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Wow that is beautiful! Now, even though, "death is nothing to us," you've got to be careful not only to take good care of it but to provide for its continued safety when, many years from now, you have to pass it down to new generations!
I've been doing a bit of research on that point, Cassius! I hope that Florida's humidity isn't a problem indoors. I may need to meet some special storage requirements apart from just dark, temperate, and stable.
I have been a pack-a-day smoker for several years now. For nearly as long as I have been addicted to cigarettes, I have also had the kind of niggling fear that makes me anxious to quit. A few times I've tried; but after a few days without a smoke, those nebulous ideas like "long-term health" or "savings of future earnings" start to lose their power to persuade.
Cigarettes–at least for this addict–will win that argument every time. What I needed was something real to lose; something coveted, and physical, and deeply inspiring. Something that belongs to the life of the man I want to be, instead of to the man I am. Were I stronger, the memory of Epicurus' school and its teachings would be enough.
But I've tried, and I simply didn't have it in me to quit smoking.
I've now done something supremely ridiculous; I spent the next three months of my cigarette money (~$650) on something I'd rather have instead–I ordered another copy of Lucretius.
I won't receive the book until the end of this week, but, in eager anticipation, I present it now!
I have bought a copy of the 1675 Latin Edition of De Rerum Natura, published—for the very first time in England—by John Hayes, printer to the University of Cambridge; itself a reprint of a French Edition (of the Latin Text), that published by Tanneguy Le Fèvre in 1662(?). Both versions based on Denis Lambin's influential 16th century scholarship and emmendations.
Published in 1675, this book is ~112 years older than the United States Constitution. Its printing was closer in time to Poggio Bracciolini and his rediscovery of the manuscript in 1417, than it is to me. It was set to paper in the same century in which Giordano Bruno was burned at the stake in the Campo de Fiori in Rome. I'm so terribly excited I can hardly stand it!
There's one rule and it's very simple. If I want to pick up smoking again, I have to sell this book first. I threw away the last two cigarettes I had yesterday.
So there it is—my small, personal bribe; my little corruption, mingling the fates of a few leaves of tobacco and of antique paper, with a not-quite-insignificant sum of money.
-josh
_______________________________________________
Condition of the book as described by the seller;
Description:
Gordon 107. The Cambridge edition published by John Hayes. Contemporary Cambridge paneled calf. Title page in red and black, ruled in red ink; old owner's name to flyleaf. Inner hinges professionally repaired; endpapers stained. Mild even toning to text. A very sound and handsome copy.
My favorite quote on Lucretius comes from Ovid in his Amores.
The verses of sublime Lucretius are destined to perish only when a single day will consign the world to destruction.
Cicero, in a letter to his brother;
The poems of Lucretius are as you write: they exhibit many flashes of genius, and yet show great mastership.
Albert Einstein, in a preface to a German edition;
For anyone who is not completely submerged in the spirit of our age, who feels instead like a spectator as the world goes past him, especially, from time to time, vis-à-vis the intellectual attitudes of his contemporaries — on him will Lucretius's poem work its magic
George Santayana;
That things have their poetry, not because of what we make them symbols of, but because of their own movement and life, is what Lucretius proves once for all to mankind.
Whether it be a wind blowing, a torrent rushing, a lamb bleating, the magic of love, genius achieving its purpose, or a war, or a pestilence, Lucretius sees everything in its causes, and in its total career. One breath of lavish creation, one iron law of change, runs through the whole, making all things kin in their inmost elements and in their last end. Here is the touch of nature indeed, her largeness and eternity. Here is the true echo of the life of matter.
And–why not! Lucy Hutchinson;
[...] I found I never understood him till I learned to abhor him, and dread a wanton dalliance with impious books.
William Bligh's ring, revisited;
Don: "Far be it from me to second guess the museum, but…"
Me: "The ring was made by John Miers of London, "No. 111, Strand, opposite Exeter Change." Miers lived between 1758 and 1821."
I've been looking into this, and I am even more baffled than I was before.
I've spent hours chasing down examples of John Miers' work, and I've reached a startling conclusion–I don't think he made this ring.
John Miers was a sort of jeweller. He just wasn't really a jeweller who worked with...well, with jewels. John Miers was a profile painter who specialized in "Shades"–that is to say, in silhouettes. These were enormously popular, and he was and still is regarded as the finest painter of silhouette miniatures in his day. His miniatures adorned lockets, brooches, and rings. The bulk of his work was in framed wall hangings, usually a "his and hers" that would hang prominently in the house.
There are countless surviving examples of his profiles. He advertised in newspapers a 'sitting time' for a portrait of under a minute. Goodness knows how many thousands of silhouettes he and his associate John Field cranked out. And these specimens are highly regarded by collectors; several examples of his work hang in the National Portrait Gallery in London. It is all the more surprising, then, that I cannot find a single other example of a John Miers intaglio ring.
It strikes me now as increasingly plausible that the Bligh ring was simply tucked into an old ring-case for lack of anywhere else to put it. Which puts me even further to the wrong side of square one than I was when I started.
A detail of the wreathed figure from The School of Athens. Probably engraved c. 1800-1820 in Italy.
“One of my most precious books is Lucretius. It was published in Venice in 1515 by Aldus Manutius, who was a Venice printer who published the equivalent of Penguin in paperbacks. All great classical authors, or most of them, were published by Aldus Manutius in a small book in a wonderfully elegant italic script typeface.”
I don't have time just now to follow up on this lead, but I did find this little snippet interesting.
I might also observe that when I do read customer reviews for books on Amazon, it seems there's always someone complaining about their ebook being badly formatted or otherwise unreadable. All that being said, I do have a kindle paperwhite packed away in a closet somewhere.
It's been a few years since I looked into the world of Ebooks, but in general outline the problems likely haven't changed; eReaders are shockingly niche products, which don't sell very well. This is partially because they last a long time (not for eReaders the 2-year obsolescence typical of smartphones), and partially because so few people really read. PDF's have meant that unscrupulous users can get the ebooks themselves for free, making the whole enterprise awfully unprofitable.
The upshot is that eReader manufacturers put precious little effort into delivering the kind of options that people want. It took Amazon 8 generations of the Kindle to finally make it water-resistant! Even by then, a user could read a book, OR listen to the audiobook (through audible), but they could never do both at the same time on the same device! Issues like text adjustment (alignment), file compatibility, and connectivity have all likewise been neglected for long periods of time.
The Barnes and Noble Nook is more or less dead as far as I can see. Amazon can afford to prop up the Kindle line probably indefinitely, but it's certainly not a focus. I'd be interested to hear if anyone has tried some of the other options.
Since we were on the subject of Hermes earlier, I thought I would post this. It's a passage from The Swerve by Stephen Greenblatt, quoting Giordano Bruno. Bruno was illustrating the silliness of the idea that human life is divinely ordained and influenced. Bruno himself, of course, was heavily influenced by Lucretius.
"He has ordered that today at noon two of the melons in Father Franzino's melon patch will be perfectly ripe, but that they won't be picked until three days from now, when they will no longer be considered good to eat. He requests that at the same moment, on the jujube tree at the base of Monte Cicala in the house of Giovanni Bruno, thirty perfect jujubes will be picked, and he says that several shall fall to earth still green, and that fifteen shall be eaten by worms. That Vasta, wife of Albenzio Savolino, when she means to curl the hair at her temples, shall burn fifty-seven hairs for having let the curling iron get too hot, but she won't burn her scalp and hence shall not swear when she smells the stench, but shall endure it patiently. That from the dung of her ox two hundred and fifty-two dung beetles shall be born, of which fourteen shall be trampled and killed by Albenzio's foot, twenty-six shall die upside down, twenty-two shall live in a hole, eighty shall make a pilgrim's progress around the yard, forty-two shall retire to live under the stone by the door, sixteen shall roll their ball of dung wherever they please, and the rest shall scurry around at random."
This is by no means all that Mercury has to arrange.
"Laurenza, when she combs her hair, shall lose seventeen hairs and break thirteen, and of these, ten shall grow back within three days and seven shall never grow back at all. Antonio Savolino's b.i.t.c.h shall conceive five puppies, of which three shall live out their natural lifespan and two shall be thrown away, and of these three the first shall resemble its mother, the second shall be mongrel, and the third shall partly resemble the father and partly resemble Polidoro's dog. In that moment a cuckoo shall be heard from La Starza, cuckooing twelve times, no more and no fewer, whereupon it shall leave and fly to the ruins of Castle Cicala for eleven minutes, and then shall fly off to Scarvaita, and as for what happens next, we'll see to it later."
Mercury's work in this one tiny corner of a tiny corner of the Campagna is still not done.
"That the skirt Mastro Danese is cutting on his board shall come out crooked. That twelve bedbugs shall leave the slats of Costantino's bed and head toward the pillow: seven large ones, four small, and one middle-sized, and as for the one who shall survive until this evening's candlelight, we'll see to it. That fifteen minutes thereafter, because of the movement of her tongue, which she has pa.s.sed over her palate four times, the old lady of Fiurulo shall lose the third right molar in her lower jaw, and it shall fall without blood and without pain, because that molar has been loose for seventeen months. That Ambrogio on the one hundred twelfth thrust shall finally have driven home his business with his wife, but shall not impregnate her this time, but rather another, using the sperm into which the cooked leek that he has just eaten with millet and wine sauce shall have been converted. Martinello's son is beginning to grow hair on his chest, and his voice is beginning to crack. That Paulino, when he bends over to pick up a broken needle, shall snap the red drawstring of his underpants. . . ."
That's the claim Bernard Frischer makes several times in his book. Apparently there were several "candidate" busts conforming to various pet theories, but the conclusive evidence didn't come until 1742.
(This passage does not describe the double-herm in question, but a separate herm bust now lost. Only the shaft with the inscription survives.)
I say "peculiar interest of mine" because, for one thing, I am a land surveyor and these statues in their original forms were boundary stones. But I'm also beginning to think of Epicurean philosophy as, in a lot of interesting ways, a radical reinvention of limitations. There is Lucretius and his "deepset boundary stone" (alte terminus haerens), showing what can be and what cannot; there is the atom, a lower limit on the size and scale of the material; there is matter itself, without expiration and eternal; there is the void, infinite, without boundary; there is the limit of the scope of pleasure in the removal of all pain–not the highest pleasure, not the telos in itself–but the limit of its magnitude; there is the circumscription placed around the gods, bundled up and bounded off-oh, somewhere.
There is the utterly final boundary line of death, beyond which there is nothing. There is nothing itself, limited in its own way–for nothing can come from nothing.
These and many others have engaged my thinking for the last several weeks. Epicurus' philosophy is the result of his boundary survey of the whole of nature. He established new boundaries, removed those that were set wrongly before him, and rediscovered even older lines that were set rightly by others but had been forgotten or overlooked since.
When Thomas More in his Utopia wanted to explore Epicurean philosophy, he flung it out onto the very margins of the New World, at the far tip of the spear of human knowledge. He seems to have intuited what we know in any case: that it doesn't matter much where you put him, because Epicurus and his students are "at home" in the universe. Diogenes of Oenoanda grasped this plainly;
Not least for those who are called foreigners, for they are not foreigners. For, while the various segments of the Earth give different people a different country, the whole compass of this world gives all people a single country, the entire Earth, and a single home, the world.
You're treading on a peculiar interest of mine, Cassius! The double herm was the reason I bought Bernard Frischer's book.
"Herm" in this case is short for Hermes, who was the figure chiefly represented in early herm statues. The typical herm was a standing stone with a bust carved into the topmost portion. In the case of Hermes in particular, the rest of the statue would be left squared off all the way down, apart in some cases from a conspicuous set of genitals at the appropriate location.
Hermes was the patron god of messengers, merchants and travelers, and–by extension–roads, highways, and crossings. The herm statue was in some places used to mark roads, in some places to mark milestones, and in others to mark boundaries (The Romans had their own patron god of boundaries, Jupiter Terminus, a statue of whom would be placed on property lines and propitiated by both neighbors in a special ritual on Terminalia every spring).
How the herm statue came to be sculpted with two heads facing opposite is an interesting question. There was another god, Janus, with a face on either side of his head–he presided over the new year, with one aspect facing to the future and one to the past. In Hermes' case, there was a cultural boundary line just as important as those of time and property; the diad between male and female. Aphrodite was often chosen as the figure to complement him.
In other statues the twin figures are an old man and a youth; the key feature in all of these artistic expressions is the curious interplay of limitation and continuity.
Metrodorus, who would certainly have succeeded Epicurus had he survived him, represented continuity–the master/student relationship, the succession of the scholarchs, etc.
I disliked the double herm at first sight, but I'm beginning to grasp its meaning better by seeing it through Greek and Roman eyes.
Where is the "Udders and Chian Wine" multimedia award? I, for one, would like "to hear things far sweeter than the land of the Phaeacians"!
If they can figure it all out on their own, well...
Leave it to beavers, ay?
The pig may have to yield some of its place as an Epicurean symbol if this keeps up.
Off topic, but I discovered recently that Samos was one of a handful of Ionian cities that used flying boars on its coinage. I've searched widely, but nobody seems to know exactly why. Predates Epicurus by centuries.
I don't know if this is an example of the "uncanny valley" or not, but when I look at this picture it's just–it's just odd somehow...
In lieu of the ability to perform large-scale multi-generation experiments on these animals and their instincts, one thing we can do is study novel cases where nature herself (metaphorically, of course) laid out the experiment for us. In the case of birds, the classic example is to study isolated populations on remote islands. It's no accident that Darwin discovered the mechanisms of evolution after studying birds in the Galapagos.
https://www.sciencemag.org/news/2019/05/e…me%20flightless.
But possibly this only restates the same question; do island birds stop nesting in trees because they "forgot" the model, or do they start nesting on the ground because they "learned" a new model?
The central problem, as I see it, is that what we observe in individuals seems to argue for some kinds of uncanny innate 'knowledge'–but what we observe across populations seems to indicate the opposite.
And the further problem is that with individuals born in captivity and released into the wild, they don't survive long enough to furnish any useful data. The ideal experiment would be to take a large-ish population of beavers, raise them in captivity for successive generations where dam building is not possible, and then release them as a group into an environment where there are no other beavers to learn from except each other. Then wait for the dams.
I looked that over Godfrey, thank you for posting it!
