2015.09.59

Pia de Fidio, Clara Talamo (ed.), Eforo di Cuma: nella storia della storiografia greca. Atti dell'Incontro Internazionale di Studi, Fisciano-Salerno, 10-12 dicembre 2008 (2 vols.). La parola del passato: rivista di studi classici, 68, fasc. 388-393; 69, fasc. 394-399. Napoli: Macchiaroli Editore, 2013. Pp. 993. ISBN 0031-2355. (pb).

Reviewed by Bruno Bleckmann (bleckmann@phil.hhu.de)

Version at BMCR home site

Die Universalgeschichte des Ephoros gibt der Darstellung Diodors, die für große Stücke der griechischen Geschichte des fünften und vierten Jahrhunderts hinzugezogen werden muss, das Fundament. Deutlich ist auch, dass Ephoros gemeinsam mit Theopompos die spätere Geschichtsschreibung, was methodischen Zugriff und Darstellungsweise betrifft, wesentlich stärker geprägt hat als Thukydides und dass er entscheidend dazu beigetragen hat, die Geschichtsschreibung als literarisches Genre zu formen.¹ Mit dieser offenkundigen Bedeutung des Ephoros kontrastiert die Tatsache, dass eine Charakterisierung seines historiographischen Projekts ausgesprochen schwierig bleibt. Im neunzehnten Jahrhundert war die Rekonstruktion durch die Kombination von Passagen aus Diodors Büchern XI-XVI mit den wenigen unter dem Namen des Ephoros überlieferten Fragmenten erfolgt. Aus der sich daraus ergebenden Gesamtsicht gelangten die Protagonisten historiographiegeschichtlicher Forschung wie Schwartz und Jacoby zu einem ausgesprochen ungünstigen Urteil. In Ephoros erblickte man einen Autor mit geringen intellektuellen Kapazitäten, der durch kompilatorische Methoden eine spannungslose, in die Breite gehende und flach moralisierende Darstellung der gesamten griechischen Geschichte schuf.

In jüngster Zeit hat man versucht, eine positivere Einschätzung des Autors zu gewinnen. In einem gerade vorgelegten Sammelband wird Ephoros als Hauptvertreter eines „Golden Age of Greek Historiography" aufgefasst,² dem durch die klassizistischen Vorurteile und eine Überbewertung des fünften Jahrhunderts nicht ausreichend Gerechtigkeit widerfahren sei. Selbst in seinen Rückgriffen auf die Geschichte des fünften Jahrhunderts, etwa in der Analyse des Ausbruchs des Peloponnesischen Krieges, sei Ephoros dem Thukydides zumindest gleichrangig.³ Diesen Bemühungen um die Neubewertung des Historikers Ephoros ist auch der anzuzeigende monumentale, von Pia de Fidio und Clara Talamo in Zusammenarbeit mit Luigi Vecchio vorgelegte Doppelband zuzuweisen.

Der Band enthält drei Teile. Nach einer Einleitung werden im ersten Teil allgemeine Fragen zum Autor und zum Kontext seines Werkes behandelt („Spunti biografici e contesto storico e culturale"). Ein zweiter Teil geht auf die verschiedenen im Geschichtswerk behandelten Epochen und Regionen ein („Le koinai praxeis tra storie regionali e storia ‚universale'"). Ein letzter Teil behandelt Fragen des Nachlebens des Ephoros („Risonanze eforee nella tradizione storiografica posteriore"). Als Quelle erschöpfender Informationen zu Ephoros ist der Band für jedes Studium der klassischen Historiographie unentbehrlich. Viele der dort vorgelegten Beiträge haben den Umfang und das Gewicht kleiner Monographien. So behandelt etwa G. Ragone die Frage, ob man bei Ephoros eine lokalpatriotische, nämlich an Kyme orientierte Verzerrung der Perspektive feststellen kann, auf über 100 Seiten,⁴ und einen fast gleich großen Umfang nehmen die fundierten Ausführungen von Pia de Fidio über den Beitrag des Ephoros zur frühmessenischen Pseudogeschichte ein.⁵ Durch die zusammenfassende Einleitung und durch die kleinen Abstracts am Ende ist die Benutzbarkeit des Werkes ebenso gewährleistet wie durch zahlreiche Indices.

Dass in diesem Sammelwerk letztlich keine völlig einheitliche Beurteilung des Autors vorgelegt werden kann, ist angesichts der vielfachen Unge¬wissheiten nicht weiter erstaunlich. Divergierend wird etwa die Frage behandelt, welche Beziehungen zwischen Isokrates und Ephoros bestehen. Franca Landucci Gattinoni geht in ihrer sorgfältigen Zusammenstellung der Zeugnisse zur mutmaßlichen Biographie des Ephoros davon aus, dass die Zugehörigkeit des Ephoros zur Schule des Isokrates einer biographischen Realität entsprochen haben könnte.⁶ Dagegen folgt Gabriela Ottone in ihrer Studie zum Zeugnis des Photios (cod. 176) deutlicher der Spur von E. Schwartz und erklärt entschiedener die angebliche Schülerschaft des Ephoros und Theopompos als Erfindung literaturgeschichtlicher Schematisierung späterer Biographen. Die Nähe zu isokrateischem Gedankengut ist daher eher Ergebnis eines allgemeinen Diskurses im Athen des vierten Jahrhunderts als einer wie auch immer gearteten direkten Beziehung.⁷

Auch die Bewertung des Verhältnisses von Ephoros zu Diodor fällt unterschiedlich aus. Besonders deutlich positioniert sich G. Parmeggiani, Diodoro lettore di Eforo, 781-806 gegen die These einer engen Abhängigkeit des Diodoros von Ephoros, die er für „scientificamente insostenibile" und gar für eine „pericolosa chimera" (802)⁸ hält. Jacoby, der in Diodor ein „fortlaufendes excerpt aus E(phoros)" sieht, oder Schwartz hätten die Defekte in der Demonstration Volquardsens übersehen.⁹ Diodor sei kein normaler Epitomator, er fühle sich nicht verpflichtet, den Inhalt der Ausführungen des Ephoros genau wiederzugeben und er kenne durch persönliche Lektüre auch andere Autoren. Ein Beispiel in der unterschiedlichen Argumentation des Ephoros und Diodors liefert Parmeggiani etwa im Vergleich zwischen F 119 und Diod. 15,88. Während Ephoros sein Lob des Epaminondas innerhalb von politisch orientierten Ausführungen wiedergebe, stehe bei Diodor die Einordnung des Epaminondas in die Galerie historisch bedeutender Männer im Vordergrund. Auch die Ausführungen über den Verlust der Hegemonie Thebens durch die Nachfolger des Epaminondas (bei Ephoros in Analogie zu Thuk. 2,65) seien in beiden Quellen nicht identisch.¹⁰ Dass Diodor bei Gelegenheit andere Akzente setzt und politische Dimensionen vernachlässigt,¹¹ die in der Historiographie des vierten Jahrhunderts noch erkennbar waren, ist durchaus zu konzedieren, ändert aber m. E. wenig daran, dass die Inhalte zur Geschichte des griechischen Mutterlands, über die er reflektiert, aus seiner Vorlage Ephoros stammen.

Dreizehn der dreißig Bücher des Ephoros behandelten auf jeden Fall Zeitgeschichte des vierten Jahrhunderts, auch wenn für die Zeit ab 386 nur 30 Fragmente bekannt sind.¹² Die Frage, welchen Wert diese zeitgeschichtliche Erzählung gehabt haben kann, bleibt offen. Diskutiert wird im Band zwar das Problem, inwiefern Ephoros selbst seine zeitgeschichtlichen Bücher verfasste, ob er nämlich, wie die antike Literaturkritik behauptet hat, breite Übernahmen aus dem Autor der Hell. Oxy., aus Theopompos oder aus Kallisthenes vornahm, oder ob er Informationen zeitgenössischer Historiker zu einem Mosaik zusammenfügte.¹³ Dies geschieht vor dem Hintergrund der programmatischen Erklärung des Ephoros, für die eigene Zeitgeschichte die detailliertesten Autoren zu benutzen.¹⁴ Der detaillierte Abgleich mit Xenophon, der den methodischen Hebel zur Eruierung des Quellenwerts zumindest der Erzählung Diodors bietet, etwa für die langen Kapitel zur Geschichte des Zugs der Zehntausend,¹⁵ wird im Sammelband dagegen eher zurückhaltend betrieben.¹⁶

Möglicherweise größere Aufmerksamkeit im Sinne einer schärferen Kontrastierung der Konsequenzen für die Bewertung des Autors hätte im Band schließlich die Erläuterung der Frage verdient, ob Ephoros wirklich ein Autor der späten Klassik oder der frühen Alexanderzeit ist. Behandelt wird diese Fragestellung vor allem im Beitrag von L. Prandi, L'ultimo Eforo. Sie hält fest, dass Ephoros die Zeitgeschichte bis zur „diabasis" Alexanders des Großen behandeln wollte (656), aber nur bis zur Belagerung von Perinth durch Philipp im Jahr 341 gelangte. Die Phase der Endredaktion des Geschichtswerks setzt sie in die Zeit 336-334. Das setzt allerdings voraus, dass Ephoros in großer Hellsichtigkeit die „diabasis" Alexanders auch ohne längeren zeitlichen Abstand als eine Zäsur von epochaler Bedeutung begriffen hat.

Nach der Lektüre der umfangreichen Ausführungen bleibt die skeptische Frage, was am Bild des rehabilitierten Ephoros in gesicherter Weise als völlig neu zu betrachten ist. Gewiss lassen sich in einigen Punkten Dinge, die von der Philologie des 19. Jahrhunderts umschrieben werden, positiver ausdrücken. So mag man etwa das additive Prinzip, bei dem die hellenische Identität durch die Summe der Lokalgeschichten gewonnen wird, nicht als spannungslose Sammelei beschreiben, sondern als gelungene Verbindung von lokaler und globaler Geschichte (Nicolai, 235 spricht von „glocal history"). An der Sache ändert sich nicht viel. Trotz solcher Restzweifel steht fest, dass mit dem Sammelband ein höchst wertvolles Instrument der Ephoros-Forschung vorgelegt worden ist.

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Notes:

1.   S. im Sammelband den Beitrag von R. Nicolai, La storiografia di Eforo tra paideia retorica e identitá greca, 217-235, hier 235. Zur „Professionalisierung" der Geschichtsschreibung s. z. B. R. Vattuone, Looking for the Invisible. Theopompus and the Roots of Historiography, in: G. Parmeggiani, Between Thucydides and Polybius. The Golden Age of Greek Historiography, Cambridge Mass. - London, 2014, 7-37.
2.   S. Anm. 1.
3.   G. Parmeggiani, The Causes of the Peloponnesian War, in: Between Thucydides and Polybius (wie Anm. 1), 115-132. Das hat E. Schwartz anders gesehen (Griechische Geschichtsschreiber, 2. Aufl., Leipzig 1959, 23): „Ephoros glaubte kritisch zu verfahren, wenn er das Geklätsche der politischen Theoretiker, die nichts Positives wußten, gegen Thukydides' Rettung des Perikles ausspielte."
4.   Eforo „Campanilista". Lo spazio storico di Cuma Eolica nei frammenti dell' Epichorios e delle Storie, 95-216.
5.   Eforo e le tradizioni sulla Messenia arcaica, 413-506, mit dem Ergebnis, dass diese Frühgeschichte keine einheitliche Prägung hat, sondern einen „cambio di registro" aufweist (vgl. 493).
6.   Sulle tracce di Eforo di Cuma. Appunti biografici, 78-94.
7.   Diese Berührungen sind allerdings oft so spezifisch, dass man eine gemeinsame politische Grundausrichtung nachweisen kann. Dies gilt etwa für die Charakterisierung des Theramenes als Demokraten, vgl. P. de Fidio, 36 sowie C. Bearzot, Eforo e Teramene, 569-590, besonders 570. Dem Zeitgeist des vierten Jahrhunderts würde dagegen die Charakterisierung des positiven Ideals einer Hegemonie entsprechen, wo sich von Xenophon über Isokrates zu Ephoros vergleichbare Vorstellungen entdecken lassen, vgl. hierzu den Beitrag von Daverio Rocchi, 632-639.
8.   FGrHist 70 F 70 (bei Diodor 14,11,1-2) wird dabei in mehrfachen Zusammenhängen als Kronzeuge gegen die Einquellentheorie diskutiert (vgl. Parmeggiani, 788; Tuplin, 651). Die Passage könnte tatsächlich darauf hinweisen, dass eine Kurzversion der einen Quelle über die Ermordung des Alkibiades durch Pharnabazos, der den Spartanern einen Gefallen erweisen möchte, gegen eine längere Version aus Ephoros aussgespielt wird, der abweichende Gründe erwähnt. Die Stelle ist aber keineswegs völlig eindeutig, da man annehmen kann, dass Ephoros selbst oder seine Quelle eine erste Version knapp erwähnte, um anschließend deutlich gegen sie Stellung zu nehmen, ein Procedere, das man von den Hell. Oxy. 10,2 kennt. Vgl. dazu B. Bleckmann, Athens Weg in die Niederlage. Die letzten Jahre des Peloponnesischen Kriegs, Stuttgart – Leipzig 1998, 494 f. Ähnliches lässt sich auch für den zweiten von Parmeggiani, 789 vorgestellten Fall (Diod. 15,60,5 Alternativversionen für die Ermordung des Iason) annehmen. Für F 71 geht Tuplin, 650 f. davon aus, dass Ephoros Xenophon inhaltlich näher ist als Diodor. Gerade hier lässt sich zeigen, dass Diodor die teilweise an Xenophon angelehnte Vorlage des Ephoros durchaus benutzt und gekürzt hat, vgl. Bleckmann, 140.
9.   Dabei sollte allerdings beachtet werden, dass Schwartz explizit auf den Diskussionsprozess und auf die Argumente gegen die Einquellentheorie Volquardsens hinweist.
10.   Dagegen hält Daverio Rocchi, 638 das Lob des Epaminondas bei Diodor mit der Analyse im Fragment 119 für vereinbar.
11.   Den Enthusiasmus über die politische Analyse des Ephoros würde ich allerdings gerade für die Ausführungen über die böotische Hegemonie nicht teilen. Ephoros lässt in diese Analyse vor allem seine Überzeugung einfließen, dass die Böoter sorgfältiger Bildung entbehren und dadurch die Chancen versäumen, die sich aus ihrer geopolitischen Lage ergeben. Diese Analyse zeugt kaum von Vorurteilslosigkeit.
12.   S. die Hinweise in der Einleitung, S. 36.
13.   S. Prandi, 689.
14.   FGrHist 70 F 9 mit der Interpretation von Daverio Rocchi, 617; Prandi, 694 f. Anders G. Schepens, L'Apogée de l'Archè spartiate comme époque historique dans l'historiographie grecque du début du IVe siècle av. J.-C., Ancient Society 24, 1993, 169-203, hier 176, Anm. 20.
15.   Vgl. P. J. Stylianou, One Anabasis or Two, in: The Long March. Xenophon and the Ten Thousand, New Haven – London 2004, 68-96.
16.   Z. B. im Beitrag von C. Bearzot, Eforo e Teramene, 569-590. Der Beitrag von G. Daverio Rocchi, Eforo, Senofonte e la storia del loro tempo, 608-642 behandelt dagegen den divergierenden methodischen Ansatz in den Geschichtswerken Xenophons bzw. des Ephoros, etwa in der Frage der vollständigen Erfassung historischer Zusammenhänge versus lückenhafter Skizzierung oder in der Verwendung von Reden. Ferner geht der Beitrag auf jeweilige Eigenarten bei der Skizzierung der innergriechischen Beziehungen und der Erklärung des Scheiterns der Hegemonialbestrebungen Spartas, Athens und Thebens ein. Eine detaillierte Abgleichung der Darstellung Xenophons mit derjenigen Diodors bzw. der wenigen Ephoros-Fragmente wird dagegen nicht vorgenommen. Für die Frage der griechisch-persischen Beziehungen erläutert C. Tuplin, Ephoros on Post-Herodotean Persian History, 643-682 Unterschiede in der Darstellung Xenophons und Diodors eingehend, wobei Vertiefungen möglich gewesen wären. Bei der Darlegung der Unterschiede in der Darstellung der Seeschlacht von Knidos (394 ) geht es mir (B. Bleckmann, Fiktion als Geschichte, Göttingen 2006, 36-54) keineswegs, wie von Tuplin, 652, behauptet, um „criticism directed at Diodoran geography in the Cnidus narrative", sondern darum aufzuzeigen, dass Diodor eine gegenüber Xenophon umgestaltete Version des Schlachtgeschehens bietet, in der etwa die Rolle des Konon im Verhältnis zu Pharnabazos in ahistorischer Weise aufgewertet wird. Zur Frage der Verschmelzung von Pharnabazos und Tissaphernes, deren Genese Tuplin, 668 offen lässt, ist auf eine reichhaltige Diskussion zu verweisen, vgl. Bleckmann, Athens Weg in die Niederlage, 50-56.

2015.09.58

Mark Glen Bilby, As the Bandit will I Confess You: Luke 23, 39-43 in Early Christian Interpretation. Cahiers de Biblia Patristica, 13. Strasbourg: Université de Strasbourg, 2013. Pp. 373. ISBN 9782906805125. €39.50 (pb).

Reviewed by Reinhard Feldmeier, Universität Göttingen (reinhard.feldmeier@theologie.uni-goettingen.de)

Version at BMCR home site

Gegenstand der Untersuchung ist eine Erzählung, die sich nur im dritten Evangelium findet: Während bei Markus und Matthäus beide „Räuber" an der Seite des gekreuzigten Jesus diesen ebenfalls verspotten, nimmt bei Lukas der eine „Verbrecher" Jesus in Schutz, erklärt seine Unschuld und bittet ihn, seiner zu gedenken, wenn er in sein Reich kommt, was Jesus mit der Verheißung beantwortet: „Amen, ich sage dir, heute wirst du mit mir im Paradies sein".

Dieser Text wird im ersten Teil zunächst als Ausdruck der spezifischen lukanischen Theologie gedeutet, wobei allerdings nicht alles in gleicher Weise einleuchtet. So geht der Autor zu eindimensional von einem „Roman-sympathizing sentiment of Luke-Acts" aus, dass er auch ohne Beachtung anderer lukanischer Texte für die Erwähnung des Paradieses verantwortlich macht, durch das die potentiell aufrührerische frühchristlich-apokalyptische Eschatologie ersetzt werden solle. Auch manche literarkritische Voraussetzung – etwa dass das vom Ende des 2. Jahrhunderts stammende Petrusevangelium eine ältere mündliche Vorstufe zu der behandelten Perikope biete – ist fraglich. Aber darauf soll jetzt nicht näher eingegangen werden: Der Schwerpunkt der Monographie liegt in dem, was der Untertitel andeutet: in der sorgfältig recherchierten und ausgelegten Rezeptionsgeschichte dieser Perikope in der alten Kirche (bis ca. 450 n.Chr.).

Dabei wird im zweiten Unterabschnitt zunächst dargelegt, ab wann man von einer Rezeption der Perikope sprechen kann, und die einschlägigen Zeugen werden diskutiert. Festen Boden betritt man nach Bilby erst ab dem Ende des 2. Jahrhunderts mit Tatian, Tertullian, Hippolyt und Origenes.

Ein zweiter Hauptteil widmet sich der Frage, wie mit den Widersprüchen (controversies) in der biblischen Überlieferung umgegangen wurde. Hier werden die verschiedenen Lösungsvorschläge dargestellt, mit denen man die Evangelien trotz der offenkundigen Spannung zwischen ihren Berichten zu harmonisieren suchte (etwa dass die synoptischen Seitenreferenten Markus und Matthäus trotz des Plurals nur einen lästernden Räuber meinten, dass der andere Räuber zunächst mitlästerte und sich dann aufgrund der kosmischen Zeichen bekehrt hat etc.). Hier deutet sich schon an, was die ganze Darstellung bestimmt, dass diese Auslegungen alles andere als naiv sind, dass sie vielmehr innerhalb ihres Denkens sehr originelle und komplexe Antworten geben.

Ein weiteres Kapitel widmet sich den Dissonanzen in den eschatologischen Vorstellungen: Wie passen die Auferstehung nach drei Tagen und das kommende Reich Gottes zur Vorstellung eines Paradieses, in das man direkt nach dem Tod eingeht? Hier wie schon zuvor gibt Origenes die wichtigsten Interpretationsrichtungen vor, indem er etwa die Auferstehung als einen Prozess deutet, dessen erste Stufe das Paradies ist, Deutungen, an denen sich auch die Gegner des großen Alexandriners wie Eustathius abarbeiten müssen.

Der letzte und mit Abstand längste Hauptteil ist mit „Themes" überschrieben. Er zeigt, welche Deutungen mit dem reuigen Verbrecher verbunden werden. Die erste, die wieder auf Origenes zurückgeht, sieht in ihm die Christen repräsentiert, eine Deutung, der dann Ephrem in seinen Hymnen besonders intensiv Ausdruck verlieh. Origenes und Chrysostomos schlagen eine Brücke zur paulinischen Theologie und sehen in ihm sogar einen allein durch Glauben Gerechtfertigten. Das kann noch polemisch ausgeweitet werden, indem der andere weiterhin lästernde ‚Schächer' mit Gegnern (besonders den Juden) identifiziert wird, während der Verbrecher zur Rechten Jesu, der dessen wahre Würde bekennt, sich als Glaubender erweist, ja nachgerade zu einem von Gott selbst belehrten Philosophen, zum „Lehrer am Kreuz" (Chrysostomos) wird. Als solcher kann er dann sogar den Jüngern Jesu entgegengesetzt werden, welche (allen voran Petrus) ihren Meister verleugnet haben. Eine Variante dieser Deutung sieht im Verbrecher das Vorbild des Konvertiten.

Wieder in eine andere Richtung weist die Deutung der Episode bei Augustin in seiner Auseinandersetzung mit den Donatisten, bei der es auch um die Frage ging, inwieweit die Taufe unerlässliche Bedingung für das Heil ist – was beim Schächer ja gerade nicht der Fall zu sein scheint. Es gibt dafür eine Reihe von Lösungsversuchen: Er habe stattdessen eine Bluttaufe empfangen (was wiederum zu eigenen Problemen führt, wie ausführlich gezeigt wird, da auch ‚Ketzer' das Martyrium erleiden), er habe ersatzweise durch das Wasser aus Jesu Wunde (wie es die Johannespassion darstellt) die Taufe empfangen, ja es wird sogar die Möglichkeit einer vorherigen Wassertaufe diskutiert.

Wieder eine andere Deutungslinie konzentriert sich auf den reuigen Sünder, der in eine Linie mit anderen solchen, wie der Sünderin in Lk 7 oder dem Oberzöllner Zachäus in Lk 19, gestellt wird. Auch hier ist wiederum Origenes der erste, welcher den Schächer als Modell für Buße und Umkehr empfiehlt, mit dem sich dann (v.a. in der syrischen Tradition) die Beter identifizieren können. Ein Sonderproblem, das zu langen und intensiven Debatten geführt hat, ist in diesem Zusammenhang die „last-minute conversion" und der entsprechende friedliche Tod (besonders wenn die Umkehr nicht mehr durch Taten bestätigt wird). Aufgrund seiner Reue kann der Verbrecher dann sogar in Verbindung mit Gen 3 zum Antitypus Adams werden: Wurde der erste Mensch aus dem Paradies vertrieben, so kann der umkehrende Verbrecher wieder zurückkehren. Ephrem ist der erste, der in ihm dann sogar den zweiten Adam sieht, der nun von Christus, dem wahren Lebensbaum, zu seinem Heil isst (bzw. wenn Christus der zweite Adam ist, dann ist er der ‚zweite zweite Adam'). So oder so wird er zu einer zentralen Gestalt der Heilsgeschichte, der sogar die Schlüssel des Paradieses übergeben werden können. Das kann sogar in Übereinstimmung mit seiner früheren Beschäftigung gesehen werden: Der Einzug in das Paradies ist dann der letzte Raub des Räubers, der allerdings – im Gegensatz zu der geraubten Frucht Adams – durch den Glauben geschieht.

Stärker christologisch orientiert ist die Interpretation, die in der Kreuzigungsszene einen Versuch Satans sieht, Jesus durch die Gesellschaft der Verbrecher zu diskreditieren. Diesen Versuch durchkreuzt Jesus durch die Bekehrung des Verbrechers, so dass nun schon am Kreuz seine überlegene Macht sichtbar wird. Indem er am Kreuz dem Satan einen Anhänger raubt, erweist er sich als Sieger.

Zuletzt wird noch gezeigt, wie der Text in der Spätzeit v.a. im Osten in die Lektionare eindrang, aber auch im Westen bei Karfreitags- oder Osterpredigten präsent war. Das wiederum führte zu einer ausgedehnten Legendenbildung, die bisweilen auch den anderen Räuber mit einschloss.

Es ist das unzweifelhafte Verdienst dieser Studie, anhand der Rezeptionsgeschichte eines einzigen Textes gezeigt zu haben, welche Vielfalt und auch theologische Originalität die patristische Exegese auszeichnet. Auch für den modernen Interpreten ist es immer wieder faszinierend, welche Facetten einem Text abgewonnen werden können und wie dies seine eigene Ratio hat.

2015.09.57

J. Clerk Shaw, Plato's Anti-hedonism and the 'Protagoras'. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015. Pp. viii, 222. ISBN 9781107046658. $99.00.

Reviewed by Bernd Manuwald, Universität zu Köln (Bernd.Manuwald@uni-koeln.de)

Version at BMCR home site

Preview

With regard to the much-debated question of whether Socrates endorses hedonism in the Protagoras (in contrast to other dialogues), J. Clerk Shaw agrees with those who deny this, but aims to improve their arguments, which he considers as often "ad hoc and philosophically uninspiring", particularly in two ways¹: (1) He intends to situate this question within the dialogue as a whole by a reading "that gives hedonism a crucial role in that work without attributing it to Socrates". This procedure will also avoid "the whiff of special pleading that attaches to much current scholarship on the issue". (2) "Second, the resulting picture not only reconciles the Protagoras with other dialogues, but harmonizes it with them and even illuminates their anti-hedonism." Shaw's main thesis is "that the Protagoras depicts Protagoras as having internalized, through shame, an incoherent complex of popular evaluative attitudes. Hedonism lies at the core of that incoherent complex" (p. 1). This leads to the conclusion that Socrates' hedonist argument delivered against the fictitious group of the many is targeted at the secret hedonist (p. 92) Protagoras and therefore to be seen as ad hominem (pp. 88f.; 168). This bold hypothesis requires discussion in a number of respects.

Shaw's book is clearly structured and regularly informs readers about the intended aims and the results achieved. It starts with an 'Introduction' (where Shaw provides overviews of the structure of the dialogue and of the argumentative shape of his book and comments on his approach to interpreting Plato [pp. 1–10]), followed by eight chapters.² The first three focus on the Protagoras; the others present parallels meant to corroborate the conclusions achieved in chapters 1–3 and discuss the role of hedonism for the ethical views of the many and the sophists more generally.

In ch. 1 Shaw intends to show that in the Protagoras Socrates limits the hedonist argument to "bodily pleasures" (cf. p. 28) and that this view contrasts with Socrates' position in the other dialogues in the Corpus Platonicum, "which invariably privileges goods of the soul over goods of the body" (p. 21). This thesis is then defended against a range of possible objections. Generally, Shaw's reading is plausible (although it seems difficult to follow Shaw [p. 18] in interpreting τῶν πόλεων σωτηρίαι καὶ ἄλλων ἀρχαί [354b4] as "bodily pleasures"). But section 353c–354b, on which Shaw bases his analysis of the concept of hedonism in the Protagoras (p. 16), is not the main problem with regard to the question of coherence between the Protagoras and other dialogues: the passage (continuing until 355a) focuses on the opinion of the many, from which Socrates clearly distances himself (354b7–c2; d1–3; d7–e2; e8–355a5) – which Shaw seems to ignore – so that there is no conflict between Socrates’ comments in 353c–355a and his views expressed in other dialogues. Much more problematic is the remark in 351c4–6, made by Socrates in his own voice (ἐγὼ γὰρ λέγω), but not discussed in detail by Shaw: it could be read as if Socrates meant that every pleasure was good merely by being pleasure.³

In ch. 2 Shaw engages with existing attempts to interpret the difficult section 349d–351b (on the relationship between ἀνδρεία and σοφία). He suggests a reading according to which Socrates' argument is logically sound and Protagoras' denial of this matter therefore irrelevant (cf. p. 63). But, irrespective of the sophisticated logical problems, which Shaw discusses in detail, Plato can hardly have regarded the substance of Socrates' argument as valid: (1) the context defines σοφία as technical knowledge of experts.⁴ To identify this with virtue (σοφία = ἀνδρεία, 350c4) would not be in line with Platonic doctrine (on the problem of which areas should be covered by knowledge cf. La. 192e1f.).⁵ (2) If Plato's Socrates regarded this equation as true and if Protagoras' objection only applied on a formal level, the second argumentative sequence on the relationship between ἀνδρεία and σοφία (359a3–360e5) would have to conclude with the same result. Shaw seems to assume these points when he paraphrases the result of the second argumentative sequence with the words of the first (pp. 5; 106). At this point, however, courage is not identified with knowledge, but described as a specific part of knowledge (360d4f.).⁶ Both statements cannot apply at the same time.⁷ Since Plato does not have Socrates protest against the false reversal stated by Protagoras (350c6–d2),⁸ as Shaw also notes (p. 63), Plato is likely to have regarded this objection as permissible.

From Protagoras' further objections (cf. esp. 351a4–b2), Shaw infers as Protagoras' view "that knowledge can be ruled by fear and so must be bolstered by spirit", with Shaw equating "spirit" with θυμός (p. 68). But Protagoras merely rejects Socrates' definition of courage and lists other factors causing it, without commenting on the relationship between "knowledge" and "fear". In Protagoras' view θυμός is among the factors causing θάρσος (and therefore to be understood as 'anger' rather than as 'spirit'); he distinguishes these factors from the factors causing ἀνδρεία (φύσις and εὐτροφία τῶν ψυχῶν), so that, according to Protagoras, θυμός is not an element of φύσις, as Shaw supposes (p. 68). Hence Shaw's conclusion (pp. 71f.), "that Protagoras thinks wisdom is weak in the face of fear", is not well founded; consequently, it does not have the potential to bring the hedonist discussion "in its full context", since, for a hedonist (sc. Protagoras; see on ch. 3), the power of knowledge could be proved on a hedonist basis. Moreover, Plato's Socrates too is aware of φύσις as a non-intellectual element of courage (R. 374eff.; 430a4f.) – in addition to the essential element of knowledge (cf. also esp. R. 442b10–c2). In Shaw's opinion Socrates' discussion of the unity or multiplicity of the virtues in the Protagoras is based on the so-called 'Unity Thesis' (cf. pp. 50; 98; 184; 204), which is incompatible with the doctrine of virtue in the Republic. While Shaw intends to explain his reading of the views of Protagoras and of the many by references to other dialogues (esp. Gorgias and Republic), the question of what the focus of the Republic means for Socrates' doctrine of virtues in the Protagoras is not addressed.

As he outlines in ch. 3, Shaw knows what the character Protagoras thinks: this Protagoras has certain opinions; yet for fear of being refuted or causing offence, he hides them (cf. also pp. 2; 102): "he thinks that pleasure is the good, and he thinks that wisdom is weak and can be ruled by passions" (p. 74), moreover, "injustice can be prudent" (cf. p. 85).⁹ It seems, however, methodologically problematic to conclude that Protagoras was originally a hedonist, on the basis of Protagoras' remarks that "it is most pleasant for him (μοι ἥδιστον, 317c4)" to have a conversation with Socrates in the presence of all and that a myth "would be more pleasant (χαριέστερον, 320c6–7)" (cf. p. 93). When at 351b3ff., in response to Socrates’ questions at the start of the hedonist discussion, Protagoras does not reveal immediately that he does not subscribe to a hedonist position, but rather restricts pleasure to noble things only at c1f., this does not turn him into a genuine hedonist (cf. p. 92). Moreover, Protagoras apparently understands Socrates' statement as indicating that Socrates means that pleasure and the good are identical; he believes that this view requires testing (351e3–7; cf. Manuwald 1999, 388) and thus he does not assume identity at this point. His procedure only shows that, as elsewhere, he does not notice immediately what Socrates' questions are aiming at, and he reveals uncertainty with regard to essential ethical questions.

Shaw concludes that Socrates too sees through Protagoras and believes that Protagoras does think that knowledge is weak and can be ruled by fear; this interpretation is based on the fact that Socrates does not immediately "complete his argument that courage is wisdom" in response to Protagoras' statement that knowledge is strong (352c8–d3). "[T]he strength of wisdom and the unity of virtue are two sides of the same coin" (pp. 98f.; quotations on p. 98). But a leading role of knowledge with regard to ethical conduct does not necessarily imply the identity of knowledge and courage (cf. R. 442b10ff.); the Protagoras too allows the reading that Socrates assumes different parts of virtue (353b2), and an interpretation according to the Unity Thesis is not without alternatives.¹⁰ Showing, as Socrates does, that even under hedonist premises knowledge plays the decisive role makes sense even if Protagoras is not originally a hedonist and, in principle, shares Socrates' view of the power of knowledge.¹¹ That he thus implies something whose consequences he does not realize is a separate question.

Chs. 4–8 are meant to corroborate the results obtained in chs. 1–3 on the Protagoras by means of parallels and to place them in a broader context. They could only do this successfully if the basis with reference to the Protagoras had been established in a convincing way; yet, as indicated, this is not the case in my view. Nevertheless, these chapters provide many plausible observations, e.g. on "procedural" and "substantive shame" of sophistic interlocutors, on the relationship of the sophists' moral views to those of the many, on the questions of why the many subscribe to a basic hedonist concept, on how this impacts on the concept of individual virtues, and on the attitude of the many towards sophists and philosophers. Those who do not see these points as a corroboration of Shaw's views on the Protagoras, but rather read these chapters on their own, will certainly benefit from these discussions.

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Notes:

1.   The group of those who do not regard the hedonist exposition in the Protagoras as the view of Plato's Socrates includes the present reviewer: cf. "Lust und Tapferkeit: Zum gedanklichen Verhältnis zweier Abschnitte in Platons 'Protagoras' ", Phronesis 20, 1975, 22–50; Platon, Protagoras. Übersetzung und Kommentar, Göttingen 1999; Platon, Protagoras, Göttingen 2006. Unfortunately, Shaw does not discuss secondary literature in languages other than English. His book is thus an instance of a growing split in academic literature in that scholars not writing in English tend to take scholarship written in English into account, while the reverse is not true to the same extent.
2.   1. "Against hedonist interpretation of the Protagoras" (11–40); 2. "Courage, madness, and spirit at 349d– 51b" (41–72); 3. "Drama and dialectic in Plato's Protagoras" (73–101); 4. "Drama and dialectic in Plato's Gorgias, revisited" (102–122); 5. "Shame, internalization, and the many" (123–142); 6. "Hedonism, hedonic error, and ethical error" (143–170); 7. "Hedonist misconceptions of virtue" (171–190); 8. "Popular hostility to sophists and philosophers" (191–204). Bibliography, General Index and Index locorum follow (205– 222).
3.   While Shaw later (pp. 99–101) says that "hedonism is not really essential for Socrates' argument" (p. 100), he does not provide evidence from the Protagoras for this view. But it can be shown that the last argumentative sequence on the relationship between courage and knowledge is separated from the hedonist argument. Cf. Manuwald 1999, 425ff.; 2006, 200ff.
4.   αἰσχρόν (350b5) merely refers to the lack of expert knowledge (cf. 350b2 πάντων τούτων).
5.   Shaw uses the idea of "unconditionally good and bad" as an argument only in a different context (pp. 68–70), but not to analyse 349d–351b.
6.   This does not mean that this definition is Plato's ultimate view. It fails in the Laches, as is well known (194e11ff.). It should be borne in mind that the Protagoras has an aporetic ending; this fact is disregarded in Shaw's discussion.
7.   This means that Shaw's methodological premise is not universally valid: "I generally talk as though the character Socrates speaks for Plato, and as though Socrates has and expresses positive commitments" (p. 9). Neither does Shaw allow for the possibility that it may be an element of Socrates' elenctic method to test the interlocutor by employing fallacy.
8.   At least the last element of the proof (θαρραλεώτατοι δὲ ὄντες ἀνδρειότατοι, 350c3f.) can prompt Protagoras to criticize this as a false reversal.
9.   How this statement can be inferred from Prot. 323a5–c2 is not clear since in this passage Protagoras demonstrates his belief that everybody must partake in justice to be among the fundamental premises of human society. Even if Protagoras states that he would be ashamed to say that someone who commits an injustice was σώφρων (333b8–c2), this does not lead to the view that "injustice can be prudent". But cf. pp. 86ff.
10.   Cf., in addition to my commentaries (n. 1), my article: "The Unity of Virtue in Plato's Protagoras", OSAPh 29, 2005, 115–135.
11.   Shaw regards the many as a proxy for Protagoras (e.g. p. 168). But how can this be the case when the many prefer "bodily pleasures" and Protagoras, as Shaw assumes, "reputational pleasures"? Cf. pp. 168f. And why has Plato both Socrates and Protagoras argue against the many (at least on a formal level) when the many are meant to be a proxy for Protagoras? Cf. Prot. 353cff.

2015.09.56

Mark Wilson Jones, Origins of Classical Architecture: Temples, Orders, and Gifts to the Gods in Ancient Greece. New Haven; London: Yale University Press, 2014. Pp. 304. ISBN 9780300182767. $65.00.

Reviewed by András Patay-Horváth, Institute for Ancient History, Univ. Eötvös Loránd; Archaeological Institute of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, Budapest (pathorv@gmail.com)

Version at BMCR home site

Mark Wilson Jones has published a series of articles on Greek architecture, but this book contains many new observations and arguments, and is superbly illustrated. This last point does not simply mean that the quality of the many black-and-white and color images is excellent, but more importantly that there are many drawings enabling easy visual comparison of capitals, ornaments and other design elements. The figures containing multiple plans or elevations on a uniform scale are especially useful and instructive.

The book describes the development of Greek architectural orders, but the discussion is not simply arranged according to the usual chronological or topographical scheme. Instead, a thematic approach is adopted throughout, which is refreshing, even if it has the effect that different parts or aspects of the same monument or even of the same order are often treated separately, although with frequent cross-references between the individual chapters.

Chapter 1 ('Purpose and Setting of the Greek Temple') concerns a problem that is fundamentally important for Greek architecture, but is usually not treated in detail. After a brief review of other ideas (e.g. that temples were houses of the gods, or treasuries or places for ritual dining), Wilson Jones correctly concludes that temple buildings are collective dedications or votive offerings, gifts to the gods and embellishments of sanctuaries.

Chapter 2 ('Formative developments') gathers the scattered pieces of evidence concerning the early temple buildings preceding and leading to the development of the Doric and Ionic styles. Jones demonstrates the paramount importance of mould-made terracotta roof-tiles in the genesis of the peripteral temple and concludes that "early Greek architecture did not develop in a progressive evolutionary fashion, as is so often supposed. Instead there was a surprisingly rapid jump from unassuming shrines to grandiose stone peripteral temples" (p. 60).

Chapter 3 ("Questions of Construction and the Doric genus") examines the widely held assumption that Doric temple design in stone ultimately derived from wooden predecessors and highlights the weaknesses of this 'petrification doctrine'.¹ Wilson Jones concludes that "only the mutules, guttae and regulae convince as artistically edited joinery", but triglyphs convey only "a loose affinity with structure" (p. 85). He also concedes (pp. 85-86) that the hypothesis of a timber ancestry works quite well for the Ionic order, but again, the possibility of a constructional origin is definitely denied (without any decisive argument against it).

The following chapters are mainly concerned with the varieties of the Ionic order. In Ch. 4 ("Questions of Influence and the Aeolic Style") the Mycenaean, Egyptian and Oriental models are surveyed that are likely to have influenced the forms of the various Greek columns and their capitals. In Ch. 5 ("Questions of Appearance and the Ionic Style"), it is plausibly suggested that Ionic capital was actually developed from the so-called Aeolic capital (which is in fact a modern misnomer for a capital with rising volutes) and was first used in the Cyclades independently of temples, as votive dedications or as statue bases. Finally in Ch. 6 ("Questions of Meaning and the Corinthian Capital"), the ancient literary tradition concerning the invention of the Corinthian capital is examined and by comparing images of Athenian vase- paintings depicting real tombs (fig. 6.23), Wilson Jones concludes that "there may have been something behind the Vitruvian account (4.1.9-10) after all. It would seem that funerary allusions of Corinthian stood ... for the triumph over death, for regeneration." (p. 155) He extends this hypothesis to attribute a triumphal character to the Corinthian capital in Rome. While this is of course possible, I tend to agree with the simple statement that "the success of Corinthian was founded on its visual appeal." (p. 156)

Ch. 7 ("Gifts to the Gods") elaborates on the argument in Ch. 2 that temples were votive offerings to the gods. Wilson Jones argues that monumental temples and their architectural orders emerged as a combination, adaptation and multiplication of other common votive dedicationsusing as illustrations the formal similarities and possible connections between phialai and the echini of some columns outside the standard types.

Ch. 8 is entirely devoted to a similar analysis of "Triglyphs and Tripods". The idea that triglyphs and metopes are not to be understood as stone versions of similar or identical structures originally conceived in timber, is not entirely new and Wilson Jones has some good argument against the traditional view in Ch. 3. But the alternative suggested in Ch. 8 that tripods should be somehow assumed behind or connected with the form of triglyphs is not much more convincing. It is true that triglyphs in some cases resemble tripod legs, but the most important part of tripod cauldrons, i.e. the vessel itself can only be recognized in the tiny horizontal bar above the vertical stripes if we assumed that the handles were omitted entirely. This is admitted by Wilson Jones when he states that the triglyph "was not the architectural representation or equivalent of a tripod. If things were that simple the triglyph would no doubt have the ring handles that were so typical of tripods." (p.188). This statement seems, however, to contradict the preceeding discussion which centers on the formal similarities between triglyphs and tripods.

In fact, no vase shows a tripod without handles (at least not among the comparanda assembled in Wilson Jones's fig. 8.7). The horizontal bar at the top of the triglyph, the arches below and the absence of corresponding motifs on the lower part do not necessarily depict something standing firmly on three legs, but could equally be seen as the stylization of a piece of drapery, i.e. a curtain hanging from the upper bar. In this case even the guttae could be integrated into the interpretation as a fringe pattern. But the triglyph does not have to depict or to resemble any real object, but can be explained as a decorative pattern, whose asymmetrical composition is due to its high placement concealing the lower part for the human observer standing in front of the temple. The difference between the upper and lower part can either derive from the desire to save unnecessary work (if bars and arches were originally modeled on both ends) or can be seen as an elaboration of an original pattern having neither arches nor bars on either end and it is hardly possible to decide which explanation comes closer to the truth. Moreover, tripod cauldrons were usually not dedicated in series, let alone on a uniform scale, but were erected individually (the row of tripods at the Ptoon adduced as a parallel for a series of triglyphs (187, fig. 8.18) is an exceptional case). Last but not least, tripod cauldrons were not just impressive votive offerings populating the sanctuaries, but were primarily objects of practical use during the geometric and orientalizing periods (clearly attested by Herodotus, 1.59). Later, they were dedicated as decorative objects (possibly with symbolic overtones), but apart from a Hellenistic piece (fig. 8.12), they were never depicted on a frieze. And even if we accept a connection between tripods and triglyphs, it remains to be asked why the tripods were only adapted for the Doric order but not for the Ionic.

Ch. 9 ("Crucible") is therefore right in stressing that "the Doric frieze is not a representation, nor a petrification of a line of tripods" and "the tripod-like characteristics of the Doric frieze represent a secondary and partial development." (p. 194) This is a hypothesis, which can be accepted as such, but if formulated in this way, it is actually not particularly relevant to the genesis of Greek architectural orders, the subject of the book. The resemblance between tripods and triglyphs is interpreted as the product of a gradual convergence following the establishment of the canonical Doric order and not as a sign revealing something about its prehistory. The question of origins is thus bypassed and no definitive answer is offered for the genesis of the frieze, just two possible scenarios (p. 202).The first one is a purely technical explanation (although Wilson Jones stresses that the frieze was unnecessary to the construction of a temple) and it does not seem to be very convincing, even if there are two exceptional temples (Sangri on Naxos and the Erechtheion at Athens), where the desire for "an unusually impressive and deep column-fronted porch" has actually led to the creation of a frieze. According to the other scenario, which is much more attractive (at least for the reviewer, but perhaps for the author as well) "the frieze would have arisen primarily for artistic and/or symbolic reasons. Rather as seen on some architectural models (Fig. 2.9), field-and-divider friezes may have been located near the tops of walls by the seventh century" (202). At this point the Mycenaean models and geometric tripods are supposed by Wilson Jones to have come into play. Instead, I would suggest that tripartite frieze dividers often appearing both in vase-painting, metalwork and architecture are likely to have derived from textiles, which were decorated either by continuous friezes or by roughly rectangular fields divided by vertical lines, since textiles were highly valued, widely known, and imitated (for instance, arguably in vase painting) and could thus be supposed as the ultimate source of the frieze design. My suggestion aligns with the central thesis of the book, i.e. that the decoration of various object classes may have mutually influenced each other, irrespective of their size, material and purpose. I think this idea is not just correct but also inspiring and Wilson Jones can be admired for collecting and sorting a huge amount of evidence. I also fully agree in seeing the Greek temple as a costly collective votive offering, but in my opinion, it is highly hazarduous (or even impossible) to connect some parts of the building with specific object types and it is even more risky to find out their original or intended meaning. Even if Wilson Jones indulges in such experiments, his treatment is always carefully balanced and his suggestions are formulated cautiously. This is perfectly exemplified by Ch. 10 ("Questions answered and unanswered"), which is a clear and useful summary and includes discussion of topics like "What gave Doric its panhellenic character?".

The book is carefully edited. One item (Bergquist 1988, quoted on p. 227 n. 13) is unfortunately missing from the bibliography and I add it here because I think it is an important contribution on the subject of cult continuity during the "dark ages": B. Bergquist, "The archaeology of sacrifice. Minoan-Mycenaean versus Greek", in: R. Hägg – N. Marinatos – G. C. Nordquist (eds.), Early Greek Cult Practice, Stockholm, 21-34.

In sum, even if one is not necessarily convinced in all respects, the book is a major contribution to the study of Greek architecture and can be recommended for everyone interested in classics, history of art, archaeology or ancient history.

​[For a response to this review by Mark Wilson Jones, please see BMCR 2016.01.17.]

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Notes:

1.   In this context, I would have expected a detailed discussion of the Heraion at Olympia, because it is generally and most probably correctly assumed that its original columns were made of timber and were substituted by the extant stone ones. Unfortunately, the constructional/technological problems raised quite recently by M. Donderer (Das Heraion in Olympia und sein Säulenkranz, BABesch 80, 2005, 7-20) are just mentioned (as far as I can see, in note 46 on p. 228), but no argument is given either for or against them.

2015.09.55

Juan Antonio López Férez (ed.), La comedia griega en sus textos. Forma (lengua, léxico, estilo, métrica, crítica textual, pragmática) y contenido (crítica política y literaria, utopía, sátira, intertextualidad, evolución del género cómico). Estudios de Filología Griega, 14. Madrid: Ediciones Clásicas, 2014. Pp. 314. ISBN 9788478827886. €20.00 (pb).

Reviewed by Orestis Karavas, University of the Peloponnese (okaravas@hotmail.com)

Version at BMCR home site

[Authors and titles are listed at the end of the review.]

Le dernier volume de la série "Estudios de Filología Griega" contient les actes d'un colloque qui a eu lieu à Madrid en octobre 1997, et plus précisément ceux de la sixième Conférence Internationale d'Etudes sur les textes grecs dédiée à la Comédie et rassemblant les plus grands spécialistes du genre (il suffit de jeter un coup d'œil sur la Table des matières).

L'article de Jesús Lens Tuero traite les fragments 16 et 17 K.–A. de la comédie Bêtes de Cratès. Lens Tuero appelle ces deux fragments utopiques et les associe avec le mythe de Dédale. Selon le philologue espagnol, l'utopie du contenu porte plutôt sur l'inexistence d'esclaves dans une future société et leur substitution par l'automatisme technologique dont parlent lesdits fragments, que sur la technologie même. Lens Tuero pense que Cratès propose ici la mécanisation de deux activités concrètes, la préparation de la nourriture et du bain thérapeutique, et trouve cette idée entièrement conforme à l'atmosphère politique et intellectuelle du Ve siècle.

L'étude de Jeffrey Henderson examine le problème de la dénomination des trois esclaves du prologue des Cavaliers, Démosthène, Nicias et Cléon qui ne provient pas d'Aristophane. Henderson revoie toutes les opinions sur le sujet et essaie de rapporter les trois noms des esclaves avec leur rôle dramatique dans la pièce.

Dans sa contribution, Angelo Casanova cherche les différences entre les deux versions des Nuées d'Aristophane, à partir des Argumenta I et II Dover. Casanova pense que nous connaissons peu de la première version de la comédie. Il discute des points concrets des deux Argumenta (la datation de la révision, le début incomplet de la seconde parabase, la fin de la pièce) et place les fragments 392–395 K.–A. dans la trame de l'ancienne version.

Franca Perusino interprète l'hapax λυκόποδες de Lysistrate 664, dont la conjecture λευκόποδες a été préférée par la plupart d'éditeurs modernes du texte d'Aristophane. L'analyse historique, politique et textuelle de la philologue italienne favorise la lecture des manuscrits et explique aussi l'anomalie métrique du passage par un cas similaire des Oiseaux 335–351.

L'article de Bernhard Zimmermann s'intéresse aux Grenouilles en tant que témoignage des changements qui apparaissent déjà dans le drame et le dithyrambe de la fin du Ve siècle et du début du IVe. Zimmermann examine trois phénomènes: le mélange des genres (le style dithyrambique des chants des tragédies d'Euripide, les réminiscences eschyléennes chez Aristophane ou l'innovation musicale de ce qu'il appelle "dithyrambe mimétique"), le maniérisme et l'archaïsme.

Les Grenouilles intéressent aussi Maria Grazia Bonanno et plus précisément la métaphore de la force et de l'impétuosité de la nature dans les vv. 900–4. Bonanno cherche des parallèles littéraires de cette image, et les trouve dans la comparaison entre Cratès et Cratinos dans les Cavaliers, dans l'auto-éloge de Cratinos dans le fr. 198 K.–A. et même dans la présentation de Pindare chez Horace.

L'article de Antonio López Eire est une liste d'extraits comiques (et non pas exclusivement d'Aristophane, comme indique son titre) où le philologue espagnol applique ce qu'il appelle "la perspective pragmatique", extrêmement importante pour l'analyse du contexte.

Une des études les plus intéressantes de la collection est celle de David Konstan, qui a comme sujet les θάρσος et νέμεσις, émotions contraires aux ἔλεος et φόβος. Konstan pense que la critique d'Aristophane contre Euripide s'explique par le fait que le poète tragique suscite chez les spectateurs de la compassion et de la peur, parfois de manière hyperbolique (comme dans le cas du Télèphe ou de Pénthée). Selon le poète comique, la tragédie devrait produire l'effet contraire, c'est-à-dire inspirer le courage et l'indignation.

L'étude de Juan Antonio López Férez est une analyse exhaustive des quatorze occurrences du terme σοφία chez Aristophane, du point de vue linguistique, contextuelle et littéraire. Comme éditeur du volume, il aurait pu faire des renvois internes, e.g. à l'article de Casanova dans la p. 101, n. 15 (et dans la p. 274, n. 38) ou à l'article de Konstan dans la p. 124, n. 93.

Dans sa contribution, Maria de Fátima Silva traite la présentation de l'étranger chez Aristophane. Elle examine comparativement trois scènes caractéristiques: les ambassadeurs Perses et Thraces dans les Acharniens, le Triballe dans les Oiseaux et le Scythe dans les Thesmophories. La philologue portugaise argumente que, quand Aristophane introduit un étranger sur scène, il suit un motif concret dont il exploite des éléments de satire politique, littéraire ou sociale selon le cas afin de parler de l'actualité contemporaine.

L'article d'Enzo Degani est un commentaire très riche du fr. 189 K.–A. de Platon le comique qui met en relief le caractère interactif des poètes dramatiques de l'époque classique.

Michel Menu s'occupe de trente-huit fragments d'Antiphane, tous d'un caractère gnomique. L'examen de Menu, bien organisé et en tout conforme à la méthodologie de la recherche des sentences dont il est spécialiste, révèle la préférence du poète comique pour les proverbes.

Sans aucun doute le joyau de cette collection est la contribution d'Eric Handley. Le philologue anglais nous initie de manière exemplaire aux étapes de l'édition des textes de Ménandre, en publiant les vers 18 à 30 de la comédie Dis exapatôn. Handley explique tous ses choix paléographiques très méthodiquement. Sa grande expérience et la connaissance profonde de l'œuvre de Ménandre lui permettent de chercher les motifs parallèles entre ce passage comique et d'autres, non seulement de Ménandre mais aussi de Térence et de Plaute, afin de reconstruire le texte grec. De plus, il réussit à relever dans ce court extrait les caractéristiques du poète comique que mentionnent Denys d'Halicarnasse et Quintilien.

C'est une voie parallèle que suit Geoffrey Arnott dans sa propre étude, qui porte sur l'édition, la traduction et l'interprétation de Samienne 96–111. Le philologue anglais s'arrête sur cinq points concrets: la reconstruction du début du v. 96, le caractère qui parle dans les vv. 98–101, le nombre des personnes qui se trouvent sur scène, la mention des villes du Pont et de Byzance, et la datation de la pièce qui, selon lui, a dû être présentée en 314 av. J.-C.

Ménandre est aussi le sujet de l'essai de Giuseppe Mastromarco. A travers l'analyse minutieuse et très bien documentée des analogies de forme et contenu dans les scènes nocturnes chez Ménandre (dans le Misoumenos, le fr. 152 K.–Th. et les fr. 1084 et 1115 K.–A.), le philologue italien explique pourquoi le poète comique les met principalement au début de ses œuvres. Mastromarco pense que Ménandre introduisait des thèmes traditionnels (la connexion entre l'amour et la nuit) dans un genre poétique où de tels thèmes étaient "constitutionnellement" étranges.

Le dernier article du volume appartient à Alan Sommerstein. Le philologue anglais offre une explication convaincante sur les confusions et malentendus de Platonius en ce qui concerne les caractéristiques de la Comédie Moyenne, et plus précisément le manque de la parabase et des chants et de la satire politique. Sommerstein pense que Platonius est parvenu à cette conclusion erronée après avoir consulté un manuscrit d'Eolosicon d'Aristophane qui ne contenait pas les parties chorales (comme ceux qui circulaient dès l'époque hellénistique) et en confondant L'Ulysse de Théopompe avec Les Ulysses de Cratinos.

Beaucoup de choses sont arrivées depuis octobre du 1997: cinq philologues de ce volume ne sont plus parmi nous¹ et certains articles ont déjà vu le jour.² Néanmoins on est profondément reconnaissants à Juan Antonio López Férez d'avoir recueilli et publié toutes ces contributions dans une jolie collection.³ Ainsi elles ne vivront pas uniquement dans la mémoire des participants du colloque de Madrid, mais elles seront dûment appréciées et fréquemment consultées par les spécialistes de la comédie grecque, actuels et futurs.⁴

Table of Contents

Nota preliminar, 7–8
Jesús Lens Tuero, "Los fragmentos utópicos de las Bestias de Crates", 9–16
Jeffrey Henderson, "The Portrayal of the Slaves in the Prologue of Aristophanes' Knights", 17–30
Angelo Casanova, "La revisione delle Nuvole di Aristofane", 31–46
Franca Perusino, "I coreuti "piedi di lupo" nella Lisistrata di Aristofane", 47–57
Bernhard Zimmermann, "Le 'Rane' di Aristofane e le tendenze della letteratura greca dalla fine del quinto agli inizi del quarto secolo: riflessioni su un periodo di transizione", 59–68
Maria Grazia Bonanno, "Metafora e critica letteraria. A proposito di Aristofane, Rane 900–904", 69–78
Antonio López Eire, "La comedia aristofánica a la luz de la pragmática", 79–90
David Konstan, "Aristófanes sobre la compasión y el temor", 91–104
Juan Antonio López Férez, "Sophía en las obras conservadas de Aristófanes", 105–160
Maria de Fátima Silva, "L'étranger dans la comédie grecque ancienne", 161–188
Enzo Degani, "Parodia e gastronomia in Platone comico", 189–197
Michel Menu, "Les sentences chez Antiphane", 199–221
Eric W. Handley, "POxy 4407: Menander, Dis Exapaton 18–30", 223–234
W. Geoffrey Arnott, "Menander, Samia 96–111", 235–246
Giuseppe Mastromarco, "Scene notturne nelle commedie di Menandro", 247–263
Alan H. Sommerstein, "Platonio, Diff. com. 29–31 y 46–52 Koster: Eolosicón de Aristófanes, Odiseos de Cratino y la Comedia Media", 265–281
Abstracts (Resúmenes en inglés), 283–287
Índices
I. Pasajes citados, 289–298
II. Autores, obras y algunos otros términos notables, 299–309
Lista de autores de este volumen, 311–312
Volúmenes aparecidos en la colección Estudios de Filología Griega (EFG), 313–314

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Notes:

1.   Jesús Lens Tuero meurt sept mois après le colloque, Enzo Degani en 2000, Antonio López Eire en 2008, W. Geoffrey Arnott en 2010 et Eric W. Handley en 2013.
2.   Il s'agit des études de Jeffrey Henderson, Angelo Casanova, Franca Perusino et Alan H. Sommerstein. A propos, il faut noter que Franca Perusino, David Konstan, Juan Antonio López Férez, Michel Menu, Giuseppe Mastromarco et Alan H. Sommerstein ont mis à jour la bibliographie de leurs articles.
3.   En ce qui concerne la présentation typographique du livre, on trouve des mots mal accentués (αὐτῶι p. 9; scène p. 33, n. 8; εἰσῇξε p. 42, n. 42; φυλαί p. 60; politica p. 76; Retórica p. 99; êthos p. 100, n. 17; connaît p. 163; comme p. 163, n. 4; pèlerinage p. 166; τὰ p. 167, n. 12; ἡμεῖς p. 170; λῆψι p. 171; ἑόρακα p. 176; πρᾶγμα p. 178; prosaïques p. 183; à une mystérieuse p. 183; López p. 199, n. 2; brève p. 202; à l'excès p. 202; sélectionnèrent p. 202; Zénobios p. 202; ταἰσχρὰ p. 205; à l'honnêteté p. 205; médico en la comedia ática p. 205; honnête et pauvre p. 205; Menipp p. 206; προεληλύθασιν p. 207; Anterôsa p. 209; Diogénianos p. 209; εὐφρανεῖ p. 211; πατρί p. 212; γέ p. 213; Τελεύτα p. 213; âgé p. 214, n. 23; Néoptolème p. 214, n. 23; Clém. p. 216; Connaître p. 216; μεῖζον p. 219; concrète p. 220; florilège p. 220; εἴ p. 239; of p. 241, n. 13; close p. 243; ἐδιδάχθη p. 266; Αἰολοσίκωνα p. 268, n. 16; Pöhlmann p. 271, n. 26; Dionisalejandro p. 279, nn. 57 et 58), des fautes de coupure des mots étrangers à la fin de la ligne (Aristoph-anes p. 22; Ar-istophanes pp. 27 et 28; co-rrezioni p. 36; probabi-lmente p. 40; supo-rre p. 44; Médite- rrannée p. 162; nou-rriture p. 166; obs-cènes p. 183; sus-citent p. 205; Ap-ostolius p. 214; Ox-yrhynchus p. 224; cop-yist p. 228; par-asites p. 239; de-lla p. 249) ou des parenthèses et des guillemets qui ne sont pas refermés (p. 40, n. 75; p. 61; p. 139, n. 158; p. 206; p. 239, n. 8; p. 240; p. 241 et n. 16; p. 258). Il faudrait aussi lire dans la p. 13, n. 14: 101 et non pas 237; p. 96: un afeminado; p. 100: su madre ya ha implantado; p. 257, n. 23: 59–64; p. 287: P.Oxy. 2826 (= Adespota 1115 K.–A.); et ajouter un verbe principal dans la troisième phrase de la p. 176.
4.   J'aimerais remercier mon cher collègue et précieux ami Jean-Luc Vix pour son aide et ses remarques utiles.

2015.09.54

Jula Wildberger, Marcia L. Colish (ed.), Seneca philosophus. Trends in classics - supplementary volumes, 27. Berlin; Boston: De Gruyter, 2014. Pp. vi, 512. ISBN 9783110349832. $154.00.

Reviewed by William O. Stephens, Creighton University (stoic@creighton.edu)

Version at BMCR home site

Table of Contents

Most of the papers in this collection were presented at an international conference at the American University of Paris in May 2011. The editors explain that while the contributors treat a wide range of themes, including epistemology, ethics, conception of the body, conception of gender roles, natural philosophy, psychology, and political theory, from various disciplinary and methodological perspectives, they share a common view of Seneca as "an author who draws with discrimination on other ancient traditions while developing an authentic, cogent, and original articulation of Roman Stoicism" (1). The seventeen essays, all in English, are arranged in three groups. The first six essays study Seneca's philosophical treatment of moral norms, moral decision-making, allaying irrational passions, and rejecting faulty judgments. The next four essays analyze various social and political topics. The last seven essays treat Seneca's use of imagery and literary strategies to bolster his self or authorial persona. Each essay has its own bibliography. The volume concludes with a list of abbreviations, a helpful index of passages cited, an index of modern authors, and a general index. Space allows me to discuss in depth only one essay from each of the three groups.

The first three essays are by Ilsetraut Hadot, Antonello Orlando and Jörn Müller. Hadot considers the Stoics' account of how we become morally good. She argues that Brad Inwood¹ reduces this complex question to the narrow epistemological question of how ethical notions are formed and faults him for overly limiting his perspectives and unfairly reproaching Seneca for incoherencies of which he is not guilty. Orlando examines Seneca's appropriation of the term prolēpsis by comparing two of his references to this term with those of Cicero. Müller studies Seneca's Medea and how akrasia is handled by the Stoic's monistic psychology. He believes that Medea's mind rapidly oscillates between conflicting passions and that she resolves this akratic conflict by embracing the full madness of one passion alone.

Marcia Colish addresses a problem faced by all ancient eudaimonistic ethics, namely, how our moral choices can conflict with what we judge to be good and thus naturally seek. Colish adeptly compares Seneca's treatment of this conundrum with those of two other Roman Stoics, Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius. She argues that, for Seneca, while the sage always follows the advice of conscience—the set of values revealing what is morally right and wrong—non-sages can and do act in opposition to the norms of conscience. Colish notes that the Roman Stoics depict and exemplify self-examination is diverse ways (97). They propose the "premeditation of future evils" (praemeditatio futurorum malorum) to alert us to our daily problems and the principles with which to address them. Herein enters conscience. The Roman Stoics describe conscience with a wide range of metaphors, as judge, censor, interrogator, or helmsman piloting the soul through stormy seas. Self-examination they variously describe as an analgesic, an antibiotic, a palliative, a prophylactic, an upper, a downer, or a performance-enhancing drug (98).

While the fear of death and therapies to cure it is a common theme for all the Roman Stoics, Colish emphasizes Marcus Aurelius' lofty political office and his preoccupation with assassination as an occupational hazard. Epictetus' concern as a schoolmaster, in contrast, is to show his students how to fortify themselves against the temptations he expects them to encounter by cultivating their patience, abstinence, equanimity, cooperation with others, and the virtues of private citizens (100). Colish believes that Seneca enriches the Roman Stoics' treatment of praemeditatio futurorum malorum and conscience by asserting that the daily forecast of problems helps only the wise. When fools premeditate future evils, it only excites their irrational fears, moves them to make plans on the fatuous assumption that their present good fortune will last, or leads them to procrastinate. So, maxims like "Blows foreseen strike us the more feebly" empower only sages, not fools. But if so, then Colish wonders what effect they have on Seneca himself. If he believes these maxims sustain him, then Seneca would have to regard himself as a sage to save consistency. Yet how can he when he explicitly confesses his own faults?

Colish suggests that while Epictetus guides others and does not report his own self-scrutiny, and Marcus advises himself alone, Seneca offers a range of personal and interpersonal settings for the examination of conscience, including his epistolary correspondence with Lucilius (102). This is not quite true of Epictetus. In Disc. 2. 18. 15–18 he reports to his students how despite seeing a good-looking boy or girl, he didn't proceed to say to himself, "It would be nice have sex with her," or "Her husband is a lucky guy" and he stopped himself from fantasizing about the girl undressing and trying to seduce him. Epictetus describes this as an accomplishment deserving of greater pride than solving a logical paradox. Colish emphasizes that, among the Roman Stoics, Seneca's contribution is that acting against conscience is possible because the will can be divided against itself, we can lie to ourselves, or we can choose to portray ourselves authentically by holding true to our inner convictions.

David Kaufman ambitiously argues that (a) Seneca's method of consoling people experiencing violent emotions is to stimulate a rival emotion in them, (b) it is likely that Seneca was the first Stoic theorist to introduce this therapeutic method, which contrasts with the belief-based approaches of Cleanthes and Chrysippus, and (c) Seneca's theory of violent emotions is a Stoic interpretation of Epicurus' method of treating distress. The thematic interrelationship of the Epistles and the Naturales quaestiones is examined by Gareth Williams, who sees them not only as complementary aspects of Seneca's larger therapeutic agenda but as interdependent experiments that in a sense complete each other.

The essay by Rita Degl'Innocenti Pierini opens the second group. Pierini examines Seneca's idea of freedom in a few selected texts fromDe brevitate vitae, De providentia, De ira, De clementia, and Epistles. She thinks that Seneca is unduly harsh when he presents Cicero as "half free" (semiliber), bewailing his past, griping about the present, and despairing of the future. In sharp contrast, Seneca portrays Cato as a perfect Stoic sage who recognizes and embraces his destiny in choosing suicide instead of capitulating to Caesar. Pierini believes that Seneca fails to understand "a concept of freedom that is not abstract but fulfilled in certain political and social conditions" (174). She judges Seneca's idealization of the absolute freedom of the Stoic wise man to be conceptually inferior to Cicero's attempt to "bend the rigor of Stoic dogma to the requirements of the contemporary political elite" and the needs of the times (174). She explains that the freedom of the Senecan wise man consists in fearing neither human beings nor gods and being self-ruled, self-possessed, self-mastered, and above fortune. Yet this freedom is acquired, she notes, once the sage is free from the daily commitments of political life or once he liberates himself through suicide. Some of the textual parallels Pierini offers from non-philosophers² seem strained and only marginally relevant juxtaposed with Seneca's texts, whereas Musonius Rufus, Epictetus, and Marcus Aurelius are omitted entirely. Her reliance on several dated English translations is disappointing.³

In the remaining chapters of this section, Jean-Christophe Courtil argues that, beyond socio-historical and literary reasons, Seneca's emphasis on the tortured body flows from his political and philosophical system of thought, and that his position on torture lies between justification and condemnation. Tommaso Gazzarri studies how Seneca connects medical pathologies caused by eating the wrong food with ethical and physical degenerations of women. This gender- coded philosophical and rhetorical strategy also presents suicide as a sign of the virtuous male's mental fitness, so that death appears as a manifestation of health. Finally, Elizabeth Gloyn offers the rather tame thesis that in the Epistles Seneca adopts a unified and developmental approach to the family, refining and complicating his presentation throughout the collection of letters.

The final section contains seven papers. Margaret Graver reads Seneca as envisioning a novel ontology of the self. Seneca describes writing as a means of externalizing one's locus of identity, making one's thoughts, reasonings, and reactions available to others in the future. Moreover, by writing his artistic achievement surpasses and replaces the unstable and fleeting sentience within his body with a more consistent, more stable, and more admirable externalized self. Linda Cermatori seeks to show that Seneca represents the teacher of philosophy as a craftsman who molds his disciple by education and uses terms of material art, thus alluding to the image of philosophy as a creative force and enhancing our understanding of philosophical teaching. Martin Dinter examines how, in Seneca's tragedies, sententiae make themselves indispensable for creating discourse, for characterizing the personae in the tragedies, and for showcasing both Seneca tragicus and Seneca philosophus. Dinter proposes reading Seneca's sententiae as the reader's digest of essential Seneca, and as his legacy to his text.

Matheus De Pietro regards the repeated unfolding and condensing of the concept of happiness in De vita beata 3.2–6.2 as Seneca's deliberate demonstration of his mastery of Stoic doctrine and standing as a philosopher. The example of Q. Aelius Tubero in two of Seneca's letters is the focus of Francesca Romana Berno. She argues that Seneca constructs a deliberate polemic against Cicero, his source of this historical example, and that Seneca's eulogy of Tubero becomes an apology of Stoic rigorism.

In an outstanding essay Madeleine Jones analyzes hypocrisy as an unavoidable way of life for Seneca—a Stoic who, in his letters to Lucilius, engages in moral teaching about Stoic virtue while simultaneously being all too aware that he himself, a non-sage, lacks virtue. Previous scholars charge, first, that Seneca advocates withdrawal from public life, yet he was deeply involved with imperial power, and second, that he advocates relinquishing attachment to material objects and wealth, and yet he amassed a vast fortune. Jones argues that the tradition of Seneca's hypocrisy derives not only from the contrast between his life and his writings, but also from his own thematization in the Epistles of such a contrast and of his failure to live up to his own standards. The double-bind gripping Seneca is this: Most, or virtually all, progressors (proficientes) will not become sages, and so their lives will have been as devoid of virtue as the lives of the most ignorant fools (stulti). Consequently, any Stoic writer will be describing a philosophical position to which he perpetually aspires but which he has not yet attained and most likely never will. This fact need not be a problem in impersonal tracts whose truth is not in the least affected by the author's flawed character. However, in choosing to write philosophical letters, the genre reconciles two generic exigencies: philosophical argument and a personal account of the writer's own efforts to walk his talk. These two exigencies commit Seneca to a sort of continual self-accusation of hypocrisy. As a Stoic theorist who holds that virtue does not admit of degrees but is rather a totalizing state of mind, Seneca fully recognizes that he will always fall short of virtue. Yet the genre of the philosophical letter obliges him, as he expounds the doctrine he believes is true, to point out the many discrepancies between his theory and his daily practice.

Honest self-reflection, Jones emphasizes, gives Seneca the opportunity to monitor his philosophical progress and incentivizes him to adhere to his philosophical principles. Yet this praxis of daily therapeutic meditatio splits the self in two: the scrutinizing subject self and the scrutinized object self, thus introducing the possibility of self- deceit. Seneca's remark to Lucilius: "You judge me kindly if you think that there isn't anything in them [sc. his days] that I would hide" she construes as hinting at the possibility that Seneca might be lying to Lucilius (407). I would more cautiously distinguish hiding a few things from lying. If there are some thoughts or sentiments one chooses not to share with a close friend, those voluntary omissions don't count as intentional deceptions. Perhaps Seneca is more innocently explaining to Lucilius that he is not (yet) comfortable sharing every aspect of his day with him.

Jones insightfully suggests that by admitting his own hypocrisy Seneca transforms it from a failure to live up to his own standards into the first step on the road to ridding himself of his shortcomings and approaching those standards. "Hypocrisy is simultaneously the inevitable condition of the Stoic and a vice whose acknowledgement is necessary for progress and a potential danger, which may prevent the author from being honest with himself and which forces the reader always to question the honesty of the authorial voice" (408). Closing the volume, Jula Wildberger argues that in the Epistles "engagement with Epicurus becomes a multifaceted stylistic device essential to the fabric of this epistolary Bildungsroman" (431–432). For her the Epicurus trope figures importantly in the corpus' overall structure and it marks turning points in the Letter Writer's methodology and mode of thinking.

A few scattered type-setting errors throughout scarcely detract from a rich variety of studies of Seneca the philosopher in this interesting, but expensive, volume.

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Notes:

1.   In his chapter "Getting to Goodness" in Reading Seneca: Stoic Philosophy at Rome, Oxford University Press, 2005.
2.   Accius, Lucan, Tacitus, Horace, Dio Chrysostom.
3.   Basore, John W., ed. and trans. 1928–1935. Seneca. Moral Essays. 3 vols. London; Heinemann. Gummere, Richard M., ed. and trans. 1917–1925. Seneca. Ad Lucilium epistulae morales. 3 vols. London; Heinemann. Ridley, Edward, trans. The Pharsalia of Lucan. London: Longmans, Green, and Co. 1905. Miller, Walter, ed. and trans. 1913. Cicero, De Officiis. London; Heinemann. Miller, Frank J., ed. and trans. 1917–1919. Seneca's Tragedies. 2 vols. London; Heinemann. For example, Pierini quotes from Miller's translation: "And other-whither than I strive to go am I borne away in thrall" (168–169). It is a pity that Orlando, Courtil, Gazzarri, Cermatori, Dinter, De Pietro, Berno, and Jones also use Basore, Gummere, or both, in lieu of their own translations.

2015.09.53

Josephine Crawley Quinn, Nicholas Vella, The Punic Mediterranean: Identities and Identification from Phoenician Settlement to Roman Rule. British School at Rome studies. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014. Pp. xxvi, 376. ISBN 9781107055278. $125.00.

Reviewed by Carolina López-Ruiz, The Ohio State University (lopez-ruiz.1@osu.edu)

Version at BMCR home site

Preview

This important collection of essays explores current debates about Phoenician culture in its western Mediterranean aspects, a field of growing interest.¹ Its authors examine what we call "Punic" culture, that is, the western Phoenician colonial world after the sixth century (all dates BCE), marked by the rise of Carthage. The contributors agree that the name Punic (from the Latin for "Phoenician," or "Carthaginian," poenus, punicus) does not correspond with a clearly defined and distinct identity, but should be treated as a subset of the broader "Phoenician world," slippery, vague, and complex as that term might be in turn. The ultimate (and frustrating) difficulty for historians and archaeologists is how to discuss those cultures (Phoenicians, Sardinians, Iberians, Numidians, and others) who left little or no literary evidence and no surviving self-defining narratives, without creating artificial modern categories shaped by material evidence, institutional projects, and intellectual trends. How do we bridge the gaps and correct for the biases in the Greek and Roman sources in order to form a more authentic view of the "Phoenicians" that is not Hellenocentric or Romanocentric? Do the cultural differences reflected in material practices reflect a separate identity between western and eastern Phoenicians? In general, the chapters all build on current views of the construction of identities and postcolonial theory, offering a fresh perspective on old and recent archaeological materials and (in fewer cases) written materials.

In the Introduction, the editors offer an overview of the rise of Phoenician studies in the twentieth century and of the branching off of the "Punic" world as a separate subject of study. They present lucidly the questions that drive the volume, though perhaps take them to an unnecessary minimalistic point, asking, "should we go further, though, and avoid even [the term] "Phoenician"? (7). Surely the abolition of our one term, or the invention of another, would not solve our scholarly problem: "Canaanites from the Iron Age Lebanese coast" might be more accurate but is full of modern terms and blurs our group within an even broader category. In the end, only agreed-upon categories of analysis, of diverse magnitude ("Mesopotamian," "Anatolian," "Western"), make historical discourse (and book titles) possible.

Jonathan Prag (ch. 1) makes a clear case for the absence of a Punic/Phoenician binary in the ancient world, a terminology by which "modern writers have imported an additional layer of difference that cannot be found in the sources" (20). Where the Greeks said Phoinix the Romans said Poenus. Such double nomenclature was typical in antiquity: where the Greeks said Iberia the Romans said Hispania, where they said Hellas the Romans said Graecia (cf. "German" and deutsch). Prag clarifies that the terms were applied universally to eastern and western Phoenicians within each language, and that the distinction did not per se reflect negative or positive stereotypes. The Romans appropriated the Greek Phoenix in the late Republic, when much of Roman literature was absorbing Greek tropes.

Nicholas Vella (ch. 2) warns us of the dangers of decontextualizing artifacts conventionally identified as "Phoenician" in museum displays, which has inculcated an excessively neat idea of the Phoenicians as a materially identifiable culture. Vella shows how the Phoenicians can equally be obliterated from narratives constructed around Greeks and Italic peoples (Getty Museum) or artificially reified (Palazzo Grassi exhibit).

Peter van Dommelen (ch. 3) surveys the idiosyncratic adaptations and distortions of the Punic past from the orientalist prism through which Phoenicians have been treated in the West to local cultural movements (e.g., Tunisia, Sicily, Sardinia). These can prioritize the Punic past over other pasts, obliterate or "classicize" the Phoenicians, or absorb them into an indigenist discourse. He also encourages scholars to responsibly engage with local communities, as constructions of the past impact regional and national politics.

Providing examples from the central and western Mediterranean, Sandro Filippo Bondi (ch. 4) discusses a wide range of "punicities," that is, variant modes of expression and development of western Phoenician culture under the aegis of Carthage. This variation corresponds to different articulations of Punic culture as it adapted to local contexts and interacted with others. The local idiosyncracies remain, however, well within the more global "Phoenician" culture, whose contours are marked by the common traits of language, religion, institutions, material culture, and ancestry.

Two chapters on material evidence underscore the importance of paying attention to local contexts, which does not undermine the existence of a level of uniformity. This is evident in burial practices and patterns throughout Punic sites (ch. 5: Carlos Gómez-Bellard), which maintained contact with the broader Phoenician world. The richly documented overview of coinage (ch. 6: Suzanne Frey-Kupper), focusing on the central Mediterranean, reaches similar conclusions. The inclusion of evidence from further west (e.g., Cádiz, Málaga, Utica) would have further illustrated this combination of supra-regional repertoires and local preferences.

The thorough overview of Carthage's archaeology in ch. 7 (Boutheina Maraoui Telmini et al.) emphasizes the "special position" occupied by Carthage within the western Phoenician colonial network. The foundation of Carthage as a large metropolis from the start (which for consistency they propose should be labeled "Early Punic," not "Archaic" or "Phoenician"), its rapid growth, and its openness to the wider Mediterranean, account for the role it played historically. They perhaps overemphasize the uniqueness of Carthage's foundation story. Its preservation and reception is in part the result of the importance of the city in historical times, and we know other Phoenician foundation stories circulated (Tyre, Gadir).

Habib Ben Younès and Alia Krandel-Ben Younès (ch. 8) survey the funerary practices in Punic and Libyan (Numidian) nekropoleis of the Tunisian Sahel, illustrating how cultural influence worked both ways and how the variations within Punic practices were inflected by the fluid contact with Libyan populations. At the same time, the Numidians, who were acculturated to some degree, maintained a noticeable degree of distinctiveness vis-à-vis the more heavily Punic areas.

Josephine C. Quinn (ch. 9) offers a fresh reading of the story of "the Philaeni" brothers and the altars dedicated to them along the coast of the Greater Syrtis (Libya). The story, first told in full by Sallust (Iug.79), she argues convincingly, is not a Greek creation, but stems from a Carthaginian source and reflects Carthaginian territorial claims in the area in the third or early second century. Most interesting is the suggestion that the Carthaginian version of the story reverses nascent Greco-Roman stereotypes about the Carthaginians (the notion of punica fides", 178), as well as Greek "mythical norms."

Virginie Bridoux (ch. 10) analyzes commercial relations, especially amphorae and other pottery, as an index of how Numidia related to the rest of the Punic world. She concludes that Numidia was part of the "Punic world," broadly constructed. But she finds that, in the third to first centuries at least, economic and cultural relations revolved around other areas of Punic influence (especially the Balearic islands and eastern Iberia) rather than Carthage. The chronological limitations of the evidence, however, say little about what relations between Carthage and Numidia might have been before Carthage ceased to be the regional power. Ch. 8, which deals with burials in earlier periods, partly complements this picture.

In a chapter on Mauretania (Morocco) (ch. 11), Emanuele Papi questions the alleged impact of Punic hegemony, in contrast to the presence of older Phoenician colonies (e.g., Lixus and Mogador), though without denying that Punic traits penetrated some areas of culture, especially among the elites ("circulation of knowledge, information, technologies, skills and people": 218).

Two chapters deal with Iberian materials. Alicia Jiménez (ch. 12) discusses a corpus of coins minted between the mid- second and mid-first centuries in southwest Iberia. As she shows, these have been misleadingly labeled "Libyophoenician" to conform to Greco-Roman ethnography. Besides deconstructing the simplistic relationship between the ethnonym and the coins, Jiménez resituates the materials within the realm of local expressions of late Punic culture under the Roman Republic. Carmen Aranegui and Jaime Vives-Ferrández (ch. 13) then discuss the archaeology of communities from the eastern Iberian coast (especially Alicante) and the Punic-Ibizan influence in the area. They focus on materials from the fifth to the third centuries, featuring recently excavated sites. The nuanced analysis of the relationship between material culture and local contexts and practices produces a fragmented cultural map that resists the etic categories "Iberian" or "Punic."

Ch. 14 (Andrea Roppa) is a survey of the changes in settlement patterns and material culture in Sardinia from the late sixth century until Roman times. Besides archaeological data, he discusses historiographical sources, scholarly positions, and anthropological insights, and argues that long-term changes in economic and religious landscapes defy neat divisions between "indigenous" and "Punic."

Moving to the Levant, Corinne Bonnet (ch. 15) offers insightful reflections on what Hellenization after Alexander might have meant in terms of cultural identity, and how it affected the continuum between the Phoenician world, east and west and she reminds us that Helleno-Phoenician contact had a longer history.

In a thought-provoking Afterword, Andrew Wallace-Hadrill highlights the main themes that run through the volume, but also reminds us that we may need to "put aside existential agonies over identity, and focus better on how they [the Phoenicians] networked." I endorse his remark that accepting the existence of multiple identities (or sub-identities) does not mean that the Phoenicians have "evaporated and lost existence with the loss of a single identity. The key question remains the degree to which, for all difference, they perceived and cultivated affinity" (303).

Despite the anxiety about the legitimacy of the ethnonyms Phoenician and Punic, expressions of supra-local identity do come through, even in a volume that de-emphasizes this level: mythological narratives about the Philaeni, which responds to Greco-Roman claims about the Phoenicians generally; the religious and civic links between Carthage and Tyre, sustained until Hellenistic times; the persistence of language, writing, numismatic iconography, cross-regional religious institutions and practices, and other common traits. A surprisingly unexploited jewel is the ubiquitous use of the palm tree in Phoenician coins from the Levant to Iberia to Carthage and Sicily. The important statement that "the punning type of the palm tree, at least, stands for the large community of Phoenicians spread all over the Mediterranean and in some way expresses 'punicity'" (103) is not developed to its full potential in the volume. The palm tree indeed must have expressed a broader sense of "Phoenicity," as it plays on the Greek phoenix. Whether this was a regional icon (popular in Iron Age Syro-Palestine), taken by the Greeks to label the Phoenicians, or these Northwest Semites are playing on the name used for them by the Greeks, we should reconsider the assumption that no one called himself a "Phoenician" (e.g., 7, 13). In any event, "Punic" and "Phoenician" are useful categories (while artificial and modern) to the degree that they define chronological and geographical parameters, connected with a set of historical circumstances and sources (especially regarding Carthage and the Punic Wars). The authors in this volume accept the thing but are squeamish about the word. The use of "Punic" as a cultural-historical label should not be paralyzing or problematic, any more than "Mycenaean," "Minoan," "Hellenistic," or "Byzantine," modern labels which similarly denote some kind of cultural, ethnic, or political identity.

The fear of falling into (allegedly) simplistic categorizations has also driven the term "ethnic identity" out of the volume. It is systematically avoided in favor of the softer "cultural identity." Following Wallace's remarks, we should ask whether this is necessary. By now we all agree that identities, ethnic or otherwise, are culturally-socially constructed. People have ethnic identities because they choose to have them, or because they are raised to have them. But these constructions have a real life (if never a static one) on the historical and ideological plane. A related aspect of the volume is its almost exclusive emphasis on "cultural" history and avoidance of military and political history. Carthage was not only (or primarily) a cultural project. For instance, I missed a more explicit treatment of the change in dynamics caused by Carthage's fall to Rome, though several chapters deal with post-Punic Wars evidence. As a curiosity, may we relate the mysterious appearance of pseudo-Ebusitan (Ibiza) coins with the image of Bes in the Naples area in the 130s-120s (ch. 6) to the conquest of Carthage in 146? Ibizan mercenaries were crucial to the Carthaginian armies and the conquest would have caused them and their money to circulate. Also, several contributors reject the modern model of colonization through military occupation and administrative control, but the ensuing vacuum is not then filled, as there is little discussion of how Punic economic, political, and military influence did work. Chris Gosden's Archaeology and Colonialism: Cultural Contact from 5000 BC to the Present (Cambridge, 2004), not cited in any chapter, would have been useful in this regard.

This stimulating, informative, and timely volume advances our understanding of the Phoenicians' place in the western Mediterranean, and reminds us that the Greeks and Romans should not be thought of as the only owners of the "Classical" past.

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Notes:

1.   Cf. another recent collection, The Hellenistic West: Rethinking the Ancient Mediterranean (eds. J. C. Quinn and J.R.W. Prag, Cambridge, 2013).

2015.09.52

Yanne Broux, Double Names and Elite Strategy in Roman Egypt. Studia Hellenistica, 54. Leuven; Paris; Bristol, CT: Peeters, 2015. Pp. viii, 317. ISBN 9789042931251. €94.00 (pb).

Reviewed by Jean A. Straus, Université de Liège (jean.straus@ulg.ac.be)

Version at BMCR home site

Table of Contents

Les noms doubles dans l'Égypte gréco-romaine ont fait l'objet de plusieurs études, mais aucune n'est aussi approfondie que celle de Y. Broux. En effet, l'auteure a pu disposer d'une documentation quasi exhaustive qu'elle a utilisée avec beaucoup d'intelligence.

Dans l'introduction, Y. Broux pose la question de savoir si le nom et le nom double ont une signification sociale. Elle fait ensuite l'historique des études sur le nom double et tente une définition de ce nom: "a set of two or more sufficiently different personal names, each freely chosen to identify an individual, at birth or at a later stage in life, used either alternatingly or in combination. In the latter case the two names are often connected by a formula." (p. 7) Elle expose longuement (p. 9-22) la méthode qu'elle a employée, insistant sur l'apport des bases de données contenues dans la plateforme Trismegistos de la Katholieke Universiteit Leuven.

Quoique le nom double ne soit pas un nouveau phénomène dans l'Égypte romaine,¹ son évolution se fait en étroit parallèle avec les changements administratifs et sociaux apportés par la conquête romaine qui touchent les élites métropolitaines. L'auteure consacre donc le premier chapitres à l'étude de ces changements qui atteignent leur point culminant au 3^e s. avec l'introduction des boulai dans les capitales des nomes. Ce dernier fait encourage l'émergence d'une élite métropolitaine dotée d'un statut héréditaire. Dès ce chapitre, Y. Broux est confrontée au difficile problème de la définition des "élites":

"those who held the archai, together with the strategoi and the royal scribes, formed the political elite of the chora, an elite within the privileged orders." (p. 47); "it would be wrong to speak of the metropolites and the apo gymnasiou as a legal, political or economical elite." (p. 49); "the gymnasial order … can be described as a small, closed group of privileged people, with a clearly demarcated cultural and fiscal status, and as a minority within the entire population of Aegypti, which does have an elitist ring to it." (p. 49-50)

Les traditions onomastiques sont influencées par tous ces changements. L'auteure les étudie dans le chapitre 2. Elle y discute les liens entre onomastique, méthodes d'identification des individus et statut dans le monde gréco-égyptien et dans le monde romain puisque, avec l'incorporation dans l'empire romain, un nouveau système de polynymie, les tria nomina, est introduit en Egypte. Le nom double rencontre cette évolution onomastique.

Dans le chapitre 3, l'auteure donne un aperçu de quelques faits généraux relatifs aux noms doubles de la période romaine: les sources dans lesquelles ils sont attestés, quelles personnes les portent, comment ces noms se répartissent chronologiquement et géographiquement.

Dans le chapitre 4, les noms doubles sont organisés selon les formules qui joignent les deux noms. L'auteure établit une distinction entre les expressions grecques, égyptiennes et latines tandis que la juxtaposition est attestée en grec comme en égyptien. Une section est consacrée au nom triple.

Le chapitre 5 est consacré à l'étude de chacun des noms constituant un nom double. Ils sont classés par combinaisons d'affiliations linguistiques (e.g., deux noms grecs, un nom égyptien et un nom grec, etc.) et selon le type onomastique (théophores, dynastiques, etc.). L'attention est portée sur les relations possibles entre les deux noms. Une courte note traite de l'emploi alterné d'un nom double et d'un nom simple selon le contexte.

Pour illustrer l'utilisation des types variés de noms doubles décrits dans les chapitres 3 à 5, l'auteure utilise une sélection d'archives familiales (chapitre 6). En effet, grâce à leurs sources variées et à leur continuité chronologique sur plusieurs générations, ces archives donnent une image plus complète et concrète de l'emploi du nom double. Deux types de noms doubles émergent clairement: les noms liés par ὁ/ὃς καί qui constituent l'énorme majorité des noms doubles d'époque romaine (87%) et ceux joints par ἐπικαλούμενος ou une série d'autres formules grecques ou égyptiennes qui ne représentent qu'une minorité. Cette étude de cas montre aussi que les familles de l'élite ont une préférence pour les noms doubles formés avec des noms grecs "courants" reliés par ὁ (ἡ) καί. Il apparaît aussi que, dans plusieurs cas, les liens ἐπικαλούμενος et ἐπικεκλημένος sont suivis d'un sobriquet.

Les caractéristiques de ces types de noms doubles sont analysées dans le chapitre 7 en vue de tirer quelques conclusions concernant leurs implications sociales. Sont analysés leur distribution chronologique et géographique (mais je ne vois rien sur ce dernier point, p. 249-251), leur affiliation linguistique, les types de noms, l'homonymie, le nom double dans l'identification, la présence d'une désignation de statut, la différence entre les noms doubles officiels qui comportent l'expression ὁ/ὃς καί et ceux qui ne le sont pas, reconnaissables à la présence du lien ἐπικαλούμενος, καλούμενος, λεγόμενος, ἐπιλεγόμενος ou ἐπικεκλημένος, enfin les implications sociales de la polynomie dans l'Égypte romaine. On relève, entre autre, que le nombre de noms doubles augmente considérablement jusqu'au milieu du 3^e s. avant de décroître, que 58% des noms doubles de type ὁ καί sont constitués de deux noms grecs, 15% de noms grecs et égyptiens, 15% de noms grecs et latins, que les noms doubles faits de deux noms égyptiens sont rares, que l'utilisation du nom double permet de donner à un enfant le nom de son père et de son grand-père paternel ou maternel. On relève encore dans les noms doubles la présence de noms à connotation religieuse, historique ou littéraire. Enfin, dans l'immense majorité des cas, le porteur d'un nom double n'apparaît qu'une seule fois dans la documentation. Il utilise donc ses deux noms et nous n'en savons pas plus. Mais, quand le porteur d'un nom double se retrouve dans plusieurs documents, une variété de comportements peut se dévoiler en fonctions des circonstances, surtout dans les documents privés: inversion de l'ordre des noms, utilisation d'un seul des deux noms, etc. Une indication du statut accompagne parfois le nom double. Pour 1362 sur 3566 porteurs de noms doubles de type ὁ καί, un titre ou une désignation de statut est ajoutée à l'identification de la personne. Il s'agit souvent d'une activité dans l'administration. La plupart des titres concernent les archai et les prestigieuses fonctions liturgiques métropolitaines. Les bouleutes s'ajoutent à partir de 201. Les individus portant des noms doubles du type ἐπικαλούμενος exercent en général des fonctions moins élevées (e.g. liturgies inférieures dans les métropoles et les villages). A peine 4,5% des personnes portant les noms doubles du second type sont des membres privilégiés de la société.

Le type de nom double qu'une personne utilise varie donc en fonction de sa position sociale. Pour établir la distinction entre les deux types de noms doubles (ὁ/ὃς καί en face de ἐπικαλούμενος, καλούμενος, λεγόμενος, ἐπιλεγόμενος ou ἐπικεκλημένος), Y. Broux propose d'utiliser une terminologie différenciée: l'expression "nom double" serait réservée aux noms construits avec ὁ καί et ses variantes étant donné qu'ils bénéficient d'une véritable reconnaissance officielle; les noms reliés par ἐπικαλούμενος et ses semblables seraient désignés par le terme "byname", "surnom". Le terme "nickname", "sobriquet" serait à éviter, car il présente un aspect péjoratif qui n'apparaît pas dans les expressions grecques.

Le livre de Y. Broux montre sans ambage le lien entre l'emploi du nom double (double name) ou du surnom (byname) et le statut social de celui qui le porte. Ses conclusions reposent sur une documentation exhaustive, une excellente connaissance des institutions, une très bonne méthode d'analyse et une prudence de bon aloi dans l'interprétation des données. L'élève est digne des grands maîtres louvanistes qui l'ont formée.

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Notes:

1.   Un parallèle ptolémaïque au livre Broux sera publié par Sandra Coussement, 'Because I am a Greek'. Polyonymy as an Expression of Ethnicity in Ptolemaic Egypt (Studia Hellenistica, 55).