It may be, perhaps, that they make you believe that Homer was a philosopher, although they disprove this by the very arguments through which they seek to prove it.
For sometimes they make of him a Stoic, who approves nothing but virtue, avoids pleasures, and refuses to relinquish honor even at the price of immortality; sometimes they make him an Epicurean, praising the condition of a state in repose, which passes its days in feasting and song; sometimes a Peripatetic, classifying goodness in three ways; sometimes an Academic, holding that all things are uncertain.
It is clear, however, that no one of these doctrines is to be fathered upon Homer, just because they are all there; for they areirreconcilable with one another. We may admit to these men, indeed, that Homer was a philosopher; yet surely he became a wise man before he had any knowledge of poetry. So let us learn the particular things that made Homer wise.
It is no more to the point, of course, for me to investigate whether Homer or Hesiod was the older poet, than to know why Hecuba, although younger than Helen, showed her years so lamentably. What, in your opinion, I say, would be the point in trying to determine the respective ages of Achilles and Patroclus?
Do you raise the question, “Through what regions did Ulysses stray?” instead of trying to prevent ourselves from going astray at all times? We have no leisure to hear lectures on the question whether he was sea-tossed between Italy and Sicily, or outside our known world (indeed, so long a wandering could not possibly have taken place within its narrow bounds); we ourselves encounter storms of the spirit, which toss us daily, and our depravity drives us into all the ills which troubled Ulysses.
For us there is never lacking the beauty to tempt our eyes, or the enemy to assail us; on this side are savage monsters that delight in human blood, on that side the treacherous allurements of the ear, and yonder is shipwreck and all the varied category of misfortunes. Show me rather, by the example of Ulysses, how I am to love my country, my wife, my father, and how, even after suffering shipwreck, I am to sail toward these ends, honorable as they are.
Why try to discover whether Penelope was a pattern of purity, or whether she had the laugh on her contemporaries? Or whether she suspected that the man in her presence was Ulysses, before she knew it was he? Teach me rather what purity is, and how great a good we have in it, and whether it is situated in the body or in the soul.
For sometimes they make of him a Stoic, who approves nothing but virtue, avoids pleasures, and refuses to relinquish honor even at the price of immortality; sometimes they make him an Epicurean, praising the condition of a state in repose, which passes its days in feasting and song; sometimes a Peripatetic, classifying goodness in three ways; sometimes an Academic, holding that all things are uncertain.
It is clear, however, that no one of these doctrines is to be fathered upon Homer, just because they are all there; for they areirreconcilable with one another. We may admit to these men, indeed, that Homer was a philosopher; yet surely he became a wise man before he had any knowledge of poetry. So let us learn the particular things that made Homer wise.
It is no more to the point, of course, for me to investigate whether Homer or Hesiod was the older poet, than to know why Hecuba, although younger than Helen, showed her years so lamentably. What, in your opinion, I say, would be the point in trying to determine the respective ages of Achilles and Patroclus?
Do you raise the question, “Through what regions did Ulysses stray?” instead of trying to prevent ourselves from going astray at all times? We have no leisure to hear lectures on the question whether he was sea-tossed between Italy and Sicily, or outside our known world (indeed, so long a wandering could not possibly have taken place within its narrow bounds); we ourselves encounter storms of the spirit, which toss us daily, and our depravity drives us into all the ills which troubled Ulysses.
For us there is never lacking the beauty to tempt our eyes, or the enemy to assail us; on this side are savage monsters that delight in human blood, on that side the treacherous allurements of the ear, and yonder is shipwreck and all the varied category of misfortunes. Show me rather, by the example of Ulysses, how I am to love my country, my wife, my father, and how, even after suffering shipwreck, I am to sail toward these ends, honorable as they are.
Why try to discover whether Penelope was a pattern of purity, or whether she had the laugh on her contemporaries? Or whether she suspected that the man in her presence was Ulysses, before she knew it was he? Teach me rather what purity is, and how great a good we have in it, and whether it is situated in the body or in the soul.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 88
Picking away at the particulars will not provide the universal. Rearranging the deck chairs will not prevent the ship from going down. Why should I fret over how old Homer might have been, when the real question should be whether I am prepared to face my own mortality?
We may have difficulty grasping how the ancients obsessed over Homer, with the closest parallel perhaps being how professors in tweed jackets must relate everything back to Shakespeare, or professors with goatees must relate everything back to Dostoevsky. I recall a period in my childhood when the only way to make an impressive point was to wrap it up in quotes from John F. Kennedy and Martin Luther King.
Now while there is certainly much that is true, good, and beautiful in Homer, Shakespeare, and Dostoevsky, no amount of merely dissecting their texts will make me a better man. It will be no different than collecting clever Bible verses for every possible occasion, while never bothering to express the slightest bit of charity. By all means, attend to the letter, but do not neglect the spirit.
I also have little doubt that Homer’s poetry was the work of a wise man, and yet it was not his skill at poetry that made him a wise man. In our modern world, we somehow assume that our celebrities are qualified to teach us how to live well, as if the ability to sing a catchy song or to gaze seductively into the camera is somehow a mark of the most powerful insights. This is, as they say, ass backwards.
Although we would expect them to know better, our scholars do much the same, when they lionize their intellectual heroes, based on how well their refined images can be adapted to support the most fashionable causes.
Just in the last month, for example, I was told that Augustine would have enthusiastically supported the War on Terror, and that Lincoln was actually a closet socialist. Think what you will about the burning questions of the day, but please do not cherry-pick from questionable authorities in order to justify your personal preferences.
And if it is indeed true, why should it matter who happened to say it, or what particular words were used in order to say it? Instead of seeking to discern the causes, we get tangled up in the details in the effects, to the point where the expert is defined by how very much he can manage to say about so very little.
At our last faculty meeting, we spent a whole hour discussing if it was appropriate for our students to use the singular “they”. I broke my usual silence to make the radical suggestion that they should be allowed to write in the style they think is best, as long as they are consistent, and as long as they do so with a respect for other points of view.
This was met with a deafening silence, and the decision was then made to form an ad hoc committee to produce a report on the matter. I appreciate more and more why the development of a skill is meaningless without any reference to first principles: it is all wind-up without the pitch.
So it is, when literature is pursued without a moral compass, when the natural sciences are lacking in a conscience, and when the liberal arts are divorced from a vital philosophy.
Where in the Mediterranean did Odysseus really travel? I find that to be a fascinating question, and I will eagerly pore over volumes of maps in order to arrive at an answer. Still, I think it far more important to decide about our direction in life.
What was Penelope really thinking during her husband’s long absence? I find that to be a fascinating question, and I will carefully examine the subtleties of her every statement. Still, I think it far more important to ask what it means to be loyal, and what it means to be prudent.
Picking away at the particulars will not provide the universal. Rearranging the deck chairs will not prevent the ship from going down. Why should I fret over how old Homer might have been, when the real question should be whether I am prepared to face my own mortality?
We may have difficulty grasping how the ancients obsessed over Homer, with the closest parallel perhaps being how professors in tweed jackets must relate everything back to Shakespeare, or professors with goatees must relate everything back to Dostoevsky. I recall a period in my childhood when the only way to make an impressive point was to wrap it up in quotes from John F. Kennedy and Martin Luther King.
Now while there is certainly much that is true, good, and beautiful in Homer, Shakespeare, and Dostoevsky, no amount of merely dissecting their texts will make me a better man. It will be no different than collecting clever Bible verses for every possible occasion, while never bothering to express the slightest bit of charity. By all means, attend to the letter, but do not neglect the spirit.
I also have little doubt that Homer’s poetry was the work of a wise man, and yet it was not his skill at poetry that made him a wise man. In our modern world, we somehow assume that our celebrities are qualified to teach us how to live well, as if the ability to sing a catchy song or to gaze seductively into the camera is somehow a mark of the most powerful insights. This is, as they say, ass backwards.
Although we would expect them to know better, our scholars do much the same, when they lionize their intellectual heroes, based on how well their refined images can be adapted to support the most fashionable causes.
Just in the last month, for example, I was told that Augustine would have enthusiastically supported the War on Terror, and that Lincoln was actually a closet socialist. Think what you will about the burning questions of the day, but please do not cherry-pick from questionable authorities in order to justify your personal preferences.
And if it is indeed true, why should it matter who happened to say it, or what particular words were used in order to say it? Instead of seeking to discern the causes, we get tangled up in the details in the effects, to the point where the expert is defined by how very much he can manage to say about so very little.
At our last faculty meeting, we spent a whole hour discussing if it was appropriate for our students to use the singular “they”. I broke my usual silence to make the radical suggestion that they should be allowed to write in the style they think is best, as long as they are consistent, and as long as they do so with a respect for other points of view.
This was met with a deafening silence, and the decision was then made to form an ad hoc committee to produce a report on the matter. I appreciate more and more why the development of a skill is meaningless without any reference to first principles: it is all wind-up without the pitch.
So it is, when literature is pursued without a moral compass, when the natural sciences are lacking in a conscience, and when the liberal arts are divorced from a vital philosophy.
Where in the Mediterranean did Odysseus really travel? I find that to be a fascinating question, and I will eagerly pore over volumes of maps in order to arrive at an answer. Still, I think it far more important to decide about our direction in life.
What was Penelope really thinking during her husband’s long absence? I find that to be a fascinating question, and I will carefully examine the subtleties of her every statement. Still, I think it far more important to ask what it means to be loyal, and what it means to be prudent.
—Reflection written in 2/2014
IMAGE: Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres, The Apotheosis of Homer (1827)
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