Tag Archives: latin literature

Study Later Latin!

Codex Amiatinus, portrait of Ezra (Cassiodorus?), folio 5r (c. 700, based on older Italian Bible)

One of the many interesting facts found in Jürgen Leonhardt, Latin: Story of a World Language (read my review), is that about 80% of surviving ancient Latin texts are from the late 200s to the mid-500s. The sheer quantity of texts, then, makes Later Latin literature appealing, doesn’t it?

The other 20% of surviving ancient Latin texts cover about 500 years of literary history — those are the Latin texts we are all most likely to study: Cicero, Caesar, Sallust, Livy, Horace, Catullus, Lucretius, Virgil, Ovid, Propertius, Lucan, Suetonius, Tacitus, and others, including those fragmentary poets of the Republic such as Ennius.

When you think about those who study English literature,  not only do these Latin classics not add up to a very large quantity of texts in comparison, they are also among the most studied texts in the world. Everyone who ever studied Latin with seriousness, whether a Ciceronian so harshly criticised by Erasmus, Erasmus himself, or, say, Aelred of Rievaulx, read Cicero.

So we should keep reading Cicero (there’s more to that argument, but that’s for later).

But Cicero has been analysed, edited, commented upon, translated, and so forth a lot.

Leo the Great, on the other hand, has 23 letters that have received no edition since 1753, and I am contemplating writing the first commentary on the whole corpus of letters.

Not only is Later Latin relatively understudied: It’s vast! Here’s but a sample of people as they pass into my mind:

Lactantius, Aurelius Victor, Eutropius, Ausonius, Ambrose, Symmachus, Augustine, Prudentius, Sedulius, Leo I, Innocent I, Celestine I, various other popes, Caesarius of Arles, Peter Chrysologus, Quodvultdeus, Prosper of Aquitaine, Ammianus Marcellinus, Hydatius, Priscian, Donatus, Servius, Macrobius, Claudian, Porfyrius, Boethius, the legal work of Justinian

The list could and does go on. We have poetry of multiple genres (including epic and some experimental stuff), history of multiple genres, biography, letters, sermons, speeches, grammar books, commentaries on classical poets, commentaries on the Bible, theological treatises, philosophical texts, autobiography, monastic rules, and more.

If we extend our dates to around 800, as the much anticipated Cambridge History of Later Latin Literature will, then we also get Gregory the Great, Gregory of Tours, Aldhelm, Bede, some lovely Hiberno-Latin literature, and more!

There’s something for everyone in later Latin literature, and a lot of it remains untranslated, or poorly translated, or only available in expensive translations. So learn some Latin and go read it!

Latin: Story of a World Language by Jurgen Leonhardt

If you are looking for a single volume history of Latin, I recommend this volume by Jürgen Leonhardt. Leonhardt does not spend energy on Indo-European linguistics, and he does not linger on the fragments of old Latin — the story of Latin is far too long for that. The most sizeable portion of the book is the chapter entitled ‘Europe’s Latin Millennium’ — tracing the centuries 800-1800.

Nonetheless, ancient Latin has its place. Indeed, we cannot have Latin as a world language without Latin as the Romans’ language. Leonhardt gives a readable discussion of the ‘classical’ period of Latin literature, the era of Cicero, Caesar, Virgil, Ovid, et al. This era of Late Republican and Early Imperial Latin literature is important for the story of Latin literature because of two major developments. First, this is the era when Latin authors sought not to imitate but to rival Greek authors. Horace does not wish simply to be a Latin lyric poet in the tradition of the Greeks; he seeks to outstrip them. Second, this is the era of linguistic history when the Latin language ceases to change. The Latin of Cicero is syntactically and grammatically the same Latin as Augustine.

This fixing of Latin at this historical moment, a moment when so much enduring literature was written (the two mutually reinforce each other) meant that Latin was able to truly become a world language. The story of Latin when it is no longer connected to the ancient Roman world is the story of the bulk of this book.

Leonhardt’s book is full of interesting facts and important arguments, for which there is not a lot of time in this review. What is most significant, I think, is the argument that Latin in the Middle Ages created the space for vernacular literatures, and there was not originally competition between Latin and the vernacular. A piece of evidence for this mutual coinherence of literary space is the fact that our earliest vernacular literatures — Old English and Old Irish — emerge precisely in places where Latin literacy was maintained. Similarly, in periods when Latin goes through a slump — the 900s, for example — so do vernacular literatures.

The vernacular literatures only start to compete with Latin as the Early Modern period progresses. Even then, the competition is slow. In Italy, for a very long time, they considered Latin the grammatical form of the language for literature and Italian as simply the volgare. Moreover, even if places like England and France were using the vernacular for their court, this has little to do with poets, philosophers, and theologians who want an international audience. While our association of the rise of vernacular literature with the Early Modern world is not entirely off the mark, it is also worth noting that so many famous authors of the time wrote in Latin for a wider distribution, even if a lot of them also wrote in the vernacular: Isaac Newton, René Descartes, Lancelot Andrewes, John Calvin, and many Germans.

In fact, Latin remained the supraregional language within Germany for a very long time due to the fact that many German dialects are mutually incomprehensible. The book includes a very interesting discussion of Bach being hired by the Thomasschule in Leipzig, mostly about the state of Latin teaching and humanism at the time. One simple point, however, is that, although Bach was not considered qualified to teach Latin, he was still able to converse in Latin and answer catechetical questions in his job interview. A very different era from today.

Alongside a consideration of Latin literature and its variety through the ages, this book looks at Latin pedagogy in the Middle Ages, Renaissance, and 1800s, and Leonhardt argues that one of the things that helped make Latin less alive in the 1800s is the lack of instruction in spoken, daily Latin but simply the style we all know from our own Latin classes, of memorising paradigms and vocabulary and nothing but the Classics for our reading.

In the book’s close come many challenges for those of us invested in Latin today. It is not enough to say with Harry Mount’s book Amo, Amas, Amat and All That that the best reason to learn Latin today is to be able to read the Latin classics, simply because too few people are interested in the effort required when they can, instead, read A D Melville’s Ovid, Robert Fagles’ Aeneid, David Ferry’s Horace, John Yardley’s Livy. However, given that over 90% of the Latin ever written remains unread and unedited, there is much potential for growth in the field. While Cicero and the turn of the era should remain an essential ingredient of Latin instruction, Leonhardt argues for promoting the riches of medieval and modern Latin as cause for students to become interested.

He also argues that we need to make Latin instruction live again — bring in more conversation, perhaps. Investigate methods from modern languages. Help students do composition exercises related to things other than politics and war. He doesn’t say it in quite these words, but that’s the feel I got.

This book is well worth the read for anyone interested in Latin, even if it’s just nostalgia from having studied it in school in the 1960s.

Mythology through (ancient) literature

Mythology through art - Theseus vs the Minotaur, National Archaeological Museum, Naples

Mythology through art – Theseus vs the Minotaur, National Archaeological Museum, Naples

I have stolen the title ‘Mythology Through Literature’ from an undergraduate course my wife had the good fortune of taking — I did not have enough room for that particular course due to an overload of Latin and Greek. However, as an undergraduate I had the opportunity not only to take ‘Greek Mythology’, but ‘Homer and Virgil’ and ‘Greek Tragedy’ besides courses on Virgil’s Aeneid and Homer’s Iliad in the original languages. When I reflect on this, as well as my graduate education, the reality comes home to me time and again that our knowledge of Greek mythology comes to us through literature, and not simply compendia such as the Library of ‘Apollodorus’ — itself the greatest compendium of Greek myths. (I’d link to it, but WordPress has lost its mind.)

Of course, epic in the tradition of Hesiod can feel like a compendium, whether Hesiod’s Theogony or Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Such epics, however, are more than compendia (one might argue, in fact, that compendia are not ‘mere’ compendia, either). They, themselves, have all the artistry of more extended literary tellings of the ancient stories, whether Homer’s Odyssey or Virgil’s Aeneid. They are, themselves, literature, written in dactylic hexameters with their own beauty and structure and use of metaphor, simile, allusion.

I love Hesiod and Ovid. Nonetheless, there is a different kind of pleasure that comes from discovering myths in other poets. When I was studying Greek and Latin poetry, mythology felt as if it were hiding behind every corner. For example, reading The Iliad you encounter not even the whole tale of Troy (or Ilium), but along the way (in Book 6) you encounter the tale of Bellerophon, as recounted by characters on the battlefield. In Virgil’s Aeneid book 8, we meet what may be an Italic folktale in the story of Cacus vs Hercules. Or you sit down to read a victory ode written by Pindar for Arcesilas, King of Cyrene, for the victory of Arcesilas’ chariot in the Pythian Games (Fourth Pythian Ode), and find yourself reading about Jason and the Argonauts and the founding of Cyrene.

Another lyric poet who wrote mythological victory odes was Simonides of Ceos, who was once refused half of his pay on the grounds that Castor and Pollux should pay the other half, given how much they featured in the poem!

The most famous mythological literature of the ancients is, of course, the epics — Homer, Hesiod, and Apollonius in Greek, then Virgil, Ovid, and Statius in Latin (but also Claudian) — and the tragedies. Indeed, who can not be moved by the power and force of Aeschylus Oresteia? It is Sophocles’ telling of Oedipus that we all know, and the finish to the tale of Jason comes through Euripides’ Medea. Yet alongside the poetry, we meet mythology in an unlikely place — Plato, who barred poets from his Republic, is our main source for the myth of Atlantis in the Critias.

Ancient Greek and Latin literature is vast, spanning many centuries, from Homer in the 700s BC to Claudian in AD 400. The result of learning mythology through literature is that your Greek mythology storybook from when you were a kid is sometimes at variance with what you find. I remember one of my professors in university having given a particular version of a myth (really sorry, I forget which!!), and a friend was bent out of shape that he had ‘got it wrong.’ However, later on I discovered that he had, in fact, ‘got it right’ — there was more than one telling.

For example, how was Aphrodite born? Hesiod tells us that she was born from the foam that built up in the sea around Ouranos’ castrated genitals (Theogony 188). Homer refers to Dione as her mother (Iliad 5.370). Who is ‘right’? Hesiod even gives us conflicting accounts of Athena — daughter of Zeus and Metis, although born out of Zeus’ belly (line 887), or self-generated from Zeus’ head (line 924)?

According to ‘Apollodorus’, Athena blinded Teiresias for seeing her naked while bathing (Library 3.6.7). But another version (I forget the source!) says that Teiresias was blinded because he revealed that women enjoy sex more than men (having spent part of his life as a woman, part as a man), and Hera was angry with him for giving away her secret. Which is ‘right’?

Did Aphrodite offer Paris the most beautiful woman on earth or irresistible sexiness?

Such a list could go on.

There is much appeal to reading mythology through ancient literature — the literature itself is pleasant to enjoy. The drama of a tragedy, the glory of an epic, the terseness of a lyric poem. The beauty of it all. And, alongside it, there comes the pleasure of encountering new versions of old stories, revealing a textual and narrative playfulness with the ‘canon’ that we have difficulty grasping ourselves. Once you’ve read a book about Greek myths, there’s no better place to turn next than the ancient literature itself.

Discover Fifth-century Religion and Literature

Preamble (you can scroll down to Content if you like)

Because I inevitably blog about Late Antiquity here (3rd century-ish to 6th or 7th century-ish history), I’ve been intermittently writing posts about Discovering Late Antiquity. So far, I’ve explained why you should discover this period, encouraged you to discover Roman history more generally, then talked about discovering the third century, as well as discovering fourth-century religion and literature and fourth-century politics.

What ought to have come next was something about fourth-century art and architecture, which has kind of happened, since what followed were musings and photographs of Late Antique things I saw in Rome, in these posts: Late Antique Rome? Where? followed by Late Antique Rome: Mausoleo di Santa Costanza then Roman Basilicas: Hunting Late Antiquity and The Baths of Diocletian: More from Late Antique Rome. I also wrote a review of a book on imperial/Late Antique Roman art, although it’s not in this post category.

Logical progression would urge me to contextualise the Roman posts with one about fourth-century art and architecture or to finish them off with my planned post about non-monumental things from Late Antique Rome. Instead, I would like to introduce to you the fifth century (if you’ve survived this preamble).

St Jerome, d. 420

Content of this piece

Given that I’ve just submitted a PhD dissertation about the manuscripts that contain letters of Pope Leo the Great (pope 440-461), it will come as no great shock that this is ‘my’ century of Roman history. It is also, therefore, where I am most aware of my shortcomings — shortcomings I hope to address over the years to come through an analysis of the surviving sources, of which we have many.

Why should you care about the fifth century? Well, in the first place, this is the century when Rome ‘fell’ (however, see Victor of Tunnuna on that). That’s kind of a big deal. It is also the century of the first enduring schisms within the Christian church, lasting to this day. It’s the century when King Arthur — if there was one — would probably have fought battles in Britain. It is the century of Augustine’s greatest writings and Jerome’s final writings. It is the century of St Patrick’s mission to Ireland. It is a very big century of change, in short. Such centuries are always worth knowing. In this post, I’ll just look at religion and literature.

Religion and Literature

The landscape of fifth-century religion, unlike that of the fourth, is entirely Christian. Very soon within the century, we have no more pagans. Their descendants have all converted to Christianity. They have not, however, given up on Classical culture. Evidence for this is found in the Christian literature of the century.

Literature

Sidonius Apollinaris. I like Sidonius; some people find him distasteful, a bit too ‘decadent’. However, his is the jewelled style of the age, and it is no fault if he writes like a fifth-century man. If you read his poetry, you will find the endurance not only of classical poetic forms but of classical, ‘pagan’ imagery in the works of the consul-turned-bishop. If you are acquainted with Latin letters in the tradition of Cicero or of Pliny, Sidonius will seem perfectly Roman to you.

The letters of his friend Ruricius of Limoges strike you in the same way. At the end of the century are the similarly classicising poems and letters of Ennodius.

Augustine of Hippo. I suppose one would expect Augustine with religion, not literature. Nonetheless, he belongs in both. In 397 he wrote the first three books of his On Christian Teaching, in 426 the fourth. This text introduces some major concepts of rhetoric as well as of theory of language. His City of God is one of the great Latin classics. His polished corpus of sermons is a body of rhetorical exegesis well worth a read.

St Jerome was also active at the start of the century — as with him Augustine, many fifth-century churchmen demonstrate a rootedness in classical education. It would be tedious to list them all.

Rutilius Namatianus, unlike these others, was a pagan aristocrat who wrote a great poem De Reditu Suo about his journey home to Gaul from Rome in 416. If you want to see a pagan’s response to the growing Christian culture around him, including its ascetic elements, read Rutilius.

Religion

Heresy. Whether you agree with the official church’s definition of who was or was not a heretic in the fifth century, there were certainly disputes about doctrine. Early in the century was Pelagianism, condemned 418-419; this was a western controversy that continued to simmer over the century, although the teaching defined as ‘Pelagian’ was rejected by those on either side.

In the East we see the rise of ‘Nestorianism‘, a belief I am not certain anyone actually held, although Nestorius sometimes sounds like he does. Nestorius, Bp of Constantinople, was ultimately condemned as a heretic in the Council of Ephesus, 431. Those who refused to condemn him founded the ‘Church of the East’ that extended from ancient Persia to modern China. Nestorius chief opponent was Cyril of Alexandria, one of the greatest theological minds of the age. In the late 440s, an extreme Cyrillian named Eutyches was condemned for heresy at a local synod in Constantinople. This led to the Second Council of Ephesus which reinstated him; Pope Leo the Great called a ‘latrocinium’, a lair of robbers. Leo lobbied for its reversal, which came in 451 after a change in the imperial regime in Constantinople.

The reversal of Second Ephesus happened at the Council of Chalcedon. Here, Cyril and Leo were proclaimed the foundations of orthodoxy, and Leo’s teaching that Christ exists in two natures (human and divine) was accepted as the official teaching of the imperial church. Conservative Cyrillians rejected Chalcedon; they are later called Monophysites, today often Miaphysites, and now include the Coptic Orthodox Church, Syrian Orthodox Church, Ethiopian Tawahedo Church, and Armenian Apostolic Church (these are the ‘Oriental Orthodox’ Churches). The followers of Chalcedon have as their descendants Roman Catholicism, most Protestants, and the Eastern Orthodox Churches.

Asceticism. The young ascetic/monastic movement that gained popularity with the Egyptian monks in the previous century continued to expand. This is the century of Sts Shenoute of the White Monastery, Euthymius, Simeon the Stylite, Daniel the Stylite, Savvas, Jacob of Serugh, and others in the East. In the West, we have John Cassian, the Jura Fathers, monks of Lérins such as Vincent of Lérins, as well as the final years of Paulinus of Nola and Sulpicius Severus.

Through the different crises of the fifth century, the ascetics and bishops provided their own versions of leadership and support to the Christian community. This is the age when we see the papacy gain greater authority and honour beyond Italy, as well as articulating a theology of papal primacy in the writings of Leo the Great. We also see more and more aristocrats becoming bishops, although first aristocratic pope was Felix III (pope 483-492). Alongside that, though, there are still ascetic bishops, such as Salvian of Marseille and Hilary of Arles. Thus, the trends of western Middle Ages are starting to become visible over the course of this century.

In the East, we see Constantinople rise to greater and greater prominence in ecclesiastical politics, much to the chagrin of Alexandria and Antioch. We also see ascetics acting with what people call parrhesia before emperors — an openness and frankness that the average citizen would not have the freedom to use. Trends are thus emerging here that will later be called Byzantine or Orthodox.

The fifth century — it’s well worth exploring. I hope you have the time to try.

The Emperor Julian and Divination

Julian in the ‘Thermes de Cluny’ — not my photo because my blog still won’t actually display uploaded media in posts

I just finished the second volume of J C Rolfe’s Loeb Classical Library edition of Ammianus Marcellinus’ (d. AD 390) history, the Res Gestae. What caught my mind the most in this volume was the Emperor Julian (called ‘the Apostate’), who died in AD 364 during his invasion of Sassanian Persia. Julian is called ‘the Apostate’ because of his conversion to paganism from Christianity in his youth. I am no Julian scholar, but there is a possibility that his conversion was in part driven by his response to the slaughter of his entire family and extended family save himself and his brother Gallus by the Emperor Constantius II when he was a boy in the ‘Summer of Blood’ (which is the title of a good article by R W Burgess). Whatever the causes, he was a strong adherent to traditional Graeco-Roman religion, the thing he is best remembered for.

Julian sported a beard like a philosopher emperor of old – indeed, he is compared to the Stoic Marcus Aurelius (r. 161-180) by Ammianus on several occasions. He kept pagan philosophers around him and composed some of his own philosophical and poetical works of a traditional nature. He also sacrificed animals to the gods on a regular basis, besides reopening many of the temples closed in decades since Constantine (r. 306-337) converted to Christianity in 312. His zeal for traditional religion also involved the banning of Christians from teaching rhetoric, a move of which the pagan Ammianus disapproved.

What struck me throughout Ammianus’ narrative of Julian’s brief reign was divination, the foretelling of the future, whether through omens or haruspicy (examination of entrails) or augury, etc.

Before his rise to the principate in AD 360 by acclamation of his troops in Paris (hey, I’m there right now!) and his gaining of sole rule in 361 upon the death of Constantius II (r. 337-361), he was already secretly practising traditional religion, including the arts of divination which foretold that he would rise to become Augustus (the formal title of the Roman emperors).

However, in 363, Julian decided that the best move for him to take was an invasion of the Persian Empire, partly in retaliation for some Persian activities on the frontier, partly in a show of one-upmanship to the deceased Constantius, who had only engaged the Persians in defensive warfare. He would take the battle to the Sassanians themselves.

As a good pagan with interest in divination, he made his consultations, and the omens turned up bad. In fact, all sorts of bad omens turned up. Julian chose to ignore the official augurs and haruspices and listen to the court philosophers instead, who gave lucky interpretations to the variety of omens that kept on happening or dismissed them as simply natural phenomena.* Whether or not every single omen discussed by Ammianus actually occurred cannot be said for sure, but I think that if one lived in a culture with omens as a regular part of daily life and plan-making, they could be found anywhere and everywhere.

So, despite the omens, Julian set out. And as he went, time after time, bad omens fell, such as his horse falling down and scattering its royal raiment. Time after time, the official diviners told him to go home. Time after time, he ignored them and pressed further and further into Persian territory, going so far, eventually, to burn ships and supplies, thus effectively stranding his armies a vast distance from the Roman border (a move that St Augustine of Hippo decried as a very dull-witted move in The City of God).

And then, one night, there was a shooting star – which Ammianus rightly notes could not possibly be an actual star, but he had no concept of other pieces of space debris that could appear in the heavens. Anyway, Julian consulted the Etruscan haruspices, and they said that:

any undertaking at that time must be most carefully avoided, pointing out that in the Tarquitian books, under the rubric “On signs from heaven” it was written, that when a meteor was seen in the sky, battle ought not to be joined, or anything similar attempted. When the emperor scorned this also, as well as many other signs, the soothsayers begged that at least he would put off his departure for some hours; but even this they could not gain, since the emperor was opposed to the whole science of divination, but since day had now dawned, camp was broken. (Amm. Marc., Res Gestae 25.2.7-8, trans Rolfe, Loeb Classical Library)

The next day, the Emperor Julian was stabbed and died of his wounds later on, discussing philosophy with the court philosophers to the end, after the manner of Socrates.

The statement in the Ammianus passage above is interesting, that ‘the emperor was opposed to the whole science of divination’. This is by no means an accurate statement based on Ammianus’ other evidence for Julian’s behaviour, including a discourse about Julian’s own skills in that art. Rolfe says in his footnote that this opposition came only when divination conflicted with Julian’s plans.

And here’s what I think most interesting about Julian’s relationship with divination. This is a man wholly committed to his own philosophy and religion. He engaged during his rule in a campaign of reconsecrating temples, recommencing sacrifices, desecrating Christian churches, barring Christians from certain professions, fostering pagan philosophical schools, and making himself out as a mythological figure adopted by the gods themselves. His devotion to traditional Roman religion combined with the philosophical schools of Late Antiquity can not remain in doubt. He was as sincere a pagan as Augustine was a Christian, even if Ammianus felt him superstitious rather than a legitimate observer of sacred things.

Yet, when push comes to shove, personal desires can trump belief. Julian wanted to invade Persia. The auspices, the auguries, the haruspices, the various omens, the Sibylline Books – none of these mattered. All that mattered was his own wish, and he would ignore or reinterpret the omens to fit his own vision, regardless of his personal piety.

There is a lesson here, I’m sure. Certainly a lesson in human nature, that all of us, even the sincere, can trump our own beliefs by other passions and drives. And perhaps that is lesson enough.

You can read Ammianus Marcellinus online here.

*The dismissing of an omen as a natural phenomenon is to ignore the essence of what an omen is, if you ask me. The point of an omen is that the supernatural is impinging upon the natural world to send a message using the available stuff that we see all around us. Notably, this is why the Carolingian obsession with astronomical phenomena as omens is not the same as astrology per se nor necessarily a pagan holdover – they believed the God of the Christians was communicating with them all the time, and the heavens were amongst his methods. A good essay on Carolingian star-gazing is P E Dutton ‘Of Carolingian Kings and Their Stars’, in Charlemagne’s Mustache and Other Cultural Clusters of a Dark Age.