Despite the scathing criticisms leveled at Han philosophy by orthodox Neo-Confucians and their latter-day scholastic followers, the most accurate characterization of many extant pieces of Han philosophical writing would be "critical" (rather than "superstitious") and "probing" (rather than "derivative"). In defense of this statement, three major Han philosophical works are examined, with particular emphasis on the treatment in these works of classical tradition and classical learning. The three works are the "Fa yen" (ca. A.D. 9) by Yang Hsiung, the "Lun (...) heng" (ca. A.D. 80) by Wang Ch'ung, and the "Feng su t'ung yi" (ca. A.D. 200) by Ying Shao. All three works are profoundly critical of beliefs and practices endemic to mainstream state-sponsored Confucianism in the Han. Good reasons lead Yang Hsiung, Wang Ch'ung, and Ying Shao to employ the dialogue, rather than the expository essay. Also, the particular styles of dialogue chosen by Yang, Wang, and Ying directly relate to the specific content of their varying critiques of contemporary forms of Confucian theorizing and practice. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Reviewed by:Hellenism and Empire: Language, Classicism, and Power in the Greek World, a.d. 50–250Maud W. GleasonSimon Swain. Hellenism and Empire: Language, Classicism, and Power in the Greek World, a.d. 50–250. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996. xii 1 499 pp. Cloth, $90.How do people who by birth, wealth, and education consider themselves entitled to leadership in their local communities conceive of their relationship to the imperial power that both (...) authorizes and limits their local autonomy? In the case of the Greek-speaking city-states under the Roman empire, language was clearly a crucial component of local and personal identity. This language, educated Greek, and the paideia that it presupposed, also served to distinguish the leading citizens of the various “Greek” cities from the shopkeepers of their streets and the peasants of their hinterlands.One thing that makes the picture confusing is the fact that “the Romans,” against whom “the Greeks” might be expected to define themselves, were likewise propertied aristocrats who professed admiration for Greek culture and in many cases put some serious effort into acquiring it themselves. So one of the things we would like to know is to what extent “Hellenism” was conceived by the ancients to be a matter of ethnicity or education. The answer is not straightforward.To be a Hellene one had to be able to display oneself as elaborately acculturated. For this particular aristocracy, the medium of elaboration was language. The artificiality of this acculturation process was concealed, as it generally is, by nearly invisible scrims designed to make the cultural look natural. Notable among these was the historical fiction that claimed for a Greek-speaking city an origin from a hero of Greek history or myth. Thus Greek aristocrats propagated themselves culturally through arduous acquisition of an elite dialect, but euphemized this process through the myth of genetic contact with the glory days. To be a Hellene was to participate in a strange charade of talking as if the Roman Empire and the Latin language did not exist. Once Roman dominance over the Mediterranean was secure, Greeks (at least in the formal literary productions that survived them) avoided talking about Rome. To say the least, this reluctance makes the Greeks’ attitude towards Rome difficult to assess. Yet this is what Swain has bravely and thoroughly set out to do.Swain’s book is in two parts. The first focuses on the role of language in [End Page 307] forming the identity of elite Greeks in the Second Sophistic (a period of literary renaissance lasting approximately from the mid-first to the mid-third century a.d.); the second examines what the chief Greek writers of that period had to say about Rome. Chapter 1 discusses the language consciousness of the Greek elite, who on formal occasions eschewed the dialect in common use (koine) to speak and write a belletristic Attic modeled on the great stylists of the past. Ironically, the “Asian”/“Attic” antithesis, with its conservative moral and political overtones, originally developed as part of Roman stylistic debate (24). We see it in Cicero, and in Dionysius of Halicarnassus, who functioned in effect as an apologist for Roman rule because Roman rule ensured that the right sort of people retained control of local government in the Greek cities. Dionysius in his historical writing went to elaborate lengths to show that Rome was really a Greek city on the Isocratean (nondemocratic) model (26). It is interesting to speculate why subsequent authors did not follow this approach. Perhaps, once their dominance in their cities was firmly secured by Rome’s hegemony, Greek aristocrats preferred to avert their gaze from the system that propped them up, and to elaborate instead the fiction that it was their Greekness that entitled them to effortless success.To explain the “repristinization” of linguistic features in the Atticizing movement Swain offers an interesting survey of the role of katharevousa in modern Greece (35–40). (There is also of course the phenomenon of “Oxford English,” which Fellows of All Souls are perhaps disinclined to pursue.) Chapter 2 discusses how purism worked out in practice (Favorinus, Lucian, Athenaeus, and some lexicographers). A test case: Galen practiced “purism... (shrink)

Roman Law in the State of Nature offers a new interpretation of the foundations of Hugo Grotius' natural law theory. Surveying the significance of texts from classical antiquity, Benjamin Straumann argues that certain classical texts, namely Roman law and a specifically Ciceronian brand of Stoicism, were particularly influential for Grotius in the construction of his theory of natural law. The book asserts that Grotius, a humanist steeped in Roman law, had many reasons to employ Roman tradition and explains how Cicero's (...) ethics and Roman law - secular and offering a doctrine of the freedom of the high seas - were ideally suited to provide the rules for Grotius' state of nature. This fascinating new study offers historians, classicists and political theorists a fresh account of the historical background of the development of natural rights, natural law and of international legal norms as they emerged in seventeenth-century early modern Europe. (shrink)

Rhodes's brief commentary, interspersed between the selections, is sober and judicious, extracting conclusions, pointing out contradictions in the evidence, and indicating points of uncertainty.... This is a book that classicists will profit from reading and that can be warmly recommended to graduate students. -- David Kovacs, University of Virginia.

Computation and information processing are among the most fundamental notions in cognitive science. They are also among the most imprecisely discussed. Many cognitive scientists take it for granted that cognition involves computation, information processing, or both – although others disagree vehemently. Yet different cognitive scientists use ‘computation’ and ‘information processing’ to mean different things, sometimes without realizing that they do. In addition, computation and information processing are surrounded by several myths; first and foremost, that they are the same thing. In (...) this paper, we address this unsatisfactory state of affairs by presenting a general and theory-neutral account of computation and information processing. We also apply our framework by analyzing the relations between computation and information processing on one hand and classicism and connectionism on the other. We defend the relevance to cognitive science of both computation, in a generic sense that we fully articulate for the first time, and information processing, in three important senses of the term. Our account advances some foundational debates in cognitive science by untangling some of their conceptual knots in a theory-neutral way. By leveling the playing field, we pave the way for the future resolution of the debates’ empirical aspects. (shrink)

Henry Sidgwick,, philosopher, classicist, lecturer and fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge, and supporter of women's university education, is well known for his Method of Ethics, a significant and influential book on moral theory. First published in 1883, this work considers the role the state plays in economic life, and whether economics should be considered an Art or a Science. Sidgwick applies his utilitarian views to economics, defending John Stuart Mill's 1848 treatise of the same name. The book calls for a (...) return to traditional political economy by eliminating 'needless polemics'. Sidgwick also outlines the need to bridge the gap between his analytical or deductive method and the inductive method employed by Mill's critics, the new generation of economic philosophers including John Elliot Cairnes and William Stanley Jevons. The second edition, reissued here, was published in 1887. (shrink)

From renowned classicist Edith Hall, ARISTOTLE'S WAY is an examination of one of history's greatest philosophers, showing us how to lead happy, fulfilled, and meaningful lives Aristotle was the first philosopher to inquire into subjective happiness, and he understood its essence better and more clearly than anyone since. According to Aristotle, happiness is not about well-being, but instead a lasting state of contentment, which should be the ultimate goal of human life. We become happy through finding a purpose, realizing our (...) potential, and modifying our behavior to become the best version of ourselves. With these objectives in mind, Aristotle developed a humane program for becoming a happy person, which has stood the test of time, comprising much of what today we associate with the good life: meaning, creativity, and positivity. Most importantly, Aristotle understood happiness as available to the vast majority us, but only, crucially, if we decide to apply ourselves to its creation--and he led by example. As Hall writes, "If you believe that the goal of human life is to maximize happiness, then you are a budding Aristotelian." In expert yet vibrant modern language, Hall lays out the crux of Aristotle's thinking, mixing affecting autobiographical anecdotes with a deep wealth of classical learning. For Hall, whose own life has been greatly improved by her understanding of Aristotle, this is an intensely personal subject. She distills his ancient wisdom into ten practical and universal lessons to help us confront life's difficult and crucial moments, summarizing a lifetime of the most rarefied and brilliant scholarship. (shrink)

This Companion presents both an introduction to the history of the ancient philosophical school of Epicureanism and also a critical account of the major areas of its philosophical interest. Chapters span the school's history from the early Hellenistic Garden to the Roman Empire and its later reception in the Early Modern period, introducing the reader to the Epicureans' contributions in physics, metaphysics, epistemology, psychology, ethics and politics. The international team of contributors includes scholars who have produced innovative and original research (...) in various areas of Epicurean thought and they have produced essays which are accessible and of interest to philosophers, classicists, and anyone concerned with the diversity and preoccupations of Epicurean philosophy and the state of academic research in this field. The volume emphasises the interrelation of the different areas of the Epicureans' philosophical interests while also drawing attention to points of interpretative difficulty and controversy. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Reviewed by:Virgil: Aeneid, Book XII ed. by Richard TarrantVassiliki PanoussiRichard Tarrant, ed. Virgil: Aeneid, Book XII. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012. ix + 363 pp. Paperback, $36.99.To say that students of Vergil have long awaited a commentary dedicated to Aeneid 12 would be an understatement. W. Warde Fowler’s 1919 volume, The Death of Turnus: Observations on the Twelfth Book of the Aeneid (Oxford), was the last work to fit (...) this description. This is surely in no small measure due to the extremely difficult nature of the task. How would one begin to fit the amount of copious scholarship spanning a century to a volume of manageable size that will be thorough and useful? With this new commentary, Tarrant meets the challenge with great aplomb, having produced a volume that is balanced, nuanced, learned, and thought-provoking. Tarrant follows the familiar commentary format: a substantial introduction, text (with apparatus criticus), commentary, an interesting appendix, bibliography, a general index, and an index of Latin words. [End Page 291]The author states that the commentary aims “to be accessible to students at the university level and upper classes of schools, but also to contain material of interest to professional classicists” (44). I submit that he succeeds admirably in both goals. For instance, early on in the commentary when he uses literary terms such as “focalization,” he gives a brief description of the meaning of the term (85), while the longer entries are frequently followed by bibliography, which will benefit the student (and the scholar) who wants to research a specific episode or passage further. As a scholar, I was often intrigued by Tarrant’s interpretations and comments and was pleased to be forced to rethink passages I believed I understood well. One such example is the comment on the description of Turnus riding his chariot in line 370, where the plume of his helmet is blown backward while the chariot moves into the wind. Tarrant insightfully interprets the chariot’s movement as “an implied conflict of forces, between the wind that ‘strikes’ (quatit) the plume and the ‘opposing’ (aduerso) chariot,” linking this moment with the storm motif that occupies a prominent place in the poem as a whole.The lengthy introduction lays the groundwork for much of what is to follow in the commentary proper. Tarrant begins with a discussion of the book as the final in the epic and points out a series of thematic and structural analogies with other parts of the Aeneid and especially Book 1. He rightly brings to the foreground many issues that have been the topic of discussion in the most recent scholarship, such as narrative delay (3), the problem of Italian identity (7), the connection between Aeneas’ killing of Turnus and Romulus’ killing of Remus (8), the representation of the conflict as civil war (7), the problem of anger and revenge (18–21), and the depiction of Turnus’ death as a sacrifice (21–22). As one would expect, Tarrant devotes a considerable portion of his introduction to the final scene and presents a balanced and sober discussion of the controversy surrounding Aeneas’ killing of Turnus, arguing for deliberate ambivalence on the part of Vergil. He identifies two perspectives that help interpret the actions of the characters: one that comes from external forces, larger than and beyond the control of the characters, and an internal one that focuses on their emotional forces. Tarrant concludes that these two perspectives “do not cancel each other out, but co-exist,” a manifestation of Vergil’s tragic view of humanity (28–29).Tarrant’s comments on metrical issues are excellent. I plan to assign the portion of his introduction dedicated to Vergil’s meter as required reading for my undergraduates. In addition, throughout the commentary, Tarrant frequently demonstrates the ways in which meter, anaphora, enjambment, etc. contribute to the construction of meaning and makes a strong case for their impact on interpretation. This is an important lesson for today’s student, who gets little exposure to meter, or worse, tends to ignore it altogether. Take, for example, the note on lines 56–59, Amata’s plea to Turnus not to enter the fight. Tarrant... (shrink)

A satisfactory accounting of the current state of classical studies, at least in an American setting, requires consideration of the vitality of the connections between classics—understood as the study of the ancient civilizations of Greece and Rome as revealed in their languages, literature, art, architecture, and political institutions— and the disciplines of history, philosophy, literary criticism, political science, religious studies, archaeology, and art history. I argue that the relationship between classics and philosophy, at least in the context of American higher (...) education, is marred by a significant degree of parochialism—as classicists deprecate the value of philosophical analysis, and as philosophers fail to avail themselves of the linguistic and literary expertise typically possessed by the professional classicist. To address these problems, I propose instituting approaches to research and teaching that foster an appreciation of expertise across disciplinary boundaries—team-taught or interdisciplinary courses and multi-disciplinary graduate seminars, conferences, and workshops. (shrink)

_“Ludvig Holberg’s angry comedies”_ This article contributes to research on anger and neo-classicist comedy drama. Facilitating a dialogue between state-of-the-art theory on anger as a complicated, ambiguous and broad-spectrum emotion and Aristotelian drama theory, especially the concept of anagnorisis, it is argued that neo-classicist comedies are scenes of social interaction that are replete with angry feelings and reactions. Characters are constantly provoking each other and reacting to provocations. The main case is Ludvig Holberg’s comedies. Anger is investigated both from a (...) quantitative perspective employing corpus-linguistic approaches (searching for concordance and clusters in all 36 comedies) and through a close reading of _ Den Stundesløse _. (shrink)

This innovative study posits that myths in general, and Greek theogonic myth in particular, have a latent meaning that is responsible both for the emotional energy inherent in myths, and for the special attraction they have even to those who no longer believe in their literal meaning. Caldwell describes, in clear and comprehensible language, aspects of psychoanalytic theory relevant to the understanding of Greek myth, implementing a psychoanalytic methodology to interpret the Greek myth of origin and succession, particularly as stated (...) in Hesiod's Theogony. In reassessing this work, which tells the story of the world's beginning from unbounded Chaos to the defeat of the Titans, Caldwell addresses several unexplained problems-- why does the world begin with the spontaneous emergence of four uncaused entities, and why in this particular order? Why does Ouranos prevent his children from being born by confining them in their mother's body? Why is Ouranos castrated by his son, and why is Aphrodite born from the severed genitals? Why is it always the youngest son who overthrows his father, the sky-god, and what is the logic of the steps taken by Zeus to prevent the same thing happening to him? Presenting a new definition and analyses of the psychological functions in myth, this new study should appeal to a wide range of classicists, teachers and students of mythology, and those interested in the application of psychoanalytic methods to literature. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Reviewed by:Archive Feelings: A Theory of Greek Tragedy by Mario TelòSean LambertTelò, Mario. Archive Feelings: A Theory of Greek Tragedy. Ohio State University Press, 2020. 344pp.In Archive Feelings: A Theory of Greek Tragedy, Mario Telò takes aim at one of the most canonical (if also one of the most contested) features of Greek tragedy: its potential to deliver catharsis (12).1 Through careful close readings of Greek tragedies informed by (...) psychoanalytic theory and deconstruction, Telò makes a persuasive case that tragedy is anti-cathartic. “The Freudian take on catharsis is complicated, or even undercut,” he writes in the introduction, “by its own anti-cathartic latencies… We can accordingly look at tragedy as a form of dramatic poetry that finds its affective raison d’être… in these anti-cathartic feelings” (34).Telò states that the intent of Archive Feelings is mainly to intervene in the age-old debate, asking: “why do human beings enjoy tragedy?” (14). He suggests that the pleasure of tragedy is, in fact, a masochistic one: a denial of release or pleasure (such as would come from catharsis) that an audience or reader enjoys in its specifically joyless jouissance. At stake is “feeling material,” a “fantasy” of “merging into the impersonal, anorganic, universal matter of elemental life” (44) evoked in tragedy’s death-driven withdrawal from action. With this concept in mind, Telò goes beyond even his own ambitions for his project. More than merely intervening in debates about the pleasures of tragedy, he argues powerfully for the continuing relevance of Greek tragedy for critical theory today, particularly in light of the so-called “affective” and “material” turns in the humanities. Archive Feelings is thus a useful book for classicists conducting interdisciplinary and/or trans-historical research, but even more so for any scholar working within the constellation of psychoanalysis, deconstruction, queer theory, affect theory or critical race theory. Telò makes a persuasive case for tragedy as a lodestar within this firmament–a vital tool for thinking through problems within and across disciplines.In striking contradistinction to previous theorists of Greek tragedy, including Aristotle and Nietzsche, Telò locates the engine of Greek tragedy in the death drive. In so doing, he reads in ancient narratives a number of experiences such as “acceleration, hoarding, vertiginous suspension, [End Page 113] breathless looping, affective bulimia or binge-eating, serial cutting, trying to enter or fold in upon oneself, auto-immune inflammation” (14), and finds in “the orgasm as an unfinished, non-teleological pleasure,” a desire to return to a state of “inert matter” (13).2 Noting that the original meaning of the Greek word archê is “origin,” Telò connects this impulse to once again become “inert” with the desire to create archives. Thus, Telò sees Greek tragedies as both a model for projects of archival reconstruction as well as archival projects themselves: they are “anxious and debilitating” attempts to “re-create the past as it was” (13).3Telò’s study is divided into three parts: Archival Time, Archival Space, and Archival Endings, which attempt to “structurally reproduce the psychological temporalities of the archive” (49). In each of his five chapters, Telò elaborates the diverse narrative masochisms of Greek tragedy, exploring the various stakes and species of tragic anti-catharsis. In Chapter 1, Telò reads the “archive fever” of Sophocles’ Oedipus at Colonus against the “archive fatigue” of Euripides’ Phoenissae, finding in both of these plays—near the end of the epoch of ancient tragedy—an impulse toward “textual hoarding” (76) that both undermines the possibility of catharsis and “exhausts” (106) the possibilities of the genre (107). In both the “synchronic gathering of disparate fragments of experience” into the body of Oedipus before his death and the aesthetics of boredom, fatigue, and inertia that suffuse the Phoenissae, Telò locates a desire to store up, rather than purge, emotions such as pity and fear, in a flouting of the normal formula for catharsis (73).In Chapter 2, Telò looks at the figures of Heracles and Medea in their original myths and tragic incarnations, seeing in both the compulsion to recircle around scenes of their respective “primordial traumas” (145). In Euripides’s Medea, this move manifests in repeated references... (shrink)

The solemnity, sacrifice, and concern for the state of the soul portrayed at Opie's funeral seems out of place among anarchists on motorcycles. The chapter analyzes if Opie's wake should be regarded as a religious rite as Sons of Anarchy are not a Christian sect, nor do they belong to any religious body that Americans commonly embrace. The chapter touches upon gender inequality in religious rites, and male bonding that becomes a primary good and maybe even something like a religious (...) duty. German classicist Walter Burkert terms such a group is a Männerbund (or MB), literally an “all‐male society.” The chapter explains the significance of ubiquitous symbol for the Sons of Anarchy MC – the Grim Reaper logo. Like the image of Santa Muerte, the Reaper logo is what scholars of religion call a hierophany. Finally, the chapter talks about the tragic flaws in the faith of SAMCRO. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Big Women:Mark Adamo's Lysistrata, or the Nude Goddess Between Monteverdi and Musical ComedyRalph HexterWe live in an age when opera companies across America are regularly presenting new operas, and some of them are even making hesitant first steps into repertory status, though it is too soon to tell how long- or short-lived their performance history will be. Opera itself began—Peri's Dafne (1597) is commonly regarded as the starting point—as (...) an attempt to recreate Greek tragedy on the stage, and for at least its first two hundred years, plots drawing on classical material, if not always classical literary texts, were staples. Nineteenth-century opera composers were relatively less inclined to turn to the classics for plots and characters, but the twentieth century witnessed renewed activity in classically based operas, from Strauss' Elektra (1909) and Stravinsky's Oedipus Rex (1927) to Hans Werner Henze's Venus und Adonis (1997) and Randolph Peters' The Golden Ass (1999), to name but a few significant examples. Mark Adamo's Lysistrata, or the Nude Goddess, which premiered in Houston in 2005, is among the first operas in our new century to continue the tradition.Accompanied by a trio of distinguished distaff classicists, I attended the 2006 revival of Lysistrata, or the Nude Goddess at the New York City Opera. Some months later, as word of the outing—any resemblance to this or any other Aristophanic comedy is purely accidental—trickled out, AJP's editor asked me to write this "Brief Mention." The reader will infer, then, that I neither watched nor listened with the idea of writing such a notice. What follows are reflections based partially on recollection of my immediate impressions (especially of the music) but also on subsequent study of the published libretto,1 Adamo's earlier and quite popular Little Women (1998), and stray remarks of the composer in published or online [End Page 119] interviews. In no sense is it a review of the particular April 2nd matinee performance that I saw. Of that let me say that my impression was almost uniformly positive. The principals, who have very demanding parts (and not only vocally), were strong; several were reprising roles they had taken in the Houston world premiere.Adamo states on the title page of the libretto that the opera is "[f]reely adapted from the play by Aristophanes," and this is both true and to the good. Before I turn to the adaptation itself, it might be worth observing that within the reception history of ancient stageworks in opera, the tradition of classical comedies turned into operas is relatively slight. I put it that way because, of course, one might well argue that New Comedy in its Roman form is the ultimate source of all opera buffa. I say nothing new when I place Figaro directly in the line of servi callidi.2Greek Old Comedy (i.e., given the state of preservation, Aristophanes) has only infrequently provided fodder for opera. One of the most interesting cases is Walter Braunfels' setting of Aristophanes Birds—Die Vögel—premiered in 1920. Braunfels (1882–1954) was fired from his teaching post by the Nazis in 1933—he was half Jewish—and his works were banished from the repertory. Die Vögel, his most successful stagework, has been recently revived, and a recording is available in Decca's "Entartete ["degenerate"] Musik" series. One must also recall the famous Frogs performed in the pool of Yale's Payne Whitney Gymnasium in 1941, since, a generation later, in 1975, the piece was revived, provided with music and lyrics by Stephen Sondheim and, like so many other shows, transferred from New Haven (if not the Shubert) to Broadway.3Aristophanes is more at home, I would argue, in American musical comedy than in opera, at least opera as it has come to be received by modern audiences treated almost without exception to post-Gluckian opera, with major houses, until recently, shunning the more interesting hybrids. (Think even of Carmen and how long it took for it to lose the recitatives by Guiraud that replaced the original opéra comique spoken dialogue.) To modern spectators or readers, Aristophanes, with... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Reviewed by:Race: Antiquity and Its Legacy by Denise Eileen McCoskeySydnor RoyDenise Eileen McCoskey. Race: Antiquity and Its Legacy. Ancients and Moderns. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012. x + 250 pp. Paper, $24.95.This book is part of Oxford’s “Ancients and Moderns” series, the goal of which, as stated in the series introduction by Phiroze Vasunia, is “to stir up debates about and within reception studies and to complicate some of (...) the standard narratives about the ‘legacy’ of Greece and Rome” (ix) by encouraging scholars to consider the connection between the past and how it has been discussed in the history of scholarship. In her introduction, McCoskey states that she wants to “help explain the position of race today by unveiling its relation to structures of thought and practice in the past, and more specifically, those of classical antiquity” (1). Race: Antiquity and Its Legacy does an admirable job of accomplishing this goal. The book covers the whole range of antiquity but also zooms in to focus on key moments and controversial figures. McCoskey offers thought-provoking parallels to ancient constructions of race in more recent history, and the final chapter explicitly investigates through the lens of race how Greece and Rome have been received since the Renaissance.The introduction offers readers a strong definition of race: a social construction imposed upon the human body. Keeping this definition in mind while reading the book is important, because, as McCoskey often points out, Classicists (among many other scholars) have a tendency to hide discussion of race and “racial formation” behind words like “ethnicity” or “cultural” because confronting race as an issue constructed around the body head-on (both in the ancient and modern world) can be uncomfortable and even scary (27, 93). McCoskey uses the terms “race” and “racial formation” precisely because they require readers to confront racism in the ancient world through to the present. In her subsection “Blacks in Antiquity,” McCoskey skillfully argues that, despite the early scholarly consensus that skin color was insignificant in the construction of ancient racial ideology, that does not mean that the ancients did not think racially (with skin color as a criterion rather than the criteria) or that modern ideas which do posit that skin color is significant have not affected how ancient representations of race, and particularly blackness, have been received in the modern world. McCoskey’s extensive analysis of Cleopatra and how she was perceived (and even presented herself) in the ancient world, as well as her exploration of representations of Cleopatra in recent history, reveal the tension between ancient and modern categories of racial thought created by the “hybrid cultures” that flourished in the ancient world. [End Page 525]The first chapter, “Racial Theory,” surveys the development of ideas about race in the ancient world and how they changed over time and differ between Greece and Rome. I assigned this chapter to students in my Race and Ethnicity course because it is useful for identifying key moments that contributed to Greek and Roman racial ideology. Here, however, and also in the third chapter, “Racial Representations,” is where one finds one of the problems with this book. The range of time periods and genres covered invites generalizations about both the nature of the “barbarians” the Greeks and Romans interact with and about the Greeks and Romans themselves. For example, in her discussion of the Greek-barbarian binary (a view which has been complicated since the seminal work of Edith Hall [1989], although McCoskey’s presentation does not consistently acknowledge this), she claims that, “given the specific threat to Greek sovereignty the Persian Wars presented, the barbarian was defined first and foremost by the propensity for a particular mode of government, a theme central, as we have seen, to the Hippocratic Airs, Waters, Places. Whereas barbarians displayed a natural inclination for subservience and tyranny, as the theory went, Greeks were characterized by a commitment to democratic rule and the equality of citizens” (54). Here, as in many other instances in this book, “Greece” feels like a gloss for “Athens.” She does offer a discussion of how Athens itself contributed to the discussions of identity (56–58), but it does... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Racine, Oedipus, and Absolute Fantasies*Mitchell Greenberg (bio)Tout mythe se rapporte à l’origine. Toute question d’origine ne saurait ouvrir que sur un mythe [Every myth points back to an origin. Any questioning of origins necessarily opens onto myth].—Jean-Paul Valabrega, Phantasme, mythe, corps et sensAinsi l’itinéraire de la psychanalyse freudienne est-il celui d’une recherche qui... se fait attentive à ce qui du corps réside dans les mots, s’inscrit dans les traces, (...) reste gravé en mémoire au point de n’apparaître que comme réminiscence [Thus the itinerary of Freudian psychoanalysis would be a quest for... what of the body resides in words, is inscribed in traces, or remains engraved in memory to such an extent that it only can reappear as reminiscence].—Pierre Fédida, “L’anatomie dans la psychanalyse”Something happened in the seventeenth century. Somethings in this particularly conflicted period radically altered the ways in which human subjectivity was created and internalized to produce what in our late twentieth century we have come to call modernity. Despite the different and often contradictory inflections we like to give it, it now seems fairly certain that there was a “crisis of the seventeenth century,” a crisis that was traumatic and that was marked, most significantly for our purposes at least, by an altering of subjective sensibility.In an ever-crescendoing leitmotiv from Machiavelli to Montaigne, from Richelieu to Louis XIV, from Olivares to James I, we hear echoing across Europe the same strident clamor. An anxious, pervasive suspicion that the order of things was out of kilter, that in fact the world was sinking into disorder, seems to dominate European thought in the first half of the century. 1 The fear of chaos, especially in societies whose past has been grounded in rigid hierarchical structures, is obviously exacerbated in periods of great [End Page 40] social change. Nevertheless, if we are to believe those political theorists influenced by the work of Freud, this fear, although enflamed by real experience of social unrest, reaches well beyond the actuality of a particular historical event and finds its terrifying power in the most archaic strata of the human psyche. “All civilization,” writes Eugène Enriquez,is a struggle against chaos. Not against chaos as it might or might not have actually existed in prehistoric times, but against the phantasm of a primordial chaos, of a primeval disorder, of an immixture, of the undifferentiated, against an ordinary violence.... Chaos is the constantly retreating horizon in front of which all social organization and institutions are constructed. It returns us to our ancestral fear. We embrace any and all protection against it.[101]The stately image of Classical France, therefore, an image to which we have become accustomed by almost two hundred years of academic history and which finds its most paradigmatic icon in the tragic production of Racine, tends to obscure a reality of almost constant social and religious trauma. For the purposes of my discussion, I would like to return to Racine, who is perhaps the most prominent representative of the aesthetic and ethical tradition of classicism, which, perfected in France in the mid-1600s, will go on to colonize European ethics and aesthetics into the eighteenth century. Despite the radical changes wrought by political, industrial, philosophical, and psychoanalytical revolutions, classicism, through its corollary myth of the unitary ego, continues to haunt our own inabilities to live unneurotically the various drives, contradictions, identifications, and projections that continually tell us that we are not one but many.A central paradox exists at the heart of any discussion of Racinian dramaturgy. While the tragic dilemma of Racine’s theater is profoundly anchored in the passionate, forbidden sexuality of its characters, passions that are inextricably tied to the desiring body, this body is absent, banished from the lexical construction of the Racinian text. How are we to understand the conundrum of a theater that, more than any other, presents incestuous sexual desire and its frustration as the enchafed crucible of tragedy, when the crucible itself has been exiled from the field of representation? In its plots and peripeteia, Racine’s theater ingeniously reconfigures how his protagonists... (shrink)

This article addresses the issue of compositionality of mental representations from the perspective of a foundational framework for cognitive science. The dynamical cognition framework is inspired partially by connectionism and partially by the persistence of the problem of relevance within classical computational cognitive science. It treats cognition in terms of the mathematics of dynamical systems: total occurrent cognitive states are mathematically/structurally realized as points in a high-dimensional dynamical system, and these mathematical points are physically realized by total-activation states (...) of a neural network with specific connection weights. The framework repudiates the classicist assumption that cognitive-state transitions conform to a tractably computable transition function over cognitive states. Computational Theory of Mind states that the causal role of a mental representation is syntactically determined, but this idea of syntactic determination of causal role is ambiguous. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Reviewed by:Flavius Josephus and Flavian RomeErich S. GruenJonathan Edmondson, Steve Mason, and James Rives, eds. Flavius Josephus and Flavian Rome. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005. xvi + 400 pp. 8 black-and-white ills. Cloth, $135.Josephus is now coming into his own. Previously scorned as tendentious time-server and panderer to the powerful, he has received increasingly serious attention in recent years. Indeed, a veritable Josephus industry has emerged, with regular international (...) colloquia, a burgeoning number of publications, and major commentaries on individual works (and parts of works) in the course of publication though collaborative projects in both German and English. And properly so. Josephus for too long remained the province primarily of scholars in Jewish studies. Classicists, for the most part, marginalized or ignored him. That neglect seems quite myopic in view of the unusually large corpus and the importance of Josephus not only for Jewish history but also for classical literature and historiography, for the perceptions of imperial power by subordinate peoples, and for the place of "alien wisdom" in the intellectual and cultural world of the Roman empire. The shift toward fuller and closer scrutiny of Josephus' work by classical scholars is now well underway—and most welcome.The essays in this volume laudably promote that enterprise. They grow out of a stimulating conference held at York University in Toronto in 2001. The editors deserve credit for focusing on a critical but largely overlooked subject: the relationship of Josephus' work to the social, political, and cultural setting in which he wrote, namely that of Rome in the Flavian era. Unlike most conference volumes, the quality of the papers is uniformly high, and the collection as a whole unusually coherent. The volume is a model example of its genre.The Jewish war culminated in the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem in 70 c.e. The consequences for Jewish history, of course, were momentous, a familiar and frequently explored topic. Much less studied but indispensable for an understanding of Josephus' work are the reverberations in Rome. The Flavian emperors exploited their victory to publicize, justify, and entrench a new imperial dynasty. Fergus Millar valuably surveys the monuments of Rome instituted to commemorate the conquest of Judaea: the arches erected for Titus, the Colosseum built with the spoils of the Jewish war (as Alföldy stunningly demonstrated a few years ago), and the Temple of Peace where the most celebrated objects [End Page 615] captured in Jerusalem were deposited. The Flavian public-relations spin not only celebrated military prowess but also made a pointed contrast with the age of Nero and underscored the arrival of a pax Flaviana. Advertisement of triumph over Judaea could hardly make the Jews of Rome comfortable, as Martin Goodman argues. He adds that imposition of the fiscus Iudaicus under Vespasian and malicious accusations under Domitian against those who lived like Jews but did not acknowledge their Judaism must have produced an oppressive atmosphere in the Flavian years. James Rives goes beyond this, arguing that the destruction of the Temple and the depositing of sacred objects represented a genuine effort to stamp out the Temple cult which, in Roman eyes, constituted a civic cult and a threat to imperial stability. Daniel Schwartz's paper, with different objectives, extends this theme still further. He points to the ostensibly anomalous decision to resume the administration of the Jewish state as a Roman province instead of bestowing it upon the Roman supporter Agrippa II as an enlarged kingdom. For Schwartz, this amounted to a decision to eliminate Judaea as a territorial entity, a decision reflected in the fact that the term Ioudaioi tended to lose its geographical connotation thereafter and became a designation for "Jews" rather than "Judaeans." The scene after 70, in short, was grim indeed. One might question some of the more speculative ideas expressed in these essays, such as Goodman's suggestion that "Judaizing" indicated opposition to the Flavian regime or Rives' notion that Rome regarded Jerusalem as a rival focus of loyalty in the empire. Nonetheless, the climate in Rome for a Jewish intellectual like Josephus, after the fall of Jerusalem, would not seem to have been the most hospitable and... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Political Theory in the Senatus Consultum PisonianumD. S. PotterThe object of this essay is to illustrate the interaction between specific events and broader imperial ideology in the Senatus Consultum Pisonianum (SCP), a decree of the Senate issued on 10 December A.D. 20 concerning the disposition of the case against the elder Piso and his associates. A subsidiary point is to place the use of such a decree within the (...) discourse of government in the Greco–Roman world.Public decrees emerged as an important venue for the exposition of state ideology centuries before Tiberius asked the Senate to record its views on Piso's fate. Indeed, we can detect the beginning of this development in Greece before the end of the Peloponnesian War and trace what appears to be some cross–fertilization between the style of civic decrees from the Greek cities of the eastern Mediterranean and the style of senatus consulta in the second and first centuries B.C. The process may be seen as an extension of the "motivation clauses" in honorific decrees passed for individuals to many other kinds of document.1 At the same time, the late fifth or early fourth century, we can see that public decrees offered a form for the continuation of a dialogue between states: thus the decree of Erythrae in which the Athenians are thanked for passing a decree in which they state that they will not turn the Erythraeans over to the "barbarians" or the elaborate denunciation of Spartan behaviors that is embedded within the charter of the Second Athenian Confederacy.2 By the second half of the fourth century, at least in Athens, and we know that the practice had extended to its former dominion on Samos by the time of Alexander, a "motivation clause" could run to many lines in explaining the actions of the [End Page 65] state.3 Our best evidence for this practice comes from honorific decrees for individuals, but the language of Diodorus suggests very strongly that some sort of historical preface was added to the decree that was passed declaring war on Macedon in 323, very similar to the one that would later figure in the decree of Chremonides declaring war in 268.4 The evidence for the use of extended prefaces, both for individuals and in other contexts, increases in the course of the third century, as civic decrees take on a role in the structuring of a community's memory that was transformed from a reflection to a mechanism of construction.5Our attention to such statements on stone is perhaps conditioned by our ability to recover them in a way that we cannot recover the words of representatives speaking extemporaneously in a public assembly, or the opinions of representatives meeting in closed conference, thus raising the question of just how important such documents really were as vehicles for communication. There is a substantial body of scholarly opinion suggesting that the inscribing of decrees was primarily a symbolic activity since these decrees were often written in hands that were difficult to read and, for that matter, a majority of the inhabitants of the Mediterranean world lacked the capacity to read.6 While no one would deny that one purpose of public inscription was symbolic—indeed the sloppiness that mars both copies A and B of the senatus consultum concerning the disposition of the Piso affair in A.D. 20 may be taken as a sign of this—likewise it needs to be stressed that such texts [End Page 66] were also regarded as permanent records to be read by those classes whose views were regarded as important by ancient governments, and scripts difficult to the eyes of one generation might be less so to those of another.7 The average late twentieth–century classicist may find it easier to decipher the Res Gestae of Augustus on the walls of the temple of Roma in Ancyra than to read the volumes of Leopold Ranke printed in fraktur: the ability to read a script is largely a matter of training and habit. It is clear that the mid–fourth–century Athenian or the second– century Bithynian might care a great deal... (shrink)

This new book explores the interface between political philosophy and politics, looking at the effects of philosophical traditions on the contemporary relationship between women and politics. Analysing key concepts in political philosophy, the author illustrates how common ideas - entrenched in the development of political thought and practice - have become almost intractable 'truths' that continue to differentiate between the sexes in politics. Liz Sperling looks in detail at the works of Plato, Aristotle, Hobbes, Locke, Rousseau, Mill, Marx, Rawls and (...) Nozick, considering general themes to which they have all contributed - such as the state of nature, the state, markets, citizenship and representation. The focus then turns to the specific contributions of the philosophers that continue to influence the association of women to politics. These include an analysis of Greek classicists' establishment of andocracy, Rousseau's treatise on education for citizenship, and nineteenth-century ideas of equality. In conclusion, the themes demonstrated throughout are drawn together to show how they translate into contemporary policy on women in politics. Offering an original insight into the ways in which political thought influences political practice, this will be essential reading in a key area of politics, philosophy and women's studies. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Arthur O. Lovejoy and the Challenge of Intellectual HistoryJohn Patrick DigginsMen and ideas advance by parricide, by which the children kill, if not their fathers, at least the beliefs of their fathers, and arrive at new beliefs.Sir Isaiah Berlin1I was supposed to wind up the study of mine, and become the Lovejoy of my generation—that's the silly talk of scholarly people.Saul Bellow2To become "the Lovejoy," with the implication that (...) each generation could only have one, was the ambition of Moses Herzog in Saul Bellow's novel, written a few years after he had won the Nobel Award for literature. Herzog presents the life of a professor who has as many sexual escapades and as much personal angst as he has scholarly interests, too unfocused to be another Lovejoy. Bellow's novel is full of letters to Nietzsche, Heidegger, and other modernist minds who brought Western intellectual life to a standstill, posing a lasting question mark about the possibilities of knowledge. Bellow taught in the program of the Committee on Social Thought at [End Page 181] the University of Chicago. His colleague and close friend Allan Bloom also taught in that program. But when Bloom wrote the best seller, The Closing of the American Mind, he cited Nietzsche and Heidegger as part of the "German disease" that did so much to subvert academic thought, supposedly turning students into zombies, walking air heads responding only to vacuous visual stimuli and mind-numbing music, with Rock n' Roll blasting through a Walkman and having the effect of a "masturbational fantasy."3While Bellow's epistolary novel interrogated modernist thinkers, Bloom's popular tract of the times cited many classical thinkers as a countervoice to the modernists—Aristotle, Plato, Socrates, Augustine, Aquinas, Dante, Hobbes, Kant, Lessing, Schiller, Locke, and Rousseau. Such minds also figured prominently in the works of Arthur O. Lovejoy. But the recitation of such names leaves the impression that Lovejoy concerned himself only with the main currents of European intellectual history. On the contrary, two of his most important and often neglected books are The Thirteen Pragmatisms and Reflections on Human Nature.4 There one finds profound meditations on two vital episodes in the history of ideas in America: the Enlightenment and the philosophy of pragmatism. Perry Miller, arguably America's greatest intellectual historian, skipped over the Enlightenment as he proceeded to study the Puritans and then the transcendentalists, and he never seemed to have much interest in the pragmatists.5 But what Lovejoy had to write on the Enlightenment and pragmatism is richly ironic.The pragmatists claimed to have liberated modern thought from the easy assumptions of the "Age of Reason," and today's poststructuralists charge that eighteenth-century Enlightenment thinkers deceived themselves in looking to the advent of knowledge as an answer to the presence of power. Lovejoy's books offer a different take entirely, making us aware that it is the modernist thinkers who may be deceiving themselves with the dubious promises of pragmatism and the arrogant conceits of poststructuralism and deconstruction, whose proponents claim to be the first "masters [End Page 182] of suspicion." In many of Lovejoy's works, nothing is resolved and everything is left suspended in a state of honest suspicion.Lovejoy was comfortable with contradiction, and hence more in tune with Augustine, who looked to the depths of human consciousness for spiritual knowledge, than with Aquinas, who believed evidence for God and human freedom could be found in reason alone. Nowhere is Lovejoy's affinity for the emotions of consciousness better seen than in his several essays on romanticism, both English, French, German, and even its origins in Chinese aesthetics and Confucian ethics. It was not reason and the notion of order and regulation that appealed to Lovejoy but the spontaneous promptings of nature springing forth without reflection or design. He delighted in quoting Voltaire against classicists and scholastics. "Worship God and practice justice—this is the sole religion of the Chinese literati.... O Thomas Aquinas, Scotus, Bonaventure, Francis, Dominic, Luther, Calvin, canons of Westminister, have you anything better? For four thousand years this religion, so simple and so noble, has endured in... (shrink)

In Herbert’s poetry the words which are the names of musical instruments function both on the level of literary text stylistic composition - they are constituent elements of the metaphors and comparisons - and as signs of concrete or symbolic objects, which constitute one of the categories of motifs visible in the poems. The essay is an attempt to define the function performed by the motifs of the lyre and the lute, the first two instruments to appear in Zbigniew Herbert’s (...) poetry. The group of poems in which the motifs of the lyre, the lute and the string - a frequent synexdoche of the two instruments - appear includes twelve poems: Do Apollina [To Apollo], O Troi [On Troy], Do Marka Aurelego [To Marcus Aurelius], Struna [The String], Las Ardeński [The Forest of Arden], Arijon [Arion, from the volume Struna Światła [The String of Light]), Niepoprawność [Incorrectness], Do Pięści [To the Fist], Prośba (A Request, from the volume Hermes, pies i gwiazda [Hermes, a Dog and a Star]), Apollo i Marsjasz [Apollo and Marsyas], Szuflada (The Drawer, from the volume Studium przedmiotu [A Study of an Object]), Wit Stwosz: Uśnięcie Najświętszej Marii Panny (Veit Stoss: Repose of the Virgin, from the volume Elegia na odejście [An Elegy on Passing Away]). In the symbolism of the poems by Zbigniew Herbert the motif of the lyre has ambivalent value. It symbolizes a type of art which does not suit twentieth century experiences or kind of poetry ruthlessly indifferent to evil and thus deserving ethical criticism on the one hand and represents art., which can provide man with a sense of the order of existence, on the other. It is because of the second function that is must be saved. In Herbert’s poems the lyre symbolizes classical poetry - its stylistic tone and function; it is also a symbol of music and harmony - presented as a desired state existing in the world. The string - if it is not a synexdoche of the lyre or the lute - becomes a symbol of new poetry, which results from twentieth century catastrophes, but does not totally reject classical tradition (though compared to it, it is only partial and incomplete). The way the two motifs function in Herbert’s poetry illustrates one of the author’s fundamental dilemmas. The question is: How can a poet who has rejected traditional classicism remain a twentieth century classical poet? (shrink)

Marie Cabaud Meaney looks at Simone Weil's Christological interpretations of the Sophoclean Antigone and Electra, the Iliad and Aeschylus' Prometheus Bound. Apart from her article on the Iliad, Weil's interpretations are not widely known, probably because they are fragmentary and boldly twist the classics, sometimes even contradicting their literal meaning. Meaney argues that Weil had an apologetic purpose in mind: to the spiritual ills of ideology and fanaticism in World War II she wanted to give a spiritual answer, namely the (...) re-Christianization of Europe to which she wished to contribute in some way. To the intellectual agnostics of her day she intended to show through her interpretations that the texts they cherished so much could only be fully understood in light of Christ; to the Catholics she sought to reveal that Catholicism was much more universal than generally believed, since Greek culture already embodied the Christian spirit - perhaps to a greater extent than the Catholic Church ever had. Despite or perhaps because of this apologetic slant, Weil's readings uncover new layers of these familiar texts: Antigone is a Christological figure, combating Creon's ideology of the State by a folly of love that leads her to a Passion in which she experiences an abandonment similar to that of Christ on the Cross. The Iliad depicts a world as yet unredeemed, but which traces objectively the reign of force to which both oppressors and oppressed are subject. Prometheus Bound becomes the vehicle of her theodicy, in which she shows that suffering only makes sense in light of the Cross. But the pinnacle of the spiritual life is described in Electra which, she believes, reflects a mystical experience - something Weil herself had experienced unexpectedly when 'Christ himself came down and took her' in November 1938. In order to do justice to Weil's readings, Meaney not only traces her apologetic intentions and explains the manner in which she recasts familiar Christian concepts, but also situates them among standard approaches used by classicists today, thereby showing that her interpretations truly contribute something new. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Provoking a ConversationDavid H. PorterLee T. Pearcy's The Grammar of Our Civility: Classical Education in America (Baylor University Press, Waco, Tex. 2005) is a book every classicist should read. Pearcy's focus is on the state of classics in our country today: where we are, how we got there, where we need to go. His book is wide-ranging, tightly argued, and carefully researched. Pearcy's assessment of the present state of (...) classics in America strikes me as overly bleak, but his analysis deserves our close attention. Chapters 1 and 2, which trace the history of classical studies in Europe and America since the Renaissance, are filled with valuable information and insights; chapter 3 dissects four interlinked arguments that, to Pearcy's thinking, explain the parlous state of classics today—and threaten its future survival; and chapter 4 offers thoughtful suggestions as to how classicists might respond to these challenges. I doubt that most readers will agree with all of Pearcy's analysis—I certainly do not—but I found his book consistently stimulating. He writes that his purpose is to provoke a conversation, not to solve a problem (118); it is a conversation that will benefit us all, and this book is a welcome and timely catalyst.Pearcy's starting point, and the theme to which he repeatedly returns, is what he identifies as an essential difference between classical studies in Europe (including Great Britain) and classical studies in America. To quote from Pearcy's account of Vittorino da Feltre, whom he sees as an architect of what we now call "liberal education," classical education was designed above all "to take those who would... rule and those who might be admitted to the governing class and to form their minds and souls in such a way that they would be the best rulers (8)... "Renaissance classical education... [was] designed to educate members of the governing class by exposing them to the best patterns of conduct, modes of thinking, and products of culture..." (9). In Europe this form of education made sense in that its presupposition of a governing class matched the social and political realities of the countries in question. In America, by contrast, the advent of democracy undermined the central assumptions of such education and threatened its relevance to our society: "The necessary openness of thought in a democracy has a consequence that is fatal to [End Page 595] the paradigm of classical liberal arts education. In a democratic society, the freedom and theoretical equality of all citizens make it necessary to avoid privileging any single set of beliefs or ideas" (23).Pearcy's hypothesis is thought-provoking, but it strikes me as overly neat. A quick glance at two individuals, one English, the other American, offers some corroboration and also raises some intriguing questions. Leonard Woolf majored in classics at St. Paul's School and Cambridge, and, though his origins were not "aristocratic," upon graduation he entered the ranks of the governing class as a civil servant in Ceylon. The progression matches Pearcy's model, and Woolf even comments on it in terms similar to those Pearcy uses: "The male members of the British aristocracy of intellect went automatically to the best public schools, to Oxford and Cambridge, and then into all the most powerful and respectable professions."1 By contrast, S. S. McClure, the American publisher, migrated from Ireland to the States at age nine as a virtual pauper, spent eight years putting himself through Knox College, and chose to major in classics for reasons similar to those Pearcy identifies as the basis for classical education: "During the years that he reads and studies Greek a boy gets certain standards that he uses all the rest of his life, long after he has forgotten grammar and vocabulary."2 Unlike Woolf, however, McClure found to his dismay that though he had graduated third in a class of thirty, his classical education did not open doors to a professional career: "I talked with other boys, and found that most of them had arranged for the immediate future. One classmate was going into his father's law office; another was going to enter his uncle's... (shrink)

The paper argues that cognitive states of biological systems are inherently temporal. Three adequacy conditions for neuronal models of representation are vindicated: the compositionality of meaning, the compositionality of content, and the co-variation with content. Classicist and connectionist approaches are discussed and rejected. Based on recent neurobiological data, oscillatory networks are introduced as a third alternative. A mathematical description in a Hilbert space framework is developed. The states of this structure can be regarded as conceptual representations satisfying the (...) three conditions. (shrink)

This collection of essays—the first of its kind in English—brings together the work of an international group of scholars examining the entire tradition associated with the ancient Cynics. The essays give a history of the movement as well as a state-of-the-art account of the literary, philosophical and cultural significance of Cynicism from antiquity to the present. Arguably the most original and influential branch of the Socratic tradition, Cynicism has become the focus of renewed scholarly interest in recent years, thanks to (...) the work of Sloterdijk, Foucault, and Bakhtin, among others. The contributors to this volume—classicists, comparatists, and philosophers—draw on a variety of methodologies to explore the ethical, social and cultural practices inspired by the Cynics. The volume also includes an introduction, appendices, and an annotated bibliography, making it a valuable resource for a broad audience. (shrink)

To write a history “from antiquity to the present” of classical art or literature (or, worst of all, classicism) is the ultimate nightmare aspiration for a scholar whose colleagues are attentive methodologists. The product, when there is one (which I add because the aspiration can yield paralysis), is always in part an apologetic treatise on historical method. Professor Vout—of Christ's College, Cambridge—apologizes with the first word of her subtitle, A, which stresses that many differing histories may be as valid (...) as her own. The next two words, Life History, imply that her study is unauthorized, conjectural, a bit personal or informal, and reliant to an extent on unconfirmable stories. Her book, she tells readers, is of necessity an arrangement of “fragments” and “a mapping not of facts, but of ways in which Greek and Roman artifacts experience history.” She sets down, moreover, as a rule that “classical” is not “a self-standing category: it is always relational” (which historians of the novel have been telling us for many decades about “realism”).We might expect the result of Vout's axioms to be evenhanded diffidence when treating definitions of the classical, and indeed she entertains even the idea of Jeff Koons—maker of Balloon Venus (Orange) and Gazing Ball (Barberini Faun)—as a classical sculptor. There is, however, one approach that she dismisses out of hand: the obsession of classical humanism with authenticity and its renascence. She objects especially to research into the original conditions of objects and to the application of increasingly intrusive methods of restoring them. As she writes, “ ‘Real knowledge’ comes not from antiquities that have been ripped from their original context, cleaned and reconstituted for display in galleries and glass cabinets. ‘Real knowledge’ comes from antiquities that carry their dirt with them.”What Vout, as a critic of humanism, means by dirt is patina—the residue, interesting and sometimes beautiful in itself, of the use and misuse of objects. Dirt is a word that would occur to a humanist art historian when examining the patina of a Greek or Roman object. Vout's use of the word is a parodic expression of reverse snobbery. When studying changes, whether mistakes or enhancements, in a Greek or Roman document, a humanist literary historian would speak of corruption and edit the corrupt text by means of processes that humanist editors invented and perfected. Despite the humanists’ devotion to the recovery of classical learning, however, once a Renaissance edition of a manuscript was in print, the original, however rare, was often destroyed or lost. In effect, the work was reborn, better than new. Rebirth is not the same as preservation: though both are perhaps conservative (or better, in Ulysses's words, “rere regardant”), a renascence or a resurrection is cataclysmic.The humanist approach to the past can appear unlovable and is certainly arrogant, but it can also inspire awe and gratitude. The work of Michelangelo depended on it, and so (more to the point) did Martin Luther's. Vout's attitude toward dirt (patina, corruption, misprision, insertions, recontextualizations, bowdlerizations, misappropriations, translocations) resembles that of Catholic theologians to the depositum fidei. Restoring the original conditions of the Christian church involved methods of research learned from Renaissance humanists and the removal, often destructive, of the “deposit” or residue or patina that adhered to, distorted, discolored, and obscured the conditions of the “primitive church.” A Roman Catholic may well dislike the processes that Luther set in motion, but imagine a scholarly history of Christianity that mentioned Protestantism only to regret its existence.Still, Vout's reasoning, it seems to me, is more sophisticated in its defense of dirt and in its criticism of restoration than any offered against the Protestants’ reasoning during the Counter-Reformation. Consider, for instance, this inspiring passage: “When the curators at the Munich Glyptothek removed Thorwaldsen's restorations from the Aegina pediments, they did not so much take them back to a pristine state as out of the feedback loop, rendering them damaged goods. It was not a restriction of avenues or a change of direction that was being enacted here, but a refusal to speak the language, or rather an insistence that the only language worth speaking was an academic [humanist, restorationist] one.... In 2011, the Glyptothek marked the two hundredth year of the pediments’ discovery by putting new versions of Thorvaldsen's restored figures on display. They had relearned the lingo. For art to be ‘classical,’ it has to know its place in the discourse.” May lingo and feedback loop have successful careers in the lexicon of classical scholarship. “Far from producing a nostalgic narrative,” as Vout informs us, “the lessons learned from looking back ensure that we keep traveling.”. (shrink)

The analyses thus far undertaken of cost theory and utility theory have viewed these doctrines as they originally were, namely, as the contentions of two conflicting groups of value theorists. And had the two rival groups been allowed to continue to match strength on the plane on which Macvane, for example, contended, the result would probably have been the destruction of them both. Underneath surface conflicts, however, the rival theories had much in common. As the twentieth century got under way, (...) this state of affairs was discerned, with the result that in the end there was hand-shaking and backslapping all around and the inauguration of a live-and-let-live policy. Although at first regarding each other as mortal enemies, these two groups of price-determination theorists later came to see in one another something resembling blood kinship. But are the underlying assumptions which classicism and neoclassicism have in common any more realistic and scientific than the specific assumptions already examined? This is a question to which we now turn. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Philosophy and Literature 26.1 (2002) 125-142 [Access article in PDF] Hölderlin's Poetic Self-consciousness James H. Donelan Nur ihren Gesang sollt' ich vergessen, nur diese Seelentöne sollten nimmer wiederkehren in meinen unaufhörlichen Träumen. I should forget only her song, only these notes of the soul should never return in my unending dreams. Hölderlin, Hyperion I FOR MANY YEARS, Friedrich Hölderlin has occupied a crucial position in both literary and philosophical (...) history. Well-known literary theorists, such as Walter Benjamin, Peter Szondi, and Paul de Man, have described him as the poet who made the transition from German Classicism to Romanticism. Several major philosophers, including Dieter Henrich and Manfred Frank, claim that Hölderlin's insights into Kantian and Fichtean metaphysics were vital to Schelling's and Hegel's far more famous accounts of subjectivity. Either contribution alone would make Hölderlin an important figure in intellectual history; it is almost miraculous that he managed both, especially when one considers the brevity of his career, a span of only ten or twelve productive years.What accounts for this remarkable dual achievement? Historical accident and tremendous talent give us only a partial answer. Hölderlin was fortunate to have Hegel and Schelling as close friends at the Tübinger Stift, and to move to Jena precisely when it had become a center for new thinking in both literary and philosophical circles. He had enormous ability both for ancient Greek and poetic meter, allowing him to benefit from his predecessors and his contemporaries [End Page 125] in remarkable ways. However, his parallel accomplishments in philosophy and poetry are linked by more than just happenstance and genius. In my view, they represent the continuous development of a solution to a single problem, that of self-consciousness, realized in poetic form through an idea of music. For Hölderlin, making the transition from philosopher to poet required him to establish a connection between Idealist theories of self-consciousness and the material world. To meet this challenge, he constituted himself as a self-conscious poet through both theoretical and actual poetic creations, and constituted a musical-poetic voice, or Gesang, within his poetry as a means of joining the abstractions of philosophy with the concrete voice of the poet.The background of this transformation lies in the complex history of the idea of self-consciousness, or subjectivity. In the early Idealist accounts of self-consciousness of Kant and Fichte, the subject recognizes its existence by juxtaposing itself with an object. However, the nature of this object, and the connection between the abstract, theoretical construction of the subject and the actual, practical experience of the conscious self posed a problem that neither philosopher solved definitively. For Kant, self-consciousness emerges from a pre-reflective sense of the self's existence as the subject of different experiences of phenomena over time; self-consciousness therefore arises from a deduction of empirical experience. However, this formulation contains a surprisingly belated and unmotivated version of the self, with no clear account of its origin.Fichte answered the question about the origin of the self by stating that the self posits itself through its opposition to a material object, a non-self he calls the Nicht-ich, and becomes self-conscious by differentiating the Ich from the Nicht-ich and declaring "I am I." Fichte's explanation of self-consciousness as an act rather than an entity nevertheless relies on a kind of solipsism and still does not sufficiently address the ultimate cause of the process. The Ich that declares its own existence must distinguish itself from the Nicht-ich somehow; the relation between the two terms presupposes a subject that already possesses sensory apprehension to create the distinction between Ich and Nicht-ich necessary for the initial positing of the self.Either explicitly or implicitly, both Kant's and Fichte's versions of subjectivity rely on the category of the aesthetic, defined as the experience of precognitive sensation in general, to mediate the encounter between subject and object. Kant later expanded his inquiry [End Page 126] into... (shrink)

continent. 2.2 (2012): 66–75 ~*~ We’re Doomed. Pessimism is the night-side of thought, a melodrama of the futility of the brain, a poetry written in the graveyard of philosophy. Pessimism is a lyrical failure of philosophical thinking, each attempt at clear and coherent thought, sullen and submerged in the hidden joy of its own futility. The closest pessimism comes to philosophical argument is the droll and laconic “We’ll never make it,” or simply: “We’re doomed.” Every effort doomed to failure, every (...) project doomed to incompletion, every life doomed to be unlived, every thought doomed to be unthought. Pessimism is the lowest form of philosophy, frequently disparaged and dismissed, merely the symptom of a bad attitude. No one ever needs pessimism, in the way that one needs optimism to inspire one to great heights and to pick oneself up, in the way one needs constructive criticism, advice and feedback, inspirational books or a pat on the back. No one needs pessimism, though I like to imagine the idea of a pessimist activism. No one needs pessimism, and yet everyone—without exception—has, at some point in their lives, had to confront pessimism, if not as a philosophy then as a grievance—against one’s self or others, against one’s surroundings or one’s life, against the state of things or the world in general. There is little redemption for pessimism, and no consolation prize. Ultimately, pessimism is weary of everything and of itself. Pessimism is the philosophical form of disenchantment—disenchantment as chanting, a chant, a mantra, a solitary, monophonic voice rendered insignificant by the intimate immensity surrounding it. In pessimism, the first axiom is a long, low, funereal sigh. ~*~ We’re Still Doomed. No one has time for pessimism. After all, there are only so many hours in a day. Whatever our temperament, happy or sad, engaged or disengaged, we know pessimism when we hear it. The pessimist is usually understood as the complainer, forever pointing out what is wrong with the world without ever once offering a solution. But more often than not pessimists are the quietest of philosophers, submerging their own sighs within the lethargy of discontent. What little sound it makes is of interest to no one—“I’ve heard it all before,” “tell me something I don’t know,” sound and fury, signifying nothing. In raising problems without solutions, in posing questions without answers, in retreating to the hermetic, cavernous abode of complaint, pessimism is guilty of that most inexcusable of Occidental crimes—the crime of not pretending it’s for real. Pessimism fails to live up to the most basic tenet of philosophy—the “as if.” Think as if it will be helpful, act as if it will make a difference, speak as if there is something to say, live as if you are not, in fact, being lived by some murmuring non-entity both shadowy and muddied. Had it more self-assurance and better social skills, pessimism would turn its disenchantment into a religion, possibly calling itself The Great Refusal. But there is a negation in pessimism that refuses even such a Refusal, an awareness that, from the start, it has already failed, and that the culmination of all that is, is that all is for naught. Pessimism tries very hard to present itself in the low, sustained tones of a Requiem Mass, or the tectonic rumbling of Tibetan chant. But it frequently lets loose dissonant notes at once plaintive and pathetic. Often, its voice cracks, its weighty words abruptly reduced to mere shards of guttural sound. ~*~ Maybe It’s Not So Bad, After All. If we know pessimism when we hear it, this is because we’ve heard it all before—and we didn’t need to hear it in the first place. Life is hard enough. What you need is a change of attitude, a new outlook, a shift in perspective... a cup of coffee. If we have no ears for pessimism, this is because it is always reducible to something as reliably mutable as a voice. If pessimism is so frequently disparaged, it is because it brings everyone down, determined as it is to view each day as a bad day, if only by virtue of the fact that it is not yet a bad day. For pessimism the world is brimming with negative possibility, the collision of a bad mood with an impassive world. In fact, pessimism is the result of a confusion between the world and a statement about the world, a confusion that also prevents it from fully entering the hallowed halls of philosophy. If pessimism is so often dismissed, this is because it is often impossible to separate a “bad mood” from a philosophical proposition (and do not all philosophies stem from a bad mood?) The very term “pessimism” suggests a school of thought, a movement, even a community. But pessimism always has a membership of one—maybe two. Ideally, of course, it would have a membership of none, with only a scribbled, illegible note left behind by someone long forgotten. But this seems unrealistic, though one can always hope. ~*~ Anatomy of Pessimism. Though it may locate itself at the margins of philosophy, pessimism is as much subject to philosophical analysis as any other form of thought. Pessimism’s lyricism of failure gives it the structure of music. What time is to the music of sorrow, reason is to a philosophy of the worst. Pessimism’s two major keys are moral and metaphysical pessimism, its subjective and objective poles, an attitude towards the world and a claim about the world. For moral pessimism, it is better not to have been born at all; for metaphysical pessimism, this is the worst of all possible worlds. For moral pessimism the problem is the solipsism of human beings, the world made in our own image, a world-for-us. For metaphysical pessimism, the problem is the solipsism of the world, objected and projected as a world-in-itself. Both moral and metaphysical pessimism are compromised philosophically; moral pessimism by its failure to locate the human within a larger context, and metaphysical pessimism by its failure to recognize the complicity in the very claim of realism. This is how pessimism makes its music of the worst, a generalized misanthropy without the anthropos . Pessimism crystallizes around this futility—it is its amor fati , rendered as musical form. ~*~ Melancholy of Anatomy. There is a logic of pessimism that is fundamental to its suspicion of philosophical system. Pessimism involves a statement about a condition . In pessimism each statement boils down to an affirmation or a negation, just as any condition boils down to the best or the worst. With Schopenhauer, that arch-pessimist, the thinker for whom the philosopher and the curmudgeon perfectly overlap, we see a no-saying to the worst, a no-saying that secretly covets a yes-saying (through asceticism, mysticism, quietism), even if this hidden yes-saying is a horizon at the limits of comprehension. With Nietzsche comes the pronouncement of a Dionysian pessimism, a pessimism of strength or joy, a yes-saying to the worst, a yes-saying to this world as it is. And with Cioran yet another variation, futile yet lyrical, a no-saying to the worst, and a further no-saying to the possibility of any other world, in here or out there. With Cioran one approaches, but never reaches, an absolute no-saying, a studied abandonment of pessimism itself. The logic of pessimism moves through three refusals: a no-saying to the worst (refusal of the world-for-us, or Schopenhauer’s tears); a yes-saying to the worst (refusal of the world-in-itself, or Nietzsche’s laughter); and a no-saying to the for-us and the in-itself (a double refusal, or Cioran’s sleep). Crying, laughing, sleeping—what other responses are adequate to a life that is so indifferent? ~*~ Cosmic Pessimism. Both moral and metaphysical pessimism point to another kind, a pessimism that is neither subjective nor objective, neither for-us nor in-itself, and instead a pessimism of the world-without-us. We could call this a cosmic pessimism ... but this sounds too majestic, too full of wonder, too much the bitter aftertaste of the Great Beyond. Words falter. And so do ideas. And so we have a cosmic pessimism, a pessimism that is first and last a pessimism about cosmos , about the necessity and possibility of order. The contours of cosmic pessimism are a drastic scaling-up or scaling-down of the human point of view, the unhuman orientation of deep space and deep time, and all of this shadowed by an impasse, a primordial insignificance, the impossibility of ever adequately accounting for one’s relationship to thought—all that remains of pessimism is the desiderata of affects—agonistic, impassive, defiant, reclusive, filled with sorrow and flailing at that architectonic chess match called philosophy, a flailing that pessimism tries to raise to the level of an art form (though what usually results is slapstick). ~*~ Song of Futility. An ethics of futility pervades pessimism. Futility, however, is different from fatality, and different again from simple failure (though failure is never simple). Failure is a breakage within the heart of relations, a fissure between cause and effect, a fissure hastily covered over by trying and trying again. With failure, there is always plenty of blame to go around; it’s not my fault, it’s a technical difficulty, it’s a miscommunication. For the pessimist, failure is a question of “when,” not “if”—failure as a metaphysical principle. Everything withers and passes into an obscurity blacker than night, everything from the melodramatic decline of a person’s life to the banal flickering moments that constitute each day. Everything that is done undone, everything said or known destined for a kind of stellar oblivion. When scaled up in this way, failure becomes fatality. Fatality is the hermeticism of cause and effect. In fatality, everything you do, whatever you do, always leads to a certain end, and ultimately to the end—though that end, or the means to that end, remain shrouded in obscurity. Nothing you do makes a difference because everything you do makes a difference. Hence the effects of your actions are hidden from you, even as you deceive yourself into thinking that, at last, this time you will outwit the order of things. By having a goal, planning ahead, and thinking things through carefully, we attempt, in a daily Prometheanism, to turn fatality to our advantage, to gain a glimpse of an order that seems buried deeper and deeper in the fabric of the universe. But even fatality has its comforts. The chain of cause and effect may be hidden from us, but that’s just because disorder is the order we don’t yet see; it’s just complex, distributed, and requires advanced mathematics. Fatality still clings to the sufficiency of everything that exists... When fatality relinquishes even this idea, it becomes futility. Futility arises out of the grim suspicion that, behind the shroud of causality we drape over the world, there is only the indifference of what exists or doesn’t exist; whatever you do ultimately leads to no end, an irrevocable chasm between thought and world. Futility transforms the act of thinking into a zero-sum game. ~*~ Song of the Worst. At the center of pessimism lies the term pessimus , “the worst,” a term as relative as it is absolute. The worst is about as bad as it gets, “the worst” as “the best” in disguise, shrouded by the passage of time or the twists and turns of fortune. For the pessimist, “the worst” is the propensity for suffering that gradually occludes each living moment, until it eclipses it entirely, overlapping perfectly in death... which, for the pessimist, is no longer “the worst.” Pessimism is marked by an unwillingness to move beyond “the worst,” something only partially attributable to a lack in motivation. In pessimism “the worst” is the ground that gives way beneath every existent—things could be worse, and , things could be better. “The worst” invariably implies a value judgment, one made based on scant evidence and little experience; in this way, pessimism’s greatest nemesis is its moral orientation. Pessimism’s propositions have all the gravitas of a bad joke. Perhaps this is why the true optimists are the most severe pessimists—they are optimists that have run out of options. They are almost ecstatically inundated by the worst. Such an optimism is the only possible outcome of a prolonged period of suffering, physical or metaphysical, intellectual or spiritual. But does this not also describe all the trials and tribulations of each day—in short, of “life?” It seems that sooner or later we are all doomed to become optimists of this sort (the most depressing of thoughts...) ~*~ Song of Doom. Rather than serving as a cause for despair, gloom and doom are the forms of consolation for any pessimist philosophy. Neither quite affects nor quite concepts, gloom and doom transform pessimism into a mortification of philosophy. Doom is not just the sense that all things will turn out badly, but that all things inevitably come to an end, irrespective of whether or not they really do come to an end. What emerges from doom is a sense of the unhuman as an attractor, a horizon towards which the human is fatally drawn. Doom is humanity given over to unhumanity in an act of crystalline self-abnegation. Gloom is not simply the anxiety that precedes doom. Gloom is literally atmospheric, climate as much as impression, and if people are also gloomy, this is simply the by-product of an anodyne atmosphere that only incidentally involves human beings. Gloom is more climatological than psychological, the stuff of dim, hazy, overcast skies, of ruins and overgrown tombs, of a misty, lethargic fog that moves with the same languorousness as our own crouched and sullen listening to a disinterested world. In a sense, gloom is the counterpoint to doom—what futility is to the former, fatality is to the latter. Doom is marked by temporality—all things precariously drawn to their end—whereas gloom is the austerity of stillness, all things sad, static, and suspended, a meandering smoke hovering over cold lichen stones and damp fir trees. If doom is the terror of temporality and death, then gloom is the horror of a hovering stasis that is life. At times I like to imagine that this realization alone is the thread that connects the charnel ground Aghori and the graveyard poets. ~*~ Song of Spite. There is an intolerance in pessimism that knows no bounds. In pessimism spite begins by fixing on a particular object of spite—someone one hardly knows, or someone one knows too well; a spite for this person or a spite for all of humanity; a spectacular or a banal spite; a spite for a noisy neighbor, a yapping dog, a battalion of strollers, the meandering idiot walking in front of you on their smart phone, large loud celebrations, traumatic injustices anywhere in the world regurgitated as media blitz, spite for the self-absorbed and overly performative people talking way too loud at the table next to you, technical difficulties and troubleshooting, the reduction of everything to branding, spite of the refusal to admit one’s own errors, of self-help books, of people who know absolutely everything and make sure to tell you, of all people, all living beings, all things, the world, the spiteful planet, the inanity of existence... Spite is the motor of pessimism because it is so egalitarian, so expansive, it runs amok, stumbling across intuitions that can only half-heartedly be called philosophical. Spite lacks the confidence and the clarity of hatred, but it also lacks the almost cordial judgment of dislike. For the pessimist, the smallest detail can be an indication of a metaphysical futility so vast and funereal that it eclipses pessimism itself—a spite that pessimism carefully places beyond the horizon of intelligibility, like the experience of dusk, or like the phrase, “it is raining jewels and daggers.” ~*~ Song of Sleep. A paraphrase of Schopenhauer: what death is for the organism, sleep is for the individual. Pessimists sleep not because they are depressed, but because for them sleep is a form of ascetic practice. Sleep is the askesis of pessimism. If, while sleeping, we have a bad dream, we abruptly wake up, and suddenly the horrors of the night vanish. There is no reason to think that the same does not happen with the bad dream we call “life.” ~*~ Song of Sorrow. Nietzsche, commenting on pessimism, once castigated Schopenhauer for taking things too lightly. He writes: ...Schopenhauer, though a pessimist, really —played the flute. Every day, after dinner: one should read his biography on that. And incidentally: a pessimist, one who denies God and the world but comes to a stop before morality—who affirms morality and plays the flute... what? Is that really—a pessimist? We know that Schopenhauer did possess a collection of instruments, and we also know that Nietzsche himself composed music. There is no reason to think that either of them would ever banish music from the Republic of philosophy. But Nietzsche’s jibes at Schopenhauer are as much about music as they are about pessimism. For the pessimist who says no to everything and yet finds comfort in music, the no-saying of pessimism can only be a weak way of saying yes—the weightiest statement undercut by the flightiest of replies. The least that Schopenhauer could’ve done is to play the bass. I’m not a big fan of the flute, or, for that matter, wind instruments generally. But what Nietzsche forgets is the role that the flute has historically played in Greek tragedy. In tragedy, the flute ( aulos ) is not an instrument of levity and joy, but of solitude and sorrow. The Greek aulos not only expresses the grief of tragic loss, but it does so in a way that renders weeping and singing inseparable from each other. The classicist Nicole Loraux calls this the mourning voice . Set apart from the more official civic rituals of funerary mourning, the mourning voice of Greek tragedy constantly threatens to dissolve song into wailing, music into moaning, and the voice into a primordial, disarticulate anti-music. The mourning voice delineates all the forms of suffering—tears, weeping, sobbing, wailing, moaning, and the convulsions of thought reduced to an elemental unintelligibility. In the collapsed space between the voice that speaks and the voice that sings, pessimism discovers its mourning voice. Pessimism: the failure of sound and sense, the disarticulation of phone and logos . Have we rescued Schopenhauer from Nietzsche? Probably not. Perhaps Schopenhauer played the flute to remind himself of the real function of the mourning voice—sorrow, sighs, and moaning rendered indistinguishable from music, the crumbling of the human into the unhuman. Failure par excellence of pessimism. ~*~ Song of Nothing. In Buddhist thought, the First Noble Truth of existence is encapsulated in the Pali term dukkha , conventionally translated as “suffering,” “sorrow,” or “misery.” The Buddhist teachings are clear, however, that this is an objective claim, and not simply one point of view among others. Existence is suffering and sorrow—and yet this is not, the teachings tell us, a pessimistic attitude. It is likely that Schopenhauer, reading the Buddhist texts available to him, recognized some filiation with the concept of dukkha . But dukkha is a multi-faceted term. There is, certainly, dukkha in the usual sense of the suffering, strife, and loss associated with living a life. But this is, in turn, dependent on the finitude and temporality of dukkha , existence as determined by impermanence and imperfection. And this ultimately points to the way in which both suffering and finitude are grounded by the paradoxical groundlessness of dukkha as a metaphysical principle—the insubstantiality and the emptiness of all that is. Beyond what is worse to me, beyond a world ordered for the worst, there is the emptiness of dukkha as an impersonal suffering... the tears of the cosmos. In this context, it is easy to see how Schopenhauer’s pessimism attempts to compress all the aspects of dukkha into a nothingness at the core of existence, a Willlessness coursing through the Will. Though one thing for certain is that with Schopenhauer we do not find the “ever-smiling” countenance of Buddhism—or do we? The texts of the Pali Canon also contain lists of the different types of happiness—including the happiness of renunciation and the strange happiness of detachment. But Buddhism considers even the different types of happiness as part of dukkha , in this final sense of nothingness or emptiness. Perhaps Schopenhauer understood Buddhism better than he is usually given credit for. Thus the experiment of Schopenhauer’s philosophy—the point at which a Western pessimus and an Eastern dukkha overlap or exchange glances. Empty sorrow, a lyricism of indifference. The result is a strange, and ultimately untenable, nocturnal form of Buddhism. ~*~ Cioran once called music a “physics of tears.” If this is true, then perhaps metaphysics is its commentary. Or its apology. ~*~ Pessimism would be more mystical were it not for its defeatism. Mysticism is much too proactive for the pessimist, and pessimism too impassive even for the mystic. At the same time, there is something enviable about mysticism—despite its sufferings. There is a sense in which pessimists are really failed mystics. ~*~ You, the Night, and the Music. In a suggestive passage, Schopenhauer once noted that, “music is the melody to which the world is the text." Given Schopenhauer’s view on life—that life is suffering, that human life is absurd, that the nothingness before my birth is equal to the nothingness after my death—given all this, one wonders what kind of music Schopenhauer had in mind when he described music as the melody to which the world is text—was it opera, a Requiem Mass, a madrigal, or perhaps a drinking song? Or something like Eine kleine Nachtmusik , a little night music for the twilight of thought, a sullen nocturne for the night-side of logic, an era of sad wings sung by a solitary banshee. Perhaps the music Schopenhauer had in mind is music eliminated to non-music. A whisper would suffice. Perhaps a sigh of fatigue or resignation, perhaps a moan of despair or sorrow. Perhaps a sound just articulate enough that it could be heard to dissipate. ~*~ Teach me to laugh through tears. ~*~ Pessimism always falls short of being philosophical. My back aches, my knees hurt, I couldn’t sleep last night, I’m stressed-out, and I think I’m finally coming down with something. Pessimism abjures all pretenses towards system—towards the purity of analysis and the dignity of critique. We didn’t really think we could figure it out, did we? It was just passing time, taking a piss, something to do, a bold gesture put forth in all its fragility, according to rules that we have agreed to forget that we made up in the first place. Every thought marked by a shadowy incomprehension that precedes it, and a futility that undermines it. That pessimism speaks, in whatever voice, is the singing testimony to this futility and this incomprehension—take a chance and step outside, lose some sleep and say you tried... ~*~ Is there a music of pessimism? And would such a music be audible? ~*~ The impact of music on a person compels them to put their experience into words. When this fails, the result is a faltering of thought and language that is itself a kind of music. Cioran writes: “Music is everything. God himself is nothing more than an acoustic hallucination.” ~*~ If a thinker like Schopenhauer has any redeeming qualities, it is that he identified the great lie of Western culture—the preference for existence over non-existence. As he notes: “If we knocked on the graves and asked the dead whether they would like to rise again, they would shake their heads.” In Western cultures it is commonly accepted that one celebrates birth and mourns death. But there must be a mistake here. Wouldn’t it make more sense to mourn birth and celebrate death? Strange though, because the mourning of birth would, presumably, last the entirety of that person’s life, so that mourning and living would the be same thing. ~*~ To the musical idea of the harmony of the universe corresponds the philosophical principle of sufficient reason. Like the music of mourning, pessimism gives voice to the inevitable breakdown of word and song. In this way, music is the overtone of thought. ~*~ The Patron Saints of Pessimism. The patron saints of pessimism watch over suffering. Laconic and sullen, the patron saints of pessimism never seem to do a good job at protecting, interceding, or advocating for those who suffer. Perhaps they need us more than we need them. Lest we forget, there do exist patron saints of philosophy, but their stories are not happy ones. There is, for instance, the fourth century Saint Catherine of Alexandria, or Catherine of the Wheel, named after the torture device used on her. A precocious fourteen year old scholar, Catherine was subject to continual persecution. After all forms of torture failed—including the “breaking wheel”—the emperor finally settled for her decapitation, a violent yet appropriate reminder of the protector of philosophers. There are also patron saints of music and musicians, but theirs too are sad stories. In the second century, Saint Cecilia was also subject to persecution and torture. As she knelt to receive the blade that would separate her head from her body, she ardently sang a song to God. It took three attempts before she was fully decapitated, all the while she continued, perhaps miraculously, to sing. Does pessimism not deserve its own patron saints, even if they are unworthy of martyrdom? But in our search, even the most ardent nay-sayers frequently lapse into brief moments of enthusiasm—Pascal’s love of solitude, Leopardi’s love of poetry, Schopenhauer’s love of music, Nietzsche’s love of Schopenhauer, and so on. Should one then focus on individual works of pessimism? We could include Kierkegaard’s trilogy of horror— Sickness Unto Death , The Concept of Dread , and Fear and Trembling —but all these are undermined by their fabricated and unreliable authors. Besides, how can one separate the pessimist from the optimist in works like Unamuno’s The Tragic Sense of Life , Shestov’s Postetas Clavium , or Edgar Saltus’ under-read The Philosophy of Disenchantment ? Even in cases where the entire corpus of an author is pessimistic, the project always seems incomplete—witness Cioran’s trajectory, from his first book, On the Heights of Despair , to the last unpublished notebooks of acrid and taut aphorisms. And this is to say nothing of literary pessimism, from Goethe’s sorrowful Werther, to Dostoevsky’s underground man, to Pessoa’s disquiet scribbler; Baudelaire’s spleen and ennui, the mystical Satanism of Huysmans and Strindberg, the hauntologies of Mário de Sá-Carniero, Izumi Kyoka, H.P. Lovecraft, grumpy old Beckett... even the great pessimist comedians. All that remains are singular, perhaps anomalous statements of pessimism, a litany of quotes and citations crammed into fortune cookies. Patron saints are traditionally named after a locale, either a place of birth or of a mystical experience. Perhaps the better approach is to focus on the places where pessimists were forced to live out their pessimism—Schopenhauer facing an empty Berlin lecture hall, Nietzsche mute and convalescent at the home of his sister, Wittgenstein the relinquished professor and solitary gardener, Cioran grappling with Alzheimer’s in his tiny writing alcove in the Latin Quarter. ~*~ There’s a ghost that grows inside of me, damaged in the making, and there’s a hunt sprung from necessity, elliptical and drowned. Where the moving quiet of our insomnia offers up each thought, there’s a luminous field of grey inertia, and obsidian dreams burnt all the way down. ~*~ If pessimism has any pedagogical value, it is that the failure of pessimism as a philosophy is inextricably tied to the failure of pessimism as voice. I read the following, from Shestov’s The Apotheosis of Groundlessness : When a person is young he writes because it seems to him he has discovered a new almighty truth which he must make haste to impart to forlorn humankind. Later, becoming more modest, he begins to doubt his truths: and then he tries to convince himself. A few more years go by, and he knows he was mistaken all round, so there is no need to convince himself. Nevertheless he continues to write, because he is not fit for any other work, and to be accounted a superfluous person is so horrible. (shrink)

[opening paragraph]: An intriguing element of Paul Cezanne's legacy is that while he aligned his paintings with the classical Renaissance tradition of Western art, his innovative body of work ushered in a decisive break with the standards of that tradition in the twentieth century. The many ways in which Cezanne's representational system deviates from the pluralistic art of the twentieth century suggests that probing his allegiance to classicism offers a unique vantage point for studying visual art, perception, and consciousness. (...) It is for this reason that this paper examines Cezanne's contributions from both the painterly and the cognitive science perspectives, asking what artists in fact contribute to our studies in these areas. [A response to this article from Semir Zeki is published in Trends in Cognitive Science.]. (shrink)

I explain why, within the nonclassical framework for cognitive science we describe in the book, cognitive-state transitions can fail to be tractably computable even if they are subserved by a discrete dynamical system whose mathematical-state transitions are tractably computable. I distinguish two ways that cognitive processing might conform to programmable rules in which all operations that apply to representation-level structure are primitive, and two corresponding constraints on models of cognition. Although Litch is correct in maintaining that classical cognitive science is (...) not committed to the first constraint, it is committed to the second. This fact constitutes an illuminating gloss on our claim that one foundational assumption of classicism is that human cognition conforms to programmable, representation-level, rules. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Reviewed by:Die Aristotelische Topik: Ein Interpretationsmodell und seine Erprobung am Beispiel von Topik B., and: Aristotle's TopicsScott CarsonOliver Primavesi. Die Aristotelische Topik: Ein Interpretationsmodell und seine Erprobung am Beispiel von Topik B.Zetemata: Monographien zur Klassischen Altertumswissenschaft, Heft 94. Munich: C. H. Beck, 1996. 293 pp. Paper, DM 98.Paul Slomkowski. Aristotle's Topics. Leiden and New York: E. J. Brill, 1997. viii + 218 pp. Cloth, price not stated. (Philosophia Antiqua (...) 74)In the last thirty years Aristotle's Topics have attracted a lot of scholarly attention, from de Pater's important 1965 monograph and Brunschwig's 1967 edition, with introduction and notes, of the first four books, to the more recent work of Zadro (1974) and Pelletier (1991). But as Joseph Bocheń ski remarked more than forty years ago, "so far no one has succeeded in saying briefly and clearly what [the τόποι] are" (Formale Logik [Munich 1956] 51). Suddenly we have two new attempts to fill this gap: Paul Slomkowski's revised D.Phil. thesis, Aristotle's Topics; and Primavesi's present work, which the author says can "zugleich als Vorstudie für die kommentierte Übersetzung der Topik gelten, mit der der Verfasser... betraut worden ist" (13). Slomkowski's work has striking similarities, in structure and execution, to Primavesi's; I have more to say about this below.Primavesi's work will be of interest primarily to classicists and philosophers who specialize in Aristotle's logic and rhetorical theory, but anyone interested in the dialectical practices of the philosophical schools will also find much of value here. It is carefully written and admirably researched, and within the limits I discuss below it will remain an important contribution to our understanding of the Topics for some time.The work is divided into two parts. In the first (Systematischer Teil), Primavesi argues for his main thesis: the Aristotelian τόποι, although lacking formal unity, are essentially a systematic set of instructions for the conversion of affirmative assertions used in dialectical disputations into the premises of a dialectical syllogism that can be used by the questioner in such an exercise to refute his opponent (103). In the second (Einzelanalysen), the individual chapters of book B of the Topics are examined τόπος to τόπος show how each is to be construed as such an instruction.The starting point for the first part of the book is a pair of programmatic statements. According to A1 the Topics presents a method (μέθοδον, 100a18) of dialectical syllogism (100a23); according to A2 (101a25–27) the uses of the τόποι are in intellectual training (), casual encounters, and the philosophical sciences. If a dialectical syllogism is a kind of argument used in the philosophical schools and, thus, the primary use of the Topics is for academic training, what is the relationship between the kind of argumentation being explicated in the Topics and the formal proofs of the Analytics? The answer is to be found in an analysis of the τόποι themselves as presented in books B–H. [End Page 129]The argument is advanced in three central chapters, each of which begins with a clear statement of the problem to be addressed and ends with a succinct précis of the results of the investigation. In the first, Primavesi addresses the question, What is meant by dialectical syllogism? The second explains in what sense a dialectical syllogism is a syllogism. The third shows what Aristotle means when he calls the Topics a method of dialectical syllogism. A transitional chapter attempts a formal classification of the τόποι into five categories on the basis of the type of conversion involved.Primavesi's account of the dialectical syllogism draws upon Aristotle's remarks in book Θ, our knowledge of the question–and–answer format of intellectual training, and the differences between Aristotle's and Plato's use of this format. His purpose is to establish the following points: (1) the dialectical syllogism is the result of an analysis of ; (2) a dialectical premise is always a yes–or–no question; (3) the dialectical syllogism is, in principle, to be elicited from one's partner in dialogue; (4) the dialectical syllogism is an, or nondemonstrative proof; (5) the respondent in the exercise has to accept on the spot... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:"A City of Brick":Visual Rhetoric in Roman Rhetorical Theory and PracticeKathleen S. LampPerhaps none of the words Augustus, the first sole ruler of Rome who reigned from 27 BCE to 14 CE, actually said are quite as memorable as the ones Cassius Dio has attributed to him: "I found Rome built of clay and I leave it to you in marble" (1987, 56.30).1 Suetonius too discusses Augustus's building program, (...) offering an alleged quote along with an explanation of his motivation: "Since the city was not adorned as the dignity of the empire demanded, and was exposed to flood and fire, he so beautified it that he could justly boast that he had found it built of brick and left it in marble" (1998, Aug.28.3). Though Suetonius's explanation is practical, Dio argues Augustus's "city of brick" had a more metaphoric or symbolic meaning: "In saying this he was not referring literally to the state of the buildings, but rather to the strength of the empire" (1987, 56.30).Both historians, then, perceive a connection between the physical appearance of the city and Rome's place at the head of the (Roman) world. Maecenas, Augustus's right-hand man who was essentially the minister of culture, explicitly draws attention to this strategy in a speech fabricated by Dio. Maecenas advises Augustus, "Make this capital beautiful, spare no expense in doing so, and enhance its magnificence with festivals of every kind. It is right for us who rule over so many peoples to excel all others in every field of endeavor, and even display of this kind tends to implant [End Page 171] respect for us in our allies and to strike terror into our enemies" (1987, 52.30). Here Dio suggests, albeit in hindsight, that Augustus's building program was a conscious "display" of Rome's supremacy meant to elicit a reaction, particularly from those who dwelled outside the city.Though from this passage of Dio's it is possible to argue that the physical appearance of the city of Rome was meant to persuade, or at least elicit some response, the passage does not provide support for the claim that architecture, monuments, and city planning functioned rhetorically in ancient Rome. After all, Quintilian reminds us that "many other things have the power of persuasion" (1970, 2.15.6-9). Nonetheless, this passage does generate questions about the relationship between the Augustan building program, or more broadly the Augustan cultural campaigns, and rhetoric in the principate—specifically about the way in which the cultural campaigns functioned rhetorically to help Augustus gain and maintain power.Recently, I have argued that the Ara pacis Augustae, an Augustan monument commissioned in 13 BCE, functioned as a visual example of a rhetorical text, meant not only to celebrate Augustus's successful campaigns is Spain and Gaul but also to garner public support for Augustus's heir and the process of dynastic succession. Because specific rhetorical techniques often associated with the epideictic genre clearly function on the altar, the Ara pacis demonstrates that Augustus and/or his ministers were thinking rhetorically when constructing at least some Augustan monuments (Lamp 2009). Similarly, architectural historian Diana Favro has argued that certain aspects of Augustan architecture made use of rhetorical techniques related to the canon of memory (1996). These findings are perhaps not surprising given that George Kennedy, writing nearly forty years ago, acknowledged that Augustus, a figure he called "the greatest rhetorician of antiquity, " "developed new techniques of verbal and visual persuasion which took over some of the functions and adapted some of the methods of traditional oratory" (1972, 378, 382).Still, very little attention has been paid to Augustus as a rhetorical figure, which is not to say that scholars of rhetoric have paid no attention to Roman rhetoric. While the classicist Theodore Mommsen, writing in the latter half of the nineteenth century, went as far as to refer to the principate as the "end to the entire discipline of rhetoric" (1992, 125), the decline narrative in regards to Roman rhetoric is shifting. Traditionally, this decline narrative suggested that following the assassination of Cicero, traditional oratory retreated into... (shrink)

The article discusses the process of switching temporal regimes in Soviet culture at the turn of the 1920s - and during the 1930s on the material of architecture. The concepts of time in constructivism and neoclassicism are compared since the struggle between them determined the main vectors of artistic development in the reconstruction period. The author analyzes the discourse of the official position in relation to the main trends in the development of architecture in the context of the periodization of (...) socialist construction and elicits the reasons for supporting the reference to the classical heritage. The change of political agenda set new requirements for architecture as the most important way of social representation. The new society - socialism - was interpreted in constructivism, which was the leading direction of 1920s architecture, in the modus of the future. In the neoclassicism of the 1930s, socialism was placed in the modus of the present. Constructivism was aimed at the pragmatics of restoring social fabric and solving current problems, as well as at constructing a future society and human. At the end of the first five-year plan, the authorities set other goals for culture in general and architecture in particular: the representation of achievements and the expression of the greatness of socialist construction. Neoclassicism was called upon to perpetuate the present state of affairs in the modus of real perfection and superiority of Soviet socialism over any other formats of social life. Between the time of creation and the time of completion, there is formed a gap that must be hidden. As a way of hiding the temporal gap were chosen classical principles of form-making and examples of the Renaissance and Russian classicism, that were designed to convincingly demonstrate, on the one hand, the possibility of accelerating and compressing time, the swiftness of achieving the ideal, and on the other hand, tp depreciate innovations, make the idea of the movement of time into the future unnecessary. The theory of the leading neoclassicist I. Zholtovsky is discussed as an alternative to the utopian interpretation of time in constructivism, as materializing the mythological time, in which the source and end of creation are given simultaneously in the modus of eternity. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Reviewed by:Isocrates and Civic EducationRobert G. SullivanIsocrates and Civic Education. Edited by Takis Poulakis and David Depew. Austin: University of Texas Press, 2004. Pp. x + 277. $50.00, hardcover.Henry Burrowes Lathrop, in his magisterial Translations from the Classics into English from Caxton to Chapman, adopted a distinctly apologetic tone for having included in that book a lengthy gloss of Isocrates' writings. He felt constrained to do so, noting, "This (...) fairly long exposition has been necessary, since Isocrates is little read nowadays." Well, of course, "nowadays" Isocrates is read a great deal, and he is generally considered to be one of the more important figures in the classical rhetorical tradition. There are a variety of reasons for the revival of Isocrates' fortunes; he has always been accepted as an exemplar of style, and has exerted strong influences in a number of historical eras, but he is seen increasingly as an original and significant rhetorical theorist. However, the strongest attraction to scholars of our era is the connection by Isocrates of two concepts, rhetorical discourse and civic education, in what he called hê tôn logôn padieia. At the nexus of these ideas is not merely a historically interesting aspect of classical rhetorical theory but an important link between rhetorical theory and political practice, of heightened importance to a democratic culture.The volume under consideration gathers some of the best informed contemporary scholars to address this confluence. The ten essays include work by classicists, philosophers, and rhetoricians, all of whom are working in an explicitly interdisciplinary posture. The volume is divided into five thematic sections, with two essays contributed on each of the themes, each pair addressing different aspects of Isocrates' notion of civic education.The first section addresses the shape and purpose of the Isocratean program of civic education. The central question addressed by these essays is fundamental. If we grant the generality that Isocrates has a program of civic education, what are the particular goals of his pedagogy? Simply put, what civic virtues can one expect to acquire from an education in the Isocratean system? For Josiah Ober the route to the answering of this question is a careful and extraordinarily interesting reading of Isocrates great apologia, Antidosis. Ober sees Isocrates attempting to develop in his students a "complex and integral identity" (39) that will allow them to remain both true to themselves and useful to the city, a careful blending of soul-craft and state-craft. Takis Poulakos focuses on the epistemological foundation of Isocratean practice by making a careful account of Isocrates' use of the term doxa. Poulakos does an excellent [End Page 174] job of cutting through the thicket of Isocratean nuance and correctly identifies the theoretically charged notion of doxa as being both the process and product of informed conjecture.The next six essays are, in essence, comparative, laying Isocratean concepts of civic virtue and pedagogy against those of the sophists, Aristotle, and Plato. John Poulakos deftly separates Isocrates' purposes and pedagaogy from the sophists Protagoras and Gorgias. Particularly striking is the distinction Poulakos draws between how Isocrates and the sophists conceived of the power of language. The sophists, having a "dynastic" conception of language, imagine that mastering rhetoric gives one direct access to tyranical power over the individual psyche. Isocrates, less sure of (or perhaps ethically nervous about) language's capacity for political witchcraft, adapts a "hegemonic" notion of logos as acivilizing force, a means of leadership toward good ends. Ekaterina Haskins contrasts the "playful iconoclasm" of Gorgias with the "political responsibility" of Isocrates (85) in the varying ways they make use of the mythopoetic tradition. Davis Konstans contributes an extremely interesting examination of important matters upon which Isocrates and Plato find themselves in agreement, notably the deficiencies of Athenian democracy and the preferred role of the intellectual in society. Konstans' position is very stimulating, if at first glance counterintuitive, as the greater part of modern scholarship has aimed to force these two figures into opposing camps. Kathryn Morgan also begins her essay by focusing on those things Plato and Isocrates agreed upon, noting that both were deeply dissatisfied with conventional civic education in Athens. From this, Morgan turns to... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Reviewed by:Political Dissent in Democratic Athens: Intellectual Critics of Popular RuleJennifer T. RobertsJosiah Ober. Political Dissent in Democratic Athens: Intellectual Critics of Popular Rule. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1998. xvi + 417 pp. Cloth, $35, £24.95.Making sound political decisions requires hard thinking. Most people do not want to think very hard, and some lack the capacity to do so. Many make decisions on the basis of narrow self-interest, and (...) most lack vision. Given that this is so, it is not surprising that Athenian democracy has come in for a good deal of criticism. What is striking about this criticism, however, is its origins in the writings of Athens' own intellectuals. In this carefully argued and beautifully written book Josiah Ober explores in depth the critiques of democracy in several texts of the fifth and fourth centuries. His theses are several and extend from the centrality of the democracy debate in Athenian intellectual life to the interactive relationship between Greek history and contemporary political writing: the obvious contrast between the bloodthirstiness of the Thirty and the restraint shown by the restored democracy, he contends, mandated that analysis of democracy and its flaws become increasingly sophisticated and in some cases downright labyrinthine. The core of the book, however, is not what Ober sees as sociological analyses of Athenian democracy--the early work of the so-called Old Oligarch and the late work of Aristotle--but rather those critiques that focused, he suggests, on the Athenians' preoccupation with words, and on their efficacy as Austinian "speech acts." It is the middle chapters, tied together by the thread of this preoccupation, that are the most ingenious.Since the logos/ergon relationship is, I would suggest, more nuanced in Thucydides' work than in that of the other authors Ober examines, I leave discussion of it for last and begin with the chapter on Aristophanes' Ecclesiazusae. This chapter offers an exciting reading of the play, one in which the potentially trendy Austinian speech-act theory proves an excellent tool of analysis. Like most readers of the play, Ober sees Aristophanes raising the question whether "the attributes essential for the exercise of citizenship" were "unique to Athenian biological males" (135); what is distinctive about his approach is the emphasis on questions that the playwright raises about the relationship of speech to reality. Can words create equality? This is the question, Ober argues, to which Aristophanes is directing his democratic audience's attention. Are there limits to the sociopolitical realities that the Assembly can enact? Does saying make it so? To what extent are notions of male and female fixed by nonverbal physis, and to what degree are they social constructions made by spoken (and [End Page 479] then written) psephismata? Could a decree of the Assembly create female participatory citizens in the way it could create a state of war? (Questions, of course, do not presuppose answers, and in this respect Aristophanes remains maddening to classicists trying to reconstruct the political views of this important thinker on the Athenian scene.)Moving ahead to Plato, Ober explores the word/fact nexus in the Apology, Crito, Gorgias, and the Republic. Gorgias, of course, is the locus classicus for Plato's attack on democracy and rhetoric, which the philosopher represents as a package deal. It is there that Socrates gets Gorgias to concede that rhetoric works its magic on the ignorant more easily than on those who know, and that on the subject of medicine, for example, the most persuasive orator will be he who has studied not medicine but the art of speaking, and similarly with the other arts: there is no need to know pragmata as long as one has discovered a mechane for persuasion (i.e., appearance can substitute for reality). Socrates thus forces Gorgias into a position which we the readers recognize as untenable but poor Gorgias does not. When Socrates concludes that rhetoric must then consist of the blind leading the blind, Gorgias rejoices in the ease and efficiency of it all: how pleasant to skip all the drudgery of learning one art after another, when all one really needs to know is the art of persuasion! (459A-C, passim... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Reviewed by:The Other Greeks: The Family Farm and the Agrarian Roots of Western CivilizationPaul A. RaheVictor Davis Hanson. The Other Greeks: The Family Farm and the Agrarian Roots of Western Civilization. New York: The Free Press, 1995. xvi 1 541 pp. Cloth, $28 (US), $38 (Can.).On the back flap of the dust jacket of this volume, one finds a photograph of its author. He is not represented in the (...) customary manner—as an urbane sophisticate attired in jacket and tie, leaning against a bookcase or sitting at a desk, his hair carefully combed, his beard immaculately trimmed. Instead, he stands slouched before a weathered, wooden structure. He is adorned with sunglasses and jeans; his hair is unkempt, even wind-blown; he sports a mustache and appears to be unshaved; his sleeves are rolled up; his shirttails hang out and they appear to be soiled. We can infer that the shirt’s owner is himself unwashed. Victor Davis Hanson wants us to see him less as a professor of Greek than as a rube—akin to the “dour husbandmen, ‘their facial expressions like sour vinegar’” (403) celebrated by Aristophanes (Eccl. 289–92).This is as it should be, for among classicists Hanson is sui generis, and his is no ordinary scholarly work. He holds a Ph.D. from Stanford University and teaches Greek at California State University at Fresno. But that is the least of it—for, with his brothers and a cousin, he has long operated a family farm in the southern San Joaquin Valley. He knows more about agriculture of the sort practiced by the ancient Hellenes than anyone now alive, and he has devoted his career as a scholar to making sense of classical Greek civilization in light of that knowledge. Everything that he has previously published—in articles and book chapters, in his splendid dissertation Warfare and Agriculture in Classical Greece (Pisa 1983), and in his provocative monograph The Western Way of War: Infantry Battle in Classical Greece (New York 1989)—grew out of an attempt to make a whole of his divided life. The same can now be said for the book under review, which is nothing less than a masterpiece.Hanson makes no mention of Antonio Gramsci or even Karl Marx; and from the down-to-earth, resolutely empirical tone of his book, one can easily infer that he would have little patience with the elaborate theoretical posturings of either. But this notwithstanding, he can perhaps best be characterized as a heterodox Marxist. Put simply, he claims that late in the Dark Ages, Greek husbandmen invented a mode of production theretofore unknown and that in accord with the dictates of that mode of production, they elaborated the way of life and the institutions and practices that we commonly recognize as distinctively “Western.” The mode of production that Hanson has in mind is diversified farming [End Page 459] conducted in accord with the dictates of a primitive but nonetheless well-elaborated agronomy by slaveowning, resident proprietors.In the first part of his book Hanson surveys the archaeological and the literary evidence for early Greek settlement patterns and early Greek life; he examines with care the implications of what is said and of what is left unsaid in the last book of Homer’s Odyssey and in Hesiod’s Works and Days; and he draws together from the remaining literature every snippet of evidence pertinent to understanding what it was like to be a farmer in classical Hellas. At every point he is sensitive to information conveyed in the surviving evidence that city slickers, such as myself, inevitably overlook; and slowly, inexorably, piecing together fragments gleaned from a thousand sources, he builds up a persuasive picture of a transformation in agricultural technique more profound in its implications for human life than the Industrial Revolution.In the second part of his book Hanson traces the logic of ancient Greek constitutionalism and the otherwise inexplicable protocols of hoplite warfare to the special needs and peculiar outlook of agriculturalists eking out a livelihood from diversified farming and standing in need of protection for their property and their way of life against predators domestic and foreign. Finally... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Reviewed by:New Comparative Grammar of Greek and LatinMichael WeissAndrew L. Sihler. New Comparative Grammar of Greek and Latin. New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995. xxiv + 686 pp. Cloth, $60.00.Exactly one hundred years ago the seventeenth volume of AJP contained, besides articles about Avestan, Sanskrit, Propertius, and Pliny, an article by Carl Darling Buck called Some General Problems of Greek Ablaut. In later years C.D. Buck went (...) on to become the English–speaking classical linguist's great and trusty friend producing a string of invaluable handbooks and textbooks. Finest among these, to my mind, is his Grammar of Oscan and Umbrian, which remains unsurpassed in its combinations of firm linguistic judgment and sound pedagogical method. The same excellent virtues are also found in abundance in Buck's Greek Dialects. But undoubtedly Buck's best–known book is A Comparative Grammar of Greek and Latin, which has introduced generations of classicists to the field of comparative grammar. In addition to Buck's other virtues this book was also characterized by a wholesome conservativism. By this I mean 1) that Buck did not present what in 1933 was the "cutting edge" line, but instead what the majority of linguists could then have agreed to be generally well–established and 2) that Buck did not burden the beginner with long discussions of his own views on certain controversial points. The end result was a book of long–lasting value. But as time passed the gap between what was generally accepted by the majority of linguists and what was presented in Buck's book widened. The pages on ablaut, for example, are now hopelessly outdated. A replacement of Buck has for many years now been an urgent desideratum. In my own teaching I have foregone the use of Buck entirely relying instead on handouts and the blackboard.It was with great eagerness, therefore, that I looked forward to the publication of Andrew L. Sihler's New Comparative Grammar of Greek and Latin (NCGGL) and I should state at the outset that Professor Sihler deserves the gratitude of all classical linguists for having undertaken the daunting task of rewriting and expanding Buck. Sihler's NCGGL does follow Buck's format very closely. Part I, an introduction (1–34), covers the Indo–European family of languages, the external history of Greek and Latin, and the Greek and Latin writing systems. Part II (35–242) covers the historical phonology in the order made traditional by Buck. Part III (243–368) deals with nominal morphology. Part IV [End Page 670] (369–401) discusses the pronouns in much greater detail than Buck. Part V (402– 441) is about the numerals and prepositions. Part VI (442–629) discusses verbal morphology. I will use this book the next time I teach comparative grammar. That said, I cannot wholeheartedly endorse Sihler's book. For it suffers from many serious flaws both pedagogical and scientific.In general terms, the absence of a single bibliographical reference is unfortunate. This makes NCGGL a dead end for the self–teaching student. Even when it would have cost Sihler little space, he avoids mentioning scholars by name and sticks to formulations like "some see evidence..." (38) or "one view holds..." (45). In contrast, Buck's book, although not generous with footnotes, did at least have a basic bibliography. Would five pages or so of bibliography have added too much bulk to a book that is already almost 700 pages long?Another overarching problem is the great deal of space spent on Sihler's personal views (and on those of Warren Cowgill, Sihler's acknowledged master). For example, most of 176 is devoted to a discussion of Edgerton's Law and the converse of Siever's Law, which S. himself has elsewhere shown to be without basis (Language 45 [1969] 248–73).Why even mention these outmoded opinions in an introductory textbook? Sihler's discussion of Lindeman's Law (177) involves a rather more detailed analysis of Vedic metrical evidence than the average classicist needs to know. In order to accommodate these views, and also, more justifiably, to include a fuller discussion of the evidence, Sihler has eliminated Buck's sections... (shrink)

The editors of Nietzsche as a Scholar of Antiquity claim with some justification that few philosophers, and even fewer classicists, have "taken the time to understand [Nietzsche] on his own terms as a scholar of antiquity". "Our primary aim," Jensen and Heit say, "is to show not how Nietzsche's earlier works on antiquity help us to understand Nietzsche, but how they may improve our understanding of antiquity." The contributions vary quite widely in style and quality, and I shall suggest that (...) not every contribution to the collection succeeds in that stated primary aim. (shrink)