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And we have to decide what if anything to read, and if we do read anything, I suspect we should start with section V
That's a good question. Maybe throw it open to the forum? I don't have a strong opinion either way.
Does anyone who listens to the podcast have an opinion as to whether we should read the section of text before we start the discussion, as we did before DeWitt? Or should we just quote as needed, as we have been doing recently?
One thing I noticed while typing was how repetitive he can be. But his defense of writing high literature in Latin is worth mentioning, because of its parallels with Epicurean writers like Amafinius, Rabirius, and of course Lucretius, and also because of our recent discussions on the Catholic Church's resistance to publishing in the vernacular.
I should not be surprised to note that DeWitt mentions the temple in one of his articles, which is also useful for understanding the decline of Roman-era Epicureanism;
https://www.jstor.org/stable/283212?read-now=1&seq=1#page_scan_tab_contents
He points to Syncretism as the reason the school in Rome collapsed.
Here's something far-fetched for you; in 54 BC, plans were made and construction began on a temple dedicated to Venus in the Forum of Caesar in Rome. Then in 46 BC Julius Caesar himself vowed the temple to Venus Victrix on the eve of the Battle of Pharsalus. However, two years later he re-dedicated it;
He eventually decided to dedicate the temple to Venus Genetrix, the mother of Aeneas, and thus the mythical ancestress of the Julian family. The Temple was dedicated on 26 September 46 BC, the last day of Caesar's triumph. The forum and temple were eventually completed by Octavian.
It is thought that Lucretius must have died sometime in the late 50's BC. At any rate a letter from Cicero to his brother from February of 54 BC mentions Lucretius' poem. Caesar was assassinated in 44 BC, and Piso died in 43 BC.
I'm suggesting that there is a remote possibility that Caesar's Epicurean friends and relations (like Piso) might have helped to sway the decision. I would also observe that to vow a temple to a goddess of victory on the eve of battle, and then dedicate the temple differently after the battle was won would seem to suggest a somewhat lax approach to religion.
The temple itself was damage by fire twice, and restored and rededicated for the last time by Diocletian c. 283 AD. The three columns that still stand date from this restoration.
Ha! We should communicate better, that was about as far as I get in my transcription on Saturday.
We didn't discuss this, but 8th and 9th century Benedictine Abbot Rabanus Maurus wrote an encyclopedic treatise titled De Rerum Naturas, "On the Natures of Things", at the monastery of Fulda where it is believed that Lucretius' poem was rediscovered in 1417 by Poggio Bracciolini.
Farinata degli Uberti
He was of the opinion of Epicurus, that the soul dies with the body, and maintained that human happiness consisted in temporal pleasures; but he did not follow these in the way that Epicurus did, that is by making long fasts to have afterwards pleasure in eating dry bread; but was fond of good and delicate viands, and ate them without waiting to be hungry; and for this sin he is damned as a Heretic in this place.
Cosma Raimondi, Letter
Lorenzo Valla
Michael Marullus
Printer and Bookmaker Aldus Manutius
John Evelyn
Don's Letter to Menoikeus
Lucy Hutchinson, Letter to the Earl of Anglesey
Full text | Lucy Hutchinson's letter to Lord Anglesey (1675)
Giordano Bruno
“The greatest barrier I have met is the almost total absence from the minds of my audience of any sense of sin... The early Christian preachers could assume in their hearers, whether Jews, Metuentes, or Pagans, a sense of guilt. (That this was common among Pagans is shown by the fact that both Epicureanism and the mystery religions both claimed, though in different ways, to assuage it.) Thus the Christian message was in those days unmistakably the Evangelium, the Good News. It promised healing to those who knew they were sick. We have to convince our hearers of the unwelcome diagnosis before we can expect them to welcome the news of the remedy.
The ancient man approached God (or even the gods) as the accused person approaches his judge. For the modern man, the roles are quite reversed. He is the judge: God is in the dock. He is quite a kindly judge; if God should have a reasonable defense for being the god who permits war, poverty, and disease, he is ready to listen to it. The trial may even end in God’s acquittal. But the important thing is that man is on the bench and God is in the dock.”
― C.S. Lewis, God in the Dock: Essays on Theology and Ethics
Came across this quote this evening, and I am completely unimpressed by Lewis' argument-in-parentheses. The Greeks were not, to my mind, overly burdened by the feeling guilt, and Epicureanism did not spare much time in trying to assuage it. Actually, I more than half suspect that Lewis is basing that claim almost entirely on the so-called Riddle of Epicurus, which really does place God in the dock, but let that pass. Here are several reasons why I think that the Hebrew/Christian concept of sin is totally foreign to the pagan Greeks;
According to Dr. Henk S. Versnel, University of Leiden, in the Oxford Classical Dictionary, "The modern term [sin] has no equivalent in either Greek or Latin. The Christian concept of sin accommodates two basic and coherent senses: offence against moral codes, and action against the laws or the will of God. It presupposes conscious voluntariness, while remorse may be associated with its consequences, interpreted as an expression of estrangement from God. Although some of these characteristics can be found in the archaic and classical religions of Greece and Rome, as a whole this complex is not clearly represented."
I like where you're going with this!
You also have to situate DeWitt's book in its time and place--North America during the early years of the Cold War. In fact, Joseph McCarthy was censured by the Senate the same year DeWitt published. I presume his endless perceived connections between Christianity and Epicureanism were an attempt to get his Christian contemporaries to take another look at Epicurus.
It is nevertheless rather overbearing!
Regarding Epicureanism as a missionary philosophy, there are a number of issues at play. Since the Epicureans were barred by the Gymnasiarchs from teaching in the Gymnesium, the usual place for philosophy, they were bound by necessity to pursue alternatives; writing letters, teaching in private, and placing statues where passers-by might see them and become curious.
Epicurus was also nearly unique in the ancient world for thinking that philosophy should not be relegated to the high born and their sons, but could be studied profitably by everyone. Then there is the issue of dogma, which I am out of time on break to address!
Julian the Apostate, his condemnation of Epicureans and Pyrrhonists;
Let us not admit discourses by Epicureans or Pyrrhonists – though indeed the gods have already in their wisdom destroyed their works, so that most of their books are no longer available. Nevertheless, there is no reason why I should not, by way of example, mention these works too, to show what sort of discourses priests must especially avoid; and if such discourses, then much more must they avoid such thoughts.
Fragmentum Epistulae 288a-305d
Tertullian, anticipating the varied pleasures of Judgment Day;
What a panorama of spectacle on that day! Which sight shall excite my wonder? Which, my laughter? Where shall I rejoice, where exult--as I see so many and so mighty kings, whose ascent to heaven used to be made known by public announcement, now along with Jupiter himself, along with the very witnesses of their ascent, groaning in the depths of darkness? Governors of provinces, too, who persecuted the name of the Lord, melting in flames fiercer than those they themselves kindled in their rage against the Christians braving them with contempt?
Whom else shall I behold? Those wise philosophers blushing before their followers as they burn together, the followers whom they taught that the world is no concern of God's whom they assured that either they had no souls at all or that what souls they had would never return to their former bodies? The poets also, trembling, not before the judgment seat of Rhadamanthus or of Minos, but of Christ whom they did not expect to meet.
Then will the tragic actors be worth hearing, more vocal in their own catastrophe; then the comic actors will be worth watching, more lither of limb in the fire; then the charioteer will be worth seeing, red all over on his fiery wheel; then the athletes will be worth observing, not in their gymnasiums, but thrown about by fire--unless I might not wish to look at them even then but would prefer to turn an insatiable gaze on those who vented their rage on the Lord.
"This is He," I will say, "the son of the carpenter and the harlot, the sabbath-breaker, the Samaritan who had a devil. This is He whom you purchased from Judas, this is He who was struck with reed and fist, defiled with spittle, given gall and vinegar to drink. This is He whom the disciples secretly stole away to spread the story of His resurrection, or whom the gardener removed lest his lettuces be trampled by the throng of curious idlers."
What praetor or consul or quaestor or priest with all his munificence will ever bestow on you the favor of beholding and exulting in such sights? Yet, such scenes as these are in a measure already ours by faith in the vision of the spirit. But what are those things which "eye has not seen nor ear heard and which have not entered into the heart of man"? Things of greater delight, I believe, than circus, both kinds of theater, and any stadium.
This was brought home to me at work today when a young women from Ecuador who has asked me to help her with her English pronunciation told me that she struggles with words like prepared because the "erred" sound we make at the end has us "swallowing our tongues". 
Now for a calculated move to draw Don into the conversation... 
Regarding pronunciation, what you'll hear is that Latin had a very regular phonology. Each letter makes one sound. The C is a K sound, never an S sound--G is always hard as in 'got', never like J as in 'gentle'.
I don't know if that's true, and it's slightly beside the point anyway. There are a series of long-standing conventions regarding the English pronunciation of Latin names and words, and even these conventions vary between English speaking countries. And some of them are outdated but not thoroughly so, adding to the confusion. For example, it was once thought proper to anglicize Tullius into Tully, and Plinius into Pliny. But Tully has generally been dropped in favor of Cicero, and Pliny has been kept.
So even if Latin phonology is highly regular, English pronunciation of those words and names is scattershot. We say Seezer instead of Kaiser, but Carpay instead of Sarpay.
And for the record, I have never not heard it pronounced ORE-eh-gin (...and tonic)
I actually think Horace has some lovely descriptions of friendship and wider Epicurean concerns in his works, so I'd argue against him being to blame. Here he is on friendship, from Satire 1.3
Horace is devilishly difficult to pin down, unfortunately. But first, a chronology;
[Assassination of Caesar, 44 BC]
[Battle of Philippi, 42 BC]
[Lepidus Exiled, 36 BC]
Satires 1 (c. 35–34 BC)
[Battle of Actium, 31 BC]
Satires 2 (c. 30 BC)
Epodes (30 BC)
[Reign of Augustus Begins, 27 BC, followed by military adventuring. Returns to Rome 24 BC]
Odes 1–3 (c. 23 BC)
Epistles 1 (c. 21 BC)
Carmen Saeculare (17 BC)
Epistles 2 (c. 11 BC)
Odes 4 (c. 11 BC)
Ars Poetica (c. 10–8 BC)
Now then. Between Philippi and Actium Horace wrote his first book of Satires, with distinct Epicurean themes and borrowed Lucretian diction; according to Wikipedia, "Lucretian stock phrases such as nunc ad rem redeo ("now I return to the matter at hand") give Horace's philosophical "conversations" (Sermones) a subtly Lucretian flavor." In the fifth Satire of the first book, he paraphrases the Epicureans on the nature of the gods;
Hence we came to Rubi, fatigued: because we made a long journey, and it was rendered still more troublesome by the rains. Next day the weather was better, the road worse, even to the very walls of Barium that abounds in fish. In the next place Egnatia, which [seems to have] been built on troubled waters, gave us occasion for jests and laughter; for they wanted to persuade us, that at this sacred portal the incense melted without fire. The Jew Apella may believe this, not I. For I have learned, that the gods dwell in a state of tranquillity; nor, if nature effect any wonder, that the anxious gods send it from the high canopy of the heavens.
In 30 BC come the Epodes, and the ninth in the set has Horace (a former officer in the Republican Army) toasting assiduously the victory of Octavian at Actium, and likewise condemning Cleopatra as an Egyptian seductress when she was, in fact, a Macedonian heiress and a student of several languages who conversed with her Latin conquerors in Greek.
When, O happy Maecenas, shall I, overjoyed at Caesar's being victorious, drink with you under the stately dome (for so it pleases Jove) the Caecuban reserved for festal entertainments, while the lyre plays a tune, accompanied with flutes, that in the Doric, these in the Phrygian measure? As lately, when the Neptunian admiral, driven from the sea, and his navy burned, fled, after having menaced those chains to Rome, which, like a friend, he had taken off from perfidious slaves. The Roman soldiers (alas! ye, our posterity, will deny the fact), enslaved to a woman, carry palisadoes and arms, and can be subservient to haggard eunuchs; and among the military standards, oh shame! the sun beholds an [Egyptian] canopy.
Following Augustus' return to Rome in 24 BC as Imperator, Horace published his first book of Odes and begins in the same vein;
[...] If thou, the winged son of gentle Maia, by changing thy figure, personate a youth upon earth, submitting to be called the avenger of Caesar; late mayest thou return to the skies, and long mayest thou joyously be present to the Roman people; nor may an untimely blast transport thee from us, offended at our crimes. Here mayest thou rather delight in magnificent triumphs, and to be called father and prince: nor suffer the Parthians with impunity to make incursions, you, O Caesar, being our general.
And in the 34th Ode in the same book, there is a direct repudiation of Lucretius. In his sixth book, Lucretius strove by several arguments to make the case that lightning did not come from the gods. One of the arguments he made was that if lightning came from Jupiter, then Jupiter had no need of cloud to let fly the bolt--so why is it that lightning is not seen on a cloudless day?
"But if Jupiter and other gods shake
bright heavenly spaces with dreadful noise
and hurl down fire to any place at all,
according to what each of them desires,
why do they not see to it that those men
who in their recklessness have committed
abominable acts are struck and stink
of lightning fires from hearts pierced by the bolt,
a bitter precedent for mortal men?
Why instead is the man who is aware
he himself has committed no wrong act
in his innocence entangled and wrapped
in flames, snatched up in fiery hurricanes
suddenly sent down from heaven? Besides,
why do they target isolated places
and work so hard for nothing? Or are they
exercising limbs, toning their muscles?
Why do they allow their father’s weapon
to be blunted on the earth? Why does he
let that happen and not save the lightning
for his enemies? Why does Jupiter
never hurl down his lightning bolt on earth
or let his thunder peal when skies are clear
in all directions? Or as soon as clouds
appear, does he himself go down to them,
so that from there he may guide the impact
his weapons make from close at hand? And why
does he send them into the sea? What charges
does he bring against that liquid mass of waves,
those fields of water? And if he wants us
to beware the stroke of his thunderbolt,
why is he reluctant to arrange things
so we can see it as he hurls it down?
But if he wishes to overwhelm us
with his lightning when we are unaware,
why does he thunder from that area,
so we can guard against it? Why does he
first stir up darkness, noises, and rumbling?
And how can you believe he discharges
lightning to many places all at once?
Would you dare to say it never happens
that many strikes occur at the same time?
But that has happened very frequently
and must take place—just as rain and showers
fall in many spots, so numerous thunderbolts
are formed at the same time. And finally,
why does he destroy the sacred temples
of the gods and his own splendid dwellings
with hostile lightning and smash to pieces
well fashioned idols of the gods, robbing
his own images of their dignity
with a violent wound? Why for the most part
does he aim at high places, for we see
most traces of his fire on mountain tops?"
I cannot claim to know why or what it means, but Horace latches on to this argument in order to make the reverse case; lightning has struck on a cloudless day, therefore Lucretius was wrong about the gods. To tell the truth, it's always difficult to know with Horace whether he's being completely serious. But the final quote that I will share here is often repeated, and this Ode seldom taken into consideration;
A remiss and irregular worshiper of the gods, while I professed the errors of a senseless philosophy, I am now obliged to set sail back again, and to renew the course that I had deserted. For Jupiter, who usually cleaves the clouds with his gleaming lightning, lately drove his thundering horses and rapid chariot through the clear serene; which the sluggish earth, and wandering rivers; at which Styx, and the horrid seat of detested Taenarus, and the utmost boundary of Atlas were shaken. The Deity is able to make exchange between the highest and the lowest, and diminishes the exalted, bringing to light the obscure; rapacious fortune, with a shrill whizzing, has borne off the plume from one head, and delights in having placed it on another.
What's strange is that two years later he publishes his first book of epistles, and with it the most famous Epicurean quote in his whole body of work.
Albius, thou candid critic of my discourses, what shall I say you are now doing in the country about Pedum? Writing what may excel the works of Cassius Parmensis; or sauntering silently among the healthful groves, concerning yourself about every thing worthy a wise and good man? You were not a body without a mind. The gods have given you a beautiful form, the gods [have given] you wealth, and the faculty of enjoying it.
What greater blessing could a nurse solicit for her beloved child, than that he might be wise, and able to express his sentiments; and that respect, reputation, health might happen to him in abundance, and decent living, with a never-failing purse?
In the midst of hope and care, in the midst of fears and disquietudes, think every day that shines upon you is the last. [Thus] the hour, which shall not be expected, will come upon you an agreeable addition.
When you have a mind to laugh, you shall see me fat and sleek with good keeping, a hog of Epicurus' herd.
It is noteworthy that this reference to Epicurus comes immediately on the heels of a short passage on death. Perhaps that was the connection with Epicureanism that mattered to him most.
Thank you both, that is an excellent suggestion!
H. G. Wells; The New Machiavelli; 1911; An autobiographical novel whose themes (according to Wikipedia) are sex and politics, and whose chief polemical target was Victorian and Edwardian moralism.
And we also began, it was certainly before we were sixteen, to write, for the sake of writing. We liked writing. We had discovered Lamb and the best of the middle articles in such weeklies as the SATURDAY GAZETTE, and we imitated them. Our minds were full of dim uncertain things we wanted to drag out into the light of expression. Britten had got hold of IN MEMORIAM, and I had disinterred Pope's ESSAY ON MAN and RABBI BEN EZRA, and these things had set our theological and cosmic solicitudes talking. I was somewhere between sixteen and eighteen, I know, when he and I walked along the Thames Embankment confessing shamefully to one another that we had never read Lucretius. We thought every one who mattered had read Lucretius.
Yes, this is the fresco in question. At the center top is St. Augustine. At his right hand is the original ΙΧΘΥΣ symbol--a wheel of eight spokes made by combining the 5 letters together (but with a Lunate Sigma--C instead of Σ). This design evidently predates the fish symbol, and it has been argued that the resulting circle was so made because it looks like bread.
At his left hand is a representation of the 10 celestial spheres, and below it the philosophers Socrates, Plato and Aristotle.
Epicurus is on the far right, in maroon or burgundy--you can just make out part of his name. And because I hate to leave the reader with a load of drivel, here's Thoreau;
I am not sure but I should betake myself in extremities to the liberal divinities of Greece, rather than to my country's God. Jehovah, though with us he has acquired new attributes, is more absolute and unapproachable, but hardly more divine, than Jove. He is not so much of a gentleman, not so gracious and catholic, he does not exert so intimate and genial an influence on nature, as many a god of the Greeks.
Thank you for letting us know, AaronSF! We'll have to go through and fix those this week.
