Despite the importance of the Judgement of Paris in the story of the Trojan War, the Iliad has only one explicit reference to it. This occurs, rather out of the blue, in the final book of the poem in a dispute among the gods about the treatment of Hector's body (24.25–30). Achilles keeps dragging the body around behind his chariot, but Apollo protects it with his golden aegis (24.18–21). Apollo then speaks among the gods and attacks the conduct of Achilles (24.33–54), claiming at the end that he offends the dumb earth (24.54). Other gods too have their concerns about what is going on, and they keep trying to get Hermes to snatch the body away (24.23–4). The three most powerful divine enemies of Troy, however, Hera, Poseidon and Athena, will have none of this. They remain as hostile to Troy and Priam and his people as they ever were, and it is in this context that the Judgement of Paris is mentioned:

When Immanuel Bekker, the editor to whom Aristotle owes his page numbers, travelled to Paris in search of manuscripts between 1810 and 1812, Theognis had been a mainstay of classical scholarship for many hundreds of years. Even so, the small tenth-century parchment volume Bekker discovered there came as a surprise. Not only did it contain a text of the Theognidea which was four hundred years older than the earliest codex known so far; it also added an entirely new section of 176 lines. Presented by the scribe as ‘book 2’ of the Elegiac Poems by Theognis (ελεγειων β´), they revolved around the theme of pederastic love – until then a topic not usually associated with the moralist from Megara. In spite of their similarities to what had now turned into ‘book 1’, they were dismissed as a late forgery almost instantly after Bekker's 1815 edition. Although that view came to be challenged later and can now be considered obsolete, even van Groningen's first comprehensive commentary to the Theognidea, published in 1966 and not superseded since, breaks off where the second book would have begun. Until today, research on this part of the Theognidean corpus has not grown much beyond a trickle flowing at some distance from the classical mainstream.

This article aims to throw light on a recurrent structural feature of Heraclitus' style that, it will be argued, serves as a tool to enrich interpretation of his fragments. Named after the bow image used by the philosopher in B51, the ‘bow composition’ will be presented as a narrative technique developed by Heraclitus to reveal his conception of the world. In B51 we read: οὐ ξυνιᾶσιν ὅκως διαϕερόμενον ἑωυτῶι ὁμολογέει· παλίντροπος ἁρμονίη ὅκωσπερ τόξου καὶ λύρης (‘They don't understand how what is in variance agrees with itself, a reciprocal stretching harmony as in the bow and the lyre’). Following an assumption that will be defended later, I argue that Heraclitus attempts through his text to demonstrate how ‘what is in variance agrees with itself’. One of his strategies to this end would be the bow composition, a way to structure his statements in which its first and last terms share the same root but have subtle suffix or prefix differences in order to depict that while being related (ὁμολογέει) they still maintain some difference (διαϕερόμενον). By means of employing such structure to describe reality Heraclitus would imitate the world order in his word order by providing his audience with an analogy that once perceived in the text would teach them how to correctly interpret nature itself.

By convention epinician poetry claims to be both obligatory and truthful, yet in the intersection of obligation and truth lies a seeming paradox: the poet presents his poetry as commissioned by a patron but also claims to be unbiased enough to convey the truth. In Slater's interpretation Pindar reconciles this paradox by casting his relationship to the patron as one of guest-friendship: when he declares himself a guest-friend of the victor, he agrees to the obligation ‘a) not to be envious of his xenos and b) to speak well of him. The argumentation is: Xenia excludes envy, I am a xenos, therefore I am not envious and consequently praise honestly’. Slater observes that envy may foster bias against the patron, but the problem of pro-patron bias remains: does the poet's friendship with and obligation to his patron produce praise at the expense of truth?

The importance of music for epinician, as for all other types of choral performance in Archaic and Classical Greece, has long been recognized, but the exiguousness of the evidence for the compositional principles behind such music, and for what these poems actually sounded like in performance, has limited scholarly enquiries. Examination of Pindar's texts themselves for evidence of his musical practices was for a long time dominated by extensive and often inconclusive debate about the relations between metres and modes. More recently scholars have begun to explore Pindar's relations to contemporary developments in musical performance, and in doing so have opened up new questions about how music affected audiences as aesthetically and culturally significant in its own right, and how it interacted with the language of the text. This article will investigate the performance scenarios of two of Pindar's epinicians, arguing that in each case the poems contain indications of specific musical accompaniments, and use these scenarios as a starting point for engaging with wider interpretative questions. The self-referential dimension of these compositions will be of particular importance; I shall argue that Pindar deployed a type of musical intertextuality, in which his compositions draw on pre-existing melodic structures, utilizing their cultural associations for the purposes of his own pieces, a process crucial to the dynamics of performance of the poems concerned. By doing so I shall attempt to reach a better understanding of the roles played by music in epinician performance and of Pindar's place in relation to the musical culture in which he worked.

The Watchman's bed is not ‘supervised’ (13 ἐπισκοπουμένην) by dreams; instead, fear ‘stands in attendance’ (14 παραστατεῖ). The images are medical. He is ill; dream-filled sleep would be a good doctor, but the bad doctor fear is already on the job, preventing him from sleeping well.

Only two articles in the past century have attempted reconstructions of this play: Gilbert Norwood in 1930 conjectured a basis in tragic burlesque, specifically a parody of Aeschylus’ Edoni, due largely to the presence of Dionysus and a chorus of Babylonians. An entirely different plot was proposed in 1983 by David Welsh, who took as his starting point Herodotus’ account of the fall of Babylon; he thought that the chorus, envisioned as a group of refugees from the Persian empire, reflected the recent arrival in Athens of the grandson of the Persian primarily credited with the capture of Babylon. Though commentators on Aristophanic comedy and politics often affect to be on firm footing about this play, the total dissimilarity of these two reconstructions actually highlights our ignorance.

Among the most characteristic motifs in Greek mythology is the sexual union of a god with a mortal woman and the resultant birth of a hero. The existence of hexameter poetry listing the women thus favoured – the famous women in the underworld in the eleventh book of the Odyssey, and above all the Eoiai – is evidence of an interest in the women involved, not only in their heroic sons, and suggests that already at an early date the theme was the object not merely of passive reception but of an active consciousness. The Eoiai, indeed, saw such unions as an integral part of an earlier and better age, when mortals and immortals were closer:

ξυναὶ γὰρ τότε δαῖτες ἔσαν, ξυνοὶ δὲ θόωκοι
ἀθανάτων τε θεῶν καταθνητοῖς τ' ἀνθρώπων
(fr. 1 Μ–W)

Every winter in the classical period, on a specifically chosen day, Athenians gathered together to mourn the men who had died in war. According to Thucydides, the bones of the dead killed in that year lay in state for two days before being carried in ten coffins organized by tribe to the dêmosion sêma where they were buried and then a speech was made in honour of the dead men by a man chosen by the city. As his description makes clear, this ceremony was a public event attended not only by citizens and foreigners, but also by the female relatives of the dead men. Other sources report that the polemarchos put on the agôn for those who died in the war and these contests included musical, athletic and hippic competitions. The war-dead also received sacrifices. The occasion combined burial with cult and games usually afforded to the divine, although how exactly this combination worked in practice is not clear because Thucydides, our single best source for the Epitaphia, focusses on the burial and the oration given by Pericles in the winter at the end of the first year of the Peloponnesian War.

Against a background of anxious evocation of Dionysiac rites, Euripides' Heracles stages the extreme degradation of the tragic hero who, as a consequence of the hatred of a divinity, loses his heroic traits and above all his human ones in the exercise of brutal violence. By comparing Heracles in the grip of madness to a furious bull assailing its prey, the tragedian clearly shows the inexorability of the divine will and its arbitrariness, and emphasizes madness itself through images traditionally associated with the bull. However, the reference to monstrosity and animals does not only involve Heracles, but also concerns the representation of Lyssa, the demon of madness sent by Hera to induce Heracles to slaughter his own family. This representation of Lyssa includes the monstrous and disturbing Gorgon and the dog, set alongside the metaphor of hunting, which in turn highlight the link between the demon and the Erinyes, those other bringers of madness.

In 428 b.c.e. the city of Mytilene launched a revolt against the Athenians and invited the Spartans to send them assistance. The plans for the revolt were reported to the Athenians (3.2), who sent a force against the city (3.3). The Mytilenians asked for help from the Spartans (3.4.5–6), but the fleet they sent arrived too late to help the city (3.26.4). The revolt appears to have been the initiative of the city's wealthier citizens: Thucydides reports (3.27–8) that heavy armour was not distributed to the people until Salaethus, the leader of the rebellion, realized that Spartan help would not arrive in time. Once the people received this armour, they refused to take orders from officials and held meetings, insisting that the government should distribute all available grain. If they did not, they threatened to negotiate on their own with the Athenians about surrender. The government was powerless to stop them and decided it was best to come to terms with the Athenians. It was agreed that the Athenians would have the power to act as they wished with the city and that the Mytilenians would have the right to send envoys to Athens to plead their case before the Assembly.

In his account of the events leading up to the outbreak of the Peloponnesian War, Thucydides tells us that in 435 b.c. the Epidamnians decided to transfer their allegiance from Corcyra to Corinth in accordance with the Delphic oracle, whereupon the Corinthians agreed to support Epidamnus against their own colony Corcyra. One of the reasons given is that the Corinthians hated the Corcyraeans for their contempt for their mother city, as ‘in their common festivals they would not allow them the customary privileges of founders, at their sacrifice they did not give priority to Corinthians [as other colonies did]’ (οὔτε γὰρ ἐν πανηγύρεσι ταῖς κοιναῖς διδόντες γέρα τὰ νομιζόμενα οὔτε Κορινθίῳ ἀνδρὶ προκαταρχόμενοι τῶν ἱερῶν ὥσπερ αἱ ἄλλαι ἀποικίαι). Precisely what the dispute was and what the word προκατάρχεσθαι means have not been convincingly explained by commentators.

The prospect of human immortality is manifest in many of Plato's writings, appearing as early as the Apology (28c, 41c–d) and the Crito (54b–d), and as late as Book 12 of the Laws (967d). But nowhere is immortality given so much attention, nor as central a place in Plato's philosophical projects, as in what have traditionally been referred to as his Middle Period works, so it is hardly surprising that we find an extensive treatment of the subject of immortality in Socrates’ own encomium in the Symposium (206e–209e). Eros, Socrates tells us, is not merely a desire to possess the good, but one that pushes us towards possessing the good forever (205a, 206a) and, because of this, eros is necessarily a desire for immortality (207a). However, it is evident that Socrates’ presentation of immortality in the Symposium is fundamentally different from those found in other dialogues. This is not merely because in this work alone Socrates attributes the desire for immortality to eros; rather it is also because the nature of the immortality that Socrates recommends here, and the means by which he suggests it is achieved, are wholly unique to this work. Whereas in other dialogues Plato casts his discussions in terms of the persistence of the soul in some super-sensible realm, here he offers a picture of lovers achieving human immortality by creating memorials (μνῆμαι) that will outlast them.

At Republic 9, 583b1–587a2, Socrates argues that the pleasure of the philosophical life is the truest pleasure. I will call this the ‘true pleasure argument’. The true pleasure argument is divisible into two parts: 583b1–585a7 and 585a8–587a2. Each part contains a sub-argument, which I will call ‘the misperception argument’ and ‘the true filling argument’ respectively. In the misperception argument Socrates argues that it is characteristic of irrational men to misperceive as pleasant what in fact is a condition of neither having pleasure nor being pained. In the true filling argument Socrates argues that in so far as pleasure entails somatic or psychic filling and there are more and less true fillings, there are more and less true pleasures. Philosophical filling is the truest filling and thus the truest pleasure. The misperception argument critically contributes to the true pleasure argument by clarifying what pleasure is not: merely an appearance (φαινόμενον) or merely the absence of pain. The misperception argument thereby clears the ground for the constructive contribution of the true filling argument.

In the fifth century b.c.e. the Athenians did not make any distinction between laws (nomoi) and decrees (psêphismata). The Assembly passed both kinds of measures in the same way, and both general enactments and short-term provisions held the same legal status. At the end of the fifth century, however, the Athenians decided to make a distinction between the two kinds of measures and created the rule that no decree would be superior to a law (Andoc. 1.86; Dem. 23.86, 218; 24.18, 59, 116, 188; 46.2). The Assembly continued to pass decrees in the same way, but a new body of nomothetai was created to ratify laws (nomoi). There were also two separate procedures for rescinding the two kinds of measures: one could bring a graphê paranomôn (a public action against an illegal decree) against a psêphisma and a graphê ‘nomon mê epitêdeion theinai’ (a public action against an inexpedient law) against a nomos. This much is clear; scholars do not agree however about the procedure for passing a new law (nomothesia) in fourth-century Athens.

After arriving drunk (‘plastered’ in one translation) at Agathon's party, Alcibiades offers to praise Socrates instead of love, the object of the other characters' praise. In praising Socrates, Alcibiades says that he will have to use images (εἰκόνων, 215a4–5). He assures his companions, however, that this ‘is no joke: the image will be for the sake of the truth’ (ἔσται δ' ἡ εἰκὼν τοῦ ἀληθοῦς ἕνεκα, οὐ τοῦ γελοίου, 215a6). Alcibiades goes on to present his famous images of a Socrates who is full of divine images (ἀγάλματα), and who casts spells with his words (λόγοι). Later, Alcibiades describes those words themselves as ‘bursting with images of virtue’ (ἀγάλματ' ἀρετῆς, 222a3–4).

It might seem quite commonplace to say that Aristotle identifies fire, air, water and earth as the στοιχεῖα, or ‘elements’ – or, to be more precise, as the elements of bodies that are subject to generation and corruption. Yet there is a tradition of interpretation, already evident in the work of the sixth-century commentator John Philoponus and widespread, indeed prevalent, today, according to which Aristotle does not really believe that fire, air, water and earth are truly elemental. The basic premise of this interpretation is that Aristotle takes fire, air, water and earth to be, in some sense, composite bodies and, as such, analysable into simpler constituents. But, of course, an element of bodies is defined by Aristotle himself as something into which bodies can be analysed, and which does not admit further analysis (Metaph. 5.3, 1014a26–1014b15; Cael. 3.3, 302a14–21). So if fire, air, water and earth can be analysed into simpler or more basic constituents, then it would seem to follow that the latter ought to be considered Aristotle's true elements. These are usually identified as the primary contraries hot and cold, dry and wet; many, perhaps most, commentators would insist also upon prime matter as the subject upon which these contraries act.

In recent years there has been a renaissance of scholarly interest in Plato's Symposium, as scholars have again begun to recognize the philosophical subtlety and complexity of the dialogue. But despite the quality and quantity of the studies that have been produced few contain an extended analysis of the speech of Aristophanes; an unusual oversight given that Aristophanes' encomium is one of the highlights of the dialogue. In contrast to the plodding and technical speeches that precede it, the father of Old Comedy structures his own speech around a fantastic fable in which he tells how humans, having originally taken the form of comically grotesque ‘circlemen’, assumed their present shape after being divided in two for their impious actions against the gods. This story forms the basis of his discussion of Eros, which he claims is nothing more than a desire to return to our original form (192e–193a). One study on which commentators continue to draw heavily for their own interpretation of Aristophanes' encomium is that of Arlene Saxonhouse. As the title of her article suggests, central to Saxonhouse's analysis is her interpretation of the Net of Hephaestus passage (192c–e), in which Aristophanes suggests that, if offered the chance to be welded together with their beloveds and so become circlemen once more, all humans would leap at the opportunity, thinking that this would be all of the fortune that they could ever desire. For Saxonhouse this passage, more than any other, demonstrates that, on Aristophanes' view, our original nature is one of perfection. According to Saxonhouse, our original form is the telos of human existence and the standard by which we judge the good life, because she understands circlemen as being self-complete beings entirely free from desire and need. Put simply, to be a circleman is to be a perfect being. Eros, on this reading, as the desire for wholeness, is to be praised because it reminds us of our deficiency, and instills in us a desire to actualize our potential for perfection. But unlike Socrates' encomium, which ends with the lover realizing their potential by possessing knowledge of the divine, Saxonhouse believes that the Net of Hephaestus passage lends a tragic end to Aristophanes' speech. For Saxonhouse it is Plato's dirty trick that he turns Aristophanes into a tragedian.

In comparison to the speech of the Laws, the dialectic between Crito and Socrates at the beginning of the Crito has received little attention. In this paper I argue that it contains an important philosophical message. It illustrates that the many's failure to follow Socrates' principles, like his principle of non-retaliation, is due to the intrinsic fragility of true beliefs. Though the many can understand Socrates' values and may accept his principles if he argues with them long enough, they may fail to hold on to his principles when confronted with the difficulties of life. Crito's failure to deliberate Socratically at the beginning of the Crito exemplifies the many's predicament.

The present article examines the textual transmission of the Aristotelian Mechanics, a treatise on mechanical questions now generally ascribed to the Peripatetic School. The treatise was edited three times in the nineteenth century, namely by Johannes van Cappelle (1812), Immanuel Bekker (1831) and Otto Apelt (1888); most recently, an edition was produced in the twentieth century by Maria Elisabetta Bottecchia (1982). Bottecchia's edition is a clear improvement over the previous editions in the extent of its research. Whereas the other editors of the Mechanics altogether consulted a total of nine manuscripts, Bottecchia considered nearly the complete manuscript material for her critical edition of the text. When I started my project I did not expect to find significant new results which would make a completely new critical edition of the text necessary.