The Roman poet Martial was an epigrammatist, meaning that he specialized in very short poems. In total he wrote about 1,500 poems that we still have, and he must have written a lot more. But they don’t come much shorter than the 24th epigram of Martial’s sixth book, published in AD 91:

Nil lasciuius est Carisiano:

Saturnalibus ambulat togatus.

Carisianus is the most mischievous man alive:

He walks about in a toga during the Saturnalia.

This summer I spent a few days working through all of Martial’s epigrams, on the hunt for material to use at an event with Mary Beard at Cheltenham last week. Martial’s poems are superficially simple things, but can belie that appearance, often as intricate as any sophisticated gag; and of course they’re written for the pleasure of readers with a very different set of cultural assumptions. But 6.24 was one I quickly noted down on my piece of paper: an example of a very short poem with a clever but clear point, I thought: seven words, simple but funny, and perfect for our event.

What’s so funny about it? Whatever it is, it’ll certainly be less funny once I’ve tried to explain it. But it all hinges on the Roman festival of the Saturnalia in December. This was the most popular festival of the Roman year, a week in December featuring excessive eating and drinking (“exuberant gorgings and even more excessive drinking bouts,” according to one scholar), gift-giving and role reversal (masters would wait on slaves, for example, and slaves could speak freely to their masters), and special clothes: instead of the toga, the distinctive garment of the Roman citizen, everyone during the Saturnalia dressed in a suit of clothes known as the synthesis or cenatoria. We don’t really know what the synthesis looked like, but it seems to have been looser-fitting than the formal toga, and colourful (a bit like pyjamas), and whatever it was actually like, it symbolized the character of the Saturnalia, a time of uninhibited release.

Are you laughing yet? Probably not. But Martial’s joke is that by breaking the “rules” of the Saturnalia and wearing his toga instead of his synthesis, Carisianus is acting more in the spirit of the Saturnalia than anyone else. The word used of him, lasciuius, suggests uninhibited behaviour, in other words exactly what was expected of Romans at the Saturnalia. Carisianus is the most outrageous of the lot by virtue of acting totally square when everyone else is cutting loose. Geddit?

Well I thought I’d got it, and Mary Beard agreed (and she’s written a book on Roman laughter), and there was at least a ripple of amusement in our audience at Cheltenham as we tried to explain it.

© Marie-Lan Nguyen

But it turns out the Martial specialists don’t agree at all. Farouk Grewing, who’s written a commentary on Book 6, thinks the joke is much more complicated than this. What we’re meant to understand, according to him, is that Carisianus is actually a woman, specifically a woman who has been convicted of adultery and as punishment has to wear the toga. That was indeed a way of stigmatizing “fallen women” in Rome, the toga being, as well as the Roman citizen’s proper clothing, the garment worn by prostitutes (to distinguish them from respectable women, who wore the stola). Martial’s joke, according to Grewing, and Martial is certainly well capable of such viciousness, is that a woman dressed in a toga as punishment is mistaken for a man too uptight to dress down for the Saturnalia.

If so, as another scholar, Andreas Heil, points out,* Martial is being very oblique indeed, since there’s no indication anywhere in 6.24 that the protagonist is a woman, and Latin is meticulous about these things: the -us at the end of Carisianus and togatus indicate clearly that he’s a he. But Heil agrees with Grewing that a simpler reading of the poem is unsatisfactory: “It is hard to understand why wearing the toga at the Saturnalia should be proof of the special lascivia [mischievousness, naughtiness] of Charisianus.” Heil’s solution is that by telling us that Carisianus wears the toga at the Saturnalia, Martial is implying that he wears the synthesis the rest of the year: that is, Carisianus is lasciuus because on every day of the year other than the Saturnalia he dresses louchely, and behaves accordingly. A Roman citizen who habitually dressed in the synthesis  would be a very disreputable character indeed.

Now that all seems too complicated for me, but there’s no doubt Martial can be complicated. I’m planning to write another blog soon showing just how much can be going on in a seemingly simple two-line Martial epigram. But I think what matters here is that both Grewing and Heil feel a need to complicate the reading of 6.24 because a simpler reading of the poem doesn’t deliver enough of a punch. Isn’t funny.

But it is funny, right?

(A freer translation:

Carisianus is so shocking:

At the Saturnalia he goes round in a toga!)

*A. Heil, ‘Bemerkungen zu Martial: 6, 24. 6, 61. 6, 75. 9, 35 und 12, 5’, Philologus 146 (2002), 309-17, at 309-10.

This post is inspired by a Very Important Classicist saying something quite shocking. “I can’t stand Lucretius,” s/he admitted to me.

Actually, and to be fair, that’s not such an outlandish opinion. Lucretius is a Marmite poet, with passionate detractors and equally passionate devotees, and maybe that’s inevitable given what his six-book epic poem, the De Rerum Natura (“On the Nature of the Universe”), sets out to do. Lucretius was an Epicurean, a follower of a philosophical school established by Epicurus in Athens in the fourth century BC, and the De Rerum Natura aims to convert his readers to Epicureanism by explaining his theories of the nature of the physical world, which in turn underpinned Epicurus’ radical ideas as to how humans should live their lives. In other words, the DRN is essentially a pretty austere exercise in philosophical doctrine, albeit one managed by a genius (at least as far as his fans are concerned) who managed to locate the common ground between meticulous philosophy and exquisite poetry.

Well, the best way that I know to learn to appreciate Lucretius (and this happens to be the way an inspirational teacher at school switched me onto him) is a little book by the late, great Latinist David West. Another way is to read Emma Woolerton’s excellent series of articles on Lucretius in the Guardian. I can’t hold a candle to either of those Lucretius experts, but what I can do is try to explain my own enthusiasm for his poetry. I’ll do so with special reference to a short passage very early in the poem (DRN 1.62-79) that celebrates the achievements of Lucretius’ great mentor Epicurus. But what this passage also does, I think, is illustrate what an astonishingly radical and exciting project Lucretius considered his poem to be.

More precisely, this passage celebrates what Epicurus did to traditional religious beliefs. The Epicureans were not atheists, strictly speaking, but their view of the gods was still at dramatic variance with the god-fearing consensus of antiquity. They thought that while gods existed, they did not interfere in human existence, and instead lived a blissful, carefree life in the intermundia, the space between worlds (“playing ping pong on the other side of the Universe,” as Charlotte Easton put it to me). In fact the main use of the gods, as far as Lucretius is concerned, is as a model of the happiness humans can achieve if they can only free themselves from their irrational fears and superstitions.

We might pause here to imagine how well this philosophy was likely to go down among the Romans, a people convinced that the only explanation of their precipitous rise to power was that they were chosen people and the gods had made it so.

Here is Lucretius’ account of Epicurus v. Religion, in the translation of Ronald Melville (with notes by Don and Peta Fowler, another excellent introduction to the poem):

When human life lay foul for all to see

Upon the earth, crushed by the burden of religion,

Religion which from heaven’s firmament

Displayed its face, its ghastly countenance,

Lowering above mankind, the first who dared

Raise mortal eyes against it, first to take

His stand against it, was a man of Greece.

He was not cowed by fables of the gods

Or thunderbolt or heaven’s threatening roar,

But they the more spurred on his ardent soul

Yearning to be the first to break apart

The bolts of nature’s gates and throw them open.

Therefore his lively intellect prevailed

And forth he marched, advancing onwards far

Beyond the flaming ramparts of the world,

And voyaged in mind throughout infinity,

Whence he victorious back in triumph brings

Report of what can be and what cannot

And in what manner each thing has a power

That’s limited, and deep-set boundary stone.

Wherefore religion in its turn is cast

Beneath the feet of men and trampled down,

And us his victory has made peers of heaven.

Powerful stuff, and there’s lots to say about it. But Lucretius’ essential idea here is to imagine Epicurus’ debunking of religious belief as his scaling of Mt Olympus, the traditional home of the gods, from where he drags religio (“religion” or “superstition”) down to be trampled underfoot by humanity. Humanity, meanwhile, with Epicurus’ help, captures the high ground for itself, assumes the condition of gods, in other words.

Lucretius is actually playing here with a very well-established mythical model, the Battle of the Giants or Gigantomachy. This myth told how rebellious forces, the giants, revolted against the gods on Olympus, and tried unsuccessfully to overthrow them. It embodied ideas of order and chaos and political authority, and hence we find it represented in the great frieze that ran around the base of the Pergamon Altar, now the centrepiece of the Pergamonmuseum in Berlin: the giants are the figures with the snaky tails. This building was constructed by a Greek king of Pergamon (in modern Turkey) known as Eumenes II, and the frieze expressed in symbolic form the protection against forces of disorder that Eumenes claimed to provide to his subjects.

The gods’ defeat of the giants was a myth of civilization, then, but alongside statements of political legitimacy like Eumenes’ altar, the myth of Gigantomachy also became associated with the form of poetry with the most public, political character: epic poetry. Of all ancient genres of poetry, epic was the one with the greatest interest in issues of order and authority, and celebrating the achievements of political leaders, and hence it came about that the myth of Gigantomachy became effectively synonymous with the epic poetry written by such figures as Virgil, his great predecessor Ennius, and in his idiosyncratic way also Lucretius.

Let me illustrate how interchangeable epic poetry and Gigantomachy were to ancient minds with a very different kind of poet, Ovid. At the start of his second book of love poems, the Amores, Ovid pokes fun at this idea of epic-as-Gigantomachy in his typically irreverent way. He was planning to write a respectable epic poem, he claims, but then his girlfriend shut him out and the only poetry of any use to him in that situation was (his usual) love poetry. But that’s not quite how Ovid puts it. In fact he says that he was staging a Gigantomachy (an epic) when his girlfriend forced him in the role of an excluded lover: the locked-out lover is the quintessential scenario of Roman love poetry just as Gigantomachy is of epic. Here is Ovid (Am. 2.1.11-28), as translated by Peter Green:

One time, I recall, I got started on an inflated epic

About War in Heaven, with all

Those hundred-handed monsters, and Earth’s fell vengeance, and towering

Ossa piled on Olympus (plus Pelion too).

But while I was setting up Jove–stormclouds and thunderbolts gathered

Ready to hand, a superb defensive barrage–

My mistress staged a lock-out. I dropped Jove and his lightnings

That instant, didn’t give him another thought.

Forgive me, good Lord, if I found your armoury useless–

Her shut door ran to larger bolts

Than any you wielded. I went back to verse and compliments,

My natural weapons. Soft words

Remove harsh door-chains. There’s magic in poetry, its power

Can pull down the bloody moon,

Turn back the sun, make serpents burst asunder

Or rivers flow upstream.

Doors are no match for such spellbinding, the toughest

Locks can be open-sesamed by its charms.

Normality is restored to Ovid’s poetry, the epic is aborted, and the Romans get another book of love poetry from their favourite poet.

Ovid is notoriously self-aware, trading happily in stereotypes of his own and other genres to witty effect. But a more conventional poet like Virgil in the Aeneid is also acutely aware of the subtext of Gigantomachy that underlies his epic poem, even when its plot, Aeneas’ quest to found Rome, bears little obvious resemblance to that myth. The myth of Gigantomachy surfaces periodically in the Aeneid, for example in the fight between the hero Hercules and the monster Cacus which Evander, king of early Rome, recounts to Aeneas in Book 8. This is a moment where an Olympian figure (Hercules) wrestles and overcomes a giant-like force for disorder (Cacus); it’s also a passage which functions as some kind of (rather elusive) key to the story that fills the remainder of Virgil’s poem, the struggle of Aeneas and Turnus for the hand of the princess Lavinia and control of Latium.

Now Virgil is far too subtle and thoughtful a poet to play the Gigantomachy theme absolutely straight: in Book 10, for example, when Aeneas goes berserk after the death of his comrade Pallas (for me, as I said in my last blog, by far the most disturbing and challenging section of the Aeneid), Virgil describes his hero raging like Aegaeon, a monster with a hundred hands and fifty fire-belching mouths, who wielded fifty swords against Jupiter’s lightning–which is to say, Aeneas in his grief and anger has become like a giant, sworn enemy of the Olympian gods, a force of chaos and destruction. But what makes this moment so arresting, of course, is that Virgil is making his hero precisely the opposite of the Olympian, civilized figure we want him to be. Some thoughts on this, again, in my last blog.

The key point for understanding Lucretius is the intimate relation that held between Gigantomachy, with its message of providential order, and the poetic genre of epic. When we find Lucretius representing the achievements of his hero Epicurus, the guiding spirit of his poem, in the guise of the myth of Gigantomachy, one implication is obvious enough: Lucretius’ poem, despite its very unconventional contents, was indeed, as its length and metrical form suggested, an epic, a poem aspiring to the same central role in Roman culture as Ennius’ Annals had enjoyed in the past, and Virgil’s Aeneid would achieve in the following generation.

But there’s more to it than that, because the really radical thing about Lucretius’ version of the Gigantomachy is that here the force of Good takes the role not of the Olympian gods, but the giants: uncowed by Jupiter’s thunderbolts, Epicurus presses on and conquers the realm of religion. To a reader familiar with the conventions of Greco-Roman poetry, this passage, which sits early enough in the poem to carry a strong programmatic force for the whole work, implies not only that the De Rerum Natura is an epic, but that it is the strangest, most revolutionary epic you’ve ever seen, because in this epic the forces of disorder, the giants, will prevail.

I started off by acknowledging that a poem explaining in quite precise detail the scientific theories of a Greek philosopher might not add up to a very enticing recipe. But for me, what adds spice to it all is that the whole enterprise is just a tiny bit unhinged. Lucretius was aiming to convert Romans to a way of life, Epicureanism, which could hardly be less compatible with their traditional practices. To that end he was hijacking Rome’s cultural forms, epic poetry first and foremost, and using them to blazon a belief system which, if properly implemented, would mean in effect the end of anything recognizably Roman. All of that, I think, is embodied in Lucretius’ radical and brilliant twist on the epic myth of Gigantomachy: what you are about to read is an epic, but an epic the burden of which is the complete overthrow of established notions of civilization.

I think another detail of Lucretius’ Gigantomachy reinforces this impression of an epic poem with a revolutionary agenda. When Lucretius describes Epicurus “breaking apart the bolts of nature’s gates” he is suggesting the originality of Epicurus’ thought, and the boldness of his cosmological theories, but he also seems to be reminding us of a moment in the Annals of his great predecessor Ennius. In Book 7 of the Annals, Ennius’ epic of Roman history (now a very melancholy bundle of fragments), we encounter the hellish Fury Discordia, who “shattered the iron-clad gates and doorposts of War” (fr. 225-6 Skutsch). Discordia is the great-grannie of Virgil’s ghastly hell-hound Allecto, like Allecto a demon who makes it her task to disrupt the orderly plans of Providence. Here in Ennius’s poem Discordia is apparently reigniting conflict between Rome and Carthage after the treaty that had ended the First Punic War, before (again like Allecto) she disappears back into the Underworld where she belongs.

If there is indeed a hint of Discordia taetra, “ghastly Discordia”, in Lucretius’ Epicurus, well, that’s as stunning a move as his topsy-turvy Gigantomachy: once again, though in even more arresting fashion, the founder of Lucretius’ philosophical school is equated to chaotic, anti-Olympian forces. But Discordia, like the giants, communicates a key message about the De Rerum Natura, and an accurate perception on Lucretius’ part: the philosophical system of the Epicureans, properly realized, was a truly revolutionary creed, one that might, if the Epicureans were right, create individual happiness and a better world, but would certainly dismantle society and culture as the Romans knew it. The conquest of heaven is a bold metaphor, but what else could capture the enormity of Lucretius’ project?

It’s a rare and exciting moment when new fragments of ancient poetry are found. That would apply with any ancient poet, but when it’s a poet with instant name recognition far beyond academic circles, like the seventh/sixth-century-BC Sappho of Lesbos, we can all share the excitement. I have to confess, though, that this excitement, which I feel as much as anyone (Sappho has been very important in my research), troubles me. It’s not, as I say, that I don’t share it. But that’s the point. As Classicists we try to reconstruct a literary culture the vast majority of which, perhaps 90%, has vanished without trace. That raw fact has given our discipline what I can’t help seeing as a neurotic fixation with the stuff we don’t have, at the cost of what we do.

I am a case in point. In fact I’d say that my major vice as an academic and researcher is that I spend too much time hankering after literature that we can’t really know about, and in all likelihood never will. I’ve just sent off an article to a journal on a poem about the great Roman general Scipio Africanus the Elder by Quintus Ennius, written in the early second century BC. Very little of the Scipio survives. In fact, scholars can’t even decide how much of it does survive: some say we have three fragments of the poem surviving, others seventeen. But it seems I can’t resist the appeal of that superlatively brilliant nine-tenths of Classical literature that’s lost beyond recovery. Then again, I’ve also written a book on the Buddhas of Bamiyan, so I do have form.

Today I’m going to show immense self-discipline. I’m going to talk about Sappho, since she’s in the news, but my subject is poetry of Sappho that (more or less) survives, and its impact on some Roman poems that also survive. There will be, if I can hold the line, a minimum of that lovely speculation about stuff we can only speculate about. Watch me closely, though, and see if this dyed-in-the-wool fragment-fixated Classicist really can resist wild speculation.

Two, possibly three, poems of the Roman poet Catullus (11, 51 and 51b) are composed in the same metre as one of the new poems of Sappho, a system which came to be considered Sappho’s signature metre, and are named after her “sapphics” or the “sapphic stanza”. When Greek scholars long after Sappho’s death came to divide her poems into books, Book 1 of Sappho was entirely in sapphics, and that reflected and reinforced a strong association between the poet and this particular verse system. When Catullus, for the first time in Roman poetry, composes Latin sapphics, he’s consciously evoking the memory of Sappho.

Now, what I won’t do is hit you with the technicalities of this metrical system. Instead, here are two stanzas of English sapphics written by Timothy Steele, from “Sapphics against Anger” (in his collection Sapphics and Uncertainties: Poems 1970-1986). It’s actually a pretty simple scheme, three identical lines rounded off by a shorter fourth:

Better than rage is the post-dinner quiet,

The sink’s warm turbulence, the streaming platters,

The suds rehearsing down the drain in spirals,

                 In the last rinsing.

For what is, after all, the good life save that

conducted thoughtfully, and what is passion

if not the holiest of powers, sustaining

                 Only if mastered.

Poem 51 of Catullus, one of his poems in sapphics, is in fact a close imitation of a poem of Sappho. Very little of Sappho survives (hence the excitement when more is found), but we do have Catullus’ model, or most of it. It is now known as Sappho fragment 31, and it’s a remarkable poem in which Sappho describes her tortured emotions as she watches a woman she loves in intimate conversation with a man:

He seems to me equal to the gods, the man who sits opposite
you and listens up close to your sweet voice

and lovely laughter. Truly that sets my heart trembling in my
breast. When I look at you, even for a moment, then it is no
longer possible for me to speak;

my tongue has snapped, at once a delicate fire has stolen
under my skin, I see nothing with my eyes, my ears hum,

sweat pours down me, trembling seizes me all over, I am
greener than grass, and it seems to me that I am little short of
dying.

But all can be endured, since…

Catullus’ imitation of this poem in 51 seems to launch his anguished account, pursued over many poems, of his love affair with a woman whose real name was apparently Clodia (she came from a very senior aristocratic family), but whom he calls, in deference to Sappho, “Lesbia”, the woman of Lesbos. The term Lesbius, “Lesbian,” had many associations, some of which it still has now, but the women of Lesbos also had a reputation for being surpassingly beautiful, and that may be another implication here. But perhaps the main effect of giving the opening of a love affair this Sapphic character comes from the fact that Sappho was by general consensus the greatest love poet of antiquity. Catullus is making major claims for his affair with Lesbia.

If Catullus 51 marks the beginning of this relationship with Lesbia, poem 11 (his other poem in sapphics) seems to mark its end: Catullus’ poetry is not organised chronologically! Poem 11 is an embittered address to the poet’s friends Furius and Aurelius, in which Catullus asks them to deliver a short, blunt message to his faithless lover Lesbia. Here are the last three stanzas of the six-stanza poem:

Prepared as you are to face all these things alongside me,

whatever the will of the gods will bring,

deliver to my girl a short,

unpleasant message:

 

let her live, and good luck to her, with her adulterers,

holding three hundred at a time in her embrace

and loving not one truly, but again and again

bursting the guts of all,

 

and let her not count, as once she could, on my love,

which by her fault has fallen like the flower

on the edge of the meadow when

touched by the passing plough.

It’s been noted that Catullus’ poem reflects one version of the Roman process of divorce, the diuortium per nuntium, “Divorce by messenger”: Catullus’ friends deliver a verbal equivalent of his divorce papers to Lesbia. Now this relationship between Catullus and Lesbia was not a marriage but an affair. But just as Catullus builds it up at its onset as a love worthy of the inspiration of the greatest of all love poets, so also in Poem 11 he elevates it into something that can only be ended by the formality of a divorce.

Two more thoughts may help us appreciate what a devastating poem Catullus 11 is. One is that, to the Romans at least, Sappho seems to have been associated not just with love, but with marriage. There is a lot of debate about this among modern scholars of Sappho, but one suggestion might be that Sappho’s poem about the woman in intimate contact with a man is a oblique way of celebrating a bride at the point of marriage, in effect a form of public praise of the qualities that make her an ideal bride. If the Romans shared that understanding of Sappho’s poetry, and I think there’s reason to believe they did, it of course reinforces one implication of Catullus’ sapphic poems we’ve already mentioned. If Catullus 11 is couched in the language of divorce, it seems that Catullus 51, by virtue of its direct imitation of a poem of Sappho, carries implications of marriage. Some wild speculation there…?

My second point is a bit more firmly grounded. Sappho had a reputation in antiquity for the special character of her poetry. Like all lyric poets, but to an special degree, she’s associated with the quality of χάρις, charis, ‘charm’, which is simultaneously a quality of her poetry and a quality of the material her poetry (typically) dealt with. So one ancient commentator claims that Sappho “devoted all her poetry to Aphrodite and the Loves, making a girl’s beauty and charm the pretext for her songs”, and another says that Sappho, “when singing about beauty uses beautiful words.” In actual fact Sappho’s poetry would have been more diverse than this suggests, but what matters is the poetry for which she was most celebrated. Incidentally, charis is a quality the Greeks particularly associated with marriageable girls (the women of Sappho’s acquaintance married young), coincidentally or not.

Well, all of that may help us to understand the effect of Catullus 51, the opening poem of his affair, with its description of the effect on Catullus of Lesbia’s beauty and his intense desire for her. But it also helps us to appreciate the shattering power of the divorce-poem 11. Because the poem that describes the end of Catullus’ affair is in many ways as far removed from Sappho’s interests in “Aphrodite and the Loves” and “a girl’s beauty and charm” as one could imagine. The stanza containing Catullus’ message to Lesbia, his non bona dicta, “unpleasant words,” features adulterers, graphic sexual imagery, and an implication that Lesbia, far from being Catullus’ ideal woman, is a prostitute. Here’s the most offensive stanza, in Latin and English:

cum suis uiuat ualeatque moechis,

quos simul complexa tenet trecentos

nullum amans uere, sed identidem omnium

ilia rumpens,

 

let her live, and good luck to her, with her adulterers,

holding three hundred at a time in her embrace

and loving not one truly, but again and again

bursting the guts of all,

The content is unpleasant enough, but the style of this stanza is comparably rough, with language that has no place in respectable poetry (the ancients had strong views on this kind of thing) and lots of nasty collisions between words, nullum and amans, identidem and omnium, and across the line division between omnium and ilia: that last example would be pronounced something like omniuwilia, which apparently sounded as ugly to Romans as to us. And although these may seem quite subtle effects to us, a Roman reader would feel that the poetry here has a grubby, slovenly character, which is on the one hand true to the brutal picture of Lesbia he paints in it, but is also the absolute negation of the characteristic virtues of Sappho’s poetry, beauty and charm of expression and content.

It’s important to remember that here in Poem 11, as in Poem 51, Catullus is writing in sapphic metre, a poetic form that cannot fail to evoke the poet who gave the metre her name. But what is Catullus doing to this exquisite poetic form, so evocative of romantic love? It seems to me that by populating it with Lesbia and her three hundred lovers he’s doing the equivalent of what he says in another poem (37) he will do to Lesbia’s house, scrawling obscene graffiti all over the front of it: Catullus 11 is a brutal act of vandalism against the sapphic stanza and everything that it represents.

But then, I’m not sure there’s any better way to convey the bitterness of the breakdown of a love affair than by vandalizing the legacy of the greatest of all love poets, Sappho.