It has been easy to take the apparently detached viewpoint of the two early Greek epics as actually objective, a window on a ‘Heroic Age’, on a ‘Homeric society’ and its values. We used to ask whether ‘Homeric society’ belongs to the poets' own time or to some earlier one. We still ask how to characterize and explain the ways in which the ‘Homeric world’ differs from any world that we can accept as having existed: we answer with phrases such as ‘poetic exaggeration’ and ‘epic distance’. We have constructed ‘Homeric society’, but it remains an isolate. It can tell us nothing in return of the poets' intentions, or of the society of their time, unless we have a working hypothesis as to the place in that society that was held by the poets and their audiences.

Agamemnon's apology (Il. 19.95ff.), in particular that portion which relates the story of Zeus and Ate, contains a number of oddities and peculiarities. This was recognised in antiquity, as various remarks in the Homeric scholia testify. Further inconcinnities have been unearthed by more recent scholars, who by and large belonged to the school of Homeric analysts. Although the presuppositions of this school are now generally regarded as outmoded and inappropriate, we should not underestimate the services of the scholars who drew the relevant unique features to the world's attention. Ways of explaining the oddities may have changed, but the oddities themselves are still well worth considering.

The sea of love (a convenient heading under which to group the various marine and nautical metaphors, similes, parallels, allusions, and analogies applied to love and sex) was one of the more important amatory figures. It featured in both Greek and Latin from earliest until latest times, was employed in several genres of verse (dominating whole poems on occasion), appearing in prose as well, and reached an advanced stage of development in the hands of the Alexandrians and particularly the Augustans. The purpose of this article is to provide the first comprehensive and detailed study of the sea of love from the archaic period until late antiquity.

The omen of the door and the eagle at Iliad 24.314–21 appears to have sparked scant scholarly interest, but deserves careful attention. The omen itself forms part of an analogy, for the eagle is likened in the size of its wingspan to a large, barred door. This simile might seem unremarkable, merely a convenient means of depicting great size, a casual juxtaposition of two ordinary nouns. The omen, on the whole, might be dismissed as nothing more than a conventional expression of divine favor. But closer scrutiny will reveal that there is, in fact, nothing arbitrary or haphazard in the selection of the terms of the analogy. Appreciation of the elegance and subtlety of the simile in turn reveals the full import of the omen.

In fragment 38 Diels–Kranz, Empedocles turns to describe the creation of ‘everything that we now see’:

γαî τε κα πντος πςλυκμων ἠδ' ὐγρς ρ

ιτν ἠδ' αἰθρ σΦγγων περ κκλον ἂπαντα.

Here, as so often with Empedocles, the influence of Zeller and Diels has proved decisive in determining later interpretations of the text. They understood the words ιτν ἠδ' αἰθρ as meaning ‘and Titan aither’; ‘; the text has been mistranslated ever since. In fact the conjunction ἠδ is never postponed. This means that—as scholars earlier in the nineteenth century well understood—‘Titan” must be an item on its own, distinct from the aither:

earth and wavy sea and moist aer,

Titan and aither binding everything in its circular grip.

Those who write about early Greek literature often assume that each item in the ancient vocabulary answers to a single concept in the world-view of its users. It seems reasonable to hope that the body of ideas represented by a particular Greek word will frame one's discussion better than any question that could be asked in English: so that a cautious scholar might prefer to discuss the phenomenon called αἰδώς, for example, than to plunge into a study of Greek ideas of ‘honour and shame' irrespective of whether those anthropologists’ labels mark off a single body of ancient ideas. But the question is not merely one of common sense: in recent years, for example, a strategy of extrapolating deep ideas from single words has been deliberately developed by such scholars as Gregory Nagy, who constantly moves back and forth between the semantic patterns of individual words and corresponding thematic patterns found in myths. Here is a recent example from his analysis of Pindar's conception of the unity between athletic victory and mythical heroism:

In Pindaric usage ἂεθλος applies equally to the contests of athletes and to the life-and-death ordeals of heroes. We have already seen from the myth of the chariot race of Pelops that the ordeals of heroes on the level of myth correspond aetiologically to the contests of athletes on the level of ritual, in that the myths can motivate the rituals. Now we see that a word like ἂεθλος can collapse the very distinction between the myth and the ritual.

In his analysis of the social and economic conditions of intellectual activity in ancient Greece, Gentili argues that the value of poetry underwent a notable change in the late archaic period. Poetry came to be produced within a contractual relationship between patrons and poets, it became a commercial good available to the one who could pay for it and its value was expressed no longer by honouring the poet but by paying for his product. At the time of Solon and Theognis the producers of poetry had been aristocratic members of the polis giving political advice to their peers and gaining renown by the quality of their advice. Yet Simonides and Pindar wrote under different social conditions. Gentili writes:

Fully conscious by now of the dignity and importance of his role, the poet also becomes aware of its [i.e. poetry's] ‘commercial’ value. He puts his own sophia at the disposal of the highest bidder, thereby creating a basis for the tendency to regard wealth and poetic ‘wisdom’ as interchangeable moral equivalents.

Just about every odd year in the early fifth century B.C. has been proposed as the date of the Nemean victory of Pytheas from Aegina, celebrated in Pindar's Fifth Nemean and Bacchylides' thirteenth ode. Scholars have attempted to date both odes with the help of Isthmian 6 and 5, which celebrate victories of a member of the same family and the latter of which at 48ff. refers to Salamis as a recent event. Various interpretations of the victory catalogues in I. 6 and 5 have led to various dates for N. 5 and B. 13. The fullest analysis of the material is that by Severyns, who argues that N. 5 and B. 13 must be at least seven years earlier than I. 5. In his conclusion (pp. 50–51), however, he still suggests three possible dates for N. 5 and B. 13: 487, 489, and 485 B.C., in what he considers to be the order of likelihood.

Protagoras believes that all beliefs are true. Since Protagoras' belief that all beliefs are true is itself a belief, it follows (somewhat trivially, perhaps?) from Protagoras' belief that all beliefs are true that Protagoras' belief is true. But what about the belief that Protagoras' belief is false? Doesn't it follow, by parallel reasoning and not at all trivially, that if all beliefs are true and there is a belief that Protagoras' belief is false, then Protagoras' belief is false?

The Menexenus is also known as Plato's Epitaphios or Funeral Oration. The body of the work is a fictional funeral oration, composed as an example of what should be said at a public funeral for Athenians who have fallen in war. The oration is framed by an encounter between Socrates and a certain Menexenus, an eager young man who thinks he has reached the end of education and philosophy, but who is still rather young to take an active party in the city's affairs. Nevertheless, he is anxious to follow in the tradition of his family, which (Socrates tells us) has always provided someone to look after the Athenians (τινα μν πιμελητν). Menexenus' interest in public affairs has led him to attend a meeting of the Council at which a speaker was to be chosen to compose and deliver the funeral oration at the imminent public funeral. However, no final decision was reached at the meeting, and Menexenus remarks that by the time the choice is made, the speaker will have almost to improvise his speech. Socrates gently mocks Menexenus' respect for public orators, saying that speeches about a dead person follow a predictable pattern; a speaker exaggerates all a dead person's good points and minimizes all the bad, so that one who has died appears a paragon of virtue even if he was not really good for much. Socrates claims that listening to such public orations, when not only individuals but also the state is eulogized, always makes him feel that in living in Athens he is living in the Islands of the Blessed.

In a recent article, C. H. Kahn addresses an ‘old scholarly myth’, namely the idea that Book I of the Republic began life as an earlier, independent dialogue and was subsequently adapted to serve as a prelude to the much longer work that we know. The case for this hypothesis rests both on stylometric considerations and on the many ‘Socratic’ features that Book I, unlike the rest of the Republic, shares with Plato's earlier works. Having disposed of the positive arguments in favour of the ‘myth’, Kahn turns to the contrary—and in his view overwhelming—evidence that Book I was composed from the start as an integral part of the longer Republic. He catalogues 12 passages in Book I, accounting for roughly half its length, whose full significance will, he argues, only emerge if they are seen as instances of prolepsis, deliberate anticipations of what is to come in later books.

Although there is a long tradition, going back at least to the tenth century, that would see Aristophanes' Birds (performed in the spring of 414 B.C.) as somehow related to the exile in Lacedaemon of Alcibiades, and to the fortification of the Attic township of Decelea by his Spartan hosts (Arg. Av. 1 Coulon), current scholarship surrounding Birds is firmly in the hands of those who are antipathetic to seeing the creation of Cloudcuckooland in terms of a political allegory. ‘The majority of scholars today…flatly reject a political reading’; Birds has ‘no strong and obvious connection with a topical question of public interest’; ‘attempts to find in Birds any extensive allegorical comment…are unconvincing’. Not only is it widely believed that ‘Birds… is strangely free of political concerns’. but also that ‘the theme of the Birds is absurdity itself…it is about meaninglessness’ (ibid. 179). This is a tradition that descends from A. W. von Schlegel, for whom Birds was ‘merely a “Lustspiel”, full of imagination and the marvellous, with amusing touches at everything, but with no particular object’. This approach was reinforced by the fact that by the second half of the nineteenth century, the allegorists had apparently spun out of control. By 1879, there were no fewer than 79 accounts of the Tendenz of the Birds —some political, some ‘escapist fantasy’–on offer. The most influential allegorical interpretation of Birds was J. W. Suvern's study of 1826, but which is now generally dismissed, and only mentioned to be held up as a warning to those who might be tempted to take the allegorical route. This paper takes a different point of departure, namely Pierre Brumoy's Le thétre des grecs (Paris, 1730), an allegorical treatment that is full of good sense, and which was too hastily dismissed by Suvern, and ignored by others.

Critical discussion of Andromache has almost invariably focused on the question of unity. As everyone who has ever read a critical account of the play knows, the action falls into three parts: the plot against Andromache by Hermione and her father, foiled by Peleus; Hermione's subsequent panicky flight with Orestes; and Neoptolemos' murder at Orestes' instigation. The play appears not to possess ‘unity of action’ in the strict Aristotelian sense: there is, for instance, no tight causal connection between the plot against Andromache and Orestes' plot against Neoptolemos. Troubled by this, critics have made a variety of attempts to find unity of another sort: unity of ‘theme’. Each has asked, ‘What is Andromache about?’, taking the question in an absolute sense; and has assumed that one must search for a single answer.

In the famous opening chapter of the Metaphysics Aristotle, in his analysis of σοϕία, introduces the important concept μπειρία, ‘experience’. In the course of the discussion he cites the sophist Polus, 981a 1–5:

κα δοκεῖ σχεδν πιστήμῃ κα τέχνῃ μοιον εἶναι μπειρία, ποβαίνει δ’ πιστήμη κα τέχνη δι τς μπειρίας τοῖς νθρώποις μν γρ μπειρία τέχνην ποίησεν, ς ϕησι Πλος, ρθς λέγων, δ’ πειρία τύχην.

The interrogation of Meletus in the Apology at 24c4–28al is not infrequently seen as a typical case of all that is intellectually and artistically dissatisfying in Plato's practice of the genre of philosophical dialogue: not only are we presented with a philosopher who makes some claim to being committed to setting a particularly stringent standard for honesty in argumentation making sophistical arguments, but we are presented also with a cardboard interlocutor who is forced by the hand of Plato to acquiesce to those arguments in a fashion that is completely dissatisfying to the reader. The best anyone seems to do to save Plato from these charges of artistic incompetence and intellectual dishonesty is to appeal to such a level of historical accuracy for the text that the stupidity of Meletus' responses can be attributed to the stupidity of Meletus himself, or to point out features of the political and legal situation that might prevent Meletus from answering the questions by drawing on his true motivation—which is presumably more coherent. Taylor says of this passage:

The humour of the situation is that the prosecutor cannot venture to say what he means by either of his charges without betraying the fact that, owing to the ‘amnesty’, the matters complained of are outside of the competency of the court… Hence, when Meletus is pressed to explain what he means, he has to take refuge in puerile nonsense.

Over sixty years ago, it was written of early Greek tyranny that it ‘had arisen only in towns where an industrial and commercial regime tended to prevail over rural economy, but where an iron hand was needed to mobilize the masses and to launch them in assault on the privileged classes… But tyranny nowhere endured. After it had performed the services which the popular classes expected of it, after it had powerfully contributed to material prosperity and to the development of democracy, it disappeared with an astonishing rapidity… The people regarded tyranny only as an expedient. They used it as a battering ram with which to demolish the citadel of the oligarchs, and when their end had been achieved they hastily abandoned the weapon which wounded their hands.’ Thus Gustav Glotz, whose view found favour with de Ste Croix. He too concluded with appeal to Aristotle, who in a famous passage declared that unlike monarchy, which arises to help ‘the great and good’ (οί πιεικεȋς) against the People, and the monarch who is appointed as one of ‘the great and good’, ‘the tyrant comes from the People and the multitude to confront the men of note(οί γνώριμοι) and prevent the People being unjustly treated by them. This is clear from what actually happened, for, generally speaking, the majority of the tyrants became tyrants from being demagogues so to speak, having got themselves trusted by their abusive attacks on the men of note.’ Against this view of Aristotle and all his latter-day satellites, this paper is directed.

In discussions of the complex and controversial problem of Spartan land-tenure,1 the mysterious ‘ρχαῖα μοῖρα’ (archaia moira) has assumed an importance out of all proportion to its prominence in the sources, for the actual phrase only occurs once in extant literature. It owes its importance to the fact that the reference to it has been used to support the theory that there were two categories of land in Sparta, a theory which in turn is held to explain how, when all Spartans supposedly owned equal estates, there could nevertheless be rich ones and poor ones, as authors such as Herodotos, Thucydides, Xenophon, and Aristotle make clear. The answer, it is claimed, is that although all Spartans possessed an equal share of one category of land, they could own more or less of the other category.2

Robert Wardy's recent The Chain of Change (Cambridge, 1990) has again brought to the fore the question of the role of Physics VII in the development of Aristotle's conception of motion. Wardy reads VII in conjunction with VIII, and argues that the former is the precursor of the latter in the development of the conception of a cosmic unmoved mover. He also claims that this account is the only one that can save us from a version of self-motion made unacceptable by Aristotle's hylomorphic account developed elsewhere. This is what Wardy thinks enables him to infer that the account of motion in Physics VII leads directly into the argument about unmoved movers in Physics VIII. I want first to show why I think that Wardy's thesis about the conceptual links between VII and VIII need not hold. This disconnection of VII from its current context, taken together with the thesis of W. D. Ross and others that VII was originally a separate work, and that of the two competing versions of VII, the α-version is the preferred text, opens the way to very different philosophical conclusions from the ones that Wardy offers.

The Periegesis of Pausanias has finally entered the world of serious literature. Long after the way was first shown, the Magnesian has arrived and duly taken his place in the intellectual world of the second century: a pilgrim to the past. Yet he was no bookish, library-bound bore. Recent studies have transformed our opinion of him as a recorder of the sites and treasures of what was, even to him, antiquity, ‘His faithfulness in reporting what he saw has, time and time again, been proven at a large number of sites and could easily be demonstrated at a good many others.’ ‘The very fact that the second-century A.D. traveller Pausanias wrote at such length about the sites and monuments of Greece is itself indicative of his most important attitude towards antiquities. That is, he thought them of sufficient value to be worth recording and thought it worth travelling extensively in mainland Greece over a period of many years to see them for himself.’ And so inevitably, as respect for the author has grown, the desire to lay bare his soul has followed. Critics are unanimous in their view of a man sensitive to the resonance of the ancient and power of the past. On occasion a Herodotean fascination with the mutability of man's lot bubbles to the surface, indeed we may surmise Herodotus to have been an important influence on the Periegesis in several fundamental respects. Above all he was a man of deep learning and keen interest in the past and a faithful recorder of its remains. Archaeologists and art-historians concur.

It is a truism of modern discussions of Athenian law and oratory that the Athenians regarded adultery as a more heinous offence than rape. This consensus has been challenged in a valuable paper by E. M. Harris. But although Harris has successfully (at least in my view) placed in question a number of assumptions about this area of Athenian law and ethics, I wish to argue that the traditional position is in its broad outlines correct. In this as in so many aspects of Athenian law it is difficult to make firm statements. Firstly, for the Athenian system as a whole we lack evidence for many issues of legal prescription and procedure for the period before the restoration of the democracy, and our evidence is frequently lacunose even for the period after the restoration. As a result we are presented with a ‘snapshot’ of the Athenian system at a particular stage in its development and are rarely able to trace chronological developments in detail and frequently unable to trace them in broad outline. A further result of this ‘snapshot’ effect is a false impression of coherence. Legislative measures belonging to different periods are likely to present themselves as the result of an integrated design rather than the product of accretion. Finally, and most importantly, our sources distort. Occasionally they provide information on the laws and on legal procedure in passing, in order to contextualize an argument or narrative; but in general they are presenting us with information in an attempt to persuade.