ATTICUS: I recognize that grove and the oak tree of the people of Arpinum: I've read about them often in the Marius. If that oak tree survives, this must be it; it's certainly old enough.
QUINTUS: It survives, Atticus, and it will always survive: it's rooted in the imagination. No farmer's cultivation can preserve a tree so long as one sown in a poet's verse.
ATTICUS: How so, Quintus? What kind of thing do poets sow? In praising your brother, I suspect you're looking for a vote of praise for yourself.
QUINTUS: That's as may be; but as long as Latin literature has a voice, there will always be an oak right here called “Marius’,” and as Scaevola says about my brother's Marius, “it will grow old for countless generations.” But maybe you think your beloved Athens has been able to keep the olive tree on the Acropolis alive forever, or that the palm they show today on Delos is the same as the tall and slender tree that Homer's Ulysses says that he saw there: many other things in many places last longer in recollection than they could in nature. So let's assume that this “acorn-bearing oak” is the same as the one from which once flew off “the tawny messenger of Jove, seen in wondrous form.” But whenever a storm or old age destroys it, there will still be an oak right here which they will call “Marius’ oak.”
ATTICUS: I have no doubt about that. But this question isn't for you, Quintus, but for the poet himself: was it your verses that planted this oak, or had you learned that what had happened to Marius took place as you wrote it?
MARCUS: I'll give you an answer, Atticus, but not before you give me one: is it true that it was not far from your house that Romulus took a stroll after his death and told Proculus Iulius that he was a god and was named Quirinus, and ordered a temple to be dedicated to himself on that spot? And is it true that in Athens not far from your former home the North Wind snatched up Orithyia? – because that's what they say.
ATTICUS: What's your point? Why do you ask?
MARCUS: Just that you shouldn't look too closely at things passed down in stories of this kind.