unmarked,” that is, it has no linguistic sign to alert the reader to its presence. Hyperbole likes to disguise itself as if it were going to a masquerade ball, presenting itself as simile or wearing metaphorical dress, or appearing not infrequently as litotes. It can sneak up on you and take you by surprise. The critic Longinus in On the Sublime, ch. 38, and some rhetoricians noted that hyperbole could be most arion 26.3 winter 2019 powerful when least recognized. Many ancient rhetoricians and some modern critics, however, have followed Quintilian, who asserted that “expressions (often hyperbolic), such as “storms of public assemblies, thunderbolts of eloquence, are used merely for ornament” (Institutes 8.6.7). In this view hyperbole is a conspicuous ornament used to embellish speech and make it more elegant and attractive, but today it is more often treated either as an excuse for an outrageous statement (as when the CEO of Cambridge Analytica characterized as “a certain amount of hyperbole” his suggestion of using prostitutes to discredit a political opponent), or as a euphemism for a falsehood (as when a politician promises he will eliminate the national debt—$20 trillion—and his budget director shrugs the claim off as “hyperbole.”) The term seems to extinguish any feeling of embarrassment. None of these understandings of hyperbole is simply wrong, but together they eclipse an alternative view, grounded in one ancient understanding of language, and corroborated by modern experience. In this approach language in general and hyperbole in particular are not simply a set of signs whose meaning is arbitrarily determined by social convention. Instead, they have their own nature (physis, as Isocrates says in Panegyricus 8) and hence their own power to arouse and motivate listeners. Hyperbole, viewed in this light, is a force in its own right, with the ability to give voice to otherwise unarticulated emotions, to intensify them, to push aside doubts and hesitations, and then to turn feelings into action. Language is power, and hyperbole, as an extreme form of language, provides great power to those who use it skillfully. These need not be the docile students of the rhetoricians ; politicians sometimes seem to have an innate understanding of it. The extreme breed among them, the demagogues, are often the ones who know best how to put this extreme of language to use. True, you don’t have to be a politician to put hyperbole to work. It is a favorite mode of speech among lovers, poets, travellers. Holy Men use it, too: Jesus of Nazareth, for exam16 when hyperbole enters politics ple, proclaimed that it was easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God (Matthew 19.24). Almost everyone uses it at some point, except policy wonks whose soulless prose withers before its onslaughts. When people use hyperbole they may be neither lying nor embroidering the truth to make it more ornamental. They exalt and intensify what they see as truth, make it come alive, and thereby rouse their listeners from apathy and distraction. Ordinary people, too, use... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Women Poets and the Origin of the Greek Hexameter W. ROBERT CONNOR A very considerable question has arisen, as to what was the origin of poetry. —Pliny the Elder, Natural History 7.57 i. a road trip with pausanias Tennyson called the dactylic hexameter “the stateliest measure / ever moulded by the lips of man,” but he did not say whose lips first did the moulding. Despite much arguing we (...) do not know for sure where it came from, or who developed it. But some ancient Greeks did, or thought they did. For them, the hexameter came with a personal history, a legendary one to be sure, but no less powerful for that. The legend, moreover, started with a woman poet. The trail that leads to this is a long and devious one, but a good guide presents himself, Pausanias, author of A Greek Guidebook (Hellados Periegesis). Although he is now valued primarily as a quarry cordoned off for topographers and archaeologists, he had a strong interest in poets, especially women ones. These include Sappho, of course, the valiant Telesilla of Argos of whom he tells two stories (2.20.8, and 2.35.2), and Praxilla of Sicyon (3.13.5). In his account of Boeotia he mentions another woman poet of the fifth century before our era, Corinna of Tanagra. She, he says (9.22.3f.), once defeated Pindar in a poetry contest, and was, he thinks, the most beautiful woman of her time, judging by a statue of her he had seen. He also speaks of Myro of Byzantium (9.5.8). Pausanias was confident that she had written epic and elegiac verse. arion 27.2 fall 2019 Pausanias chooses, moreover, to end his work with an enigmatic story about another woman poet, Anyte of Tegea. He had not mentioned her in his lengthy account of her home town in the mountains of Arcadia, but now her story seems to speak to him. It is set at a ruined shrine of Asclepius near the port town of Naupactus. The reason that Anyte had come there was a strange one: She had had, he says, a vision—not a dream, but a real vision—at the end of which she found herself holding a sealed tablet addressed to one Phalysius of Naupactus. He was, it turns out, a prosperous citizen of the town, but was going blind. Anyte made the journey, surely not an easy one, and delivered the tablet. As soon as Phalysius broke its seal, he found he could make out the letters—a wondrous improvement in his vision, which he attributed to the healing god Asclepius. That is why he built the shrine that Pausanias saw many years later. And the content of the message? Give Anyte two thousand gold staters. Phalysius did so. End of story. End of the Guidebook. So, indeed, Pausanias paid attention to women poets, and there were plenty of them to pay attention to. There is good evidence of a vibrant tradition of women’s poetry among the ancient Greeks. Pausanias is not the only writer of his time to note this. In fact, if on his journeys Pausanias had encountered the well-travelled rhetorician Tatian, the two near-contemporaries could have challenged one another to see who could name the largest number of women poets and identify the sculptors of statues honoring them. Tatian might have won, to judge from his Address to the Greeks, ch 33. But then, Tatian had an agenda. As a convert to a “barbarian” cult he wanted to show that his co-religionists had precedents for respecting women’s intellects: “My object in referring to these women is, that you may not regard as something strange what you find among us, and that, comparing the statues which are before your eyes, you may not treat the women with scorn who among us pursue philosophy.” So much for the Christian Tatian. Did Pausanias have an agenda, too? His stories of two women from Delphi, Boio 86 women poets and the origin of the greek hexameter and Phemonoe, help answer that question. ii. boio’s disruptive poetry when pausanias’s work describes Delphi, the plot thickens. In... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content: Canti VI, Bruto Minore GIACOMO LEOPARDI (Translated by Steven J. Willett) To Peter Green After Italian Valor, lying in Thracian dust an immense ruin, had been uprooted, then in the valleys of green Hesperia, on Tiber’s shore, Fate prepares the tramp of barbarian horse, and from naked forests oppressed by the freezing Bear, calls forth the Gothic swords to overthrow Rome’s renowned walls; sitting alone, soaked in brothers’ (...) blood, through black night in a desolate site, Brutus is determined to die, and the implacable gods and Hell itself he accuses with savage cries and strikes the somnambulant air in vain. Fatuous Valor, the empty mists, the fields of unquiet phantoms are your schools, and behind you strides remorse. To you, marmoreal gods, (whether you reside in Phlegethon or the clouds), to you a laughingstock and mockery is the miserable race from whom you extort temples and a fraudulent law insulting to mortals. Is heaven’s wrath, then, so provoked by terrestrial piety? and do you then sit, Jove, impiety’s protector? and when storm clouds exult through the air, and when arion 27.1 spring/summer 2019 you hurl the swift thunderbolt, do you cast the sacred fire on the just and faithful? Invincible destiny and iron necessity crush the sickly slaves of death: and if nothing avails to end their indignities, the common man takes comfort in their necessity. Is the evil without cure less harsh? Does he feel no grief who’s stripped naked of hope? War to the death, eternal, o ignoble fate, the valorous man wages, incapable of surrender; and your tyrannical right hand, victorious as it bears him down, indomitable he shrugs off with a valiant show, when in his noble side the bitter blade runs with blood, and malignly he smiles at the darkening shadows. He displeases the gods who violently breaks into Tartarus. No such courage could be found in their feeble, eternal breasts. Perhaps our torments, perhaps our bitter accidents and wretched passions heaven created as a pleasing spectacle for their idle hours? Not between calamities and crimes, but free in the forests and pure Nature appointed us, once our queen and goddess. But since on earth impious custom has destroyed the blessed realms and subjected our miserable life to other laws; when a virile soul rejects his luckless days does Nature return, and accuse the arrow that’s not hers? 166 CANTI VI, bruto minore Ignorant of guilt and their own misfortunes are the fortunate beasts; serene old age guides them to an unforeseen passage. But if they dash their foreheads on rough tree-trunks or from a mountain cliff cast bodies headlong to the winds, moved by their anguish, against that miserable desire would stand no arcane law or shadowy conception. You alone, among the numerous progeny that heaven created, alone among all, children of Prometheus, regret life. Alone o wretched ones, to you Jove bans, if sluggish fate delays, the shores of death. And you, from the sea stained by our blood, you rise bright moon, and explore the unquiet night and the deadly battlefield of Italian Valor. The victor tramples on kinsmen’s breasts, the hills shudder, from her highest summits ancient Rome collapses— and are you so placid? You saw the birth of Lavinia’s offspring, and their years of happiness, and the memorable victories; and on the mountain peaks you pour your immutable silent light when, in the wreck of the servile Italian name, this solitary place will echo beneath the barbarian tramp. Giacomo Leopardi 167 Here among naked rocks or on green boughs, beast and bird, breasts heavy with their habitual oblivion, ignore the profound ruin and the altered destiny of the world: and as the rooftop of the industrious peasant first glows red, with its morning song the one will wake the valleys, while through high slopes the other will startle the helpless multitude of smaller creatures. Oh destiny! oh insensate race! we are an abject part of things; neither the bloodstained soil nor the howling caves has our calamity ever perturbed, and no human cares stain the stars. Neither to Olympus’ or Cocytus’ deaf kings, or to the unworthy earth, and... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Freud between Oedipus and the Sphinx MIRIAM LEONARD Areproduction of Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres’s neo-classical painting Oedipus and the Sphinx famously hung over Freud’s couch in his consulting room at Berggasse 19 [figure 1]. Nobody doubts the significance of the figure of Oedipus to the development of Freud’s thought, arion 28.3 winter 2021 Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres, (1780–1867). Oedipus and the Sphinx, 1808. Oil on canvas. Photo Credit : Scala/ Art Resource, (...) NY. 132 freud between oedipus and the sphinx but the presence of the Sphinx in this picture raises a series of questions about Freud’s interests which have not been as extensively explored. Indeed, this is far from being the only depiction of the Sphinx which graced Freud’s study. A large etching of the Sphinx at Giza was displayed amongst his bookshelves and a terracotta figurine was amongst his most prized objects.1 These representations of the Sphinx testify to Freud’s broader fascination with Egyptian culture—a fascination which, as we have seen, manifests itself both in his writings and his collection of antiquities. Judith Butler and George Steiner have wondered: “what would happen if psychoanalysis were to have taken Antigone rather than Oedipus as its point of departure?”2 I want to reformulate their question to ask, what would happen if Freud had taken the Sphinx rather than Oedipus as his point of departure? With this counterfactual, I hope to deepen the exploration already undertaken in the previous two articles about Egypt as an origin myth for psychoanalysis—an origin both for the development of the self and for the history of humanity. One possibility, suggested by Edward Said in his last work, Freud and the Non European, is that Freud’s turn to Egypt opened psychoanalysis to a less Eurocentric perspective. For Said, Freud’s foregrounding of Egypt and his interest in the crossover of “non-European” and “European ” cultures testified to his openness and his frustration with the nationalist and racist theories which were so prevalent at the end of his life.3 Said’s claims are compelling but as he would have been the first to note, Freud’s Egyptomania could equally be captive to orientalizing fantasies.4 In what follows I trace the evidence for Freud’s fascination with Egypt and, reading it hieroglyphically (as he would invite us to do), I speculate about its possible impacts on psychoanalysis as art and / or science. Ingres’s first version of Oedipus and the Sphinx—the painting whose reproduction Freud displayed—was completed in 1808. Ingres originally painted the picture in Rome where Miriam Leonard 133 he was studying at the French Academy. In common with other students at the academy, Ingres was required to produce figure studies and the original version of this painting was focused on Oedipus and the representation of his bodily form. Ingres had asked his model to use the same pose as the classical statue of Hermes with the Sandal which is displayed in the Louvre. As François de Vergnette writes: “The clarity of the contours, the muted use of chiaroscuro and the slight surface relief given to the figure of Oedipus add an archaic flavor to the picture. This archaism had its roots in Ingres’s taste for Greek vases.”5 But it is the impact of a different Mediterranean culture which can be felt in Ingres’s depiction of Oedipus’ counterpart. While Oedipus embodies the Winckelmannian Hellenic ideal, the Sphinx is represented in all her oriental glory. Ingres painted this image just ten years after Napoleon had lead his troops and “savants” into Egypt. Napoleon’s Egyptian Campaign gave rise to a widespread fascination with ancient Egyptian culture and its impact on the arts was immense. In choosing to represent Oedipus in his encounter with the Sphinx, Ingres was able to draw on this new aesthetic of orientalism.6 Even before Napoleon ’s expedition, the Sphinx had become a potent visual representation of the mystery of ancient Egypt and of ancient Egypt as mystery. Ingres reworked this image during the course of his career and gave the Sphinx an ever greater prominence. In Ingres ’s depiction, the Sphinx’s orientalism... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:A Milanese Quartet FRED LICHT Milan, so often thought of as the heartless capital of grinding industry and heedless hedonism, is nevertheless home to at least four of the highest achievements of western art. Considered as a quartet, they represent both the greatness and the equivocal nature of human endeavor. Two of them, Raphael’s Sposalizio and Bramante’s Church of Santa Maria presso San Satiro, deal with the harmonious congruence (...) of human aspirations and human achievement attained by the grace of Providence. The limitations of human experience are accepted not as a curse but as a blessing because they are imposed by Divine Will. For Raphael as for Bramante, the artist’s obligation is to penetrate to the uttermost limits that circumscribe human existence. Having reached those limits he transmits to us the assurance that supreme fulfillment and serenity lie within and not beyond our grasp. The other two works, Leonardo’s Last Supper and Michelangelo’s Pietà Rondanini, conceive of the limits so gratefully acknowledged by Raphael and Bramante as nothing but the tragic starting point for their art. We can assume that all four artists had read Eccclesiastes and knew that “All is Vanity!” and consequently knew of the inevitable ruination that befalls everything terrestrial. Bramante and Raphael never mentioned the knowledge they had acquired from Ecclesiastes. Leonardo and Michelangelo made their recognition of Vanitas the very essence of their art. i. of this quartet, Raphael’s Marriage of the Virgin is by far the least popular today (fig. 1). The most obvious factor that arion 27.2 fall 2019 tends to make us wary of Raphael’s early work is its criminal overuse by religious as well as profane publicity. It has been massively reproduced in edulcorated colors, fragmented to yield sentimental details, visually bowdlerized. We cannot help but be heartily sick of Raphael Madonne on those hideous little catechism-class handouts and on expensive as well as cheap bonbonnières. We have become wary of seductive paintings and Raphael’s Sposalizio is eminently seductive. We may have sloughed off nearly all the Victorian hypocrisies and strictures, but in art we continue to be stoutly puritanical. We are more than a little convinced that seduction must necessarily be the result of a false or calculating appeal for our sympathies which we should resist. And there can be no doubt about it, Raphael, especially during his youth and early maturity, seduces and intends to seduce. Since we have little reason for self-esteem, we dismiss out of hand the possibility that Raphael might genuinely love us sight unseen. Indeed, who are we that he should want to seduce us? The love he bears us is a nuisance because it is hard to deserve or live up to such affection. So it is natural to suspect him of ulterior motives that might demean or disappoint us were we to fall victim to his seduction. Yet love is one of Raphael’s great gifts. If we feel unworthy of what he offers us, if we have been conditioned to distrust anyone who courts us without an obvious motive, then that’s our loss, not his. Perhaps if we look a little more closely at this particular seducer’s methods, we will find that they are practiced in good faith. He loves us because he sees the world sub specie amoris. The particular task he sets himself is not an easy one. The narrative, the wedding of the Virgin, is both intimate in spirit and minuscule in action. It hardly seems suitable for an altar that has to have an immediate effect on the faithful who approach it. It is a story that has been illustrated by many artists before Raphael—Perugino’s painting of the same subject is rightly and frequently cited—but it was Raphael who gave it its ideal and definitive representation. Just as paint20 a milanese quartet ings of the Last Supper painted after Leonardo’s version always strike us as a bit of a failure even when attempted by such giants as Tintoretto, Rubens or Tiepolo, so is it impossible to think of any Sposalizio after Raphael’s without an edge of disappointment. In fact... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Then Artemis Said DIANA LUEPTOW Then Artemis said, because our mother found no home but an island dragging anchor, a safe child will never be delivered. arion 26.3 winter 2019...

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Keaton’s Yoke ALEX PRIOU Love, looking at me meltingly under dark-lidded eyes, by all manner of charms throws me into the limitless fishing-net of the Cupridian [Aphrodite]. And I tremble as he approaches, just as an aged, yoke-carrying horse that has carried off victory unwillingly walks into contest with swift chariots. (Ibycus, frag. 287)1 The resurgence of love in his old age prompts a fearful reflection in the aged (...) Ibycus. Love sets a trap he must escape, but cannot for all its infinitude, just as an athlete’s prior victories never sate his love of competition. Ibycus discovers the paradox of his situation, that the satisfaction sought is immeasurably greater than what a finite victory could ever provide. The competition of rival lovers for the beautiful beloved appears to Ibycus to be an immediate contrivance for an ineluctably distant object. Ibycus thus learns that love is human finitude’s attempt to answer the question that it itself raises. And yet, despite his fear, Ibycus’ reflection seems more comic than tragic, for his bestial image of love’s effects subverts all pretense to participation in the divinity of Aphrodite. The thought that the ultimate object of love’s longing is spurious may engender fear, but fear, in giving us an acute sense of our mortal limits, has the potential to take us outside ourselves and so prepare us for laughter. For reasons this tattered remnant of Ibycus’ poem doesn’t give us, the apparent tragedy of love—of the simultaneous necessity of pursuing the beloved and impossibility of complete satisfaction—appears resolved by our very awareness of it.2 Thankfully, Ibycus’ vision of love as both tragic and comic has a striking corollary in the films of Buster Keaton, who arion 26.3 winter 2019 mirrors the tension between yoked racehorse and reflective poet in the determined striving of his protagonists and the reflective depth of his directing. As both actor and director, Keaton is both striving body and disembodied thought, both trapped in finitude and reflecting thereupon. Ibycus and Keaton may bear love’s yoke, but they know the yoke’s on them. Keaton’s films thus promise some glimpse into the possibility of a comic redemption to the tragedy of lover and beloved, so much so that it seems one can connect these tatters of papyrus using celluloid film. Can the finite, particular beloved ever satisfy the lover, who strives to escape the limits of finitude? Or must we resign ourselves to our own transience? Keaton explores these questions by crafting comedies around characters who so strive. These characters—strikingly similar in their circumstances and ambitions, yet with slight but essential differences in disposition—offer Keaton a way to look for who bears easiest the weight of love’s yoke. I’ve chosen four films—Cops, College, The Playhouse, and The General—that, when ordered thus, bring us gradually from unavoidable tragedy to the unwitting self-redemption that comes when we laugh at ourselves. Discussing each in turn, I hope to offer some glimpse into what Ibycus may have had in mind when he playfully cast man’s most distinctive and serious striving as a yoked horse. CO P S (1922) the burden of love’s yoke is nowhere clearer in Keaton’s films than in Cops, as the film’s ominous epigraph warns: “Love laughs at locksmiths.” Keaton the director elegantly and humorously frames Keaton’s character as among love’s prisoners. The first shot features him behind bars, gripping them from within what appears to be a jail cell, as he and his love interest carry on a discussion with forlorn looks on their faces. Because the camera is on her side of the bars, we are invited to imagine ourselves free from Keaton’s predicament. She bids him farewell, and as she walks away Keaton the 116 keaton’s yoke director cuts to the other side of the bars and at a greater distance from the action. We discover that he isn’t in jail, but standing outside the gates to a great mansion. Keaton’s love interest turns around and speaks again, now stern rather than solemn. An intertitle finally... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Elegia i.3 PROPERTIUS Translated by Steven J.Willett Just as she lay when Theseus’ keel was sliding seaward, the Cnossian maid languid on the desolate shore; just as Cepheus’ daughter reclined in her first slumber, Andromeda, now freed from jagged rocks; just as the Thracian bacchant, weary from incessant dancing, slumps on the grassy bank of the Apidanus; even so Cynthia seemed to breathe a soft repose, her head pillowed (...) on open unruly hands, when I came dragging footsteps wobbly with too much wine, the boys waving burnt-out torches in the late night. Against her I tried, not all my senses utterly derelict, to advance gently on the compliant couch; and, though seized by a double ardor—each was commanding me, love here and wine there, both implacable gods— to assault her by slipping my arm lightly beneath her body and with a hand advanced take kisses and arms, yet I lacked the courage to shatter my mistress’ repose, fearing the brawls whose savagery I’d tasted; so I remained standing there motionless with rapt eyes, like Argus at the strange sight of Io’s horns. And now I was untying the garlands from my forehead and placing them, Cynthia, around your temples; and now I was finding it pleasant to smooth your fallen tresses; then I was giving you stolen apples in hollow palms; but I was lavishing all these gifts on ungrateful sleep, gifts that often tumbled from your sloping lap; and every time you heaved a sigh stirring fitfully, arion 28.2 fall 2020 98 elegia 1.3 I froze, foolishly credulous of an empty sign, fearful that some dream was bringing you strange terrors, or some man was forcing you reluctantly to be his: until the moon drifting across the opposite windows, the meddling moon whose eyes incline to linger, drew her closely-lidded eyes open under its delicate beams. Then, her elbow propped on the soft couch, she asked: “Has another’s rejection finally brought you back to my bed, chucked out with the doors slammed in your face? Where have you squandered the long hours of my night, languid, alas for me, as the stars are waning? Oh, I pray that you may endure, you beast, such nights as you are always making poor me to suffer! Just now I was cheating sleep with purple yarn at the loom, and then, exhausted, with song on Orpheus’ lyre; and sometimes, quite desolate, I softly complained to myself of the long waits your outside loves often cost me. Till sleep with gentle wings brushed me down to oblivion. That was the last concern of all my tears.”... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Erictho and Demogorgon: Poetry against Metaphysics DAVID QUINT Epic without the gods? The Roman poet Lucan (39–65 ce) created a secular counter-epic inside classical epic, removing the genre’s usual pantheon of Olympian deities and replacing them with Fortune. His Bellum civile (titled De bello civili in manuscripts, alternately titled Pharsalia) a poem about the conflict between Julius Caesar and Pompey, thereby delegitimizes the emperors who succeeded the dying Roman (...) republic, including Nero, the reigning emperor of Lucan’s day.1 They are not part of a divine plan: no such plan has ever existed. In an epic where the gods are silent or refuse to speak, Pompey’s son, Sextus, anxious to know the future, has to seek other means. In Book 6, he consults the Thessalian witch Erictho about the outcome of the approaching battle in Pharsalia. She reanimates the corpse of a dead soldier on Pompey’s republican side and makes it talk (BC 6.419–830).2 Lucan’s scene of necromancy gave birth to a major antimetaphysical strain in the European literary tradition. Among others, Dante, Cervantes, Marlowe, Spenser, Goethe, and Shelley confronted this episode of the Pharsalia and pondered its implications. Erictho’s magic is a figure for poetic making itself. It turns the supernatural into theater— the divine machinery of epic exposed as a deus ex machina— and these authors’ responses to Erictho will shift from epic into dramatic forms. In place of the gods, in place of the epic visit to the underworld, particularly in place of and in response to Aeneas’s trip to the realm of the dead arion 28.2 fall 2020 2 erictho and demogorgon in the corresponding Book 6 of the Aeneid, Lucan presents Erictho’s macabre performance: human witchcraft and intimations of an alternate, eerie numen residing in the earth, a force of nature. Subsequent readers would give this latter power a name: Demogorgon.3 Lucan links republicanism and freedom to a kind of atheism and to historical contingency. He unmasks and strips the props of religion from Caesarism and monarchy. (In vain for the poet: Lucan was forced to commit suicide in 65 ce, after he was implicated in the failed Pisonian conspiracy against Nero.) Lucan desacralizes poetry itself, which here confesses its limits, which are the limits of human mortality, even as Erictho seems, however briefly, to overcome them. No, poetry cannot literally raise the dead: it is a magic trick that makes the words on the page form into images, take life, and speak to us. Lucan answers the criticisms the philosopher and theologian make to poetry by openly acknowledging the false bottom of the hat from which poetry pulls its rabbits. It has no access to a real bottom, an underworld beyond death; it is all representation.4 The philosopher and the theologian may be poets no less than he is, but they do not want to know it, too busy, perhaps, in supporting tyranny over human minds and bodies. Plato and Augustine are two such critics on either historical side of Lucan, and they help us to understand the stakes of the Roman poet’s project. Both were dissatisfied with literature and they wanted to be something more than the great rhetoricians that they were. In the Symposium, Plato demystifies the archetypal myth of poetry, the singing of Orpheus that sought to bring Eurydice back from death: the gods sent Orpheus away from Hades empty-handed and showed him the mere shadow [eidolon] of the woman he had come to seek: Eurydice herself they would not let him take, because he seemed, like the mere minstrel that he was, to be a lukewarm lover, lacking the courage to die as Alcestis died for love, and choosing rather to scheme his way, living, into Hades. And it was for this that the gods doomed him, and doomed him justly, David Quint 3 to meet his death at the hands of women. (179d)5 Behind the words of his shallowly sentimental speaker Phaedrus we can detect Plato’s familiar hostility to poetry, his objection in Book 10 of the Republic that the poet merely imitates the appearances of things and is... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Iago’s Roman Ancestors JAMES TATUM Othello is that rare thing: a tragedy of literary types who half suspect they are playing in a comedy. —D. S. Stewart, 1967 In memoriam Bill Cook1 Shakespeare’s Othello is a drama created for a world where everyone was bound by “service,” a formal connection to someone else superior, in a hierarchy that linked all persons in court, theater, and society through unavoidable obligation. (...) Service could range from the lightest kind of tie, to indentured servitude. This meaning of “service” reflects its origin in Norman French, from the Latin word for slavery, servitium. It is Iago’s sense of the word in his comment to his dupe Roderigo: “Why, there’s no remedy, ’tis the curse of service.” The perceived color of Othello poses a perennial challenge which producers and directors in the United States have to consider every time Othello is performed. Jim Crow did not officially end in most parts of the former Confederacy until the Civil Rights Acts of the 1960s; and even then such legacies of slavery and segregation as color prejudice remain a challenge, alive if now not entirely well, and they haunt many a production. It is this more recent history that inspired Patrick Stewart’s “photo-negative” production of Othello in Washington, DC in 1997, in which the English actor himself played Othello while the rest of the cast were black. Given recent and not so recent history, it is important to realize that there actually is a slave hard at work throughout Othello, from opening scene to last: not Othello himself, but his “ancient” or ensign, Iago. arion 27.1 spring/summer 2019 the slave-playwright of shakespeare’s OTHELLO Lodovico: O, thou Othello, that was once so good, Fallen in the practice of a damnèd slave, What shall be said to thee? Othello, 5.2.289–91 the plot of Shakespeare’s Othello comes from the story “Disdemona and the Moorish Captain” in Giraldi Cinthio’s The Hundred Tales (1565), but the theatrical tradition he used to adapt it for the stage was not other tragedies. He went back to a classical theater he had used to write one of his earliest successes, The Comedy of Errors, one he knew as well as any other through his study of it in Latin grammar school and afterwards: Roman comedy. What resulted was something of a puzzle to his later critics. Since the 17th century some of Shakespeare’s readers have alternately complained or marveled at the way Othello has the fast pace and structure of a farce. This accounts for its exceptional power as a tragedy when it is intelligently performed; the double catastrophe of Othello’s murder of Desdemona and his own suicide come more quickly and more violently, for example, than the endings of Macbeth, King Lear, or Hamlet. All of Othello’s characters are cast in the stereotypical roles first created in Menander and other playwrights of Greek New Comedy, and then passed on to later European vernacular theater through Plautus and Terence’s adaptations. In performance, Shakespeare’s Iago is at once a reprise of his earlier stage villains and a reincarnation of the servus callidus or clever slave playwright of Plautus. It is as if Zero Mostel’s Pseudolus in Sondheim’s A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum were playing Richard III. Iago creates what he regards as a comedy, from its opening scene before Brabantio’s house to its catastrophic end in Cyprus, and to the bafflement of Christian interpreters and others, he seems incapable of recognizing the enormity of his evil. Unlike his resourceful Roman ancestors, who think up ingenious plots to help their less clever owners 78 iago’s roman ancestors in their love affairs, Iago’s scenario is demonic, designed to destroy his master Othello, not save him. As I’ve suggested, one comedy in particular may have played an important role in the making of Othello: Plautus’ Amphitryon, with its story of Jupiter’s adulterous affair with Alcmena, the wife of the heroic king Amphitryon of Thebes. To aid him in his schemes Jupiter calls on his son the trickster... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Two Poems MICHAEL TROCCHIA SEE FOR YOURSELF The gods, in effect, have given Euenius the gift of inner vision…because he has lost his outer vision. —Michael Attyah Flower, The Seer in Ancient Greece Come to a field of stones baking in the late sun. Drop your knee to the groundup earth and feel the warmth climb your thigh. Run your finger across a palm-sized stone, as if inspecting the (...) liver of the shegoat, the white one who follows you everywhere, always. Follow that old vision of yourself, its light dying in your eye as you look and look for one last rock one last time, its edge weathered into a fine and deadly thing. Hold the stone high—a red sun sinking behind you— and count down to the day’s complete darkness and in that completion between you and what will be arion 28.1 spring/summer 2020 64 two poems a darker endlessness, carve out the gift of sight, hearing only shivers of your own body, hooves running off. YOUNG CALCHAS SLEEPS And down he sat again as Calchas rose among them, Thestor’s son, the clearest by far of all the seers. —Homer, The Iliad Calchas, you dream of children dreaming of the sparrow’s head, of the bird’s eye deadened into view, of flutter and firelight, of the nest shredded at your feet and then spring again, berry, and leaf-meal and petalwind and whole glossaries of bone and egg bloodied in the hollow of your hand. But never a sure sign, no second sight clear and bright within the first order of things. No opening widening out of wing or song. Just the nearness of living, a feather suspended by a string, the halfmeaning of seeing the whole world suffer and sway— youth divined and past and forecast into the fray and saying this ruin and sacrifice again, this blueness sailing back in with the breeze. The world circles outside our window and light gives way to more light and you sleep soundly in a bed of down. Rise, Calchas, rise and walk out of the god’s mouth and see image after image fall away. See this life lifting out of one dream and into no other. Michael Trocchia 65... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:How We Write Plagues JAMES UDEN One advantage of writing about historical pandemics is that they have already occurred. From where I sit, as I listen to the loudspeaker on the council truck telling me to stay indoors, it is impossible to know what direction the covid-19 crisis will take. Certainly, aspects of the virus’s social impact have mirrored the trajectory of previous pandemics. Back in February, people in (...) France began circulating the phrase Je ne suis pas un virus, protesting acts of violence against Asian communities and resisting the well-documented tendency for societies to target ethnic minorities as scapegoats for epidemic disease. The President’s labeling of covid-19 as the “Chinese virus” aroused similar protest in the United States.1 At an armed rally at the state house in Lansing, MI, armed protesters demanded the reopening of businesses despite public health advice to the contrary, an act that raised familiar questions about the freedom of the individual versus the health of the collective in times of health crisis. Here in Boston, anti-lockdown protesters assembled at the Massachusetts State House on May 4, chanting “no more dictatorship”—language congenial to Boston’s history of colonial rebellion, though not especially fitting to the crisis at hand. Just one day earlier, a banner had flown over the buildings of Manhattan with the words CAPITALISM IS THE PANDEMIC. Whether the virus will redistribute power and become, in Walter Scheidel’s words, a “great leveler,” remains to be seen.2 arion 28.1 spring/summer 2020 Hunter H. Gardner, Pestilence and the Body Politic in Latin Literature. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2019. x + 303 pages. $90.00. Brian Walters, The Deaths of the Republic: Imagery of the Body Politic in Ciceronian Rome, 2020. xv + 158 pages. $80.00. 132 how we write plagues Given that we have frequently been reminded that we are facing a pandemic of historic proportions, it is natural that people have turned to history for perspective. Daniel Defoe’s journalistic account of plague in London in 1665, A Journal of the Plague Year (1722), has catapulted to an unlikely relevance, promoted on the publisher’s website as the “surprise ‘must-read’ for people facing the covid-19 epidemic.” Thucydides ’ description of Athens’s experience of the plague in 430 bc has made news in The Economist, The Washington Post and The Guardian. Historical accounts of plagues are regularly being called upon to offer advice to the present. Yet not all plagues are alike. Historians have rightly protested about parallels being made between covid-19 and the aids crisis, since the current emergency response contrasts damningly with the Reagan government’s protracted silence and willful ignorance throughout the 1980s.3 One problem is the word “plague” itself, a term too suggestive of sin to represent the devastating impartiality of viral disease. “Plagues,” Susan Sontag wrote in aids and its Metaphors (1988), are “inflicted, not just endured.” She argued that the term imposed additional burdens on patients, who were portrayed as suffering some punishment, and could not simply be ill.4 To speak of “plagues” in the plural also suggests a common experience across time, a regular and shared event. Literary accounts of the plague do indeed share many common tropes. Yet there are important differences in the way communities have responded to outbreaks in different eras, and significant divergences in the meaning of disease. Accounts of plagues understandably arouse interest during a pandemic, but they are apt to mislead us, because the plagues so often look the same. One unshakable constant is the analogy between the body and the state, the “body politic.” As has long been recognized, the symbol surfaces across many, unrelated world cultures.5 In seeking to explain a unity composed of many parts, human beings have tended to look to the most immediate parallel— themselves. Although it has been invoked famously to justify James Uden 133 hierarchies within the state (Livy, Shakespeare, Hobbes), the image seems to resonate most intuitively when it conceptualizes danger, when the “health” of the state is threatened by “infection” or “disease.” In 2009, psychologists asked sixty -nine undergraduates at the University of Arizona to read a popular... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content: Classics and Complexity in Walden’s “Spring” M. D. USHER In 1843, two years before Henry Thoreau built his cabin at Walden Pond, the Fitchburg Railroad laid down tracks through the woods near the Pond for its line connecting Boston to Fitchburg. The original Fitchburg Line, at 54 miles long, was, until 2010, the longest run in the present -day MBTA Commuter Rail system. And it is one of (...) the oldest railways in New England. By 1900, fortunes swelled and the Fitchburg’s Hoosac Tunnel Line took passengers and goods westward toward Chicago. The Lake Champlain Route connected Boston to points north like Burlington, Vermont. (See Figure 1.) arion 27.1 spring/summer 2019 Figure 1 (left): Advertisement for the Hoosac Tunnel Route in The New England Magazine (Vol. 21, Issue 6, February, 1900). Figure 2 (right): Herbert Wendell Gleason. The Fitchburg Railroad and Walden Pond in winter, Concord, Mass., March 24, 1920. Courtesy Concord Free Public Library. The Railroad was literally a fixture in Thoreau’s landscape. Its tracks pass remarkably close to Walden Pond (Figure 2), and the Fitchburg Line—both its reality and the specter of it—is practically a character in his writing: “I usually go to the village along its causeway, and am, as it were, related to society by this link,” Thoreau writes in “Sounds,” a chapter of Walden that contains what must be one of the most picturesque odes (or laments) to rail travel and commerce in all of American literature: The engine’s whistle, Thoreau complains, pierces the still silence of his idyllic retreat like a screaming hawk circling a farmer’s field, its billows of steam an ominous harbinger of “this travelling demi-god, this cloud-compeller.”1 Thoreau’s frequent, customary walks into Concord along the railroad tracks took him through a heavily excavated stretch of the line known as the Deep Cut, to which he returned again and again each year in early spring, even after leaving the cabin, to observe and to record his observations. The leaf-shaped sand flows and trickling surface erosion caused by melting frost in the banks of the Deep Cut are elaborately described in Thoreau’s chapter in Walden entitled “Spring,” what Laurence Buell calls the “high point of Thoreau’s epic.”2 And yet, in spite of the universal acclaim of this passage as a literary tour de force, it has not received the full attention it deserves. What warrants fresh consideration first and foremost is “Spring”’s deep-rootedness in classical sources. Many classical influences, allusions, and a good deal of etymological word play have gone so far unnoticed. The chapter is also important because it describes, by intimation, what contemporary scientists now call emergence. Emergent phenomena are properties or behaviors that arise in systems as a result of complex, dynamic interactions amongst constituent parts, including changes to a system brought about by human interventions3—not only, e.g., climate change and wildfires, but also traffic patterns and terrorist networks; kidney function in the body; the rings of Saturn. As he tries to capture the essence of the 114 classics and complexity in WALDEN’s “spring” Deep Cut and interpret its significance, Thoreau adumbrates this concept, but also grapples ingeniously with broader issues of perennial concern—the relationship of Nature to Culture, for example, of Wilderness to Civilization, of Science to the Humanities—making “Spring” not only a probing work of eco-criticism and environmental philosophy, but of scientific reflection and poetic experiment as well. In short, Thoreau’s “Spring” is that rare work of classical reception that transmits both literary and scientific insight. Perhaps at this point, in lieu of accolades, it is best to let Thoreau start speaking for himself. What I offer in the following pages is a commentary on the Deep Cut passage from “Spring.” Classical references and aspects of systems theory will be explained and contextualized as they emerge, as it were, from Thoreau’s text. The whole chapter corresponds to pages 289–308 in Cramer’s edition of Walden—26 paragraphs all told, of which only the relevant ones are printed and annotated here. (Transitions and extraneous material are briefly summarized, as needed, in paraphrase... (shrink)

All interpretations of the Portland Vase frieze to date have failed to see, much less explain, a crucial figural attribute in the frieze, one that proves to be both explicit and explicatory, and whose location and appearance secures the identification of not one but, indeed, three figures. Furthermore, the attribute lies at the heart of a distinct schema of figural grouping and arrangement which has also gone unheeded in previous treatments of the Portland Vase frieze. By dint of this previously (...) unknown attribute, one can straightforwardly read the opening scene of the frieze using the attributes therein provided, but the opening scene only. To complete the task, a second methodology–that which I laid out in Arion in 1992–is a categorical sine qua non. One can, as I have already shown, successfully navigate the entire frieze using the second methodology alone but, as so many others have shown, not contrariwise. These new findings–the attribute and figural plan–are clear proof that the artistic vision of the Portland Vase was purposefully executed in a two-part program. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Little Eternities: Henry James’s Horatian Sense of Time KATHLEEN RILEY Summer’s lease hath all too short a date. —Shakespeare, Sonnet 18 On a visit to Bodiam Castle in Sussex in 1908, Henry James remarked to Edith Wharton: “Summer afternoon—summer afternoon; to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language.”1 The potency of those two words derives from their immediate evocation of an arrested (...) moment between the day’s halcyon perfection and its imminent dying fall. Small wonder that those same words were later used to mythologize an Edenic Edwardian England poised on the brink of war, to preserve in aspic the fancy of a gilded innocence and order, and the promise of “blue remembered hills,”2 careless of the teeming, tumultuous reality of an England already in the shadow of the Tree of Knowledge. James’s masterpiece of 1881, The Portrait of a Lady, begins with a luxuriously redolent depiction of a summer afternoon, of the hours before dusk that constitute a pleasurable little eternity, of the languorous rhythms and rituals of what Disraeli called “the sustained splendour of [a] stately life.”3 Under certain circumstances there are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea. There are circumstances in which, whether you partake of the tea or not—some people of course never do,—the situation is in itself delightful. Those that I have in mind in beginning to unfold this simple history offered an admirable setting to an innocent pastime. The implements of the little feast had been disposed upon the lawn of an old English country-house, in what I should arion 27.1 spring/summer 2019 call the perfect middle of a splendid summer afternoon. Part of the afternoon had waned, but much of it was left, and what was left was of the finest and rarest quality. Real dusk would not arrive for many hours; but the flood of summer light had begun to ebb, the air had grown mellow, the shadows were long upon the smooth, dense turf. They lengthened slowly, however, and the scene expressed that sense of leisure still to come which is perhaps the chief source of one’s enjoyment of such a scene at such an hour. From five o’clock to eight is on certain occasions a little eternity; but on such an occasion as this the interval could be only an eternity of pleasure.4 This passage, it strikes me, is essentially Horatian in its Epicurean delight in the passing moment. For the Augustan poet Horace, this delight, which is intrinsically elegiac, is expressed in the sympotic pleasures of wine and friendship, in the freedom aestivam sermone benigno tendere noctem (“to prolong the summer night with genial conversation,” Epistles i.5.11). For Henry James, it rests in “the ceremony known as afternoon tea,” in the lengthening shadows on an English lawn by “the reedy, silvery Thames” (PL 32). In both cases the evanescence of these simple pleasures is deeply felt and pleasure itself heightened by an undertone of melancholy, by a nostalgic apprehension of the present. LOCI AMOENI in his review of Augustus J. C. Hare’s Days near Rome (1875), Henry James commented: “The smallest pretext for quoting from Horace—the most quotable of the ancients— should always be cultivated.”5 His own facility for quoting from Horace was evident from his earliest published works, and belied an “extraordinarily haphazard and promiscuous” education shuttling, at his father’s restless instigation, between New England, Britain and Continental Europe.6 James’s biographer, Leon Edel, recorded the family legend that William James (Henry’s Irish grandfather), “who was eighteen in 1789, when he set foot in the New World, 22 little eternities brought with him a ‘very small sum of money,’ a Latin grammar and a desire to visit the fresh battlefields of the Revolutionary War.”7 Young Henry’s instruction in Latin grammar seems to have begun in the Old World, under a private tutor in London in 1855, a Scotsman named Robert Thomson who later ran a small school in Edinburgh attended by Robert Louis Stevenson. It... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Capitalism in “Wealthy Hellas”? PETER W. ROSE Josiah ober has taken on the very ambitious task of analyzing a vast swath of ancient Greek history— precisely the periods—as his opening quotation from Byron (1) implies—most admired by those who have devoted any time to the study of Greek antiquity: Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! Immortal, though no more! Though fallen, great!1 At the same time, again as (...) suggested by the repetition of Byron’s lines (206, also mentioned on 293), Ober’s book falls within the large category of celebratory works about ancient Greece—like Werner Jaeger’s once popular three volumes of Paideia or, at the outset of the twentieth century, Alfred Zimmern ’s The Greek Commonwealth.2 It does not, on the other hand, fit in with a plethora of relatively recent, relatively short (as opposed to George Grote’s twelve volumes) histories of Greece aimed at the potentially lucrative textbook market for general more comprehensive overviews of Greek civilization.3 As such, the basis on which Ober celebrates ancient Greece merits close scrutiny. history and the overriding thesis ober’s conception of “history” here is heavily weighted towards the theoretical elaboration and justification of an Josiah Ober, The Rise and Fall of Classical Greece (Princeton University Press 2015), hardback, 415 pages. A truncated, arbitrarily reorganized version of this review appeared in New Left Review 103 (2017) 139–49. Thanks to Daniel Tompkins for full comments on an earlier version, and to Peter Green and Stephen Hodkinson for clarifications on specific points. arion 26.3 winter 2019 overriding thesis. Five initial chapters of a total of eleven are devoted to that task before five chronologically focused chapters, which offer a cursory romp through Greek history from ca. 1000 BCE to 334 BCE and some brief suggestions about the period down to the decisive takeover of Greece by Rome, usually dated to 31 BCE. The volume is capped by a final summary and overview chapter. Ober is admirably forthright about his agenda. Immediately in his preface he declares, “in states where citizens keep rulers in check, public authority protects individual rights and the rule of law pertains most of the time. These political conditions promote economic growth. The conjunction of democratic politics and a strong economy is, in practice, available only to affluent citizens of highly developed countries.... Democracy and growth define the normal, although not yet the usual, conditions of modernity” (xiii, my emphasis).4 This somewhat utopian conception of the present-day interface of democratic institutions and economic growth—posited as an unquestioned desideratum in sublime disregard of “ecology” in the literal sense5—underlies Ober’s whole project. While acknowledging the obvious negatives of ancient slavery,6 “denial of rights to women, and glorified war,” he argues “if we are interested in the conjunction of political and economic exceptionalism, we must start somewhere, and classical Greece was the society in which the wealth-and-democracy package first emerged in a form that can be studied in depth” (xv). Athenian democracy has been at the center of Ober’s impressive scholarly career at least since the publication of his study of fourth-century BCE Athenian rhetoric, Mass and Elite in Democratic Athens (Princeton 1989). “Athens” or “democracy” have featured in the titles of all his subsequent book publications7—not to mention the extraordinary output of more specialized essays in multiple venues. One overriding question about his latest book is whether the unique phenomenon of Athenian democracy is being unduly generalized to “Classical Greece.” 142 capitalism in “wealthy hellas”? The special focus of his interest here in ancient Greece, the “conjunction of political and economic exceptionalism,” is further clarified in his opening chapter which begins with the quotation from Byron cited above: “Byron’s vision of greatness was inspired by ancient Greek cultural and intellectual achievement: art and architecture, literature, visual and performance art, scientific and moral thought.... Hellas was great because of a cultural accomplishment that was supported by sustained economic growth. That growth was made possible by a distinctive approach to politics” (1–2). Greek cultural achievements, however, are bracketed (and in practical terms dismissed)8 in favor of the “wealth-anddemocracy... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Whoa! JOHN SHOPTAW ONE A young man with gold hair in a coal-black robe and slippers was off to confront the Sun. But as he paced the hotel corridors, Ray could feel his step losing its jaunt. At this rate, he’d make it to nowhere in nothing flat. Just then, he noticed his old wall map thumbtacked over some double doors. How’d his Boys’ Life get out here? He (...) looked it over, the big fat world, cut open and stretched flat, like an elephant hide. The properties were green, purple and red, and the waters whitish blue. The Mercator-projected bottom was jagged with ice. The whole place was crawling with letters, like ants on a cake. The best part was the creatures: a long-armed squid suctioning a whale, sea lions sunning themselves. No. Seals. He bunched his brows. No. Hills. And game big as states, as nations: hippos in Africa’s watering holes, a beauty of a cheetah, its sights trained. Untacking and folding the map, Ray tucked it into his pocket and slid open the doors. He found himself in a dim cavern facing a motionless escalator. Its stairs were gold-plated, its balustrades brushed aluminum and its handrails hand-rubbed ostrich skin. He could see no end of stairs. It must be arion 27.1 spring/summer 2019 one unbroken flight to the Sun’s penthouse. But where was the down escalator? Beats him. He planted his slippers and clasped the rails. With a little lurch the escalator began its quickening glide. Now this was first-class. No huffing required. Simply the assumption of an attitude. Up ahead, the horizon gleamed ivory. 2 whoa! TWO The stairway teeth clamped shut and Ray was thrown into a hard glare. Sunblock and goggles— they’ll let you look into things—on your right, came a voice positively sunny. Ray slathered and goggled himself, and beheld by a high stone robed in emerald moss a trim figure in a sea-snail-purple sweatsuit and a broad-brimmed straw hat puttering about a humid sundial of wide-waking annuals and perennials— snowdrops, crocuses, daisies and daylilies, rice in flower and maize in silk, woozy jasmine and heady grapevines, a temperamental winter daphne, and tall in the motley midst the polar gnomon, an Indian turnsole or heliotrope, sweeping its shaft of shadow from one to the next minute marigold dot as the ambling photosynthesizer passed the fragrant hours of the zodiac. Batting away hummingbirds and honeybees, Ray waded through the flower bed toward Sol. Am I your heir? Can I have what I want? Sure, kid, name it. Ray glanced toward the honey-scented manure. A joyride? Sol sighed. It’s your funeral. Taking his time, he led Ray out to the dayport. What a letdown! Ray’d expected a futuristic heliumpowered sports coupe, or at least a souped-up solar Mustang. Not this gold-rimmed, pyrite-axled backward half-bucket with footpads! John Shoptaw 3 Dawn, meanwhile, with her practiced blush arched her horizon, and her pomegranate interiors yawned wide. The stars dispersed. Venus, her shell-blue and egg-white gauzes aswirl, gave Dawn a last long look above her handmirror’s crescent rim. Sol was watching moonshine evanesce from his glowing barndoors, which cracked in a spewing welding arc and then opened wide to reveal a dozen prompt and close-cropped Hours, coaxing a team of four mammoth pegasi yoked neck and neck and neck and neck, stoked with thick ambrosial plasma and snorting flame. As the nymphs hitched the tack to the chariot pole, the Sun, shaking his head, untied his flaring sunhat and knotted it under Ray’s chin. Lay off the whip and draw rein with a firm hand. They’ll fly by themselves with no help from you. But they’ll answer to Clover, Crocus, Peony, Sage. Steer clear of the straightaway. Bank the rig into a circumbendibus. But don’t, whatever you do... But Ray’s attention had drifted. The rampant quadrupeds hooved trails of sparks down the dayport door, their heavy fog blankets slid off, and they shook out their shoulder-wings. A pliant breeze sprang up from the East... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Poems Ancient and Contemporary HELAINE L. SMITH On the cover of Like: Poems by A. E. Stallings is a double photograph of a double image: two ancient carved heads, in profile and facing each other, of the pole horses of a quadriga, a four-horse chariot, dated about 570 BC, and currently in the collection of The Acropolis Museum. The marble horse in profile on the right side of the (...) cover, looking to the left, has a longer neck and face, and is undamaged except for a hairline crack at the neck. Its counterpart has a broader cheek, with light chipping above the nostril and an ear broken off. But they so mirror each other, they are so “like,” that at first glance one might suppose the photographs to be the right and left sides of the same horse. The bottom half of the cover of Like is an exact replica of the top, but the tinting is different, the heads in the top band cream-colored, in the arion 27.1 spring/summer 2019 Like: Poems by A. E. Stallings was published in 2018 by Farrar, Straus and Giroux, New York. Stallings’s earlier books of poetry include Archaic Smile (1999), Hapax (2006), Olives (2012), and a verse translation of Lucretius’ The Nature of Things (2007). bottom a delicate ochre or sand. There is, then, on the very cover of Like a promise of complex correspondence and subtle variation within the volume itself. Stallings’s title suggests poetry as the art of locating and articulating likeness or as the act of finding one thing in another. And in Stallings’s delicate, robust, witty, and humane use of the past, “like” also and most significantly means that they—the figures of ancient myth—and we are alike in our shared experience and shared humanity. Stallings sometimes presents classical and mythological references glancingly, and that is part of the delight—catching the joke in Hermes’ epithet, “lord of florists,”1 finding in “The Rosehead Nail” that the local blacksmith in Monteagle, Tennessee, “was a god / Before... the tasks / That had been craft were jobbed out to machine.” Likeness is, of course, the mode of Homeric simile, and in “Selvage” Stallings turns the simile of Odyssey 22.468–73, in which Homer compares the hanged maids to thrushes caught in a net, into a different but contextually relevant parallel: “they hang... From the warp like a dozen ancient loom weights,” a likeness that evolves from Stallings’s double entendre in line seven describing the maids as “spinsters of their own doom,” an allusion both to the task, properly theirs, of weaving and to their disclosure to their lovers of Penelope’s secret unravelling. Stallings can expand as well as adapt Homeric similes. At Iliad 2.87–2.90 Homer likens the Achaians’ assembly at Agamemnon’s command to arm and attack Troy to bees leaving the hive: Like the swarm of clustering bees that issue forever in fresh bursts from the hollow in the stone, and hang like bunched grapes as they hover beneath the flowers in springtime fluttering in swarms together this way and that way so the many nations of men from the ships and the shelters along the front of the deep sea beach marched in order by companies to the assembly2 178 poems ancient and contemporary Homer finds likeness in the orderly setting forth—of bees, of men—to do what is required. This, on the other hand, is what Stallings does: Colony Collapse Disorder (Iliad, 2.87–2.90) Just as a swarm pours from a hollow rock In one long beeline for the wild thyme, Alighting in clusters on this purple and that, But is stricken with a mass amnesia That disorients the compass of the sun, And they forget the steps to traditional dances, And each helicopters into a different dimness Taking their saddlebags of sweetness with them, And the hive goes dark, the queen is left to starve, And the drones humbug the whimper of the world, And the palace falls to ruins, broken into By vandals who would loot the golden stores Left in the brittle wax hexameters, Just so... And “so” her... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:“Warn Me If I Approach the Melody” HELAINE L. SMITH In the 1950s on Saturday night TV, Sid Caesar performed comic sketches for a full hour. In one sketch Carl Reiner played Edward R. Murrow interviewing Caesar as the jazz musician Progress Hornsby. At a certain point Murrow asks Hornsby, “To what do you attribute your band’s great success?” and Hornsby answers, “Well, we have special equipment that warns (...) us if we get anywhere near the melody.” And so it must be with Nancy Worman and all those classicists who approach classics and literature as she does—special equipment to warn them whenever they get anywhere near a responsible reading of the text.* Her argument, cast in sentences whose words, like the amphisbaena, turn back on themselves or are unrecognizable as spoken or written English, boils down to (1) Greek men were colonialists and imperialists; (2) Greek tragedy celebrated men of this sort; (3) there arose, quite to the surprise and possibly to the consternation of its authors, women in their plays who were strong and violent rebels against the oppressive social order; (4) Virginia Woolf, whose feminism is not quite as pure as we’d like it, is not so bad after all because, if you look closely, pulling out the odd word here and there, decontextualizing it, inserting its decontextualized meaning elsewhere and mistranslating any Greek phrase that stands in your way, you discover—voila!—that she held views of Greece and Greek tragedy identical to those of radical feminism and shaped her novels, stories, and essays to reflect that view. Worman’s feminist audience, as familiar as it must be with feminist reception theory, would appear, from the unusual number of play summaries, elementary descriptions of the arion 28.1 spring/summer 2020 *Nancy Worman, Virginia Woolf’s Greek Tragedy. London and New York: Bloomsbury Academic, 2019. xii + 152 pages. $102.00. 150 “warn me if i approach the melody” origin and structure of Greek drama, and serious mistranslations in her book, to be unfamiliar with ancient drama, with basic Greek, and perhaps with Virginia Woolf as well. Her book has from such scholars received copious praise. But for those who begin less thematically burdened and who, as a colleague of mine liked to say, “worship at the altar of the text,” Worman’s methods turn scholarly inquiry on its head, not because of what they conclude, but because her conclusions are reached the same way the Queen of Hearts insisted trials be conducted: verdict first, evidence afterwards. Nor does Worman’s text have any discernible structure. Material within chapters bears fleeting connection to chapter titles and subheads. Points appear, vanish, and reappear, like the Cheshire cat, suggesting prior academic papers, here combined. This overall disorganization weakens the book, as does the non-linear quality of individual points. The organization of this review, therefore, is not thematic but chronological : it addresses those works of Woolf’s to which Worman gives attention, and presents them by date of publication. A Room of One’s Own appears nowhere in Worman’s text, and To the Lighthouse receives only minimal attention. Medea is nowhere mentioned in the favored categories of proto-feminist and fierce woman. While The Trojan Women and The Birds would both have served Worman well in arguing that Greek theatre reflected Athenian imperialism, they too make no appearance in her text. Instead, she casts Sophocles’ Electra and Antigone as fierce women and their plays, together with the Agamemnon, as emblematic of Athenian aggression and patriarchy. And so, in the forced nature of Worman’s translations and in the reductiveness of her assessment of Woolf, we see the consequences of a determination to bend texts to serve popular theories. “a dialogue upon mount pentelicus” (1906) woolf’s views of Greece reveal the complexity of great writing. Woolf frequently satirizes classicists who take their Helaine L. Smith 151 learning to be a sign of natural excellence, those for whom knowledge of Greek is simply a marker of position and rank. But for those who love such things for their own sake, or come to love them, as the tourists eventually do in “A Dialogue upon Mount Pentelicus,” she... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Five Poems AMIT MAJMUDAR Observing Orpheus I hear the meaning turn back in his throat like Eurydice on the way up from the darkness. Music’s meaning is its making. As for me, I am one more animal in his entourage, learning a new thirst, finding a new south. None of us knew we had this instinct in us. If deserts hide wildflowers until first rain, bright ears are blossoming (...) out of our skulls. He doesn’t have much longer. I know this myth. A God douses the fire with a beehive. The Maenads smear their faces with a warpaint made of stoneground fireflies and pine sap. Hands—hands like his, that drew music through lyre strings into our forest like pieces of bread through a prison fence— are reaching for his body now, his lyre. Their weapons are hands, nothing but hands. They are infinite. They are enough. arion 27.1 spring/summer 2019 Her Metamorphoses First a beetle, body armor forged of chitin, exoskeleton he’ll never bruise, Undiscovered, unapologetically hermetic on her own Galapagos. Next a fruit bat, echolocating tangerines like a blind woman singing up at stars. Then a patio lizard, sunning herself for as long as she needs, A better place for keeping warm than bed with him. Next a sleek water moccasin, quick to make out another woman’s heat signature on his neck, Even quicker to strike. A caterpillar to poke holes in his lying roses And from that destruction to fashion two beautiful wings for herself. A buzzard, to clean up the roadside pile he left of her. A woman in full with no more soft blind pupa stages of her life cycle left, No more forms to force herself to fit for the sake of his pleasure, No more shapeshifts, no more slimming stripes, no more abdominal crunches: Just this body, just this last name, just this apartment, just this bowl of midnight cereal. Just her. 106 five poems Sisyphus Shove hard, shove, shove hard, eyes bloodshot, knees bent Till your boulder goes weightless and races ahead in descent. Force its dark door open inch by grim inch, Shove hard, shove, shove hard, eyes bloodshot, knees bent, Heels dug deep in hell’s steep hillside, teeth clenched. What gravity strips from you, gravity grants you again. Shove hard, shove, shove hard, eyes bloodshot, knees bent Till your body goes weightless and races ahead in ascent. Amit Majmudar 107 A Trinket for Persephone A deathwatch beetle burrows in the pale hall of your marrow, your underground, your tube of bone on which you’re riding home alone. This blackwinged locket with your soul emerges rattling from a hole, a rattle in your emptied throat, the diva’s final, graceless notes, a clicking echoed in the rafters, this bugbear insect coming after to scuttle across the marshy chest, sinkhole navel, and pubic nest out to the yard, below the porch untrackable by any torch until this bug with you inside has burrowed to the other side. It drops into the underworld, as if from some cocoon unfurled, to scale a queenly wrist and rest your brooch of black upon her breast. 108 five poems Four Ways of Looking at Argus 1. His Vigil These hundred eyes, these hundred balloons Tied to the boy-small wrist of my mind Are down to ninety-nine. I lost one to a bee sting late last June— I never thought of them as fragile Until that pinprick broke my vigil. I’m slowing down. I didn’t blink in time. I have no inkling why I keep This vigil—surely not to watch, Panoptic from this mountaintop, A heifer drifting off to sleep? I’m here, I must be here, to see A signal fire from the east That warns of Olympus under siege And Ares gory from a rout, Athena’s owl’s eyes gouged out, The naiads naked in a pen, The whole world given up to men. The Gods will need a monster then. 2. After Martial Hermes was in a fix: He needed lullabies To shutter Argus’s one hundred eyes And get the tethered heifer—coal-eyed Io—free Of Hera’s... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content: Five Poems DEBORAH WARREN Bugonia hic vero subitum dictu mirabile monstrum aspiciunt, liquefacta boum per viscera toto stridere apes utero et ruptis effervere costis. —Vergil, Georgics IV The covert’s dark, but Aristaeus sees —beyond it, in the oleandered meadow, walking to her wedding with her maids— Eurydice, as sweet as early windfall apples to the gods of the bitter dead. She runs, from shifting shade to sun to (...) shade until, in a shock of sudden sun, she sways, blinded, blundering into an adder’s kiss, and while the bridegroom waits by the bridal bed, she waits to be undressed by worms instead. But Aristaeus pays for the assault. The mead-gods visit on his apiaries wax-moth, mites, foulbrood and chalk-disease until an oracle orders a hekatomb: after nine days the myrtle-nymphs perform a miracle, and out of the carcases crawl fat new sun-furred drones to work the comb, a gift of the mead-gods who, with the poet, praise the teams of bright collaborating bees as little Romans—parvos Quirites. arion 27.1 spring/summer 2019 And what about Eurydice? The swarm goes humming on, a small Rome in a hive. The story’s not about Eurydice’s second chance, or whether she’ll survive. Eurydice’s a minor character; she’s only one girl, sui generis. Besides, no cattle-trick exists for her. The gods can let the apiaries thrive and armies—even empires—endure; one girl’s more complicated to replace. 44 five poems The Tithonus Club We can begin our visit with the Day Room where, in wheelchairs, some with canes or walkers, members sit: a fraternity so ancient that the confrères mostly ignore each other (club tradition). The dues are paid in decades; no one has an outstanding balance—Sir? Whoa, steady, there! Sit down... yes. Here’s your blanket. The badge of membership—the club regalia? Laminated ceremonial bracelets bear the motto Do Not Resuscitate (legend which, in practice, is seldom honored). Eleven-thirty, gentlemen; lunch is served, and now a little toast while the television mesmerizes the aides: Messieurs, your health! Deborah Warren 45 Aphrodite at the Old-Age Home —for Aphrodite Kalogeris “Honey,” the night nurse said to Aphrodite, “let me fix your bib. Look, Aphrodite! Here’s your juice and crackers, Aphrodite! “She doesn’t speak a blessed word of English,” the night nurse told us, “but she understands as good as if we spoke to her in Greek.” Aphrodite’s ears were as grotesque as the pore-coarse nose that bloomed across her face, but she heard her name: When Aphrodite rose and, beatific, dreamed across the room, traversing a happiness none of us could hear, she spoke a language older than herself but still her own—a dialect of beauty able to translate the fetid air. 46 five poems Climbing Etna We’d see the lava, nights, from the town square, as if the sun—an egg of fire—broke at dusk, threading its incandescent yolk down a mountain hanging in black air. Every night we’d scan the dark horizon looking for those streaks, and every night they took a while to find, however bright: Etna, it seemed, had spent the evening rising off the earth, to hover even higher, as if the mountain meant not to be found. And then, today, we ran the flows to ground, climbing up to the rolling burns of fire— closer, into the shimmering air and hiss that glanced up from the thick and red-flecked river —until our soles were smoking. But the lava sang, inside the mountain: Come, discover the fire’s origin and genesis; more—the heart of the world, in its enceinte of blind white heat. Seeing the lava course wasn’t enough, or watching the rock decant the sun; what brought us up here was the force— the hot loins—of a lightning god as dark as thunder; and, like Eve, like Semele, we wanted to approach. But there’s a spark, a jewel older than geology: stop shy of it—of finding the fire’s source, of closing in on what you shouldn’t see. Deborah Warren 47 Human Sucking strength... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:The Persians TIMOTHEUS (Translated by John Warden)... urging on their floating bronze-beaked chariots ram by ram furrowing the waves with pointed teeth....... with humped heads stripped away arms of fir, thumped ’em on the left, mariners tumbled, smashed ’em on the right in their pinewood towers, back on their feet again. Ha! Tear off flesh to their rope-bound ribs, sink ’em with thunderbolts, rip away gilded splendour with iron-helmed (...) rams. Thonged javelins fly fire-like, shafts trembling in pierced limbs, wood slivers ablaze long-winged brazen-headed, slaughtered victims swarm. ◊♦◊ Sea with glass-green hair its furrows stained with blood; shouts of victors, screams of vanquished; the barbarous fleet borne away over the fish-crowned gleaming curves of Amphitrite’s breast. ◊♦◊ Lord of a daywide land, islander out for a sail ha! listing, tipping, arms and feet arion 28.1 spring/summer 2020 96 the persians thrashing in the buffeting waves, cries to the sea god, “Father...” Winds drop and veer, smite him on the other side. No Bacchus poured that liquid into his wine jar belly. He vomits up the boiling sea flood, screaming through clenched teeth against the defiling sea: “Was once not enough to have your proud neck yoked with bonds of hemp? See, now my lord will churn you with pine trees born in the mountains, encompass your watery plains with mariners, you madcap, long-loathed, faithless plaything of the swift-surfing winds.” Gasps out the words and a disgusting stream of sour sea water comes belching from his belly. ◊♦◊ Homeward they scurry, the Persian fleet, the foreigners squadron smashing into squadron in the long-necked strait jolts from their hands their mountain feet, leap from their mouths their gleaming helpmates; bodies without breath, without light, festoon the starsprent sea, weigh down the headlands. Survivors on the shore sit naked and freezing, tears dripping from their howled laments. Possessed by the dirge-song of grief, they keen and beat their breasts: “O vales of Mysia with your trees like a woman’s hair, take me home. For the winds are carrying me away. Timotheus 97 Never will the dust of earth receive my body....... in a cave where nymphs are born, below the ocean floor. Protect me from Helle, ship-bridged bringer of war. Had my lord not built that far-travelled causeway, never would I have come from Tmolus or Lydian Sardis to keep at bay the Greek war god. But now where shall I find sweet refuge from unbending fate? Who will free me from suffering and bring me home to Troy? Could I but fall at the ivy-robed knees of the Queen, the Mountain Mother, embrace her lovely arms and pray: ‘Goddess of golden hair, mother, I beg you rescue me, rescue me from the devious steel that slits the throat, from the wave-skimming gales, ship breakers, from Boreas that freezes by night. The winds will dash me to pieces. Already the cruel waves have torn the clothing from my body. Now I shall lie wretched, my flesh a feast to the tribes of birds.’” ◊♦◊ See a Greek with a sword of iron grab a man from Celaeno, rich in flocks, bereft in battle, drag him by the hair. Arms twined around knees, he breaks the seal of his lips seeking Greek in the shrill voice of Asia: Listen Mister not me why come. Not me, no never, big master send me, me no never come fight. Stay home Sardis, Sousa, Ecbatana. Great god Artemis 98 the persians Ephesus guard me. Swift-running backward-running they pursue their flight, cast from their hands the twin-mouthed javelins, tear the flesh from their faces, rip from their breasts their sumptuous Persian gowns, raise in one voice their Asiatic wailing. Those round the King are loud in panic at the coming disaster. The King looks down at the mingled host in flight, falls to his knees, defiles his body. Tossed in fate’s waves he speaks: Root and branch my house has fallen! The flaming ships of the Greeks have slain the flower of our youth. There is no way home, our ships consumed by the blazing might of harsh... (shrink)

In Herbert’s poetry the words which are the names of musical instruments function both on the level of literary text stylistic composition - they are constituent elements of the metaphors and comparisons - and as signs of concrete or symbolic objects, which constitute one of the categories of motifs visible in the poems. The essay is an attempt to define the function performed by the motifs of the lyre and the lute, the first two instruments to appear in Zbigniew Herbert’s (...) poetry. The group of poems in which the motifs of the lyre, the lute and the string - a frequent synexdoche of the two instruments - appear includes twelve poems: Do Apollina [To Apollo], O Troi [On Troy], Do Marka Aurelego [To Marcus Aurelius], Struna [The String], Las Ardeński [The Forest of Arden], Arijon [Arion, from the volume Struna Światła [The String of Light]), Niepoprawność [Incorrectness], Do Pięści [To the Fist], Prośba (A Request, from the volume Hermes, pies i gwiazda [Hermes, a Dog and a Star]), Apollo i Marsjasz [Apollo and Marsyas], Szuflada (The Drawer, from the volume Studium przedmiotu [A Study of an Object]), Wit Stwosz: Uśnięcie Najświętszej Marii Panny (Veit Stoss: Repose of the Virgin, from the volume Elegia na odejście [An Elegy on Passing Away]). In the symbolism of the poems by Zbigniew Herbert the motif of the lyre has ambivalent value. It symbolizes a type of art which does not suit twentieth century experiences or kind of poetry ruthlessly indifferent to evil and thus deserving ethical criticism on the one hand and represents art., which can provide man with a sense of the order of existence, on the other. It is because of the second function that is must be saved. In Herbert’s poems the lyre symbolizes classical poetry - its stylistic tone and function; it is also a symbol of music and harmony - presented as a desired state existing in the world. The string - if it is not a synexdoche of the lyre or the lute - becomes a symbol of new poetry, which results from twentieth century catastrophes, but does not totally reject classical tradition (though compared to it, it is only partial and incomplete). The way the two motifs function in Herbert’s poetry illustrates one of the author’s fundamental dilemmas. The question is: How can a poet who has rejected traditional classicism remain a twentieth century classical poet? (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content: Seven Poems NICOLAS CALAS (Translated by Avi Sharon) hellenizing surrealism: a greek door to europe Nicolas calas (Kalamares) may be considered merely a minor Greek poet, but he had a major global persona and influence. In the middle of the last century he played a catalyzing role in the international avant garde: He was a Zelig-like polemicist in three languages (Greek, French, and English) and across three cultural (...) capitals (Athens, Paris, and New York). But he always fought on a singular front: surrealism. Born in Lausanne in 1907, he grew up in Athens and by the later 1920s began to stand out in literary circles (he was over 6' 4") for his modernist if not revolutionary views. Starting from an interest in Freud and Marx, the subconscious and the revolutionary, Calas soon arrived at their natural synthesis—surrealism. Around the time when a distinctly Greek form of surrealist poetry emerged, with the 1935 publication of “Blast Furnace” by Andreas Embiricos, Calas was on his way to becoming its unofficial spokesman. He moved to the epicenter of the movement in Paris and with the 1938 publication of Foyers d’Incendie became the “most lucid and audacious” of founder André Breton’s acolytes, both prophet and demagogue of the group. Carried along in the current of European artists and thinkers leaving Europe for New York, he would continue the fight on the western wing of the faction (literally, coming to blows at a cocktail party with Clement Greenberg, representing the opposing Abstract Expressionist side). In 1942 he published another clarion pamphlet, Confound the Wise, giving the movement voice in English and befriending its most visible local supporters and practitioners, from Peggy Guggenheim to Marcel Duchamp. arion 27.1 spring/summer 2019 The Wyndham Lewis of the operation, Calas was a cross-border catalyst, evangelizing the role of surrealism as a liberating and generative force in modern literature and art. For him and other writers and poets, the weapon that would most effectively derange the reader’s habitual conformism into revelatory and revolutionary perception was the surrealist image, poetry’s lingua franca. For Greek practitioners it was completely natural for that magical representation to arise out of their god-infested, sun-filled landscape. Here they had a force that was both blinding and enlightening, penetrating and transformative, local and universal. For Calas, the primary echo or reflection of that essential image was the island of Santorini, referenced in several of the translations here (and reminiscent of his fellow national Nikos Gatsos’s use of the island of Amorgos in a similar context). It stood as the very symbol of fiery transformation, an image monstrous enough to shock the reader into a super-rational embrace of its own form of logic. This Hellenization of surrealism, like the Hellenization of modernism itself, was to become an important, transformative power in its own right. For many, the origin (and likewise, for many, the enclosing border ) of surrealism was France. “But it is French. It is their invention,” was how William Carlos Williams saw it, to his chagrin. Williams was convinced that the objective concentration on the image itself (“no ideas but in things”) could offer a salutary corrective to American poetry of his time. “It is the surrealists who have invented the living defense of literature,” he wrote in a 1929 essay. But for a poet so at one with the American Grain to be reconciled with surrealism’s ‘Francite’ he needed some way to cross the divide. His admiration for Calas’s work in clarifying and promoting the group’s ideas enabled the Greek poet to serve as a mediator, to allow the creative transference of its rebellious wisdom into Williams’s poetry. To borrow the title of one of his early American essays, Calas provided Williams a “Greek door to Europe.” In translating four of Calas’s French poems into English, published in 1941 with a frontispiece by the surrealist painter and magician Kurt Seligman, Williams leveraged Calas as the vehicle through which the “enabling foreignness” of surrealism could be grafted into the grain of his American modernist work, just as he set out on his magnum opus, Paterson. In a similar way... (shrink)