Posts by Joshua

Book VII - Sepulchral Epigrams

No. 72 - Menander

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On Epicurus and Themistocles

"Hail, ye twin-born sons of Neocles, of whom the one saved his country from slavery the other from folly."

Translated W. R. Paton

I second what Don said re: singular/plural. Compare with the Hebrew Torah where "God"—clearly singular—is referred to sometimes by the plural.

The Greek Anthology

Anthologia - A Gathering of Flowers

The Greek Anthology is a collection of some 4,500 epigrams, poems, inscriptions, and proverbs of the Greek language, composed by several hundred authors, and compiled over a period of more than a thousand years. The chief feature of this unusual collection is its range and scope, covering as it does a great many people, places, historical periods, themes, and topics. The unifying characteristic of these texts is their brevity; most of the epigrams are only a few lines long. Each epigram is a narrow window onto the lives of antiquity. Altogether, they are an indispensable treasure trove of Ancient Greek thought and culture---the flotsam of a ship wrecked in Time.

The Purpose of This Subforum

There are no epigrams in this collection attributed to Epicurus himself. We are specifically interested in:

-Epigrams that mention Epicurus or his philosophy (including several on Democritus);

-Epigrams that speak to clear Epicurean themes;

-Epigrams that shed further light on their Epicurean authors (in the cases of Lucian and Philodemus).

Epigrams that touch on competing schools of philosophy, and on the rise of Christianity, will also be included.

The preference in all cases will be to include the original Greek text, and a public-domain English translation (e.g. W. R. Paton).

The Epigrams

The word epigram refers literally to an inscription, and many of the earliest texts in the collection are likely to be of that kind. These inscriptions--on statues, tombs, temples, and monuments--developed over time a style of their own, and this style eventually grew into a literary art-form. Most of the epigrams in the Anthology are not inscriptions at all, but merely poems or proverbs that follow the style. As Parmenion writes in book IX, no. 342:

"An epigram of many lines does not, I say, conform to the Muses' law. Seek not the long course in the short stadion. The long race has many rounds, but in the stadion sharp and short is the strain on the wind."

The Epigrammatists

Two of the important authors in the Anthology were Epicureans. Lucian of Samosata was a satirist of the second century, whose most important Epicurean work is "Alexander the False Prophet". Philodemus of Gadara was a philosopher and poet of the first century BCE, most notable as the author whose books survived the eruption of Vesuvius and were preserved beneath the ash in the ancient Roman villa known as the Villa of the Papyri. Both authors speak in this collection on a variety of themes, and not all of them will be relevant to Epicurean Philosophy.

A third author of note is Palladas. While not a confessed Epicurean, his epigrams are tinted with Epicurean themes. He is also important to us as one of the last great classically pagan witnesses to the Christianization of the Roman world--a trend he greatly abhorred.

I've finally just finished listening to this book. Only two or three mentions of Epicurean Philosophy, which I still think is remarkable. So there's nothing good there, but on the whole I very highly recommend it. A truly fascinating story of a grand old city.

I read Man's Search for Meaninga number of years ago. It's been long enough that I don't remember much; here's what I do remember.

The book is split into two parts. One is a Holocaust memoir from a man who lived it. The other is a philosophical discursion by way of an inquiry into Meaning.

Frankl opens the book by sharing an anecdote of his experience in the early days of Hitler's Austria. After a Synagogue had been razed as part of a spiraling anti-Jewish oppression, Frankl found his father seated at the kitchen table with a piece of the rubble. A part of the Decalogue, his father told him. Which one? The 5th. "Honor thy father and thy mother, that thy days may be long upon the Earth." Victor Frankl was an academic who had acquired a work visa to teach abroad—In America, I think. It was a golden ticket to refuge and freedom. But when he heard those words, he decided to stay in Austria and face what was coming. He spent three years in the living hells of Auschwitz and Dachau. His father, mother, brother and wife were all killed.

Here are a few of my own thoughts.

The murdered Jews of Europe were subjected to torments that no human should ever be made to endure. The survivors emerged with the worst kinds of psychological trauma, which most of them must have borne the scars of until the end of their days. What these people were in need of was therapeutic psychiatry. Frankl was unusually placed in both circles. He was a survivor of Hitler's final solution, and also a psychiatrist. An inquiry into the meaning of life might well be indicated in cases of profound trauma; I do not know. I am far too ignorant both of psychiatry, and of horrific suffering to formulate an opinion on this point.

But speaking philosophically, I must say that I think that Frankl was asking entirely the wrong question.

What is it about human life that makes us think there is any value in asking about its 'Meaning'? You wouldn't ask, "what is the meaning of a rock? What is the meaning of a grasshopper? What is the meaning of a Lipizzaner pony?" Nothing of interest or use is ever likely to be resolved by these questions. People, like rocks and grasshoppers and ungulates, simply are. There's no justification to be speaking of meaning or purpose. When Lucretius said that "No bodily thing was born for us to use", he was hitting upon a real point:

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Nature had no such aim, but what was born creates the use. There could be no such thing as sight before the eyes were formed. No speech before the tongue was made, but tongues began long before speech were uttered.

Edward Abbey said that "From the point of view of a tapeworm, man was created by God to serve the appetite of the tapeworm." I would strike even closer to the bone than that; I would point to the "appetite" of that great infinitesimal 'worm' that lies at the nucleus of every one of our cells, and whose sole ambition is to replicate. Through a series of random environmental pressures and selected adaptations, the worm of our DNA has arrived at the point where the whole architecture of the mind and body is necessary for the genetic code to reproduce itself. Good luck finding meaning or purpose there!

I cannot speak for any survivor of trauma, but for my own part I noticed that when I stopped asking fruitless questions about meaning and purpose, I was no longer asked to settle for bad answers.

Around the time I read this book, I also read The Conquest of Happiness by Bertrand Russell. I don't remember much of that either, but I seem to think that I found it far more useful and refreshing.

And now for something completely different! Walt Whitman, as read and interpreted by Robin Williams.

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At first I was thinking that taking the original seemed a little overboard, but I suppose in that day they were actually doing the owner a favor by giving them a newer version that might last longer?

Ha! No.

The Ptolemy's were very unscrupulous and underhanded about how they "acquired" books. In one instance they gave the city of Athens a large sum of silver as collateral to 'borrow' the original copies of several great Athenian playwrights. Upon receipt of the scrolls, they sent a message back—you keep the silver. We're keeping the books. Copying in the ancient world was often done by educated slaves, and was always prone to minor errors. Alexandria wanted to make sure it had the best and most accurate version of every text. I saw an article yesterday that referred to the practice as "reverse-copyright". The state 'owned' all writings from the moment of composition.

Crosspost; thank you Don!

Galen wrote this in the 2nd century AD; I don't know whether he is the only ancient source.

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Ptolemy the king of Egypt was so eager to collect books, that he ordered the books of everyone who sailed there to be brought to him. The books were then copied into new manuscripts. He gave the new copy to the owners, whose books had been brought to him after they sailed there, but he put the original copy in the library with the inscription "a [book] from the ships"

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Joshua what / who do they focus on instead? People like Pythagorus and Plato? Or do they just generally give little attention to philosophy?

I would say that the book focuses on the city itself in its several social and cultural dimensions;

-geopolitical—Alexander the Great, the Ptolemaic kings, Cleopatra and Caesar, etc

-philosophical—Empedocles and Pythagoras, Plato and Aristotle, Archimedes and Euclid, Eratosthenes, Aristarchus, Ptolemy, etc (the book is very heavy on philosophy)

-cosmopolitan—nexus of all trade between India, Africa and Europe; civil strife between Greeks/Egyptians, and between Pagans/Christians/Jews

The 'conceit' of the book as outlined in the beginning is to let the ancients speak for themselves, as if one were walking through the great Library itself and pulling scrolls off of the shelf.

I did learn one fascinating thing! It was the law in Alexandria that every ship in the port would be inspected upon arrival and before departure. If the inbound ship was found to contain any books, they were seized by the port authority for copying. After the book was copied, the original would be sent to the Library, and the copy returned to the ship. Outgoing ships containing books not copied, or not catalogued for export, could be punished accordingly. This really was an entire city devoted to the project of compiling a collection of every book ever written by man. Epicurus was prolific and widely popular. His books must have been there. The thought of such a place makes me unreasonably giddy—and sad, for what we've lost.

I've been listening to this audiobook in the car, and on the whole I've been very pleased with it. It is one of the better popular histories of Classical Antiquity that I've read, and it has really helped to fill in some gaps in my historical knowledge. The authors' method is to let ancient texts do a good deal of the talking, and to fill in the blanks with narrative and commentary. I've found it incredibly engaging.

Unfortunately, I'm posting this thread in "celebration" of coming across the first mention of the Epicurean school—in Chapter 14. It really makes me appreciate what Stephen Greenblatt has given us in The Swerve. The story simply isn't told elsewhere.

I had thought that Democritus would get a mention in the chapter on physics and cosmology, but he did not. I had thought that Lucian would get a mention in the chapter on Oracles and their various frauds and mechanical deceptions in the ancient world, but he did not. The book is constantly tracing ideas back to their roots in Athens and the Aegean, but the story of atomic materialism and the pursuit of pleasure doesn't seem to the authors to warrant the treatment.

The lament of Palladas over the fate of Hellenism is too good not to use; but at this point I'm not counting on any mention of the Epicurean connection to his epigrams.

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Is it not true that we are dead, and living only in appearance,

We Hellenes, fallen on disaster,

Likening life to a dream, since we remain alive while

Our way of life is dead and gone?

Just to show a bit of my 'absent-minded philosopher' side in a slightly relevant anecdote:

Once when I lived in Iowa I found a bat hanging from the crown-moulding in my apartment bedroom, in a ninety-year-old building. I grabbed a chair and a towel, and some leather gloves, and deftly wrapped the bat in the towel. When I conducted him outside wearing shorts and a t-shirt, I neglected to leave the door open, and it locked. With neither phone nor keys, I was faced with the prospect of walking 17 blocks on a cold night to my sister's house.

I grumbled a bit at the way of the world–until I decided to distract myself by reciting under my breath the Principle Doctrines. By the time my walk was over, I found that I had been charmed by philosophy into an altogether different frame of mind!

I ought to be more diligent in my reading–there aren't many that I could recite now. I do carry a page or two of Lucretius' Latin in my mind, and would love to memorize more. There is an inexpressible value in having these things 'to hand'.

Apparently I've just been waiting for the right time and place to fume about that little dictum...Let's do it internet style!

10 Things I Hate about that Quote

With a countdown for dramatic effect!

10. It defines neither of its terms.

9. It has no descriptive power.

8. No real inferences can be made from it.

7. It often falsely implies in its speaker's argument a thorough review of ALL relevant facts.

6. And often falsely infers in the opponent's position an exclusively emotional appeal.

5. It's embarrassingly juvenile.

4. All while presuming to an unwarranted maturity.

3. It carries not a single drop of irony.

2. It is cheap, shabby and unbearably smug.

1. And, finally, it asks us to deny everything human in ourselves.

I'm listening to an audiobook called The Rise and Fall of Alexandria on my commute. I found something there worth adding here regarding the topic of 'reason'.

Pythagoras, as a philosopher and also a mathematician, seemed to believe that pure reason could be a bridge between mathematical fact and philosophical truth. It all had to do with the number 10.

If you plot one number in a given space, you have a point. If you plot 2 numbers, you have two points—therefore a line. Three points are needed to make a surface (or plane)—a triangle. Add a forth point, and you have a pyramid—that is, a solid.

The Pythagoreans reasoned that these four attributes were the ground of mathematics, that by adding them up you have the perfect number—1+2+3+4=10. Since the facts of cosmology are the reflections of pure geometric truth, the number 10 is the key to cosmology. From Encyclopedia Britannica:

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The Pythagoreans recognized the existence of nine heavenly bodies: Sun, Moon, Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, and the so-called Central Fire. So important was the number 10 in their view of cosmology that they believed there was a tenth body, Counter-Earth, perpetually hidden from us by the Sun.

These 10 bodies were arranged in concentric celestial spheres. How wonderfully reasoned!

And, of course, total bullshit. (Who is laughing at Epicurus' Sun now!?)

Neither reason nor logic can ever be canonical, because in both cases you have to start with premises. Those premises might be conjectural, in which case the conclusion cannot be called knowledge; or they might be themselves conclusions of prior reasoning, in which case they are only as good as the original inputs; or they might be knowledge in themselves, derived canonically.

But reason can never be the starting point. It requires something to operate on. The belief that we can reason our way from nothing to anything is one of the central flaws of so much ancient philosophy.

As for the original quote, here's a tiny thought experiment:

Pompeii: "How did you beat me? My army had more foot, more cavalry, more supplies, better ground..."

Caesar: "And my army had the morale. Feelings don't care about your facts."

I can't be trusted with Twitter, but I'm happy to see this development!

That looks great!

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Virtutem verba putas, ut

Lucum ligna?

Do you think virtue is only words, and a forest only firewood?

This is a striking passage out of one of Horace's most famous epistles.

The letter (to Numicia) seems to be asking two questions; what is the good of life, and, how then should one live?

He goes through a series of possible answers to the first, and then explores the necessary steps of acting upon each. If A, then B. If X, then Y.

This particular "if...then" I found to be interesting. The Loeb edition suggests that lucum ligna putas was a proverbial Latin expression of materialism. Lucum can mean forest, but also a grove sacred to the gods—which a materialist might consider through a purely economic lens. What follows is a suggestion to be diligent in the pursuit of wealth, and use it to buy leisure and pleasure.

This strikes me as another case where Horace is giving short shrift to Epicurus, but I'd be curious to know what others think. It seems to be yet another extreme, opposite 'tranquilism' and asceticism. Our poor philosophy was not made for so many contortions!

I'll summarize my own thinking:

1. I do not think that virtue is 'only words'. Virtue is not an end in itself, but it is a non sequitur to say that virtue is nothing. It is a means to an end, defined conditionally by the benchmark which is pleasure.

2. I do not think that a forest is 'only firewood'. I think that a forest is atoms and void, but that shouldn't stop us from assigning value to it other than the merely pecuniary. A forest is an ecology—a system of organic and inorganic relationships, and even kinships. It's a place, a little world, even for some a home.

3. Still less do I think that a materialist understanding of the universe suggests the heedless pursuit of wealth as the best mode of living. It might be that walking through the forest, studying its lifeways, climbing its trees, fording its streams, picking its fruits and flowers etc. provides more pleasure than the wealth accrued by cutting it down.

My mind is running on two tracks right now, and this observation might serve a point in the Divinity megathread. I'll post it here since I've already started.

I've suspected that this Ode might contain allusions to Lucretius, and a footnote in the Loeb edition seems to confirm it. Notice the following passage;

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For Jupiter, who usually cleaves the clouds with his gleaming lightning, lately drove his thundering horses and rapid chariot through the clear serene;

Compare to Lucretius in Book VI (Leonard);

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Again, why never hurtles Jupiter

A bolt upon the lands nor pours abroad

Clap upon clap, when skies are cloudless all?

Horace must certainly notice that by seizing on one counter-example he is misrepresenting the broad Epicurean case against divine intervention. But it serves to illustrate a point; if we are too specific about the divine, we invite nitpicking. If we are too vague, we invite unrestrained speculation.

Lucretius says in Book 1 (Leonard again);

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Whence he to us, a conqueror, reports

What things can rise to being, what cannot,

And by what law to each its scope prescribed,

Its boundary stone that clings so deep in Time.

A large measure of our project, then, must be to mark that boundary. If the study of divinity starts to lead where the philosophy cannot and should not go, we have to say as much.

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JJ, I want to be clear on what I mean about the death penalty issue. I think DeWitt explains that there were no tests of faith for these rituals, just a duty to participate. I'm not saying he lied about anything-- I was just referring specifically to attending the rituals. I think it was brought up as evidence of him having personal religious practices, and I was saying well, that may not be evidence of a religious practice the way we would think of it-- hard to know. I'm an atheist and have attended rituals-- I've been to churches. I don't consider that dishonest!

I understand you perfectly! A similar example would be his compulsory two-year military service. The fact that he served shouldn't be taken as conclusive of anything philosophically, since he didn't have a choice.

In general terms, I'm more comfortable saying 'I think Epicurus was wrong about that' than I am diagnosing his motives. I don't actually like to presume to understand anyone's motives, unless given very good reason.

In Horace's case we are given good reason; he was a defeated and dispossessed rebel granted a tenuous clemency, and compelled to sing for his supper. Which is probably why I find him to be such an interesting character.

And on another note, I am especially interested in where Horace's mind was on this subject. I was attempting to work through his Odes in Latin last night. I need to improve my Latin considerably!

So....there's a lot going on here. 😆

Cassius mentioned somewhere the question of the Epicurean theory of images vs the modern theory of light. It is a settled fact that Epicurus got this wrong—objects do not 'shed' atomic films that impinge on the optical nerve. Instead, photons (a particle or a wave, depending on the math/model) strike the object and are reflected to the eye.

Epicurus was wrong, but in comparison to his contemporaries he was more nearly right. His theory was still one of intromission—a stream from without touching on the senses. Empedocles, and later Plato, seem to have believed in extramission—that light originates in the eyes and flows out in a stream, revealing the object to the mind.

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Elayne mentioned the penalty for impiety that Epicurus might have suffered had he professed atheism. Certainly in the early days of the same century Socrates was tried and executed on those charges. If we accept that as an excuse, we must accept that Epicurus was in this respect a fraud. He didn't just 'go along to get along'. He wrote, published and instructed an untruth, over the course of his whole life, with the intent to deceive the multitude. He had less courage than Socrates, than Bruno. His mockery of Plato in calling him The Golden must then be the rankest hypocrisy, for he is then a partner in Plato's crime—the project of telling the people a 'useful lie' for political peace.

For my part, I prefer to presume that he was genuine, even if I thought he was wrong.

So upon reflection, this is my procedure;

1.) Everything I think I know about Epicurus' character and system of philosophy dissuades me from believing that he would engage in an elaborate and protracted dissimulation. I take it for granted that he meant what he said.

—1a.) For that reason, I'll continue to study and reflect on his teachings about divinity. I'll try to grasp it as best I can, and to share it with others who are interested.

2.) Nothing in his divinity is particularly anathema to me, or to my senses, or my philosophy. So long as it is not construed to involve creation, or meddling, or miracles, or an afterlife, or the fear of death, or a denial of the senses (or of pleasure), it doesn't present any real problems.

—2a.) For that reason, I'll continue to remain open to the possibility that he may have gotten some of it right—even though in practical terms, I am, and remain, an atheist.

And lastly, I'll link to a poem by the English poet Philip Larkin called Church Going. It was referred to my attention by the autobiography of Christopher Hitchens, and does capture a sense of my own feelings on the subject.