Since being brought to light in 1853 by Adalbert Kuhn, the fact that the Homeric expression κλέος ἄφθιτον has an exact parallel in the Veda has played an extremely important role in formulating the hypothesis that Greek epic poetry is of Indo-European origin. Yet only with Milman Parry's analysis of the formulaic character of Homeric composition did it become possible to test the antiquity of κλέος ἄφθιτον on the internal grounds of Homeric diction.

It is generally agreed that the conservative character of oral composition entails a high degree of correlation between the antiquity of a Homeric expression and its formulaic character. In other words, although not all Homeric formulae are necessarily of ancient origin, it is nevertheless in the formulaic stock of the epic diction that archaic and backward-looking expressions should be sought. Consequently, demonstration that κλέος ἄφθιτον (as well as other Homeric expressions with Vedic cognates) is a Homeric formula would constitute valuable evidence for its origin in Indo-European heroic poetry. Strangely enough, however, as Parry's analysis won the recognition of scholars, κλέος ἄφθιτον was identified as a Homeric formula simply because of its agreement with the Vedic śráva(s) ákṣitam. Yet examination of κλέος ἄφθιτον from the internal standpoint of the Greek epic casts serious doubts on the formulaic and traditional character of this Homeric expression.

The word euboulia, which means excellence in counsel or sound judgement, occurs in only three places in the authentic writings of Plato. The sophist Protagoras makes euboulia the focus of his whole enterprise (Prot. 318e–319a):

What I teach a person is good judgement about his own affairs — how best he may manage his own household; and about the affairs of the city — how he may be most able to handle the business of the city both in action and in speech.

Thrasymachus, too, thinks well of euboulia. Invited by Socrates to call injustice kakoetheia (vicious disposition — he has just identified justice as ‘an altogether noble good nature (euetheia)’, i.e. as simple-mindedness), he declines the sophistry and says (Rep. 348d): ‘No, I call it good judgement’. But Plato finds little occasion to introduce the concept in developing his own ethical and political philosophy. The one place where he mentions euboulia is in his defence of the thesis that his ideal city possesses the four cardinal virtues. He begins with wisdom, and justifies the ascription of wisdom to the city on the ground that it has euboulia (Rep. 428b) — which he goes on to identify with the knowledge required by the guardians: ‘with this a person does not deliberate on behalf of any of the elements in the city, but for the whole city itself — how it may best have dealings with itself and with the other cities’ (428c–d). It is normally rather dangerous to draw an inference from the absence or rarity of a word to the absence or rarity of the idea expressed by the word.

The late Colin Macleod's commentary on Iliad 24 (Cambridge, 1982) has rightly received praise for its sensitivity to the nuances of Homeric language and its appreciation of the entire poem as a carefully constructed work of art. Although reluctant to accept the more radical solutions proposed by the ‘oral’ school, Macleod showed himself fully aware of the contribution made by the oral theory towards elucidating the history of the epic. Nevertheless, his commentary is concerned principally with the Iliad as we have it: a poem which is at one level a masterly re-telling of saga but at another a sublime tragedy, commiserating the sorrows inseparable from human existence and holding up for our admiration the heroes who nobly confront pain and death. I believe that much, and probably most, of the Iliad can and should be viewed in this light. The last book of all, as Macleod himself has shown, offers especially rich rewards to an interpreter who keeps in the front of his mind the overriding aims of the great poet. Yet Macleod's method, like any other single method, will never yield a fully satisfactory answer on all occasions. However the ‘definitive’ or ‘monumental’ composition of the Iliad was brought about, it formed only one stage (though from our point of view incomparably the most important stage) in the development of the Greek epic. Our Iliad cannot have been the first or the only treatment, on a large scale, of the matter of Troy.

Much has been written on the genesis of the pseudo-hesiodic Shield of Heracles — so much, that true progress is difficult to discern among the welter of theories. But some has been made, although the conclusions that have been reached must be regarded as likely hypotheses rather than proven facts. In this article I propose to proceed from some of these conclusions, ensuring that they are as firmly grounded as possible, to an assessment of how this poem's version of the combat of Heracles and Cycnus relates to the likely circumstances and occasion of its original performance. This will involve considering the legend's variants (including one from the Cycle that has not been discussed in relation to the Aspis), and a new look at the first half of the Homeric Hymn to Pythian Apollo.

A persistent ancient tradition has it that a man named Lycambes promised his daughter Neoboule in marriage to the poet Archilochus of Paros, that he subsequently refused Archilochus, and that the poet attacked Lycambes and his daughters with such ferocity that they all committed suicide. When we reflect that the iambographer Hipponax drove his enemies Bupalus and Athenis and Old Comedy a man named Poliager to suicide, that the ancestress of iambos, Iambe, killed herself, and that all these suicides, like those of Lycambes and his daughters, took the form of hanging, we will not take too seriously the ending of the story of Archilochus' relations with Lycambes and his family.

However, it seems now to be generally accepted, at least among English-speaking scholars, that the whole Lycambes tradition is to be rejected. The present note seeks to demonstrate that this extreme scepticism is misguided. I shall begin with a survey of Archilochus' references to Lycambes and his family to ascertain how far the indirect tradition is consistent with the surviving fragments.

Lycambes appears to have played a consistent role in Archilochus, as far as the fragments allow us to see. In fr. 38 he appears as the father of two daughters (οἴην Λυκάμβεω παῖδα τ⋯ν ύπερτέρην), in fr. 33 (where the voice of ‘the daughter of Lycambes’ is mentioned) as the father of at least one daughter. In fr. 71 his role cannot be determined. But in fr. 54, if his name is correctly restored in v. 8, he may again figure as the father of a daughter, for a female is mentioned in the fragment, whether for good or ill. If his patronymic is correctly supplied in fr. 57.7, it may be significant that the letters πατρ occur in the same verse.

The true chronology of the Pentekontaetia is difficult, perhaps impossible, to establish conclusively. The events between 477 and 432 were of the greatest possible importance: these years saw the creation of the Athenian empire and a precipitous decline in Spartiate manpower, drastic political realignments involving nearly every state in Hellas, and military activity often rising to a crescendo scarcely matched at the peak of the Peloponnesian War. Indeed, one might strongly argue that the fifty-odd years prior to 432 had a substantially greater historical significance than the three decades of war which followed, as well as a greater degree of political and military drama. But the Pentekontaetia lacks the unifying historical narrative of a Herodotus, let alone a Thucydides, and this one deficiency has caused events of the utmost significance to fade into near obscurity. There is scarcely a single political or military occurrence during the Fifty Years which can be dated to closer than a year or two, and in some cases, proposed dates have ranged over the better part of a decade. With no firm chronological framework, historical analysis degenerates into guesswork and speculation, especially if even the relative order of events is in dispute. In cognizance of this need, this paper seeks to present portions of a new chronology of the Pentekontaetia, one differing in several very significant features from those previously suggested. The severely limited nature of the available evidence precludes any hope of firmly establishing the validity of any one dating scheme over its rivals; the best we can hope for is plausibility.

Pythian 11 is usually reckoned to be a particularly problematic Pindaric ode. I hope to show that it is not, and in the process make some points which will have a bearing on interpretation of some of Pindar's other odes. Rather than go through the whole poem step by step, I shall concentrate on the main problems and on some particular passages.

The most disputed problem is the myth. What is the relevance of the story of Agamemnon's return from Troy, his murder by Clytemnestra, and her murder by Orestes, all of which takes up the central part of the poem? The myth appears even more irrelevant because after telling it Pindar seems to acknowledge that it was a mistake to have told it in the first place. What does he mean by saying (lines 38–40) that he went off course when he told it?

The second major problem comes after the myth and again concerns Pindar's apparently veering off suddenly into irrelevance. No sooner has he catalogued the victories of the winner's family than he launches into a denunciation of tyrannies and announces his support of moderation (lines 52–3). Why does he do that?

The poem ends, after the social and political comments, with an epode devoted to Castor and Polydeuces, Spartan heroes, and the Theban hero Iolaos. Are they a sign that Pindar puts his hope in an alliance of Thebes with Sparta to win freedom from Athens? And was Pindar in the myth ‘telling us not only what Thrasydaios of Thebes the victor is, but also what he is not: he is not exposed to the kinds of peril that plagued the great house of Atreus?’

Modern interpretation tends to take E. Med. 639, ‘driving from the senses over a second bed’ (θυμ⋯ν ⋯κπλήξασ' ⋯τέροις ⋯π⋯ λέκτροις), found within the petition of the chorus that ‘dread Cypris never…inflict angry arguments and insatiate quarrels’ (637–40a), as referring to a second bed that might allure these women themselves rather than one that might allure their husbands. None the less, the latter interpretation seems to be recommended by both the contents and the context of the line; it is also consistent with Euripidean idiom. As to the context, v. 639 is found in the second stasimon. An examination of the attitude of the chorus toward Medea up to this point may guide us towards a fuller understanding of the phrase.

In her opening speech in the first episode (214ff.) Medea, who was betrayed by the husband for whom she left family and country (252ff.), persuades the already sympathetic chorus (136–8, 178f., 182) to side with her as underprivileged women in a world dominated by egocentric men (230ff.). In the first pair of strophes of the following stasimon (410–30) they accept Medea's division of human beings into ‘the female stock’ (419) and ‘the race of males’ (429) and sing of male perfidy and discrimination against women. They stress their own personal involvement by replacing ‘women’ with ‘I’ and ‘we’ in five of the seven references to the second sex (415 and 422 ‘my’, 423 and 430 ‘our’, 428 ‘I’).

Our information about the Athenian politician Syrakosios is entirely derived from Ar. Birds 1297 and the scholia thereon. Syrakosios here figures among a long list of Athenians who are said to be nicknamed after various birds:

δοκεῖ δ⋯ κα⋯ ψήɸισμα τεθεικέναι μ⋯ κωμῳδεῖσθαι ⋯νομαστί τινα, ὡς Φρύνιχος ⋯ν Μονοτρόπῳ ɸησί [fr. 26 Kock]· “ψ⋯ρ' ἔχοι Συρακόσιον. ⋯πιɸαν⋯ς γ⋯ρ αὐτῷ κα⋯ μέγα τύχοι. ⋯ɸείλετο γ⋯ρ κωμῳδεῖν οὕς ⋯πεθύμουν.” δι⋯ πικρότερον αὐτῷ προσɸέρονται, ὡς λάλῳ δ⋯ τ⋯ν “ κίτταν” παρέθηκεν

What we know of citizenship, marriage and political status in Athens in the fourth century suggests that they were matters of no little public concern governed by a body of law which left few, if any, significant loopholes or anomalies. The ‘descent group’ criterion for citizenship had triumphed over the possible alternatives. The fundament of the system was the Periklean law (or laws) of 451/0, re-enacted in 403/2, and prescribing double endogamy — that is, citizen birth through both parents — as the normal qualification for a citizen (astos). Whether this fifth-century legislation declared mixed marriages (astos with xene, xenos with aste) positively invalid or merely deterred them indirectly, through the disabilities falling upon the children, remains unclear. It is certain, however, that by the time [Demosthenes] 59 was delivered, in the 340s, both the parties to and the accessories in such marriages were breaking the law. ‘At that time an alien who joined the oikos of a citizen as husband or wife (the word synoikein implies a purported marriage, not mere concubinage) could be prosecuted by graphe and, if found guilty, was sold as a slave; the citizen man who thus received an alien woman into his oikos as his wife was fined 1000 drachmas. A man who, acting as her kyrios, gave an alien woman to a citizen for marriage could also be prosecuted by graphe, and if he was found guilty he was disfranchised and his property was confiscated’.

The Hiero is an account in Socratic conversational form of a meeting between Simonides the poet and Hiero the tyrant of Syracuse; it was written by Xenophon of Athens in the fourth century b.c., but is set in the fifth, when the historical Simonides and Hiero lived and met. The subject they are portrayed discussing is the relative happiness of the tyrant and private individual. Plato also makes this a topic of discussion in his Republic. However, whereas Plato writes a regular Socratic dialogue, Xenophon does not, for though he represents his characters using Socratic conversation, Socrates himself does not appear; the characteros of the Hiero are Simonides and Hiero, poet and tyrant. This is the problem of the Hiero. It requires explanation.

The action of the Hiero is initiated by Simonides and begins in the following way:

Simonides the poet once came to the court of Hiero the tyrant. When they were both at leisure, Simonides said, ‘Would you be willing to tell me, Hiero, something you are likely to know better than I?’ And Hiero said, ‘What is it that I should know better than you, who are such a wise man?’ He replied, ‘I know that you were once a private individual and are now a tyrant. Since you have experienced both conditions, you are likely to know better than I how tyrannical life differs from private life in respect of men's pleasures and griefs’ (1.1–2).

The identification of Simonides as a wise man who nevertheless seeks wisdom from others establishes his Socratic nature from the start.

The Cratylus begins with a paradox; it ends with a paradox; and it has a paradox in between. But this disturbing characteristic of the dialogue has been overshadowed, not to say ignored, in the literature. For commentators have seen it as their task to discover exactly what theory of language Plato himself, despite his declared perplexity, intends to adopt as he rejects the alternatives of Hermogenes and Cratylus. A common view, then, has been to suppose that the ⋯πορίαι of the dialogue are mere camouflage for the hidden dogma, whatever that may be. A favoured candidate, of course, has been the theory of transcendent forms, in some preliminary version. As a consequence, the dialogue has often been seen as a precursor to the great metaphysical works of Plato's middle period such as the Phaedo or the Republic.

Not so, I shall argue. My case is that this dialogue centres upon a series of paradoxes which are both powerful and unsettling. Their final effect is to attack the theory of forms, not to defend it. They are, I suggest, genuine proposals of philosophical difficulty, rather than mere artifice to disguise an idealist truth. As such, they belong, and may clearly be seen to belong, with works of the critical period which subject the theory of forms to scrutiny. Thus the ⋯πορίαι of the Cratylus have their counterparts in the Parmenides, the Theaetetus and the Sophist. I propose, then, that the dialogue was written during the late, critical period of Plato's philosophical activity.

M. I. Finley in his Politics in the Ancient World (Cambridge, 1983), 92–6 has recently cast doubt on the extent to which religious phenomena were taken seriously in ancient times. We believe that in stressing the reasons for scepticism he has overlooked much positive evidence for the impact of religious scruples on political behaviour and that in generalising he has undervalued the differences in this respect between ancient societies. The significance of some of this positive evidence is admittedly uncertain since in civilian life scruples might be easy to observe without great suffering. The acid test is in time of war, so that is the concern of our present enquiry. That attitudes varied can be shown only by comparing societies. We have here limited our discussion to three for which the evidence is well preserved: the world of the Greek city before Alexander the Great, Rome before Constantine, and the Jews in the Hellenistic and Roman period. Elucidation of the reasons for their distinct attitudes would reveal much about each of these societies and its religious practices and conceptions, but there will be space here only to show that considerable variety did indeed exist.

Most ancient peoples assumed that their gods approved of war; the pacifism of some pre-Constantinian Christians was exceptional. Nor did such rules in combat as were observed necessarily have a religious foundation. Ancient like modern scruples were often based on moral and humanitarian grounds, as in the treatment of corpses and civilians; the gods, as the guardians of general morality, might be involved in such matters, but only at a remove.

One of four laws passed by Clodius early in 58 b.c. in some way modified the regulations governing obnuntiatio, the right possessed by magistrates and augurs to obstruct proceedings of the popular assemblies through announcement of unfavourable omens. The precise nature of the change is obscured by the fact that our main source, Cicero, describes it, as he does all of Clodius' legislation, in hyperbolic and polemical terms, alleging that it wholly abolished the right of obnuntiatio, a claim contradicted by other evidence in his writings, which provide many examples of its continuing use. The later ancient sources repeat the substance of Cicero's main allegations and, accordingly, do little to help disentangle the facts from the hyperbole. Inadequate information about the earlier regulations relating to obnuntiatio, which were contained in two laws of the mid-second century, the Leges Aelia et Fufia, further hampers the search for the precise terms of Clodius' amendment.

None of this, however, has discouraged speculation. The problem has exerted a peculiar fascination and has generated a succession of careful studies. Five main hypotheses have emerged: that the right of obnuntiatio was taken from curule magistrates; that it was taken from curule magistrates, but only in relation to legislative comitia; that it was taken from both curule magistrates and tribunes, but only in relation to legislative comitia; that it was abolished entirely, but soon restored by senatorial annulment of the reform; that it was left intact, but the assemblies were empowered to disallow it on any given occasion.

Nisbet and Kraggerud make good cases for taking the ninth Epode as a dramatic recreation of the Actium campaign. Horace begins in fearful anticipation; then the crisis comes, first on land and then on sea; Antony turns to flight; and — even though some danger remains, and there is metus as well as joy at the end of the poem — the celebrations can finally begin. On this reading there remains the familiar problem of vv. 17–20:

at huc frementes uerterunt bis mille equos

Galli canentes Caesarem,

hostiliumque nauium portu latent

puppes sinistrorsum citae.

The first couplet clearly relates to the defection of Amyntas' Galatians, the decisive moment in the fighting on land; the second must describe the crucial battle on sea. There is no problem in portu latent. The fleet has withdrawn, and is skulking in harbour instead of fighting. But what of nauium…puppes sinistrorsum citae? The difficulty is notorious: the secondary sources do not clearly describe any movement ‘toward the left’, and it is hard to see why Horace chooses so enigmatic a phrase to capture the fighting. His audience would not make much of the topographical detail in any case: unless they had been at Actium themselves (and most of his readers of course had not), their reaction to the words would centre on other associations — the contrast between these magnificent puppes (Antony's ships were probably already famed for their size and grandeur) and their undignified sideways movement; the suggestions of ill omen in sinistrorsum.

In classical antiquity Propertius' eloquence was renowned. His successor Ovid referred to the blandi praecepta Properti (Trist. 2.465) and to blandi…Propertius oris (ibid. 5.1.15). Quintilian (10.1.93) stated that to his taste the most tersus and elegans Latin elegist was Tibullus, but sunt qui Propertium malint. Martial (14.189) mentioned the facundi carmen iuuenale Properti.

Turn now from the opinions of ancient authors to those of some modern commentators as they try to elucidate various passages as presented in the extant manuscripts, and you encounter not the adjectives blandus, tersus, elegans, and facundus, but ‘strange’, ‘obscure’, ‘odd’, ‘slovenly’, and the like.

A major reason for such striking differences of opinion should be evident. Ovid, to whom Propertius was blandi oris, read a text separated from Propertius' autograph by at most a few decades. Modern scholars, however, must form their text from a few relatively late manuscripts, none earlier than c. 1200, in which Propertius' eloquence has been obscured by over twelve centuries of careless blundering and deliberate interpolation by a succession of scribes.

A generally accepted example of deliberate interpolation in the Propertian archetype is found at 2.32.3-6:

nam quid Praenesti dubias, o Cynthia, sortes,

quid petis Aeaei moenia Telegoni?

cur tua te Herculeum deportant esseda Tibur?

Appia cur totiens te uia †ducit anum†?

(ducit FLP, dicit N), where the name of some neighbouring town is required in the fourth verse to balance Praeneste, Tusculum, and Herculeum in the preceding three.

I offer further notes on the text of Propertius. In the apparatus Ω is employed to indicate the archetype, i.e. the consensus of N and two separate groups of humanistic manuscripts that I denote by the letters Π and Λ. The Π MSS (FLP) derive from a lost manuscript of Petrarch, itself copied from the manuscript A (which is not extant after 2.1.63). The Λ MSS are largely a group isolated by J. L. Butrica (The Manuscript Tradition of Propertius, Phoenix suppl. vol. 17, Toronto, 1984, 62–95), which derive from a third medieval source discovered by Poggio and brought to Italy, apparently in 1423. The oldest Λ manuscript is Vat. lat. 3273, copied by Panormita in Florence in 1427, here called T. Another independent descendant is S (Monacensis Univ. Cim. 22), written in Florence c. 1460 by Poggio's son Jacopo. Three other Florentine copies of the 1460s descend from a single source later than Λ: M (Paris. B. N. lat. 8233, formerly μ); U (Vat. Urb. lat. 641, formerly υ); and R (Bodmer. 141, once Abbey 5989). Butrica would cite also C (Romanus Casanatensis 15), written by Pomponio Leto c. 1470; but its witness is vitiated by the frequency both of error and of interpolation and its presence would confuse rather than clarify our picture of Λ. On the other hand I include the pair J (Parmensis Palat. Parm. 140, Florence, c. 1440) and K (Vratislauiensis Univ. Akc. 1948 KN 197, Padua 1469).

The last chapter of Politian's first Miscellanea dealt with the amica silentia lunae through which the Greeks sailed back to Troy (Aen. 2.255). He argued that the phrase should not be taken literally, as a statement that Troy fell at the new moon, but in an extended sense, as a poetic indication that the moon had not yet risen when the Greeks set sail. This reading had one merit: it explained how Virgil's moon could be silent while the Greeks were en route but shine during the battle for the city (Aen. 2.340). Yet Politian's effort to identify the phase of the moon described by Virgil was anything but clear:

Non igitur aut sera fuerit aut pernox luna, tum nec lunae quidem omnino coitus, sed tempus arbitror potius quamdiu illa non luceret.

Accordingly, though his arguments were sometimes repeated by commentators and teachers, they won little assent from scholars who occupied themselves seriously with the passage. In his Adversaria Turnebus took silentia lunae as referring ‘ad noctis taciturnitatem…non ad interlunium’. In the first chapter of his De rebus per epistolam quaesitis Giano Parrasio sharply criticised the fuzziness of Politian's explanation: ‘Ambages istae sunt, ambages’. More important, he quoted a line from the Little Iliad:

νὺξ μ⋯ν ἔην μέσση, λαμπρ⋯ δ' ⋯πέτελλε σελήνη.

This he rendered ‘Nox erat intempesta, nitebat et aurea coelo Luna’, and inferred from it that the moon had been up when Troy fell. In his Virgilius collation scriptorum Graecorum illustratus, finally, Fulvio Orsini published a scholium on Euripides' Hecuba, one which quoted both the line from the Little Iliad and an analysis of it by the Peripatetic Callisthenes. He too took the line as refuting Politian.

Within the increasingly complex picture which has emerged in recent years of the manuscript tradition of Ovid's Amores the relationship of the two earliest MSS appears to remain firm: cod. P or Puteaneus (Par. Lat. 8242) of the 9th or early 10th century, which begins at Am. 1.2.51, was copied, probably directly, from the second half of the 9th-century cod. R or Regius (Par. Lat. 7311), whose first half now ends at Am. 1.2.50. This view, which originates in S. Tafel's dissertation of 1910 and lies behind the stemma constructed by E. J. Kenney for his OCT edition of 1961 (p. vi), has come to be taken by Ovidian scholars (with the exception, however, of Munari, who left the question open) to be the truth. My purpose in this first section is to show that this idea is unlikely to be the truth and, in the form in which it has most strongly been put forward, cannot be the truth. In the second section consequences for the manuscript tradition as a whole are explored.

First we shall need some details. P, the slightly later manuscript, consists in all of 99 folia, of which 1–54 contain most, but not all, of the Heroides — not all, because they are in a lacunose state, a point to which we shall return in greater detail later. Foll. 55–6 are blank sheets of paper, not parchment, clearly inserted at a much later date during rebinding.

At the age of twenty-five, Gn. Pompeius acquired the spectacular cognomen of Magnus. According to Plutarch (Pomp. 13), the name came either from the acclamation of his army in Africa, or at the instigation of Sulla. According to Livy, the practice began from the toadying of Pompeius' circle (‘ab adsentatione familiar’, 30.45.6). The cognomen invited play. At the Ludi Apollinares of July 59, Cicero tells us, the actor Diphilus won ‘a dozen encores’ when he pronounced, from a lost tragedy, the line ‘nostra miseria tu es magnus’. Four or five years later Catullus scored a fine hit, filching Pompeius' cognomen and giving it to his zealously competitive father-in-law: ‘Caesaris uisens monimenta magni’ (11.10). In Lucan's Bellum Civile such plays on the cognomen are elevated into something of considerable power, testifying to a consistent controlling design, of the sort which many still deny the poem.

When Pompeius first appears he is compared with Caesar, to his detriment: ‘nec coiere pares’ (1.129). So much for Pompeius' vaunted intolerance of an equal, of which we have just been reminded: ‘nec quemquam iam ferre potest Caesarue priorem | Pompeiusue parem’ (125f.). Many of the images in this introductory section have a programmatic power, and will recur. With ‘nec coiere pares’ Lucan presents the two as an ill-matched pair of gladiators. The metaphor is ubiquitous. Note, in particular, 5.1–3, and 6.3, ‘parque suum uidere dei’. We are further told that Pompeius seeks ‘fama’, is a ‘popularis’, indulges the people, basks in the applause he receives from the mob in his theatre: ‘famaeque petitor | multa dare in uolgus, totus popularibus auris | impelli plausuque sui gaudere theatri’ (131–3). We will return later to this complex of ideas.