Ancient Myths in The Making of Culture PDF

Warsaw Studies in Classical Literature and Culture 3 3 Warsaw Studies in Classical Literature and Culture 3
Budzowska / Czerwińska (eds.)
Małgorzata Budzowska / Jadwiga Czerwińska (eds.)
Ancient Myths in the Making of Culture

Małgorzata Budzowska / Jadwiga Czerwińska
The reception of Mediterranean Antiquity heritage is one of the dominant research areas
in contemporary classical studies. This issue has constituted the scope of the conference (eds.)
Reception of Ancient Myths in Ancient, Modern and Postmodern Culture, which took
Ancient Myths in the

place at the University of Lodz (Poland) in November 2013. The volume consists of the
selected articles based on the conference papers. They are divided into the main chapters:
Literature, Visual and Performing Arts and Philosophy as well as Anthropology. The authors
Making of Culture
consider different methods of reception of ancient myths focusing on various cultural
phenomena: literature, fine arts, theatre, cinema and pop culture.

The Editors
Małgorzata Budzowska is an Assistant Professor at the Chair of Classical Philology of
the University of Lodz (Poland). She holds a PhD in Classical Philology and a MA in
Theatre Studies. Her main research interests include the reception of ancient tragedies in
contemporary theatre, modern and postmodern adaptation of ancient dramas as well as the
theory of emotions. She is the author of the monograph Phaedra. Ethics of Emotions in the
Tragedies of Euripides, Seneca and Racine.
Jadwiga Czerwińska is an Associate Professor at the University of Lodz (Poland) and Head
of the Chair of Ancient Drama and Theatre at the Catholic University of Lublin (Poland).
Besides she is Head of the Laboratory of Reception of Ancient Literature. Her main
research interests lie in the tragedies of Euripides and in Greek philosophy. Currently, she
is involved in the research project Ancient Drama and Theatre in the Works of Scholiasts.
Malgorzata Budzowska and Jadwiga Czerwinska - 978-3-653-98600-6

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Warsaw Studies in Classical Literature and Culture 3 3 Warsaw Studies in Classical Literature and Culture 3
Budzowska / Czerwińska (eds.)
Małgorzata Budzowska / Jadwiga Czerwińska (eds.)

Małgorzata Budzowska / Jadwiga Czerwińska
The reception of Mediterranean Antiquity heritage is one of the dominant research areas
in contemporary classical studies. This issue has constituted the scope of the conference (eds.)
Reception of Ancient Myths in Ancient, Modern and Postmodern Culture, which took
Ancient Myths in the

place at the University of Lodz (Poland) in November 2013. The volume consists of the
selected articles based on the conference papers. They are divided into the main chapters:
Literature, Visual and Performing Arts and Philosophy as well as Anthropology. The authors
Making of Culture
consider different methods of reception of ancient myths focusing on various cultural
phenomena: literature, fine arts, theatre, cinema and pop culture.

The Editors
Małgorzata Budzowska is an Assistant Professor at the Chair of Classical Philology of
the University of Lodz (Poland). She holds a PhD in Classical Philology and a MA in
Theatre Studies. Her main research interests include the reception of ancient tragedies in
contemporary theatre, modern and postmodern adaptation of ancient dramas as well as the
theory of emotions. She is the author of the monograph Phaedra. Ethics of Emotions in the
Tragedies of Euripides, Seneca and Racine.
Jadwiga Czerwińska is an Associate Professor at the University of Lodz (Poland) and Head
of the Chair of Ancient Drama and Theatre at the Catholic University of Lublin (Poland).
Besides she is Head of the Laboratory of Reception of Ancient Literature. Her main
research interests lie in the tragedies of Euripides and in Greek philosophy. Currently, she
is involved in the research project Ancient Drama and Theatre in the Works of Scholiasts.

Downloaded from PubFactory at 07/21/2020www.peterlang.com
04:22:52AM
WSCL 03_265176_Budzowska_HOF_A5HC PLA research new.indd 1 03.12.14 12:48


Downloaded from PubFactory at 07/21/2020 04:22:52AM
Warsaw Studies in Classical Literature and Culture
Edited by Mikołaj Szymański and Mariusz Zagórski
Volume 3

Małgorzata Budzowska / Jadwiga Czerwińska (eds.)
Ancient Myths
in the Making of Culture

Bibliographic Information published by the Deutsche
Nationalbibliothek
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the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic
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This publication was financially supported by the University of Lodz
ISSN 2196-9779
ISBN 978-3-631-65176-6 (Print)
E-ISBN 978-3-653-04507-9 (E-Book)
DOI 10.3726/ 978-3-653-04507-9
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Table of Contents
Introduction (Małgorzata Budzowska, Jadwiga Czerwińska).................................9
LITERATURE..............................................................................................................11
Antoni Bobrowski
Some Aspects of the Homerkritik in Ancient Literary Tradition..........................13
Roberta Franchi
Hercules at the Crossroads: Sources, Models, and Variations...............................29
Jadwiga Czerwińska
The Myth of Helen of Troy and Its Transformations in
the Dramas by Euripides............................................................................................43
Damian Pierzak
A Reading of Greek Myth in Cicero’s Speeches. The Case of Medea.....................57
Soledad Llano Berini

The Use of Myths in Humanisitc Satire. The Example of Antonio
Vinciguerra...................................................................................................................67
Katarzyna Chiżyńska
Telemach(us) – Telmah – Hamlet. The Myth of Telemachy
in the Hamlet by William Shakespeare.....................................................................79
Raffaele Ruggiero
Orpheus’ Myth in Vico...............................................................................................93
Agata Buda
The Time and Space of Antiquity in The Picture of Dorian
Gray by Oscar Wilde................................................................................................ 101
Tiziana Ottaviano
Gabriele D’Annunzio and Apollo........................................................................... 113
6 Table of Contents
Tomasz Kaczmarek
Cain, or the Secularization of Myth....................................................................... 125
Katarzyna Wojtysiak-Wawrzyniak
Juan Antonio Castro Tauromachy.
Between the Myth and the Art of Corrida............................................................ 133
Maria Judyta Woźniak

‘Exiled Arcadians’ – Presence of Myth in the Poetry of
Antonio Colinas and Zbigniew Herbert............................................................... 147
Dorota Jędraś
The Myth of Atreides in Letter to Orestes and Supper by
Iakovos Kambanellis................................................................................................ 159
Maria Pavlou
Mythical and Sartrian Influences in Yannis Ritsos’
The Fourth Dimension.............................................................................................. 167
Anna Zaorska
About the Politicization of the Antigone Myth by Rolf Hochhuth.................... 179
Victoria Yefymenko
The Myth of the Minotaur in Postmodern Narrative Space............................... 189
VISUAL AND PERFORMING ARTS................................................................... 199
Justyna Biernat
Mythical Transformations. (A)Pollonia, directed by Krzysztof
Warlikowski towards Ancient Tradition............................................................... 201
Małgorzata Budzowska
Ancient Myth in Postmodern Theatre................................................................... 211
Monika Wąsik
Odyssey Europe. Contemporary German Theatre and the
Problem of Immigration.......................................................................................... 223
Agnieszka Liszka-Drążkiewicz
The Story of Orestes as a Reflection of the Transformations of
Modern Society in Pylades by Pier Paolo Pasolini............................................... 231
Table of Contents 7
Anna Miller-Klejsa
The Night of the Shooting Stars – in the Circle of Myths and Fairy Tales.......... 241
Karolina Prymlewicz
Narcissus – from Myth to Treatise. André Gide’s Theory of Symbol................ 251
Vassiliki Malatra
The Transmission of the Zodiac Signs from the Eastern to the
Western World: the Case of the Wall-Paintings in Tavant, France.................... 261
Agnieszka Gralińska-Toborek
An Empty Myth – the Aesthetic Reception of Antiquity in
Contemporary Art.................................................................................................... 277
PHILOSOPHY AND ANTHROPOLOGY........................................................... 287
Joanna Ślósarska
Polish Reception of the Myth of Artemis and Acteon based on
Selected Examples.................................................................................................... 289
Damian Stocking, Sidney Mitsunaga-Whitten

The “Myth-ing” Link: The Postmodern Community and
Classical Myth in John Barth’s Menelaiad............................................................. 297
Elizavetta Koemets
Grimly Reaping: Melancholy and the Creative Harvest...................................... 305
Adriana Grzelak-Krzymianowska
The Nine Muses and Their Modern Existence..................................................... 315
Artur Gałkowski
Mythonyms as the Key to Mythological Phraseology:
An Interlinguistic Approach................................................................................... 329
Françoise Lecocq
The Dark Phoenix: Rewriting An Ancient Myth in
Today’s Popular Culture........................................................................................... 341
Authors .................................................................................................................... 355

Introduction
Reception of Mediterranean Antiquity heritage is one of the dominant research

areas in contemporary classical studies. This issue has constituted the scope
of the conference Reception of Ancient Myths in Ancient, Modern and Post-
modern Culture, which took place at University of Lodz in November 2013.
The conference was attended by 48 scholars from all around the world, who
have presented the papers during the 18 panels. Questions of literary studies,
philosophy, linguistics, culture studies, art history, theatre, and cinema were
considered and discussed.
This volume consists of the selected articles based on the conference papers,
which are divided into the three main chapters: Literature, Visual and Per-
forming Arts and Philosophy and Anthropology. The first chapter is dedicated
to the literature which was, and still is, the field of art mainly involved in the
“work of myth”. This situation can be obviously explained by the phenomenon
of the ancient Greek literature, especially Greek tragedy, which was the first
artistic medium for ancient myths and which determined some canonical ver-
sions of myths. “The work of myths” regarded as the basic structures of the cre-
ative imagination of the Mediterranean culture lays down their vital continuum
in all epochs of development of culture until the present day. One may note
phenomena of mythical signatures’ transfer in space and time of ancient, mod-
ern and postmodern culture. The mythical signatures referring to the mythical
figures of heroes and heroines make a group of symbols and signs existing
in the collective imaginary and adapting by the local and national culture in
the unique way. This chapter presents the adaptations of ancient myths in the
literature of different times, from Antiquity to Postmodernism, and spaces of
Greece, Italy, Spain, England, France, Germany and Poland.
The second chapter concerns the revision of ancient myths by visual and per-
forming arts as the fine arts, theatre and cinema. Reception of myths through
the images and sounds extends the field of perception and thus expands the
semantic range of myths. This chapter provides some examples from fine arts,
film and theatre to explore the aesthetic and ideological use of myths by an
artistic creativity.
The third chapter focuses on philosophical and anthropological approach
to myths. Articles represent interpretations of different cultural and societal
10 Introduction
phenomena with particular emphasis on the contemporary culture. This kind

of survey concentrated on the human collective actions which are linked with
ancient myths offer reflections about collective imagination rooted in ancient
culture.

Literature

Antoni Bobrowski
Some Aspects of the Homerkritik in Ancient

Literary Tradition
The origins of the ancient Homeric criticism are found in the era of the flourishing of
archaic Greek lyric. The archaic poets perceived mythological tradition through the prism
of the works of Homer and the authors of the Epic Cycle; while expressing admiration of
the art of epic poetry, they also formulated two objections. They questioned the ethics of
the portrayal of the Homeric gods as burdened by many moral flaws (Xenophanes), and
voiced early doubts about the trustworthiness of the poetic message (Solon, Pindar). The
beginnings of historiography brought the development of the Homeric criticism which
concentrated on factual content. As historians rationally evaluating the reliability of their
sources, Herodotus and Thucydides expressed doubts about the accuracy of the Homeric
narrative. Around the middle of the third century B.C., works started to appear that ‘cor-
rected’ Homer. While varied in form and content, such works all belong in the rather sub-
stantial category of ancient Schwindelliteratur. A specific tradition of Homer-correction
on the subject of the Trojan war grew out of the early ‘Trojan monographs’ by Hellanicus
of Lesbos and others, and evolved into entirely pseudepigraphic renditions; the first one
was Troika, authored by Hegesianax of Alexandria under the name of Kephalon of Gergis.
The Second Sophistic writers broadened ]Homeric criticism by introducing elements of
parody, rhetorical flourish, and intellectual games, seen in such works as Trojan Oration
(Or. XI) by Dio Chrysostom, the dialog Oneiros ē alektryōn by Lucian of Samosata, and
Herōikós by Philostratus. A particular place in the literary forgery tradition belongs to two
texts that survive in the Latin language and purport to be historiographical documents.
They are Ephemeris belli Troiani by Dictys of Crete and De excidio Troiae historia by Dares
the Phrygian. Those two modest-sized works tell what they claim is the ‘true history’ of
the Trojan War; unlike the classic epic versions, they are rational and devoid of poetic
embellishments.
The earliest literary rendition of the mythical stories of the Trojan War had
become established so firmly in the Greco-Roman cultural tradition that the
narrative, as conveyed in the epic poetry of Homer and augmented by the
authors of the Epic Cycle, achieved the permanent status of the ‘canonical’ ver-
sion. The Homeric and Cyclic tradition had become the standard for the nar-
rative content of Trojan stories held from the antiquity onward, a constant in
the European cultural identity, and a benchmark for the many modifications.
For all the appreciation of the unquestioned artistic achievements of the old-
est heroic epic poems, the poets of the next epoch, when Greek lyric poetry
14 Antoni Bobrowski
flourished, started to voice criticism and objections. As far as can be established

based on the very incomplete preserved fragments, the archaic authors had two
fundamental issues.
The first issue was ethical; as put by Xenophanes (6th c. B.C.), the epic poets
arbitrarily depicted gods as morally flawed, susceptible to cheating, treachery, and
adultery. Such objections, voiced here by a non-epic poet, grew out of the contem-
porary philosophy, critical of the myths1. To some extent, this criticism continued
outside of poetry, carried on by Plato (Rep. 2.19–21) and others2, towards the ra-
tionalization supplied by Euphemerus (4/5 c. B.C.) in his Hierá anagraphé, where
he pointed out that gods had once been mortal human beings who, having lived
especially worthy and noble lives, posthumously became objects of a divine cult.
The second issue was not directly concerned with moral or ethical judgment;
rather, it was a rational inquiry that introduced, in an embryonic form, the prob-
lem of the trustworthiness of the poetic narrative. Hesiod (Theog. 27–28) had
already observed that the Muses, who inspire poets, can tell the truth as well as
lies disguised as truth. The poet on whom the Muses have bestowed their gifts
has the ability to enhance the reality he describes, and, to reach his artistic goal,
he often crosses the border between truth and fantasy. The admiration for the
artistic achievements of Homer and the epic poets was from then on accompa-
nied by the realization that often a poet’s vision should be approached with some
skepticism; at the very least, it should be remembered that poets ‘invent a lot’.
Remarks in this vein can be found in the writings of Solon 6 c. B.C.) and Pindar
(6/5 c. B.C.; Nem. 2, 20 ff.; Ol. 1, 28 ff., Isthm. 4). Such remarks, directed by poets
towards other poets, were given the shape of a formal theory by Aristotle in the
4th century B.C. (Poet. 1460a)3. Aristotle concludes that literary fiction is entirely
legitimate; he does not attempt to find literal truth in a literary text. Aristotle
thus wraps up the issue challenging the critics of the archaic lyric, and, de facto,
preempts any further questions about the trustworthiness of the epic narrative,
which he perceives as governed by its own rules and goals, and entirely separate
from a historical account.
The beginnings of historiography marked also the beginnings of Homeric crit-
icism aimed at the factual content. This type of criticism emphasized the issue of
the credibility and accuracy of the epic narrative treated as a historical source; the
1 Dörrie (1978: 21) identifies two approaches to mythology shown by the Greeks in the
6–7th c. B.C. as moral criticism and rational criticism.
2 See also: Dörrie 1966: 48; Richardson 1993: 31f.
3 Cf. Wolff 1932: 55.
Some Aspects of the Homerkritik in Ancient Literary Tradition 15
fantasy and the techniques of poetry were perceived as obstructing proper evalu-
ation of the described facts. Those early tentative examples of historical writing,
such as the 5th century B.C. Genealogiai by Hecataeus of Miletus4, showed a strong
tendency towards a rational approach to the mythical tales, combined with an
attempt at organizing in a coherent system various and often contradictory tradi-
tional narratives of the mythical past. Following Hecataeus’s example, Hellanicus
of Lesbos (5th c. B.C.; FGrH 4) shows a similar inclination to rationalize but also
to remain skeptical about the credibility of poetry as a historical source. In his
Troiká, Hellanicus gathered mythical genealogies in a novel monographic format,
concentrating on the myths of the Trojan War and containing lengthy narrative
parts written in the manner of a historical account. Thus, Hellanicus can be re-
garded as the creator of the ‘mythological monograph’, the purpose of which is to
arrive at the truth about the Trojan War, and to convey that truth to the reader.
His use of prose to describe the events and of a systematic monographic format
mark the beginning of a trend in Homeric criticism, which in the following cen-
turies produced a number of works by Hellenistic writers who took a scholarly
approach to the myths of the Trojan War, and proposed ‘factual’ versions, inten-
tionally devoid of poetic fantasy and embellishments5.
The criticism of Homer based on the method of historical inquiry had its
origin in the works of Herodotus (2.113–120) and Thucydides (1.9–11)6. Both
authors emphasized their distrust regarding the credibility of the Homeric nar-
rative, a result of the application of the historian’s method of rational evalua-
tion of available sources. Homer could not be considered a trustworthy source
by Herodotus and Thucydides for two reasons. First, he lived many years after
the events of the Trojan War, and therefore could not have been an eyewitness
to what he described (Herod. 2.53; Thuc. 1.3). Second, as a poet, Homer was
not obliged to recount facts faithfully, but rather was allowed to apply poetic
license, to use imagination and fantasy, and to shape the narrative according
4 Fornara (1983: 1–12) places ‘genealogies’ as the earliest of the five basic types of
historical writing he identifies; see also Dörrie 1966: 47f.
5 The evidence gathered by Jacoby confirms that in the Hellenistic period a number
of texts appeared, titles of which (usually Troiká or similar) indicate that they were
intended as ‘Trojan monographs’, attempting to engage in scholarly polemic with
the poetic tradition. However, the scarcity of surviving text fragments and paucity
of secondary sources preclude deeper analysis and comparison. Jacoby singles out
Hellanicus’s work, treating his monograph Troika as the beginning of the literary
tradition of ‘Trojan tales’ written in prose.
6 Cf. Grossardt 1998: 365f.
16 Antoni Bobrowski
to his artistic vision. Herodotus and Thucydides do not intend to question the
historical reality of a military conflict at Troy, but they question the specifics
as they are presented in the epic poems. Thucydides takes a rational, prag-
matic approach, and argues that the Trojan War might have been the largest
military conflict of the past, but not on the scale Homer describes, the logistics
of which would have required the resources of men and materiel not avail-
able at the time7. In turn, Herodotus concentrates on a particular detail, and
insists that the Homeric story of Helen having been carried off to Troy could
not be true. Helen must have remained with Proteus in Egypt and spent the
war years there; if she had arrived at Troy with Paris, the Trojans would surely
have returned her to the Greeks to avoid the danger of a conflict with a power-
ful enemy. Herodotus employs a particularly interesting method here to make
the logic of his interpretation more convincing. He comes up with a rather
unscientific idea of supporting his argument with the authority of an ‘eyewit-
ness’. Herodotus claims to have personally learned the real (and rejected by
Homer) version of the Trojan history from Egyptian priests, who in turn had
heard it earlier from Menelaus himself when he had called at Egypt on his way
home after the war. The device that Herodotus uses to prove the trustworthi-
ness of a version of events alternative to Homer’s operates in a specific way. The
Homeric version is corrected through the testimony of an ‘eyewitness’, in this
case Menelaus, whose stay in Egypt is confirmed by Homer (Od. 4.81–91 and
4.351–586). Consequently, the poet, who is criticized by Herodotus for having
altered historical facts, in turn acts as a guarantor of the accuracy of the ver-
sion presented by the critic. Similar methods were used from then on by other
critics, who continued to accuse Homer of altering the historical truth while
searching for ways to convince their audiences of the credibility of their own
versions.
Starting around the middle of the 3rd century B.C., the trend to ‘correct’ Homer
produced works that, based on the goals and strategies of their authors, belong in
the rather substantial and varied in form and content category of ancient literary
forgery8. A specific variation of Trojan-themed Schwindelliteratur grew on the
formal foundation of the works of Hellanicus and other early authors of ‘Trojan
monographs’. However, while Hellenistic mythography attempted a scientific,
reasoned approach to its subject, this variation deliberately employed a concept
7 Cf. Richardson 1993: 26; Marincola 1997: 7–9; Erskine 2001: 2f.
8 Fundamental critical studies of the issue of literary forgery in antiquity: Speyer 1971,
see methodology, p. 5; see also: Grafton 1990: 18f.; Feeney 1993: 243.
far removed from the method of scientific inquiry: a particular version of events
is presented as true because it came from a supposedly trustworthy source. That
source, a de facto fictitious character, should be associated in the audience’s mind
with the characters in Homer’s epic, or even be perceived as an eyewitness of
the events described by Homer9. The first evidence of this literary device ap-
pears around the middle of the 3rd century B.C. in the writings of Dionysius
Scytobrachion, which include pieces on ‘Libyan histories’ and the Argonauts, as
well as Troiká, a three-volume work on Trojan stories. Very little is known about
Dionysius’s writings, but enough to establish that while talking about ‘Libyan
histories’, he mentions one Thymoites10. Supposedly, Thymoites once wrote about
‘Phrygian histories’, which might suggest that the content of that work was the
source of information for Dionysius’s own Troiká. Clearly Scytobrachion’s inven-
tion, the person of Thymoites, would therefore serve a purpose similar to that
of Menelaus in Herodotus, a ‘trustworthy witness’ from the distant past, whose
knowledge comes from having personally been at Troy during the war, or per-
haps from his father, mentioned by Homer himself.
As the next stage in the creation of invented ‘Trojan tales’11, full-blown pseude-
pigrapha appeared, such as Troiká by Hegesianax12 of Alexandria in Troad (3/2 c.
B.C.), written under the name of Kephalon of Gergis. On the basis of preserved
fragments and second-hand accounts, it appears that this work covered events
leading to the Trojan War, the course of the war itself and related episodes, and
also the story of the Greeks’ return from Troy. The premise of the account was
that it had been based on a ‘trustworthy source’. This time it was not an eyewit-
ness, but rather a kind of ‘local expert’, supposedly coming from Gergis in Asia
Minor, where the descendants of the ancient Trojans had settled, and therefore
well versed in the local oral tradition recounting the true knowledge of the events
at Troy. Hegesianax thus did not stop at just identifying a purported source of
his information; he produced a full literary forgery, where he published his own
work under the name of the person he himself had invented and presented as
coming from Troad, so it would convince the reader of the trustworthiness of
9 Cf. Speyer 1971: 46.

10 Said Thymoites is purportedly the son (of the same name) of Thymoites included by
Homer (Il. 3.146) in the group of elders gathered at the Scaean Gates.
11 Jacoby (FGrH, p. 509) talks here about ‘mythographischer Roman’, primarily char-
acterized by ’der schwindel mit alten quellen’. The suggestion that ‘the Trojan tales’
(‘Troiaromane’) should be classified as a ‘genre’ is favored by Jacoby but disputed by
Merkle 1989.
12 FGrH 45; see Merkle 1989: 48f.; Farrow 1991–92: 351–357; Grossardt 1998: 368ff.
18 Antoni Bobrowski
the account13. Hegesianax does not openly criticize Homer14. He applies an in-
termediate method of not accusing the poet of lying, but rather undermining his
credibility by inventing somebody whose account would appear more reliable.
This strategy of making the fictitious believable is next seen in two Early
Empire texts of pseudegraphic character, Ephemeris belli Troiani by Dictys
Cretensis, and De excidio Troiae historia by Dares the Frygian15. Both texts
have been preserved in the Latin translation dating to antiquity.
Dictys’s Ephemeris16 consists of six books, I–V corresponding to the Greek
original, the last being a summary of several more books of the original version. It
is accompanied by The Dedication Letter (Epistula), which identifies one Lucius
Septimius as the Roman author of the translation, and The Prologue (Prologus),
which serves as a form of ‘editor’s note’ and introduces the presumed author17.
The ‘note’ contains the following information: Dictys came from Cnossus on
Crete; lived in the times of the Atridae, that is, of the Trojan War; accompanied
the leaders Idomeneus and Meriones to Troy, and at their behest wrote down the
chronicle of the war. All the information in the Prologue fits together neatly and
logically; as the reader starts the first book, he should believe he will be perusing
an authentic ancient document of the past. Of course, both the person of Dictys
and the story of the manuscript purportedly found in an old sepulcher are fic-
tion, hiding the real, unknown to us, author; the composition of the original
Greek text can be only approximately dated to about the 2nd century A.D.18 The
purpose of the fiction was to give credibility to the whole concept, so Ephemeris
could compete in the readers’ perception with the traditional, widely available
epic versions of the Trojan tales. Written in concise, unembellished prose, and
13 The cases in antiquity where Kephalon of Gergis is cited as a prominent historical

source indicate that his fictitiousness had not been uncovered at that time.
14 Cf. Wolff 1932: 57.
15 Dictys Cretensis Ephemeridos belli Troiani libri a Lucio Septimio ex Graeco in Latinum
sermonem translati, ed. W. Eisenhut, Biblioteca Teubneriana, Leipzig 19732; Daretis
Phrygii De excidio Troiae historia, ed. F. Meister, Bibliotheca Teubneriana, Leipzig
1873.
16 Fundamental critical studies and bibliography: Merkle 1989, Bobrowski 2009; see also
Marblestone 1970.
17 For the discussion of the problem of two introductions and detailed differences
between The Letter and The Prologue, see: Speyer 1970: 55f.; Eisenhut 1983: 18–22;
Merkle 1989: 91–113; Lapini 1992: 59f.; Bobrowski 2009: 29–33.
18 The question of dating the Greek original and the Latin translation is discussed by:
Eisenhut 1969: 114–119; Eisenhut 1983: 22–28; Merkle 1989: 243–286; von Albrecht
1997: 1379; Bobrowski 2009: 33–37.
claiming to be ‘the relation of an eyewitness’, the text was presented as the ‘real’
history (Troiani belli verior textus), in contrast to the poetic fantasies of Homer
and the authors of the Epic Cycle.
Dares’s De excidio Troiae historia is a considerably shorter text, consisting of
44 chapters, without a division into books. When referring to the stories of the
Trojan War alternative to Homer’s, Dares’s name first appears in Kainé historía
by Ptolemaeus Chennos19, dated 1st/2nd century A.D., which supplemented and
corrected various mythological motifs and episodes of the established tradition.
A summary of this work, preserved in Photius’s Bibliotheca in the part devoted
to the Trojan matter, mentions, among others, a piece by Antipater of Acanthus,
whose original source had supposedly been another Iliad, written earlier than
Homer’s by Dares, an advisor to Hector at Troy20. The technique Chennos em-
ploys to establish his credibility is very complex. Two names are given, of which
the first belongs to an otherwise entirely unknown historian; since Ptolemaeus
often refers to made-up sources21, there is no reason to consider Antipater as
anything more than fiction. The appearance of the name of Dares, who alleg-
edly had been Antipater’s original source, brings up the possibility of a connec-
tion between the Dares referred to in Kainé historía, the suggested author of the
pre-Homeric Iliad (the Phrygian Iliad, mentioned also by Aelian, 2nd/3rd century
A.D.22), and Dares the author of the extant in Latin De excidio Troiae historia.
There is no doubt that in both cases the person is fictitious, and the name is used
to lend credibility to the non-Homeric version of the Trojan War specifically
because Homer’s Iliad includes the name Dares; he is mentioned twice (5.9; 5.27)
as the Trojan priest of Hephaestus.
The suggestion that the existing Latin text of Dares’s De excidio Troiae historia
could be a prose rendition of Dares’s Iliad mentioned by Ptolemaeus Chennos
19 Phot. Bibl., cod. 190; see: Wolff 1932: 56f.; Merkle 1989: 16–21; Bowersock 1994: 24ff.;
Grossardt 1998: 370–372; Cameron 2004: 134–159. This author is also known for
criticism of Homer’s errors in another of his works, Anthomeros in 24 songs, the criti-
cal style of which appears to approximate that of rhetorician and philosopher Zoilus
of Amphipolis (4th c. B.C.).
20 FGrH 56 = Phot. Bibl. 190, p. 147a; compare also a much later account by Eustachius
(Od. l 521 = FGrH 56), which states that the Dares mentioned by Antipater was sup-
posedly later killed by Odysseus, but makes no reference to Dares being the author of
another Iliad.
21 See: Cameron 2004: 139f.
22 Comparative analysis of accounts by Photius, Eustachius, and Aelian is provided by
Bornmann 1987.
20 Antoni Bobrowski
would be a very tempting one had it not been firmly negated by the fundamen-
tal differences between the contents of the ‘Latin Dares’ and the purported pre-
Homeric poem as described by Chennos23. Conceivably, some rumor about a
report, even in the form of a poem, by Dares, an ‘eyewitness’ to the events at
Troy, was common enough in the first centuries A.D. that some unknown to
us Greek author chose to use the name to vouch for the trustworthiness of his
own prose account, of which the Latin version survives today24. While the Latin
version of De excidio Troiae historia is commonly dated to the 5th century A.D.,
with the second half being more likely25, the Greek original is even harder to date
than Dictys’s Ephemeris. Considering that the purported author of De excidio
Troiae historia was thought to have been Trojan himself and writing from the
‘pro-Trojan’ point of view, it is generally accepted that Dares’s Historia was cre-
ated as a counterproposal, or a response, to Dictys’s ‘pro-Greek’ work, and must
have been written later (though possibly not much) than the original Greek ver-
sion of Ephemeris, most likely in the second half of the 2nd century A.D. or the
beginning of the 3rd century26.
Dares’s work, like Dictys’s Ephemeris, is a fully realized case of pesude-
pigrapha, and the polemic attitude towards the Homeric and Cyclic version of
the events at Troy appears at times more radical in Historia than in Ephemeris.
This tendency is signaled early on in The Letter of Dedication, which precedes
the proper text, and is a clear addition, spuriously implying a written exchange
between two well-known Roman historians of the 1st century A.D. The addressee
of the letter is allegedly ‘Sallustius Crispus’, to whom ‘Cornelius Nepos’ is sending
23 This is according to Jacoby FGrH, p. 532; see Cameron 2004: 147ff. The existence of
the ‘pre-Homeric Iliad’ mentioned by Chennos and Aelian has yet to been proven,
which is not surprising, considering that Chennos most likely invented this Dares as
well as the historian Antipater, for whom Dares was the alleged source. And collecting
information about ‘poets older than Homer’, Aelian takes the account of the Phrygian
Iliad from Chennos.
24 This is the conclusion favored by Merkle 1989: 19f. and 250 n. 18, and Beschorner
1992: 231–243 and 264f.; cf. also Grossardt 1998: 371f.
25 Dihle (1989: 376f.) leans towards the 4th c.; Eisenhut (1983) considers a later date (the
5th–6th c., or even the beginning of the 7th), as does Farrow 1991–92: 348 n. 26, and La
Penna 1998: 414.
26 See the analysis of the problems of dating Dares in Beschorner (1992: 252–254),
cf. Schetter 1987: 213f. and n. 4. Farrow (1991–92: 344, also 349) makes an interesting
point when he brings up, without unequivocally supporting, the possibility that the
Greek originals of the works of Dictys and Dares were written in the order opposite of
that commonly accepted.
a copy of an account written in the past by Dares the Phrygian, which he found
in Athens and faithfully translated into Latin. The readers will find out what re-
ally happened and will be able to judge for themselves who is more trustworthy:
Dares, who lived in the time of the Trojan War and was a participant himself; or
Homer, who was born many years after the war, and in addition was tried by an
Athenian court as mentally incompetent because he wrote about people fight-
ing gods on the battlefield. This sharp and direct criticism is aimed at depriving
the traditional Homeric narrative of any credibility by dismissing its value as a
historical source. In contrast with Homer’s, Dares’s work fulfills the criteria for
a primary source as an account written down by an eyewitness, accurately and
in an unadorned style (vere et simpliciter), with no fantastic elements such as
interventions of anthropomorphic gods in the affairs of men.
Among the many details by which Dares’s Historia differs from the ancient
epic narrative, the following deserve special attention. Patroclus dies at the very
beginning of the war, on the second day after the Greeks’ arrival at Troy (19–20),
which instantly eliminates one of the major plots in Homer’s Iliad. The character
of Palamedes, absent in Homer, is given prominence as an experienced strate-
gist who competes with Agamemnon for the title of commander-in-chief (20)
and gains it after Agamemnon’s dismissal (25; the title reverts to Agamemnon
after Palamedes’s death, 28). The character of Briseis, so important in Homer,
does not appear at all in Dares’s account. Instead, as in Dictys’s work, Achilles’s
love for Polyxena becomes a decisive plot device when Achilles, frustrated in
his attempts to marry Polyxena, becomes disillusioned with the war’s pointless
cruelty and refuses to fight (28), eventually finding his death by treachery at the
hands of Alexander in the temple of Thymbreian Apollo (34). Finally, the fall
of Troy comes not as the result of the Greeks’ subterfuge, but of the efforts of
Antenor, Aeneas, and some other prominent citizens. Faced with the prospect
of prolonged fighting with no hope of victory, they first try to convince Priam
and the Trojan council to return Helen to the Greeks to end the conflict; failing
that, they deploy Antenor’s duplicitous scheme to deliver Troy to the Greek army
(39–41). The polemic with the widely known traditional version of the story of
‘the Trojan Horse’ is expressed by reducing that story to a remark that the Scaean
Gates, through which the Greeks entered Troy, were decorated with a sculpture
of a horse’s head (40).
The device of the early removal of Patroclus from the narrative is also a good
example of how the author of Historia completely eliminates the vast gallery
of anthropomorphic deities, found in the epic poetry but absent from his own
account, which is thus made more believable without the fantastic elements.
Dares limits his account to Patroclus’s death on the battlefield and the funerary
22 Antoni Bobrowski
rites arranged by Achilles to honor him. Unlike in Homer’s telling, here Achilles
does not lend his armor to Patroclus, so the armor is not lost, and there is no
need to introduce the goddess Thetis, who, according to Homer, miraculously
delivers to Achilles a new armor from the workshop of the divine blacksmith
Hephaestus. The method Dares uses here to make his account appear rational
relies not on replacing supernatural intervention with human action (Achilles’s
new armor could have been made by an ordinary blacksmith), but rather on
eliminating situations where such need would arise. Another method of the
rationalization of the narrative is used by Dares when he presents ‘the judgment
of Paris’, a story originating not with Homer but with the Epic Cycle, as the
Trojan prince’s dream. Narrative solutions contradicting the epic tradition27 are
given the appearance of a historical account through the introduction of a pur-
ported eyewitness to the events, and having him be the author of the account.
The effect of trustworthiness is strengthened by the dry, matter-of-fact tone of
the narrative shaped as a form of ‘war journal’.
An important literary and intellectual context is provided for Dictys’s
Ephemeris and Dares’s Historia by several, chronologically close, writings by
authors connected with the Second Sophistic movement. The Trojan Discourse
(Or. 11) by Dio Chrysostom, The Dream or The Cock (Oneiros ē alektruōn) by
Lucian of Samosata, and On Heroes (Herōikós) by Philostratus introduce new
elements to the ‘correcting of Homer’. Dio’s discourse is a brilliant rhetorical
tour de force, which poses and argues the startling thesis that the majority of
Homer’s narrative consists of lies and inventions, since in reality the Greeks
never conquered Troy. In writing his tale, Homer was guided by artistic as well
as patriotic considerations, but that does not change the fact that he let his
fantasy run free, ignored the rules of probability, and purposefully tangled the
story to make his alterations undetectable (cf. Or. 11, 24). The categorical tone
of the accusations and the detailed analysis identifying and correcting Homer’s
‘lies’ and ‘errors’ display the characteristics of epideictic speech28, though there
may be a deeper intention to challenge the pedestrian interpretations of epic
poetry taught in schools of rhetoric. For our purposes, what deserves special
attention is the way in which Dio establishes the credibility of his information
where it contradicts Homer’s version. He refers to the knowledge gained from
an Egyptian priest, for which the original source was supposed to be Menelaus
27 Aspects of Dares’s narrative technique are discussed by Lumiansky 1969: 201–205 and
Bradley 1991; see also La Penna 1998: 414–417.
28 The Second Sophistic penchant for this type of speech is observed, among other, by
Reardon 1984: 27.
during his stay in Egypt (Or. 11, 37 ff.). This procedure is strikingly similar to
Herodotus’s approach, when he invokes the authority of Egyptian priests and
Menelaus to support his story of Helen spending the years of the Trojan War in
Egypt29. Invoking a trustworthy source is one of the arguments Dio uses to jus-
tify the necessity of corrections, together with frequent evaluation of specific
elements of Homer’s narrative from the point of view of logic and probabil-
ity. Dio also emphasizes that the poet did not care at all whether his account
contained the historical truth, because he did not take into consideration any
critical analysis by his audience (cf. Or. 11, 92).
In turn, Lucian’s dialogue is dominated entirely by the conventions of parody.
Here the ‘eyewitness’ to the Trojan War is Panthoos, son of Euphorbus, well known
from Homer’s narrative (Il. 16.808 ff.), but appearing as a cockerel in Lucian’s work.
His current avian shape as well as the earlier one of Euphorbus are links in a chain
of consecutive Pythagorean reincarnations of the soul; in one of his previous lives
the cockerel used to be Pythagoras himself (Luc. Gal. 17). In a nocturnal conversa-
tion with his owner, the cockerel includes several details concerning Troy that do
not entirely agree with the Homeric version. He stresses that he knows of them
first-hand, unlike Homer, who could not possibly have seen Troy with his own
eyes, as at the time of the Trojan War he was living in Bactria as a camel. The cock-
erel points out that he himself only knows what was known to the Trojan Euphor-
bus, and therefore has little to say about the Greeks. The care taken to establish the
credibility of an ‘eyewitness’ as unusual as a cockerel is accompanied by a clear, if
also unusual, attempt to discredit the value of Homer’s tale, and the intention for
the witness to appear precise and specific. This leads to some meticulous calcula-
tions concerning Helen’s age, which must have been rather advanced by the time
of the Trojan War, and her beauty, which might have not been so remarkable. As a
result, the reader should ask whether it is possible to reconcile the image of Helen
as aging and average-looking with the established traditional depiction of the most
beautiful woman in the world, who was the cause of a conflict between two power-
ful nations. The approach proposed by Lucian leads to absurd conclusions, and the
criticism of Homer practiced here shows typical of the Second Sophistic fondness
for jest, parody, and intellectual games with the reader30.
A somewhat different contribution to the undertaking of ‘correcting Hom-
er’ is Herōikós by Philostratus. It has a form of a dialogue taking place in the
29 See Merkle 1989: 250–253, Grossardt 1998: 372.

30 Merkle 1989: 254 talks here about “rein literarisches Spiel”; similarly Grossardt 1989:
372.
24 Antoni Bobrowski
Thracian Chersonese at the time of writing. A Phoenician sailor is talking to

the owner of a local vineyard, who brings up the close relationship he had
with Protesilaus, a Greek hero of the Trojan War. That is how he obtained a
lot of information about the real course of the war, which he is now willing to
share with the interested visitor. Protesilaus, with whom the vineyard owner
maintains a special mystical connection, is known from Homer (Il. 2. 695 ff.)
as the first Greek warrior killed in the war. The mystical aura surrounding
Protesilaus – he possesses full knowledge of events that happened after his
death – should not be a reason to doubt his credibility. Protesilaus points out
that Homer lived about a century and a half after the Trojan War and wrote his
narrative with the help of divine inspiration and talent, but his poetry contains
facts that have been altered to serve his artistic vision. Sometimes he had other
reasons as well; for example, the absence of Palamedes from Homer’s work is
the result of some agreement the poet made with the ghost of Odysseus (43). In
this relation, Protesilaus corrects Homer’s ambiguities and alterations, and fills
in his omissions. He devotes a lot of attention to Palamedes (21 and 30); con-
tradicting Homer, he presents Odysseus as a cowardly, lying wretch (34); and
speaks at length about Achilles, identifying what was true and what was not in
Homer’s tale about the son of Peleus (45–57). Philostratus’s text is dated at the
beginning of the 3rd century, likely the year 21731. The critical approach that
places Herōikós among the ‘corrections of Homer’ is not sharply corrective, as
demonstrated by Andreas Beschorner’s comparative analysis of the content of
Herōikós and of Homer’s epic poems, as well as his discussion of Philostratus’s
literary and polemic intentions. It is thus reasonable to agree with the Ger-
man scholar’s opinion that Philostratus did not aim to be a ‘truer Homer’, and
should rather be seen as a ‘Homerergänzer’. He fills in Homer’s omissions with
detailed supplementary information, but only mentions and occasionally cor-
rects what Homer’s narrative has already covered at length32.
The above examples illustrate the complexity and variety of the ancient liter-
ary criticism of Homer. It concentrates on correcting the errors, fabrications,
and imprecisions of which the traditional epic narratives of the Trojan War were
thought guilty. The texts represent a wide spectrum of form, tone, and engage-
ment. The approach ranges from rational scientific analysis as demonstrated first
by the logographers, and soon after and more strongly by Herodotus and Thucy-
dides, to the rhetorical flourishes, parody, and intellectual games of the authors
31 See the discussion about dating in Beschorner 1999: 2ff.

32 Beschorner 1999: 219–241.
of the Second Sophistic. A significant proportion of the texts belongs in the cat-
egory of literary forgery, written in the manner of fact-based historiography,
and presenting accounts of the Trojan War styled as ‘true history’. This approach
first appears in Hegesianax’s pseudepigraphon, and is continued by the authors
of Ephemeris belli Troiani and De excidio Troiae historia. During the Byzantine
period and in medieval Europe, those two modest-sized works had achieved
the status of unquestioned historical authority, and overshadowed the ancient
poetic narratives until the Renaissance brought attention back to the original
Homeric tradition.
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Roberta Franchi
Hercules at the Crossroads: Sources, Models,

and Variations
According to legend, Hercules was sitting at a crossroads and he saw two beautiful girls
passing; one was Evil and the other was Virtue. Virtue suggested that he follow a narrow
and difficult path full of sharp stones and thorns, which would be crossed with difficulty,
but in the end he would win love and recognition. The evil one suggested following the
easy path, wide and straight, where he would enjoy life and wealth, but he would be com-
mit iniquities and injustices. Hercules followed the path of Virtue, giving him glory and
recognition for his good deeds. The relating of his choice at the crossroads has been con-
stantly repeated in literature and in art, becoming one of the most popular topics from
Late Antiquity to the Renaissance.
As is well known, every divine or heroic figure, as well as every mythological

theme, exhibits relevant differences depending on the author, the occasion, the
epoch and also the genre to which the text belongs, but there is no doubt that
the persistence and the vitality of the myth seem to be particularly connected
with this compelling blend of elements. In the vast fabric of Greek mythology,
among all the mythological figures, Hercules is certainly the Greek hero who
holds an outstanding position, exceptional by the virtue of his labours (Pan-
ofsky 1999). As on the divine plane ‘everything begins with Zeus,’ so on the
human plane almost all heroes of different generations, locations and tales are
somehow connected with Hercules. Blanshard claims correctly: ‘As each age
has renegotiated its notion of the hero, Hercules has been there to mark that
change. Stories about Hercules do far more than just recount amazing exploits,
they take us into the heart of the culture that celebrates them’ (Blanshard 2005:
xviii). Throughout the reading of various accounts in which the hero is in-
volved, we cannot fail to notice that he is not always depicted in the same way.
Hercules is not the same in Homer, in tragedy, nor in comedy; in some cases
he appears as an exemplum virtutis, in other cases as a comic hero. Neverthe-
less, he maintains throughout the ages some specific features that confer him
a basic unity, which allows us to recognize him, regardless of his multifaceted
aspects (Brelich 1958: 310).
In this paper, I shall deal with one of the most famous representations of-
fered by Greek mythology: ‘The Choice of Hercules’ also called ‘Hercules at
the Crossroads’ or ‘The Two Paths’ the oldest well known allegory in Western
30 Roberta Franchi
literature, where the fundamental moral dilemma between virtue and vice is
narrated (Snell 19633). The earliest surviving account is related by the charac-
ter of Socrates in Xenophon’s ‘Memorabilia’, who probably represents in a very
abbreviated form the leading ideas of the original, of which no fragments sur-
vive, written by the Greek sophist Prodikos of Keos. According to Suda (s.v.
Πρόδικος, in fine, 2366, Adler IV: 201–202), the speech on the choice of Hercu-
les by Prodikos of Keos was entitled ‘Hours’ ( Ὧραι in ancient Greek), a writing
which originally could reflect a specific literary genre, preferred in particular
by the Sophists: the ἐπίδειξεις. The σύγγραμμα περὶ τοῦ Ἡρακλέους, as Xeno-
phon defines it, is only a short section of Prodikos’ work and for this reason
it is difficult to understand how Prodikos made use of this representation of
Hercules. Was it a mere exercise of rhetoric, like the ‘Encomium of Helen’ or
had it already taken on a moral dimension? What is clearer, however, is that the
hesitation of the protagonist perfectly corresponds to the skeptical spirit, typical
of the Sophistics, with which Socrates engages in many dialogues. The ancient
Greek philosopher does not hesitate to make Hercules the symbol of all men
created with two opposing inclinations or tendencies, one impelling them to-
ward good and the other toward evil; only the true knowledge of good and evil
allows them to follow the right path which will transform them into responsible
citizens (Rochette 1998: 106).
The image of the path (ὁδός, πόρος, κέλευθος, οἶμος) is well attested in Greek
literature, from Homer to the Christian authors (Becker 1973). If in Homer the
path underlies many of its appearances in metaphors, expressing the extreme
sensitivity of the Homeric heroes toward the external dimension, in Hesiod it is
used as a privileged symbol of the human condition: ‘Works and Days’ 287–92
τὴν μέν τοι κακότητα καὶ ἰλαδὸν ἔστιν ἑλέσθαι / ∙ηιδίως· λείη μὲν ὁδός, μάλα
δ’ ἐγγύθι ναίει· / τῆς δ’ ἀρετῆς ἱδρῶτα θεοὶ προπάροιθεν ἔθηκαν / ἀθάνατοι·
μακρὸς δὲ καὶ ὄρθιος οἶμος εἰς αὐτὴν / καὶ τρηχὺς τὸ πρῶτον· ἐπὴν δ’ εἰς ἄκρον
ἵκηται, / ∙ηιδίη δὲ ἔπειτα πέλει, χαλεπή περ ἐοῦσα. The road which leads men to
virtue (ἀρετή) is arduous and full of suffering and pain; gaining honor and glory
is not always simple, as there are different and often conflicting ways of achiev-
ing status and respect, but after overcoming the first difficulties, it becomes easy
and less tiring.
As any reader of Greek poetry knows well, it is Pindar who greatly enriches
this image of the path, adopted frequently in the archaic Greek period, in or-
der to express different aspects of human life, such as the achievement of glory,
honor, and virtue. The Theban poet conceives of poetry symbolically as a path to
be explored, as a route that leads the poet to their utmost possibilities; further-
more, the nature of Hercules exhibits another important value in Pindar’s view:
Hercules at the Crossroads: Sources, Models, and Variations 31
the ideal of ἀρετή, an inborn quality that has to be developed through τέχνα,
and able to give men access to the future (Hernández 1993: 75–102). With Hero-
dotus, indeed, this image of the path becomes part of the domain of knowledge;
applying it to the distinction between truth and error, as well as to historical in-
quiry, Herodotus opens the way to gain a better understanding of the concepts of
truth and reality, two of the most relevant topics in Greek literature. Herodotus’
concept of history, focusing on the diversity of the universal human experience,
contains an expansive field of human inquiry that, later, came to be known as
cultural history. According to the Greek historian, the historical method, which
follows the right road based on the truth of historical events which happened,
will give birth to true discourse; but the one which adopts the wrong approach
will inevitably commit mistakes. There is no doubt that, thanks to Pindar and
Herodotus, the image of the path is accorded such a high status that Greek phi-
losophers find fertile ground to develop it significantly: the two roads or ways of
inquiry of Parmenides, the expression about the ὁδὸς ἄνω καὶ κάτω of Heraclitus
and the theory of Empedocles’ πόροι are significant examples (Diels-Kranz 22 B
60; Diels-Kranz 31 A 92; Cordero 1984: 45–109).
Especially the verses of Hesiod on the two roads represent the starting point
of a long-established tradition that will be commonly employed also by some
Christian authors. If the Gospel of Matthew (7. 13–14) dedicates a ∙ῆμα to the
two doors and roads, soon after in the ‘Shepherd of Hermas’ (‘Mandate’ 6. 2–4),
and in the ‘Epistle of Barnabas’ (18–19) the dualism between ἀρετή and κακία
is transformed into the choice between God and Satan. Taking into account the
previous tradition, among the Christian authors Lactantius is the first writer to
offer a detailed depiction, trying to connect the core of his idea with that of the
Pythagoric school which was, instead, the first to represent the theme of the two
roads using the Greek letter Y, conferring to it also a sort of magic meaning.
Lactantius (‘Divine Institutes’ 6. 3. 1) refers to this:
duae sunt viae per quas humanam vitam progredi necesse est, una quae in caelum ferat,
altera quae ad inferos deprimat, quas et poetae in carminibus et philosophi in disputa-
tionibus suis induxerunt.
In fact, upsilon is also known as Pythagoras’ letter, or the Samian letter, because
Pythagoras used it as an emblem of the path of virtue or vice. The form of the
Greek letter indicates the crossroads in front of which man is placed when he has
to choose one of the two roads, Vice and Virtue (de Ruyt 1931: 142). Arriving at
the place where the path divides itself into two parts, man is in doubt, hesitates,
and does not know which side he should follow. Instead, the final line segment
of the letter is the symbol of childhood, when man is not yet developed. We have
32 Roberta Franchi
to notice that the Christian allegorical reading assumes a different significance

from that evoked by Hesiod’s verses. In Christian thought the eschatological
consequences of vice and virtue – caelum and inferi – are strongly intertwined
with the Christian doctrine, where man can choose Jesus and receive eternal life
with God or, conversely, follow the wrong path, far away from God’s Providence,
and be led to disappointments in life (Rochette 1998: 107).
Keeping this background in mind, we are able to understand the deep mean-
ing of the ‘Choice of Hercules,’ which attracted a lot of attention in the ancient
world. In Book 2 of Xenophon’s ‘Memorabilia’, the history of Hercules at the
crossroads caps a lengthy discussion with Aristippus on the question of the
proper education for two young men, one who will go on to rule others, while
the other will stay out of public life. The different lives of the two women let
Hercules condense these two paths of education into a single moment of choice,
of judgment rendered in an ἀγών between the personified figures of Virtue and
Vice, who advise the hero to follow the road they show him. The women turn
out to be Virtue and Vice personified, characterized by their appearance. Vir-
tue, who is depicted modestly and simply dressed usually points at a rocky and
steep road. This is not a nice and easy road, but at the end there will be a reward.
Vice (depicted sometimes stripped to the waist, sometimes naked or, quite the
reverse, dressed over the top) points at a ‘better,’ more attractive road. Hercules
can take the easy, passable road, which is flat and where he can have a lot of fun,
right now, or the difficult road, with a view of a beautiful but far away future
(‘Memorabilia’ 2. 1. 21–34). The life of vicious pleasure is to eat before hunger
and drink before thirst. Vice is immortal, but she is denied the company of the
gods. She is never praised (to be praised is the greatest pleasure of all) and never
has the satisfaction of looking on her own completed work – unlike Virtue, who
is the companion of the gods (Stafford 2012: 123–24).
At that time, the Homeric gods were already being allegorized as embodiments
of natural elements and forces, and their exploits moralized. Sextus Empiricus,
the second-century Skeptic, mentions Prodikos among the atheists because he
apparently viewed the gods as personifications representing useful and notable
things: the sun and moon, rivers and springs, bread and wine, water and fire.
When Prodikos turns to the heroic Herculean springtime of human culture, he
produces the theory that the Gods were originally just the greatest gifts of Nature
itself, discovered by human ingenuity. We know what choice Hercules made, for
he became the greatest benefactor of humankind (Mayer 1913; Dumont 1986:
221–32; de Romilly 1988: 236–45). Making his choice just as he passes from boy-
hood to adulthood, the hero becomes the paradigm of the young man with a great
potential (Kuntz 1994: 163–81).
Apart from the motif of the two roads, Prodikos’ tale encompasses another
significant theme, that of the opposition between truth and falsehood, between
to be and to seem. In fact, in Xenophon both women are beautiful but, while
Ἀρετή possesses a natural beauty, Κακία uses cosmetics; in doing so, she performs
a hoax, as Xenophon himself explains in ‘Economics’ 10 about those women put-
ting on makeup, because she wants to look different than she is by nature. As
Nikolaïdou-Kyrianidou states (1998: 83), Κακία is ‘une maîtresse des illusions,
laquelle joue sur les apparences et dissimule une réalité bien existante.’
There is no doubt that Hercules at the crossroads is the intellectualized Hercu-
les, that exemplum virtutis that has to plausibly be retraced – through Prodikos’ tale
of Hercules at the crossroads and the hero’s appearance in Pindar’s epinicians – to
allegorical representations in visual arts and literature (Stafford 2012: 121). For the
Cynics and Stoics, Hercules becomes a model for endurance and patience, a cham-
pion of freedom, and, interestingly enough, a man thoroughly disdainful of earthly
pleasures and seductions. Antisthenes, who taught at the Kynosarges gymnasium
in Athens, learned patience, endurance and disregard for feeling from Socrates
and demonstrated that suffering was a good thing by the example of Hercules.
Although only a few fragments by Antisthenes survive about Hercules, they seem
to offer a representation of the hero related to support that the chief good is to live
according to ἀρετή, a virtue that can be taught. In fact, in two fragments Hercules
is prepared to learn from a wise tutor, whereas in another he himself is the teacher,
‘instructing his children to thank no one for praising them,’ for instance to avoid
the twin evils of false modesty (fr. 22–27 Caizzi). In the same way, if Antisthenes’
successor, Diogenes of Sinope, who wrote a tragedy entitled ‘Hercules,’ seems to
have declared that that characteristic mark of his life, like Hercules, was that ‘he
put nothing before freedom’ (Diogenes Laertius, ‘Philosophers’ Lives’ 6. 71), Dio
Chrysostom tells a story, probably related to his exile in the Peloponnese. He en-
counters a wise woman there, who tells of Hercules being taken as a young man to
a mountain which has two peaks, one the seat of Royalty, the other of Tyranny. The
paths of each peak and the appearance of each woman are described in detail, mak-
ing clear that the models are Prodikos’ Vice and Virtue: on the one hand Tyranny
and on the other hand Royalty and Justice. Hercules chooses the virtuous choice
of Royalty against Tyranny (‘Oration’ 1: ‘On Kingship’ 64–84); in this context his
myth assumes a political meaning (Stafford 2012: 125–26; Aragione 2003: 345).
Also in the Cynic tradition Hercules appears to be the best man by virtue of
his patience and rejection of luxury; from the eponymous philosopher of the
dialogue ‘The Cynic’ (13) to the Cynic in Lucian’s ‘Philosophies for Sale’ (8)
Hercules is the hero who refused pleasures, showing an incredible force of re-
sistance. Basically, life becomes a great guessing game: the lot of humanity is
34 Roberta Franchi
to be cast into a twilight world in which all that we know and think is either
false or occupies some middle position between falsehood and truth (which
was called the ‘probable,’ or ‘readily believable’) (Höistad 1948; Galinsky 1972).
Considering that many of these authors are rhetoricians or exponents of the
Second Sophistic, we may assume that the text circulated in the ancient schools
in a decontextualized version and, in this way, could be modified on the basis
of the rhetorical exigencies of the orator. Hercules is the hero περιερχόμενος,
who faces and overcomes many πόνοι thanks his strength, the ἰσχύς, another
key concept in Cynic thought, as well attested by the titles of two works by An-
tisthenes: Ἡρακλῆς ὁ μείζων ἢ περὶ ἰσχύος and Ἡρακλῆς ἢ περὶ φρονήσεως ἢ
ἰσχύος (Aragione 2003: 337–67; Goulet-Cazé 1986: 32, n. 51).
Keeping this overview in mind, it was not unthinkable that the depiction of
Hercules as hero, who possesses virtues such as self-control, patience and forti-
tude, was admired by the Stoics. The hero is not only a model to be emulated, but
a virtuous man, seeking out mankind’s violence and lawfulness. If Seneca in ‘On
Firmness’ (2. 1) mentions him alongside Odysseus as having been exemplars of
Stoic wisdom to earlier generations, because they were unconquered by toils, de-
spised pleasure and were victors over all terrors, Heraclitus provides evidence of
the Stoic intellectualization of Hercules’ deeds in his ‘Homeric Problems’ (33. 1).
He explains:
Hercules should be thought of not as someone so trained in bodily power that he was
the strongest man of his time, but as a sensible man and an initiate of heavenly wisdom
who brought to light philosophy which had been plunged into the depths of fog, as if it
were, as the most learned Stoics agree.
Hercules’ story continues to evolve in an extraordinary variety of ways, not only

in Greek and Roman literature, but also in the Christian tradition, where the two
paths arouse the attention of many authors who also attempt to establish a strik-
ing parallel between Hercules and Christ.
There are some obvious similarities between our hero and Christ – both gods
born of mortal woman, who suffer, rid the earth of evil and overcome death – that
provide scope for analogies to be drawn. Whether or not such comparisons with
pagan gods and heroes were useful was clearly contentious issue for the Church
Fathers. In the mid-third century, Origen pours scorn on the pagan philosopher
Celsus’ suggestion that Hercules would be a worthier subject of worship that Jesus
(‘Against Celsus’ 7. 54).
Hercules’ adventures against Cacus (= Evil), his catabasis to the Underworld
following his initiation to the Eleusinian mysteries, his resurrection of Alcestis,
and his own apotheosis were taken up anew by early Christianity at a time when
defining the new religion against the established pagan cults was crucial for its
success. However, rather than this being a desperate attempt on behalf of Christi-
anity to secure its appeal, Hercules, the glutton of Greek literature (Callimachus,
‘Hymn to Diana’ 159–161), the arch-enemy of Lactantius (‘Divine Institutes’ 1.
18. 3–10, 13–17 and 1. 9. 1–11) and the ideal ruler of distinctly anti-Christian
Roman emperors such as Diocletian, offers Christian thinkers a sounding board
for debating some of the core issues of Christianity such as the resurrection of
the flesh and immortality, the nature and effects of some vices, baptism and even
possession and exorcism (Simon 1955).
If Hercules looms large in the mind of the author of the Letter to the Hebrews,
Aristides of Athens in his apology (10. 9), in order to denigrate Hercules, shows
him as a crazy and drunk hero, and he concludes the section dedicated to him
asking how such a character, with these negative qualities, would be able to help
others. But there is no doubt that the outstanding position of Hercules in early
Christian literature is discussed in the second century by Justin Martyr in his
‘Second Apology’ (11. 1–7).
Against the philosopher Crescens, Justin mentions the history of Hercules at
the crossroads. The hero, coming to a place where three ways meet, finds Vir-
tue and Vice, who appear to him in the form of women. Vice, in a luxurious
dress, and with a seductive expression rendered blooming by such ornaments,
and her eyes of a quickly melting tenderness, says to Hercules that if he will fol-
low her, she would always enable him to pass his life in pleasure and adorned
with the most graceful ornaments; instead, Virtue, who is of squalid look and
dress, says that if he will obey her, he shall adorn himself not with ornament nor
beauty that passes away and perishes, but with everlasting and precious graces.
The moral teaching, enclosed in the account, is that everyone who flees those
things that seem to be good, and follows hard after what are reckoned difficult
and strange, enters into blessedness.
Beside the metaphorical meaning, in Justin Martyr the road assumes a real
value: while Hercules is walking, he arrives at a τρίοδος, a trivium, a place where
three roads are going to intersect (Stephanus of Byzantium, s.v. τρίοδος· τόπος
τρεῖς ὁδοὺς ἔχων): one road is the one left behind, the other two are those which
the hero finds in front of him. It is worth pointing out the mention of τρίοδος.
In the ancient world, the expression ‘to be at a trivium’ was well attested to ex-
press the fact of being in a situation of doubt and uncertainty, or to indicate
the importance to take a choice between two different possibilities (Theognis
911; Plato, ‘Laws’ 799C). Like other authors, Justin reworks the story, giving it a
new meaning. To the seductive Κακία he opposes not a beautiful Ἀρετή, but an
Ἀρετή whose poor aspect expresses the absence of care and attention towards
36 Roberta Franchi
what appears beautiful to the human eyes. To the promise of easy social success
he opposes not the same success reached through hard work, but the knowledge
of eternal and incorruptibility realities. In such a way, Hercules becomes the man
who has to decide between two different choices: the first one is able to direct
man to God through virtue, the other one through vice is able to nail man to
materiality (Aragione 2003: 357–67). The coexistence of the saeculares litterae
with the Christian doctrine is at the origin of that real paideia consisting not in
rejecting abruptly the classical world, but in its re-adaptation, especially when its
language can be usefully employed to support the divine revelation.
With Clement of Alexandria (‘The Paedagogus’ 2. 10. 110. 1), the myth of
Hercules at the crossroads takes on some remarkable changes, and it has been
inserted within a context in which he criticizes luxury clothing:
Wherefore I admire the Ceian sophist, who delineated like and suitable images of Virtue
and Vice, representing the former of these, viz. Virtue, standing simply, white-robed
and pure, adorned with modesty alone (for such ought to be the true wife, dowered with
modesty). But the other, viz. Vice, on the contrary, he introduces dressed in superfluous
attire, brightened up with colour not her own; and her gait and mien are depicted as
studiously framed to give pleasure, forming a sketch of wanton women.
Clement has attempted to revise this traditional account, preferring to empha-

size other notable aspects in Hercules’ story. Reading Clement’s text carefully, we
notice a number of changes, among which the most relevant one is represented
by the absence of the main character, Hercules, to pay more attention instead to
the women who incarnate Vice and Virtue, and to their clothes. They become the
real protagonists of the scene. In doing so, the problem at the origin of the two
paths is no more an example of what road a man has to choose, but a moral dis-
course. Clement goes on to describe in detail these two women and their cloth-
ing. This aspect is connected with the writing’s purposes. In fact, in the second
book of ‘The Paedagogus’ Clement provides practical rules on living a Christian
life. He argues for a simple way of life in accordance with the innate simplicity
of Christian monotheism, condemns elaborate and expensive furnishings and
clothing, and argues against overly passionate music and perfumes. But Clem-
ent does not believe in the abandoning of worldly pleasures and argues that the
Christian should be able to express his joy in God’s creation through gaiety and
partying. He opposes the wearing of garlands, because the picking of the flowers
ultimately kills a beautiful creation of God, and the garland resembles the crown
of thorns. He advises choosing one’s company carefully, to avoid being corrupted
by immoral people, and while arguing that material wealth is no sin in itself, it
is too likely to distract one from the infinitely more important spiritual wealth
which is found in Christ.
After Clement, in the fourth century special regard is to be paid to Basil on

Caesarea’s ‘On the value of Greek Literature’ (5. 13–14 ed. Naldini). Here, we find
a re-telling of Hercules’ choice between virtue and vice as an example to imitate
for Basil’s young nephews:
Also Prodicus, the sophist of Ceos, whose opinion we must respect, for he is a man
not to be slighted, somewhere in his writings (που … τῶν ἑαυτοῦ συγγραμμάτων)
expressed similar ideas about virtue and vice. I do not remember the exact words,
but as far as I recollect the sentiment (ὅσα ἐγὼ τοῦ ἀνδρὸς τῆς διανοίας μέμνημαι,
in plain prose it ran somewhat as follows: While Hercules was yet a youth (νέῳ ὄντι
τῷ Ἡρακλεῖ κομιδῇ), being about your age, as he was debating which path he should
choose, the one leading through toil to virtue, or its easier alternate, two women ap-
peared before him, who proved to be Virtue and Vice. Though they said not a word,
the difference between them was at once apparent from their mien. The one had ar-
ranged herself to please the eye, while she exhaled charms, and a multitude of delights
swarmed in her train. With such a display, and promising still more, she sought to
allure Hercules to her side. The other, wasted and squalid, looked fixedly at him, and
bespoke quite another thing. For she promised nothing easy or engaging, but rather
infinite toils and hardships, and perils in every land and on every sea. As a reward
for these trials, he was to become a god, so our author has it. The latter, Hercules at
length followed.
Basil provides a complete and elaborated version of the famous account. We

have an introduction, a physical description of the two women, a short conclu-
sion that refers to Hercules’ choice. But Basil’s account is also less detailed: for
instance, he does not mention the exact age of Hercules, adopting a common
adjective such as νεός, as well as the reference to the passage from childhood to
youth does not appear. While it is not possible to exclude a priori that he could
still read Prodikos’ account, it is quite probable his knowledge of Xenophon’s
version. Then, we cannot exclude that Basil is quoting from memory, according
to a typical method in ancient times, as it appears by the use of sentences like
που […] τῶν ἑαυτοῦ συγγραμμάτων and the oratoric expression ὅσα ἐγὼ […]
μέμνημαι, with which he rejects the responsibility of some omissions due to his
memory (Rochette 1998: 112). Conversely, the detailed physical description of
the women corresponds well with Xenophon’s text (Aragione 2003: 344–45).
It is also worth noting that the concept of truth, absent in the original text,
evokes that of voluptas in Latin, mentioned by Cicero (‘About the Ends of Goods
and Evils’ 1. 32. 118), who also quoted Prodikos’ text:
For as to what they say of the Hercules of Prodicus, as quoted by Xenophon, that when
he was just approaching maturity – the time given by nature to everyone to choose what
course of life he will enter – he went into a solitary place, and sitting there, hesitated long
and seriously within himself, which of the two paths before him, one of pleasure, the
38 Roberta Franchi
other of virtue (unam Voluptatis, alteram Virtutis), it was better for him to take, – this
might perchance happen to Hercules, the son of Jupiter, but not in like manner to us,
who imitate whom so ever we see fit, and feel impelled toward their pursuits and modes
of life, yet still oftener, imbued with the advice of our parents, are drawn into their man-
ners and habits; while others, still, are carried away by popular opinion, and make choice
of those things that seem most charming to the multitude.
As Rochette has noted, even though it is possible to notice some common ele-
ments between Cicero and Xenophon – both depict Hercules as a youth sitting
down to reflect in an isolated place – there are some differences, too (Rochette
1998: 112–13; Aragione 2003: 343). Cicero does not mention the two women,
but he prefers to show the choice as a result of an internal meditation of the
young Hercules; furthermore, translating κακία with voluptas, Cicero evokes the
typical opposition in the Stoic doctrine between virtus and voluptas. If the Latin
word virtus corresponds well to ἀρετή in Greek, voluptas is not the equivalent of
κακία. Cicero had at his disposal a broad range of terms to translate the Greek
word κακία into Latin: vitium, militia (‘About the Ends of Goods and Evils’ 3. 39),
and vitiositas a neologism created by him in ‘Tusculan Disputations’ 4. 34. 1. His
choice to render κακία with voluptas, which corresponds to the Greek ἡδονή,
depends on the desire to respect the canonical opposition, inherited from the
Stoics, between virtus and voluptas, as it is well portrayed at the end of the pro-
logue of his ‘On the Republic’ (1. 1). By introducing a woman to express the con-
cept of voluptas, Cicero recalls another Stoic philosopher, influenced probably by
Prodikos/Xenophon: Cleanthes (‘About the Ends of Goods and Evils’ 2. 69). He
was the first to depict the concept of voluptas with the traits of a woman, beauti-
fully dressed, and sitting down on a throne like a queen. In keeping with this
reading, to which Basil of Caesarea adds a Christian prospective, the Cappado-
cian Father aims at pointing out a moral teaching. The good reward, after various
efforts, will be becoming a god, a religious concept according to which man finds
virtue by attempting to imitate God.
With the passage of time, in the sixth century the mythographer Fulgentius
provides Hercules with the kind of allegorical make-over he needs in order to
become more acceptable to a Christian audience. Throughout the ‘Mytholo-
gies’ Hercules is identified with virtue and his antagonists with various vices,
often with the help of contrived etymologies: for instance, Cacus is derived
from the Greek κακόν meaning evil (2. 2; 2. 3; 2. 4). While not sophisticated,
Fulgentius’ work is important because of the influence on the development of
Christian allegory in the Middle Ages, and also in the Renaissance.
Although in the Middle Ages battles between individual personified virtues
and vices were depicted, for instance in Prudentius’ Battle for Man’s Soul, to find
Prodikos’ tale of Hercules at the crossroads we have to await Petrarch, the first
writer for some thousand years to revive the story, who alludes to it briefly twice
in his ‘Life of Solitude’ (1. 4. 2 and 2. 9. 4) of 1346. Petrarch places this episode
in the first book of his ‘Life of Solitude,’ as a story that he mainly valued, rather
oddly, as an example of the advantages of solitude. He writes of young Hercules’
anguish ‘when, as if at a crossroads (velut in bivio), he hesitated long and hard.’
Hercules’ heroic choice of Virtue, the subject of endless iconographical explora-
tions by renaissance and later artists, enabled him, as Petrarch says, ‘not merely
to reach the peak of human fame, but even, according to some, a god-like state.’
Petrarch seems to have played a significant role in the transmission to posterity
of the image of ‘Hercules at the Crossroads.’ (Stafford 2012: 213–14). An alle-
gorical representation of Hercules at the Crossroads is also present in Boccac-
cio’s ‘Amoroso Visione.’ Here the author is faced with a choice between a narrow
door and a wide one, each leading to a different kind of love, and in canto 26 he
sees a painting of Hercules working at Iole’s loom, with Deianira exhorting him
to return to her. In both cases the model is suggested by the theme of Hercules’
choice between Vice and Virtue, although here the narrator decides to choose
the wrong door, contrary to what usually happens in the story (Smarr 1977:
146–52).
A more sophisticated and complex re-telling is offered by Coluccio Salutati,
who was Chancellor of Florence when he composed his long but never com-
pleted ‘On the Labours of Hercules’, but this unpublished, almost unread, work
is worth mentioning here as only one of a series of humanist works that take
Hercules as a significant symbol of Man in his most fulfilled mode. This monu-
mental story, aiming to explain how Seneca could have made Hercules a god in
the ‘Oetaeus,’ after portraying the slaying of his wife and children in the ‘Furens’,
depicts Hercules endowed with all virtues, raising him above the common con-
dition of human virtues (‘On the Labours of Hercules’ 3. 7. 1–4; 3. 5. 1; see also
Stafford 2012: 213–14). His Hercules is also called a philosopher and he has to
face the choice between Vice and Virtue.
The ‘Cambridge History of Renaissance Philosophy’ helpfully tells us that
‘Petrarch launched, and Salutati pursued, the cult of human freedom and activ-
ity, articulated through the acquisition of a sapientia (wisdom) closely linked
to eloquentia (eloquence), because beyond individual moral growth and the
contemplative ideal, each man is a citizen who must work for the common good
of his city or state […]. Though full of admiration for the moral heroism of
the Stoics, Salutati is mindful that we are neither ruled by fate nor blindly led
by natural forces. It is through our commitment to overcoming the adversi-
ties of fortune and historical circumstances that we become virtuous: ‘virtuosi
40 Roberta Franchi
non natura sed operibus efficimur’ (the virtuous are made not by nature but by
works)’ (Schmitt-Skinner-Kessler-Kraye 1988: 645).
The myth of Hercules, in fact, recurs in many humanist celebrations of man’s
constructive capacities, of the virtuous dignity which raises him to the level
of the stars, that is, to the level of a divinity. The image of the hero standing
between Virtue and Vice is so well-known in the Renaissance period as to be
the focal point around which Sassolo da Prato structures the prefatory epis-
tle to his Latin translation of Prodikos’ tale, dedicated to Alessandro Gonzaga.
Hercules’ choice provides Sassolo with the opportunity not only to damn vice,
but primarily to praise virtue as the moral foundation of both the Greek and
Roman civilization and to glorify the achievements of Gianfrancesco Gonzaga,
Alessandro’s father and ruler of Mantua. Using Plato and Xenophon as his au-
thorities Sassolo aims at preparing the young Alessandro to become a virtuous
leader or at least a high-principled personal patron. All these scholars knew
the story via Cicero’s Latin version, rather than a direct reading of Xenophon’s
Greek, and they combine it with the Pythagorean idea of a parting of the ways
in life, symbolized by the letter Y.
Subsequent visual and literary representations of the Choice have shown
Hercules in bivium ‘at the cross-roads’ although in the ancient accounts the
location is not quite explicit. The many sides we have already seen to Hercules’
image, and the great range of stories attached to him, show the versatility of this
character, which could be adapted to suit different literary genres and visual
arts replete in many paintings, realized especially in the period of the Renais-
sance. It might appear odd that we do not have representations of the Choice
in the visual arts of Greece and Rome, despite the outstanding position of the
tale; we have to await the following centuries. Indeed, there are many Renais-
sance paintings and drawings that show the young Hercules being solicited by
female personifications of Pleasure and Virtue, the former often wearing far
fewer clothes than the latter, and Hercules looking as if he is rather unwillingly
choosing the more decorous of the two (Stafford 2012: 214–15).
I only want to recall two of them, painted by two Italian artists who used
allegory in decorative cycles for palaces, churches, institutional and even pri-
vate buildings (Simon 2008: 632–64). First of all, the work ‘The Choice Between
Virtue and Vice,’ by the Venetian painter Paolo Veronese (1528–1588). Here a
young man garbed in sumptuous white satin is about to embrace a frumpish
young woman of serious mien, wearing a green gown and military-style boots.
Her plain hairdo is topped by a laurel wreath. She pulls him toward her, away
from a far sexier wench, elaborately coiffed, whose sultrier costume reveals half
of her back, turned to the viewer. He looks away from both women, his face – in
half-profile – wearing a just-rescued expression. Despite his foppish appearance,

the man in white is man enough to choose her over Vice, even though she’s much
less attractive and certainly more demanding.
The second is the ‘Choice of Hercules’ a painting by the Italian Baroque
painter Annibale Carracci. Dating from 1596, it is housed in the Capodimonte
Gallery of Naples. A vigorous and plastic Hercules is depicted with two women
flanking him, who represent the opposite destinies which life could reserve him:
on the left, Virtue is calling him to the hardest path leading to glory through
hardship, while the second, Pleasure, the easier path, is enticing him to vice.
Behind Hercules there is a palm, which, through the leaves and the branches
(a symbol of military victory and fame), hints at Hercules’ future heroic life.
The list could be greatly enriched and other mentions could have been recalled
about this famous mythological hero, reflecting his enduring popularity as hero
suitable for all ages (Stafford 2012: 214–15).
When the pagan gods died, Hercules, along with other heroes, was translated
into a Christian context by assimilating him to Christ or Virtue, and after Chris-
tianity with the passage of the time Hercules has continued and, probably, will
continue to be considered as a superhero, a type that has never ceased to fasci-
nate the audience, so that in the following centuries various aspects of his myth
will be subject to other dramatic or comic treatments.
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Jadwiga Czerwińska
The Myth of Helen of Troy and Its

Transformations in the Dramas by Euripides
The myth of Helen of Troy is constantly present in Greek literature, beginning with the
archaic age, throughout the classical period, until the Hellenistic times. After Homer, we
may trace it in the Epic Cycle, in the lyric poems of Sappho, Alcaeus, Ibycus, and Stesi-
chorus, in the historiography of Herodotus and Thucydides, in the rhetorical works of
Gorgias and Isocrates, in the comedies of Aristophanes, and even in the tragedies of Ae-
schylus and Euripides. In the Hellenistic period, the myth appears inter al. in Theocritus
and, in later times, in Lucian. Many reasons may be found for the myth’s popularity, one of
which is the fact that the Homeric poems were considered to be archetypical in their form
and content for future literary works. This, however, does not fully explain the popularity
and permanency of the Helen myth in Greek culture. Another reason for its preservation
may lie in the religious components encapsulated within the myth, especially ancient ini-
tiation rites, as well as in the references to historical elements reflected in the myth. Both
reasons, therefore, indicate, in a broad sense, the myth’s connection with the political
sphere of life, mirrored, at the same time, by the Helen myth itself. An outstanding feature
of Greek myths is their variety of alternative stories, which, in the case of the Helen myth,
is especially noticeable in the diversity of opinions about the main heroine. On the basis
of the modifications within the myth, which have occurred throughout the years, not only
may we distinguish and understand the changing historical realities, but also recognize
the dynamic character of literature, as it transforms itself whilst adapting to the changes
of the times it registers. The analysis of the different versions of the Helen myth, especially
represented in the works of Euripides allows us to capture the various contexts, in which
the myth functions. Also, it allows us to understand why has this myth ceased from being
only a religious element and has become an attractive motif for discourse, criticism, and
irony, as well. This process, then, reveals how the Helen myth shifts from the sphere of
religion into the sphere of aesthetics, becoming itself a literary motif.
The myth of Helen of Troy is constantly present in Greek literature, begin-

ning with the archaic age, throughout the classical period, until the Hellenistic
times. After Homer, we may trace it in the Epic Cycle, in the lyric poems of
Sappho, Alcaeus, Ibycus, and Stesichorus, in the historiography of Herodotus
and Thucydides, in the rhetorical works of Gorgias and Isocrates, in the com-
edies of Aristophanes, and even in the tragedies of Aeschylus and Euripides.
In the Hellenistic period, the myth appears inter al. in Theocritus and, in later
times, in Lucian. Many reasons may be found for the myth’s popularity, one of
44 Jadwiga Czerwińska
which is the fact that the Homeric poems were considered to be archetypical in
their form and content for future literary works. This, however, does not fully
explain the popularity and permanency of the Helen myth in Greek culture.
Another reason for its preservation may lie in the religious components en-
capsulated within the myth, especially ancient initiation rites, as well as in the
references to historical elements reflected in the myth. Both reasons, therefore,
indicate, in a broad sense, the myth’s connection with the political sphere of
life, mirrored, at the same time, by the Helen myth itself. An outstanding fea-
ture of Greek myths is their variety of alternative stories, which, in the case of
the Helen myth, is especially noticeable in the diversity of opinions about the
main heroine. On the basis of the modifications within the myth, which have
occurred throughout the years, not only may we distinguish and understand
the changing historical realities, but also recognize the dynamic character of
literature, as it transforms itself whilst adapting to the changes of the times it
registers. The analysis of the different versions of the Helen myth, especially
represented in the works of Euripides allows us to capture the various contexts,
in which the myth functions. Also, it allows us to understand why has this
myth ceased from being only a religious element and has become an attractive
motif for discourse, criticism, and irony, as well. This process, then, reveals
how the Helen myth shifts from the sphere of religion into the sphere of aes-
thetics, becoming itself a literary motif.
Constant presence of the Myth of Helen in Greek

Tradition and its Causes
Undoubtedly, the myth of Helen of Troy is constantly present in Greek litera-
ture, from Archaic and Classical Greece till the Hellenistic Period and later. After
Homer’s era it can also be found in the Epic Cycle, the lyric poetry of Sappho,
Alcaeus, Ibycus, and in the works of Stesichorus, the historiographical writings
by Herodotus and Thucydides, the rhetoric of Gorgias and Isocrates, the comedy
of Aristophanes, or the tragedies of Aeschylus and Euripides. During the Hel-
lenistic Period the myth is present in the works of Theocritus, and later, Lucian.
Numerous reasons contributed to the popularity of the myth, one of which
was the the heroine’s connection with the Trojan War, finding its literary
reflection in the epic poem by Homer and, subsequently, in the works created
during the Epic Cycle. The role of Homer’s poems as a content and structural
archetype for subsequent literary output is indisputable (Corti 1972: 1–18). It
is the archetype that opened the door to the creation and development of liter-
ary genres following the epic poem. This also contributed to the consolidation
Myth of Helen of Troy and its Transformations in Dramas by Euripides 45
of the myth in Greek tradition, where Homer’s epic poem is almost always the
point of reference.
The relation between the myth of Helen of Troy and the works of Homer
does not, however, exhaust the topic of its popularity and persistence in Greek
culture. Its long-lasting presence is caused equally by the religious layer it con-
tains, especially the ancient rites of passage, and by the references to some his-
torical elements. Thus, both phenomena translate into a broadly understood
link between the myth and the political life it reflects.
Doubtlessly, another issue that influenced the permanent presence of the
myth in Greek tradition is the patriarchal system of Greek society and the mi-
sogynistic stereotypes (Gilmore 2003), which are explicitly reflected in the myth
of Helen of Troy.
The variantivity of mythological stores

One of the most prominent features of Greek mythology, including the myth of
Helen of Troy, is the variantivity of mythological stories, and – in particular –
the variety of opinions regarding the heroine. The issue finds its justification on
numerous layers, the first of which is the existence of the continuity of literary
tradition, and the fact that individual authors enter into discussion with the
legacy of traditional views and opinions.
A specific literary genre is another important factor influencing the manner
in which the myth is being used, since various genres are expected to serve dif-
ferent purposes, which means they are utilized to reach dissimilar goals. And
since, depending on the genre, myths may appear in different contexts, they will
play different roles in the literary works representing these genres.
The fact that each myth is expected to serve very specific purposes is not lim-
ited exclusively to its connection with a given literary genre, but also to the ep-
och in which it is created. This is so, since a myth always constitutes a reflection
of historical, social, political and religious phenomena of the epoch. Thus, the
changes within these phenomena determine the manner of presentation of the
myth in literature of different historical periods.
The analysis of alternations in the structure of a myth, happening within the
space of years or epochs, allows us to learn about and understand not only the
ever changing historical realities, but also the dynamic character of literature,
which – by recording the innovations – undergoes its own transformation,
adapting itself to the upcoming changes.
Therefore, the analysis of different variants of the same myth enables us to
grasp various contexts in which the myth is functioning, and to determine the
reasons for which it stops being merely a religious subject, and transforms into an
attractive motif within the scope of discussion, criticism and even irony. This pro-
cess demonstrates how a myth is transferred from a religious into purely aesthetic
sphere as a motif of ‘belles-lettres’, as observed by di Benedetto (Di Benedetto
1971). The same thought is taken up by Guardini1.
The Myth of Helen of Troy

Over centuries the myth of Helen was gradually modified, following the changes
in the world and Greek mentality. This resulted in new versions of the myth,
whose analysis from the diachronic perspective shows that the myth of Helen
is a complex transcodification, where the retold story may have a similar struc-
ture, but is conveyed by means of different codes, whose purpose is to modify its
meaning (Guardidni 1987: 25).
Naturally, it is the Euripidean version of the myth that is of greatest signifi-
cance to our research, as well as the meaning that the playwright gives to this
mythological story in the context of earlier tradition. Firstly, let us then have a
closer look at the most important parts of the myth which precede the Euripi-
dean variant.
Homer’s Picture of Helen

The picture of Helen that emerges from The Iliad and The Odyssey, and the
attitude towards her, is clearly ambiguous. On the one hand, we find Priam
and Hector, who show her liking and have almost fatherly/brotherly feelings
for her. On the other hand, however, she is treated with aversion and enmity
by other Trojans; she is also very critical about herself, which may, however,
be interpreted ambiguously – as an expression of her coquetry. At one point
she is accused of causing the war, while at some other released from any re-
sponsibility, since the gods are to blame for unleashing it. Once, her beauty
is considered a peril, which reflects the misogynic stereotypes functioning in
the patriarchal society. On another occasion, a very positive picture of Helen
1 While describing the changes in the myth, M.L. Guardini (Guardidni 1987: 8) notic-
es: ‘E’ possibile dunque, leggendo le versioni di questo mito, comprendere i mutandi
storici, il diversificarsi della funzione dell’intelettuale e della produzione letteraria nei
diversi contesti e constatare che il mito, da oggetto di fede, diventa motivo di discuss-
ine e desacrazione, di critica o di ironia, spunto puramente estetico per una »poesia
bella«’.
is created, as a woman who stays at home performing her household chores,

and a wife who tenderly and longingly speaks of her rightful spouse, showing
loyalty to her kin, only to turn to disloyalty just like at the Trojan Horse when
she provokes the Greek to denunciation.
Such a presentation of Helen in the Homer’s epic poem raises a question of
how it could be explained, which is scrutinized by Krokiewicz, with the conclu-
sion that the fashion in which the character of Helen is created becomes a refer-
ence with the royal etiquette described in the poem. In other words, it reflects
the historical realities of the epoch that were recorded and preserved in Homer’s
works (Krokiewicz 1959: 177).
Admittedly, Helen calls herself “a shameless woman” (kynopis), but she does
that at so many occasions (cf. e. c. Il. III 180, VI 344 sq., 355 sq., Od. IV 145 sq.)
that it would be difficult to miss the fact that she is using the word and her grief
to coquet [rather than – J.Cz.] to really be ashamed and regretful. […] Helen’s
regret seems to be the same kind of cliché as Priam’s accusations against the gods.
One thing is said, while the other is thought and felt. Homer’s “royal courtesy” is
full of duplicity and time-honoured customs. Praiseworthy outward appearances
conceal a rather inglorious reality, about which a courtly knight should know,
but not necessarily speak out loud.
In The Odyssey (IV 219–232) Helen’s connections with Egypt can be traced: in
the supply of an Egyptian medicine (f£rmakon) of some unusual properties. In
reference to this Guardini suggests reading the myth as the reminiscence of rites
of passage. They provide an explanation for the meeting of Helen and Paris, and
help to treat them not as culprits, but the instruments of a ritual event that takes
place at this occasion (Guardidni 1987: 28). Kumaniecki also draws out attention
to the religious aspects of the myth: ‘Helen, the daughter of Zeus, was initially a
pre-Greek goddess of nature and its annual rebirth, which is proved by both her
pre-Greek name and her worship as a goddess in Therapnes near Sparta, in At-
tica and on Rhodes’ (Kumaniecki 1974: 13–14).
Granting the myth of Helen its ritual meaning, Seppilli emphasizes the events
connected with the siege and the fight between two groups of men over a woman
who has been kidnapped oversees. The woman becomes the reason for which
one group has to cross the water to reclaim her and the treasures robbed on the
day of her kidnapping. The mission is successful and the stronghold destroyed
due to a subterfuge that requires passing through the belly of an animal (a horse).
Afterwards the victorious hero is supposed to cross the sea back again (Sep-
pilli 1982: 413; see: Guardini 1987: 16). When explaining the meaning of the
described events in the context of a rite of passage, Guardini concludes that the
gallant heroes, who wish to become worthy of the royal power, cross the sea
to reclaim Helen, ‘a divine girl’ and a symbol of fertility, together with some
treasures, so to collect everything that has been born on earth (Guardini 1987:
16–17).
Lyric Poetry
Sappho
The myth of Helen is also present in the lyric poetry of Sappho, where Helen is
presented in an entirely different manner than in Homer’s works dominated by
the war-related issues and values.
A strophe opening one of her poems (Fragment 16) was described by
Danielewicz as ‘Sappho’s life and aesthetic credo, based on the recognition
of subjective values’ (Danielewicz 1996: 183). In a conscious juxtaposition to
Homeric mentality, as noted by Guardini, the female poet nominates the sub-
jectivism, inner feelings and emotions of an individual as the criterion of valu-
ation (Guardini 1987: 29), and chooses Helen – one of the central figures in
Homer’s epic poem – to strengthen her message. However, she presents Helen
in her own, typical fashion, granting her the right to the choice she made,
which, by the way, Sappho finds to be the only possible choice in these circum-
stances (Fragment 16).
This poem follows ‘the general trend represented by the great majority of
Sappho’s works, which refer to the sphere of private feelings and sensations […].
In Sappho’s poems the myth also serves her personal purposes; it usually plays
the role of an illustrative background […] for current experiences’ (Danielewicz
1996: 69). The central focus on personal experience is a revolutionary change
(Guardini 1987: 29), and the picking of the myth of Helen is a natural conse-
quence of the choice of subject in the poem.
Alcaeus
The portrait of Helen in Alcaeus’s works is quite different, which should not
come as great surprise since the poet was very much involved in the political
situation of the time, and, thus, his poetry was subordinate to politics. Alcaeus
also refers to the works of Homer and utilizes the myth of Helen to demon-
strate his own point of view. Therefore, ‘the moralizing reflection accompa-
nies […] the works related to mythology; a dramatically presented myth often
serves the purpose of merely a pretext, an illustration of an opinion or thesis
stated by the poet’ (Danielewicz 1996: 74). No wonder then that the picture
of Helen, who deceived her husband, received such a negative evaluation and
became the point of reference for the contrasting portrait of Thetis, the faithful
and loving wife of Peleus (Fragment 42). The poet’s choice of Thetis to juxta-
pose her against Helen is by no means accidental. Not only was the latter a
fatality that brought doom to the Trojans, but she was also responsible for the
death of Thetis’s son.
Another reference to the myth of Helen can be found in Fragment 283,
which – for several reasons – is of upmost interest to our deliberations. First
of all, its opening part may be perceived as the polemic with Sappho’s Frag-
ment 16, where Helen’s decision to flee with Paris is justified with love. Alcaeus,
on the other hand, blames Helen for her passion, since it leaves her daugh-
ter abandoned and her husband betrayed. Secondly, Alcaeus’s poem contains
a reference to the author’s abovementioned work (Fragment 42): the doom of
the Trojans caused by Helen herself. After all, she was the reason for which so
many brave men innocently perished at the walls of Troy. The third aspect that
it worth noticing is the emphasis on the advantages of Achilles, who was offered
an opportunity to prove his valour during the Trojan War, since he ‘[triumphed]
in the middle of the carnage’ (Fragment 283). This aspect becomes an especially
crucial proof for the thesis made by Bartol, who claims that Helen did bring […]
evil upon Greeks and Trojans, but she also provided the representatives of both
nations with a chance to gain glory’ (Bartol 2011: 262).
Helen and her Myth in the works of Euripides

Helen as a dramatis persona appears in nine out of eighteen preserved dramas by
Euripides. These are: Andromache, Hecuba, Electra, The Trojan Women, Iphigenia
in Tauris, Helen, Orestes, Iphigenia at Aulis and the satyr play Cyclops. All these
plays directly or indirectly refer to the Trojan War, which results in Helen’s appear-
ance both on stage and in commentary, and in various ways in which she is pre-
sented. The plays demonstrate the consequences or – in the case of Cyclops – the
repercussions of the military conflict of which she was the cause.
A negative picture of Helen

A negatively marked picture of Helen can be traced in eight of the abovemen-
tioned dramas, namely: Andromache, Hecuba, Electra, The Trojan Women, Iphi-
genia in Tauris, Orestes, Iphigenia at Aulis and Cyclops. As part of the commentary
her figure is present in: Andromache, Hecuba, Electra, Iphigenia in Tauris, Iphi-
genia at Aulis and Cyclops, and in The Trojan Women and Orestes she appears as
part of the plot, but is also summoned as part of the commentary. This means in
the abovementioned plays Helen becomes the subject of her own discourse and
the discourse of other characters, which is of some significance to our analysis,
since the creation of Helen’s picture will be influenced by opinions formulated by
different people in different circumstances.
In the plays the speakers will mainly be those whose fate was determined by
the Trojan War and the characters who suffered the most in its consequence,
including the Trojan captive women such as Andromache, Hecuba, Cassandra,
and the choir of Trojan women in The Trojan Women. There are, however, many
more dramatis personae entangled in and victimized by the war, e.g. Iphigenia,
Clytemnestra, Orestes or Electra. On their point of view and war experiences
we will then base the opinions and evaluation of Helen as the cause of the war,
which will significantly influence her final portrait.
Helen herself will also have her say, to observe and comment on the situation
from her own perspective, which will create an opportunity to confront different
opinions and judgments. As emphasized by Anne Ubersfeld, one must remem-
ber that ‘a character speaks, saying various things about him/herself, the things
that can later be compared to what others say about the character’. Therefore, it
is possible to catalogue the character’s descriptions (mainly psychological) de-
pending on what they say about the character, which determines the character’s
relationships ([especially] psychological) with interlocutors and other people’
(Ubersfeld 2002: 100). Thus, one must not ‘perceive a character’s discourse as a
collection of information that will allow them to read the character’s nature or
psyche, but [one ought to] be aware that the entirety of the character’s distinctive
features and relationships with other dramatis personae […] makes it possible to
explain a partially determined discourse’ (Ubersfeld 2002: 101). In consequence,
the character, who represents a specific semiotic area, remains in a specified rela-
tion to the areas occupied by other characters.
It must also be borne in mind that all dramatis personae speak not only for
themselves, but also for the author, who – by constructing their words – follows
the creative presumptions he has adopted. The dialogues, therefore, enable the
reader to have an insight into the intentions of not only the characters in the play,
but also the intents of the author himself, since – while constructing the linguistic
and ideological layer of his work – he is guided by his own dramaturgic purpose.
All offensive arguments pointed at Helen form two distinctive complemen-
tary groups. The first and most dominating one consists of the accusations for
provoking the Trojan War, while the second one focuses on Helen’s beauty, which
became the source of the military conflict. At the same time, it is worth empha-
sizing that all dramatis personae who speak about Helen have been directly war-
stricken and judge her from the perspective of war victims.
It is Hecuba, who opens the procession of characters commenting on Helen’s

destructive beauty. In her loud voice she accuses ‘the daughter of Tyndareus
[…] fairest of all’ (Hecuba, line 269), whose ‘bright eyes have caused the shame-
ful fall of Troy’s once prosperous town’ (Hecuba lines 442–443). The old queen
also notices that Helen ‘ensnares the eyes of men, overthrows their towns, and
burns their houses, so potent are her witcheries!’ (The Trojan Women lines
892–894):
αἱρεῖ γὰρ ἀνδρῶν ὄμματ’, ἐξαιρεῖ πόλεις,
πίμπρησιν οἴκους· ὧδ’ ἔχει κηλήματα.
ἐγώ νιν οἶδα, καὶ σύ, χοἱ πεπονθότες.
The motif of Helen’s beauty is often connected with the motif of her vanity, and
becomes a topos in the works of Euripides. It can be traced, for instance, in the
words of Electra, which are spoken in Orestes (lines 126–130). Helen’s vanity
becomes an important part in the accusations, while the most aggressive one is
verbalized by Hecuba in her face-to-face encounter with Helen. During the agon
the Trojan queen claims that Helen betrayed her husband and fled to Troy (lines
993–997) not for Paris, but for the Trojan treasures and the ‘obeisance done you
by barbarians’ (The Trojan Women, line 1021). A similar attitude is shared by the
satyrs in Cyclops, but they spice their words with typical coarseness and joviality
(lines 179–187).
The motif of Helen’s calamitous and destructive beauty and vanity corresponds
with the patriarchal traditionalism and the cultural misogyny based in its founda-
tions. Greece was a particularly fertile soil for the consolidation of misogynistic
stereotypes, according to which – as observed by Gilmore – ‘physical attractive-
ness is, as a matter of fact, part […] of hypocritical and treacherous [female –
J.Cz.] strategy, because women cheat, betray and deceive men by appealing to
their male senses. Therefore, women are one of the most dangerous creatures in
the world’ (Gilmore 2003: 91), and the example of Helen and the war provoked by
her beauty is a clear proof of this state of affairs.
The opinions of individual dramatis personae form a unanimous choir, con-
demning Helen for bringing the war and doom upon them. It is crucial to no-
tice that the accusations are cast not only by Trojans (The Trojan Women, lines
780–781; Andromache, lines 105–106), but also by the Achaeans (Orestes, lines
1132–1139; Iphigenia in Tauris, line 525; The Trojan Women, lines 368–369, 384).
Helen’s picture created by individual dramatis personae is complemented with
a group of epithets that can be found in the tragedies by Euripides, where she is
called m£rgoj (Electra, line 1027); tlÁmwn (Iphigenia at Aulis, line 1253); m‹soj
(Iphigenia in Tauris, line 525); t¾n qeo‹j stugoumšnhn `Elšnhn (Orestes, line
19); mi£stwr (Orestes, line 1584). Finally she is given the name of poluktÒnoj
(Orestes, line 1142).
The picture of herself in Helen by Euripides

An expressively unambiguous and negative picture of Helen created in the afore-
mentioned works by Euripides is quite unexpectedly contrasted with the way she
is presented in Helen – a play that refers to the palinodes by Stesichorus and the
historical writings by Herodotus (II 112 passim). Euripides presented the story of
Helen in the dramatized form as a woman who never fled to Troy, but was sup-
posed to be staying in Egypt. This was the result of divine intervention, as Hera
created Helen’s lookalike and it was the lookalike that went to Troy with Paris.
This way the goddess wished to punish the Trojan prince for his unfavourable
verdict in the beauty contest, as explained in the prologue by the protagonist
herself (Helen, lines 31–36). At the same time, by the will of Zeus, the real Helen
is transferred to Egypt and left under guidance of King Proteus. Therefore, the
war in Troy between the Phrygians and the Achaeans is waged for a phantom
(lines 42–48). The picture of Helen by Euripides found in the plot does not differ
essentially from the one created by Stesichorus, and becomes a complementation
of the global picture known from the works of other authors.
The analysis of the myth of Helen and the creation of her character by Euripides
shows that he utilizes almost all the motifs present in the earlier works, namely the
most popular motif of blaming Helen for causing the Trojan War, the misogynistic
motifs related to the calamitous effect of her beauty, the motif known from the
palinodes by Stesichorus, and her relationships with Egypt, ergo the fertility and
passage rites.
Thus, it is quite surprising that the great innovator of Greek tragedy – famous
for his revolutionary modifications of the myths – this time abandoned the wealth
of his inventiveness, for the sake of following the path of earlier tends and tradi-
tions. And since this was by no means a coincidence, if you consider Euripides’s
earlier works and his fondness of innovations in mythology, it raises the question
of what made Euripides take up this particular way of developing Helen’s myth
and character.
More questions appear upon careful scrutiny of the trends and tendencies pre-
sent in the poet’s dramaturgy, especially when his interest in the psychological
aspects of human soul is taken into consideration. Searching for the sources of
human emotions and revealing the mechanisms of their creation, Euripides intro-
duced the motif of love into his theatre. Since he populated the stage with female
characters, Helen must have been – after all – a very tempting opportunity to dem-
onstrate a human being possessed by destructive passions. She could have become
a perfect femme fatale in the story on the Trojan War, which in its complexity and
expressiveness appealed the most to the collective imagination of the Greek. And
yet this was not the case, because Euripides decided against deepening the psy-
chological picture of her character, and – even in Helen – seemed content with the
conventional presentation of her character.
Why then, did the author, who had not hesitated to populate his plays with
mythological heroines known for their scandalous passions, not exploit the full
potential of such an explicit motif like the fatal romance between Helen and
Paris? He did not allow the character of Helen to be the match for such individu-
alities as Medea, Phaedra or any other of his greatest heroines, who surrender
to the power of their emotions and divulge the secrets of their souls. On the
contrary, when compared to them, Helen plays either a marginal or stereotypical
role in his works, and is never even given a chance to be equal to them.
‘It is a great paradox that becomes even more visible at closer inspection!
The poet pays careful attention and puts great effort into the development of
his female characters, who are brilliant at their wrongdoing, can be stirring,
arresting, beautiful and cruel, and sometimes also ruthless, but never dull and
mediocre. Euripides’s heroines – Hecuba, Medea, Phaedra, Electra, Iphigenia or
Cassandra – are full of passion, determined to defend their reasons, and fiercely
strive to reach their aims’ (Czerwińska 2013: 33). And yet when it comes to
Helen, he denies her the right to be extraordinary, to speak in her own defence,
even though – knowing The Encomium of Helen by Gorgias and Euripides’s
rhetoric skills – we can easily imagine the line of her defence he could effort-
lessly have used in the tragedy dedicated to her.
A question should then be asked regarding the cause of such a decision, and
taking into account the factors which could influence this way of presenting both
Helen’s myth and character. The answer brings two major reasons: political and
dramaturgic.
First, let us have a look at the political conditionings. For Euripides the link
between the myth of Helen and the Trojan War is of considerable importance,
because in his dramas this military conflict becomes – in an obvious way – a sym-
bolic exemplum of war, with Helen being almost its synonym. The tragedian’s in-
terest in the subject is reflected by the influence of political news of that time: his
works were written during the stormy period of the Peloponnesian War between
Athens and Sparta, which had to impress its stamp on his writings. Like other tra-
gedians of those days, Euripides expresses his observations, thoughts and opinions
on war-related issues thought mythology, making numerous innuendoes to the
widely-known event of the Trojan War.
Generally speaking, Euripides’s attitude towards war can be described as paci-

fist, with only a few exceptions when – led by patriotic spirit – he does not ne-
gate the necessity of Athenian citizens’ active participation in the warfare against
the Lacedaemonians (Herakles’ Children, lines 1–5, 198 nn., 286, 309–332;
Phoenician Women, lines 358–360, 388–407; Iphigenia at Aulis w. 1378–1401,
1467–1476, 1517–1531). He subjects the enemy to his criticism, demonstrating
his civic attitude, and the harshest abuse directed at Spartans can be found in
Andromache (lines 445–453).
Undoubtedly, placing Helen in such a context determines the manner in
which she is presented in Euripides’ dramas, where two issues dominate the
stage: firstly, her Spartan origin makes her closely associated with the enemies of
Athens and be identified as an exemplary foe; secondly, she becomes a spectacu-
lar synonym of the war itself.
Her position cannot be changed even by the motif of the heroine’s phantom
in Helen. In a contrary manner, however, Euripides uses her presence in Egypt,
and absence from Troy, to deepen his reflections upon war. The words spoken by
a messenger become of crucial importance here: neϕέlhϛ ἄr’ ἄllwς eἴcomen
pÓnouϛ pέri; (Helen, line 707). It means that the two sides of conflict fought for
a mere phantom of Helen (nefšlh – mist, cloud), so the war was waged for no
apparent reason, since its cause occurred to be a delusion.
In other words, Helen as a dramatis persona plays strictly determined roles
in the works of Euripides. As a negative character she serves the purpose of
showing the atrocities of war, and as a phantom she turns into a meaningfully
spectacular metaphor, by means of which the poet expresses the whole absurd-
ity of justification of any war – regardless of times, people and their motiva-
tion. Therefore, Euripides does not intend to stun the audience with a new
palinode, but to transform Helen into an even more forcible symbol of military
annihilation and destruction.
Apart from the political considerations Euripides also had dramaturgic rea-
sons, since the different version of the myth used in Helen was brilliant material
for the purposes of tragicomedy. This new, irony-ridden type of drama makes
the audience distance themselves from the events and characters presented on
stage, and does not allow the audience to treat them too seriously. All declara-
tions are put in inverted commas, including those given by Helen, since even
Menelaus shows no trust in the reassurances regarding his wife’s loyalty. Thus, it
is virtually impossible – without ironic distance – to accept the words and regrets
of the main protagonist when she is complaining about her sorrowful fate, or to
accept her good reputation at face value. It would be credible only if the audience
could believe the far-fetched story of Helen’s phantom. Euripides, however, gives
it a completely different meaning than Stesichorus in his pro-Spartan ‘propagan-

da’ palinode, since his work and the heroine have a more tragicomic dimension.
This is how much he has to offer to Helen the Spartan, whom he premeditatedly
refuses to turn into the heroine of his tragedy. Otherwise he would have had to
consider her reasoning and seriously examine her arguments. In tragicomedy,
however, he could easily use the irony against her.
The two aforementioned factors – political and dramaturgic – intertwine and
complement one another, creating a distinctive message, which is clearly visible
in the manner the myth and the portrait of the heroine is developed. Although
in the plot the author follows earlier trends, in the ideological sphere his message
is of unquestionable originality, changing the meaning and the way in which the
previously known motifs are used. Euripides follows his own idea – a creative
intention, which involves the resignation from a more profound psychological
portrait of Helen the Spartan, combined with silent ignorance or a peculiar dam-
natio memoriae of her reasons and motivations, which could have revealed the
inner mechanisms operating within the human soul. It could also have created
her image as a femme fatale, and Euripides does not wish for Helen – the symbol
of the war and the hostile Spartans – to become a heroine of high calibre.
Translated by Konrad Brzozowski
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Giulio Einaudi Editore.

Damian Pierzak
A Reading of Greek Myth in Cicero’s Speeches.

The Case of Medea
The article is an attempt to broaden the scope of and fill some gaps in the study of Greek
myth in Cicero’s Speeches, which as such lacks a proper academic inquiry to date. A
method based upon the so-called ‘law of metamorphosis’, as coined by Ernst Cassirer,
is suggested at the outset. Then the myth of Medea, selected as the only example due to
limitations of space, is presented as it was received by the Romans in the time of the Late
Republic. The main section offers an interpretation of her appearances in the speeches Pro
Lege Manilia and Pro Caelio.
Greek myth as employed by Cicero, and especially in his Speeches, has not been
submitted to any complex study and is only superficially examined in second-
ary literature devoted to other more general subjects. A few papers deal with
the mythology in his writings, but these have focused almost exclusively on his
philosophical works (Canter 1936, Steiner 1968, Thompson 1980). Scholars
who study the use of exemplum, on the other hand, are more concerned with
its historical as opposed to mythological form (e.g. Schoenberger 1910, David
1980, Robinson 1986, Oppermann 2000). Nevertheless, it has been postulated
more than once that a proper analysis of how and why Cicero occupies himself
with myth would be a rewarding enterprise (Steiner 1968: 198f, Price 1975: 215.
cf. Kirk 1985: 108f, Laird 2006: 15). The present paper aims at suggesting a meth-
odology for such an attempt and, subsequently, testing its efficiency on selected
examples from the speeches (namely, the case of Medea in the Pro Lege Manilia,
and the Pro Caelio).
A particular feature of myth as part of discourse was pointed out by Ernst
Cassirer. In his system there is an implicit assertion that some ‘suggestions’ in
symbolical reality (language) are propagated through myth. Myth as an indivis-
ible unit, the source of which is beyond our empirical capabilities, can denote al-
most anything in a text, for its function is equivalent to the function of language
in ‘the world of things’ (Cassirer 1944: 93, 1953: 14f; Ashley Montagu 1949: 367f,
376f). This peculiar syncretism of the content of a mythological message has
been called ‘the law of metamorphosis’. If Cassirer, however, laid strong founda-
tions for linguistic studies regarding myth, it was Northrop Frye who, referring
to the German philosopher directly, stretched his course of inquiry into broadly
conceived literature. His greatest achievement in this field is the extending of
58 Damian Pierzak
and shedding a new light on ‘the law of metamorphosis’, which in its previous
form, due to its strictly speculative character, remained obscure. The Canadian
theologian and literary critic stated that ‘[T]he basic structure of myth is a meta-
phor, which is very similar in form to the equation, being a statement of identity
of the ‘A is B’ type’ (Frye 1954: 234f = 2000: 123). A myth, then, functions in the
text as a sort of reference. ‘A’ as a point of reference to a recipient, be it formally
the name of a character or description of a journey, stands for the carrier of
some emotions (‘B’) which the author implies one way or another. Let us call it
‘the relation of equality’. In undertaking an investigation of the speeches, how-
ever, we have to consider more precisely the nature of the discursive language
commonly involved in writing prose, since there, a metaphor is tantamount to a
simile. Thereupon the above quoted equation can assume the form of ‘the rela-
tion of similarity’ (‘A’ is very similar/equivalent to ‘B’) instead of that of equal-
ity. In practice, therefore, analytical literary works employ the mythological ap-
paratus metaphorically or metonymically. Bearing in mind the fact that we are
concerned with Roman rhetoric of the first century BC, we need to stress some
aspects of the preliminary remarks more thoroughly. First of all, we have to as-
sume that Cicero consciously made use of the tradition known both to him and
to the audience. Secondly, let us remember that the reason for such a deep ap-
peal of canonical myths is not just tradition, but the very fact of their having a
higher degree of metaphorical (or metonymical) identification than other means
of expression (Frye 2000: 188, 215).1 Myth is a means of communicating to the
audience certain messages hidden under the guise of familiar narratives (loci
communes) in an oblique manner. Canonical form gains dynamics only when
it is reused in another literary dimension and social context. According to Jack
Goody, the characteristic feature of non-literate cultures is spontaneously adjust-
ing tradition to contemporary circumstances (Goody 2000: 42–46 as quoted by
Finkelberg 2005: 10). In the case of the considerable development of Latin litera-
ture the matter changes inasmuch as myth remains the same on the surface, but
differs in regard to its connotations. And the more so because we deal with Greek
material (‘A’) and a point or reference (‘B’) in Roman reception. Let us remember
as well that when a myth loses its adherence to a religious sphere, it becomes
simply a literary model which, possessing a strong allegorical impact, by being
1 For myth as the conveyor of feelings see Knight 1997. Already Aristotle, with regard to
tragedy, stated that a myth should inflict a sense of fear (fobero,n) or mercy (evleeino,n)
on the audience. See Arist. Po. 1453b 1–10. cf. Brisson 2004: 171, n. 60: ‘When a narra-
tive is known to all, elaboration is superfluous’.
A Reading of Greek Myth in Cicero’s Speeches 59
retold over again is capable of acquiring additional meanings (Frye 1961: 599.
cf. Caldwell 1989: 55ff).
Before taking up the main thread in this article, namely an analysis of the
Medea figure in the Pro Lege Manilia and the Pro Caelio, we ought to deter-
mine if and how widely the myth we are dealing with was spread among the
Romans.
In the Late Republic, the daughter of Aeetes, thanks either to the Medea by
Ennius or to the dramatic works of Accius, was already a well-known character.
The former poet could have been inspired by Euripides himself or at least by his
Hellenistic admirers (Beacham 1991: 119, 124f).2 Some reference to what had
happened in Iolkos is to be found in an archaic comedy (Plautus’ Pseudolus).3
Naturally, however, an educated Roman was expected to be familiar with the
story of the golden fleece at first hand, be it by acquaintance with Euripides or
Apollonius of Rhodes. Otherwise Cicero would never have complained about
his fellow-citizens daring to despise their native poetry only because there were
Greek originals at their disposal (Fin. 1 [4]): ‘quis enim tam inimicus paene
nomini Romano est, qui Ennii Medeam aut Antiopam Pacuvii spernat aut rei-
ciat, quod se isdem Euripidis fabulis delectari dicat, Latinas litteras oderit?’.4
Meanwhile let us consider how Medea operated as illustrans in the Speeches.
In the year 66 BC, delivering the speech Pro Lege Manilia, Cicero made his
first appearance on the contio. Manilius’ motion was to appoint Cn. Pompeius to
the leadership of the third campaign against king Mithridates. Near the begin-
ning of the speech, a schedule including the topics of the kind of war, its magni-
tude, and the choice of a suitable leader is outlined (Man. 2 [6]: ‘Primum mihi
videtur de genere belli, deinde de magnitudine, tum de imperatore deligendo
esse dicendum.’). The speaker, while handling the second of the intended themes
(magnitudo belli), calls upon the military achievements of the earlier impera-
tores. We hear, for instance, of exceptional successes carried out by Lucullus, e.g.
the defeat of Sertorius’ fleet, and letting Roman legions in the city of Pontus
(§ 8 [20f]). These accomplishments forced the king to escape and to seek sup-
port elsewhere. Therefore the question is: why still consider this war a threat?
As the first reason, Cicero cites the king’s cunning, which in turn yields him the
2 Pacuvius wrote a tragedy called ‘Medus’. See Rhet. Her. 2.25.40. cf. Var. LL 7.9.
3 Cf. Pl. Ps. 868–872. The story was probably recorded from memory both by Plautus
and later by Cicero (Sen. 23 [83]), for both of them confuse ‘the facts’ in that it was
Aeson ‘actually’ who got miraculously rejuvenated, and not Pelias. See also Fraenkel
2007: 60f.
4 See also Cic. Tusc. 1.20.45.
60 Damian Pierzak
opportunity to invoke the longest mythological exemplum to be found in any of

the Speeches (Cic. Man. 9 [22]):
Primum ex suo regno sic Mithridates profugit ut ex eodem Ponto Medea illa quondam
fugisse dicitur, quam praedicant in fuga fratris sui membra in eis locis qua se parens
persequeretur dissipavisse, ut eorum conlectio dispersa maerorque patrius celeritatem
consequendi retardaret. Sic Mithridates fugiens maximam vim auri atque argenti pul-
cherrimarumque rerum omnium quas et a maioribus acceperat et ipse bello superiore
ex tota Asia direptas in suum regnum congesserat in Ponto omnem reliquit. Haec dum
nostri conligunt omnia diligentius, rex ipse e manibus effugit. Ita illum in persequendi
studio maeror, hos laetitia tardavit.
Then he sought refuge with Tigranes, the king of Armenia, and subsequently
many other peoples joined him either because they feared Rome or simply felt
sorry for a king who had lost his kingdom and wealth. With a newly assembled
army he crushed the troops of Lucullus, whose office was thereby bestowed on
one Mucius Glabrio (§ 9 [23–26]). In order to spare his countrymen the pain-
ful details, Arpinate omits a good deal, at the same time making it clear that the
danger cannot be neglected (Lintott 2008: 429; Brunt 1988: 82f, 172).5
The version of myth applied here by Cicero does not seem too popular to the
modern reader, for it agrees neither with the Argonautica by Apollonius, nor with
Euripides’ Medea, where Jason implies that the murder of Apsyrtus took place
around the hearth.6 Although it does not follow from the text of the Pro Lege
Manilia that the ship was the scene of the crime, it is hard to expect even Medea
to be so cold-hearted as to bring the body of her own brother on board ‘just in
case’. The variant in which the sister’s wrong-doing is caused by the pursuit most
plausibly occurred parallel to the others, and we owe the earliest mention of
it to Pherecydes,7 whose account apparently influenced Pseudo-Apollodorus.8
Cicero could have relied on Ennius (whom he was said to delight in reading)
5 See also App. Mith. 428: w-n ou;te th.n bla,bhn ou;te th.n aivscu,nhn e;ti fe,rontej oi`
`Rwmai/oi to.n to,te sfw/n evpi. do,xhj o;nta megi,sthj Gnai/on Pomph,ion ai`rou/ntai no,mw|
strathgo.n […]. Cf. Cic. Mur. 15 (32); Morstein-Marx 2004: 113.
6 See Eur. Med. 1334f: ktanou/sa ga.r dh. so.n ka,sin pare,stion | to. kalli,prwiron
eivse,bhj vArgou/j ska,foj.. Cf. S. fr. 319 Nauck = Schol. A. R. 4.228; Ibidem 4.452–476;
Tedeschi 2010: 216 (ad 1334): ‘[…] Euripide concorda con la versione del mito, ac-
cettata da Sofocle, secondo cui Medea avrebbe ucciso il fratello nella casa paterna.’
7 Pherec. FGrH 32 F 3 (fr. 73a Ms) = Schol. A. R. 4.228.
8 See Ps. Apollod. 1.9.24 Frazer: Aivht, hj de. evpignou.j ta. th/| Mhdei,a| tetolmhme,na w[rmhse
th.n nau/n diw,kein) ivdou/sa de. auvto.n plhsi,on o;nta Mh,deia to.n avdelfo.n foneu,ei kai.
meli,sasa kata. tou/ buqou/ r`ip, tei) sunaqroi,zwn de. Aivht, hj ta. tou/ paido.j me,lh th/j
diw,xewj u`ste,rhse\.
even though the preserved fragments prove nothing of the kind.9 Most plausibly,
however, his direct source did not come down to us. Later on, this handling of
the myth would have seemed quite natural to the Roman authors.10
The mythical Colchis was situated along the borders of the Pontus of that
time.11 Mithridates left the immense wealth (maxima vis auri et argenti) stored in
his own kingdom to the benefit of the Roman army, for which it turned out more
attractive than the pursuit itself. Such behaviour on the part of the common
soldiers is intelligible in that for them war was an opportunity to obtain their
loot rather than to acquire glory (Jonkers 1959: 35f).12 In this case, therefore,
because they were gathering the spoils too carefully (diligentius), as the speaker
stresses, the king slipped through their hands.13 Aeetes was thus delayed by pa-
ternal grief (maeror patrius), and the Romans by joy (laetitia). The exemplum
framed by Cicero, given its complex structure, is therefore based on the relation
of similarity (‘A’ ~ ‘B’). On the one hand Mithridates is juxtaposed with Medea
by the combination of customary conjunctions (ut… sic) suggesting a high level
of resemblance, and on the other the army of Lucius Lucullus is presented as a
parallel to the ruler of Colchis. In the latter case, however, both the premises
(regaining a daughter – acting on one’s own will; chasing after the king – acting
under orders), and the above-mentioned cause of delay differ.14 Cicero, by means
of employing the NCI syntax (ut Medea dicitur), makes himself appear distanced
from the story, probably because this was the first time he had addressed the
crowd on the contio, and he had no idea of how the audience would respond to
a mythological digression. And since his purpose in this part of the speech was
to emphasize the magnitude of the war, he might have felt that by invoking the
9 Cf. Sen. Ep. frr. 3f Reynolds = Gell. 12.2.5ff. Pacuvius’ version most likely corre-
sponded to that of the Argonautica. See Pac. trag. 218–243a Ribbeck. Cf. Cic. N. D.
3.19 (48).
10 See e.g. Ov. Ep. 12.113–116; Petr. 108.14; Sen. Med. 47–50.
11 See Strab. 1.2.10, 1.3.21, 12.3.2. Cf. 12.3.28.
12 Cf. Cic. Man. 13 (39); Plut. Luc. 17.7.
13 ‘The praise of Pompey’ comprised within this speech is built, among other things,
upon deceiving argumentation as if Pompey cared neither for enriching himself nor
for expanding the boundaries of imperium. See Sherwin-White 2006: 251f; Yakobson
2009: 64f.
14 That is why it can be measured only in terms of the motif of the comparison (ter-
tium comparationis), for which see Demoen 1997: 144ff. Lausberg (1998: 201f [§ 423])
called it, after Quint. Inst. 5.11.30f, a simile impar. Here it would assume the form of
an ex maiore ad minus ductum, for obviously maeror patrius is more elevated than
laetitia militum.
62 Damian Pierzak
dreadful fate of Apsyrtus he could mitigate the bad impression surrounding a

failed pursuit in that it was aimed at someone as clever and pitiless as once was
Medea. The comparison may also serve to deprive Mithridates of heroic virtues,
of which women are in principle devoid, and the more so the barbarian ones, not
to mention those from the East – a land especially associated with luxury and
debauchery.15 C. E. W. Steel has also suggested that our illustrans is a character
who undertook many journeys and for this reason may bring to mind pirates.
Needless to say that the one who conquered them was Pompey the Great (Steel
2001: 127f. cf. Clarke 2002: 231 [with n. 87], 233).
The ensuing speech we shall now occupy ourselves with is the Pro Caelio, de-
livered on behalf of a young aristocrat in the notorious trial of 56 BC. Three of the
five formal charges brought against Caelius were dealt with by M. Licinius Cras-
sus, and the last two, the murder of Dio and the attempted poisoning of Clodia,
by Cicero. The speaker focuses mainly on the participants’ ēthos. He begins with
favoring the defendant’s pudicitia claiming that there was no opportunity for him
to do much wrong as he had stayed with either his own father or his mentor (i.e.
Cicero) for most of the time (§ 3f [6–9]). After that, he justifies his client’s connec-
tions with Catiline (§ 4ff [10–14]), and denies the alleged bribery on his part dur-
ing the elections (ambitus). How was it possible that someone could be suspected
of committing a crime, of which he himself had accused the others (§7 [15f])?
Similarly the opponents’ attacks directed towards Caelius’ debt and wastefulness
are rejected. He may have had some financial issues with Clodius, from whom
he rents an apartment, but one cannot be blamed for just leaving one’s paternal
house. After all, this is the right age to enter public life and to begin a political
career, and the apartment on the Palatine Hill is much closer to the forum (May
1995: 436; Leigh 2004: 307ff. Cf. Ciaceri 1941: 90f; Wiseman 1990: 62, 64, 80).
Apparently referring to this, Arpinate repeats what Crassus has already quoted
during his account of the arrival of king Ptolemy (Cic. Cael. 8 [18]: ‘Utinam ne in
nemore Pelio–’). He continues in the following way:
Nam numquam era errans
hanc molestiam nobis exhiberet
Medea animo aegro, amore saevo saucia.
Sic enim, iudices, reperietis quod, cum ad id loci venero, ostendam, hanc Palatinam
Medeam migrationemque hanc adulescenti causam sive malorum omnium sive potius
sermonum fuisse.
15 Cf. Arist. Po. 1454a with Lucas 1978 ad loc. Hor. AP. 123f.
The lines come from the Medea Exul by Ennius.16 There is no doubt, moreover,
that the words, corresponding to the original by Euripides, belong to the nurse
and are spoken in the prologue. She expresses an unattainable wish referring
to the past (‘utinam ne accidisset…’, etc.). An analogy to the earlier tradition is
therefore clearly recognizable.
Quintilian (Inst. 5.10.80–85) regards the kind of argumentation used above
as ‘causal’ (a causis), giving some instances of its right and wrong utterances.
The first line of Ennius’ Medea counts, in his reckoning, as ridiculous, since we
should not engage ourselves in an investigation of the very first cause (‘causas
non utique ab ultimo esse repetendas’), as if the fir timber which once fell on
the ground was to take the blame for her mistress being miserable.17 Neverthe-
less on Cicero’s part, as follows in the Education of an Orator, it was a part of the
‘conjoining’ (coniugatum), which certainly does not lack persuasiveness (‘quod
certe non eget probatione’). This, however, would still have remained to a larger
extent obscure to us, had we not gained a valuable clue from Fortunatianus, who
describes the present contextual state of affairs as a sort of nomen translatum –
‘nominal metaphor’. According to him, Atratinus was first to dub the defendant
‘pretty Jason’, and Cicero, in order to retaliate against his opponents, came up
with the Medea of the Palatine Hill (Fortun. Rhet. 3.7 [RLM, p. 124] Halm): […]
‘Atratinus Caelium pulchellum Iasonem appellat et Cicero Clodiam Palatinam
Medeam.’18
Cicero thus renders his actual enemy and the daughter of Aeetes equal
(‘A’ = ‘B’). It cannot be excluded that the whole trial was imbued with the mythi-
cal symbolism connected with the journey of the Argonauts, for one of the main
issues here besides the attempted poisoning (venenum) seems to be the charge
concerning money which Caelius allegedly received from Clodia in order to ar-
range Dio’s murder. Were this the case, we might as well consider the phrasing of
Atratinus (§ 13 [30]: ‘Aurum sumptum a Clodia […] ut dicitur’, cf. 21 [51]) as an
allusion to the golden fleece. He might have argued that ‘pretty Jason’ needs the
artifact for the sake of his insolvency caused by the rent imposed on the apart-
ment in the Palatine (Wiseman 1990: 72).19 Given all this, we can also presume
16 Enn. scen. 208, 215f Jocelyn.

17 The author of the Rhetorica ad Herennium (2.22.34) calls it vitiosa expositio.
18 See also Austin 1977: 69; North 1952: 29; Classen 1973: 73; Gotoff 1986: 125f; Leigh
2004: 309; Humpert 2001: 102 with n. 373.
19 Cf. Humpert 2001: 120: ‘[…] Die Verhöhnung Clodias als Medea vom Palatin antwortet
nicht nur auf einen Spott des Anklägers Atratinus, […] also auf Clodias finanzielle
Möglichkeiten angespielt hatte […]’.
64 Damian Pierzak
that a fragment of Caelius (fr. 31: Pelia cincinnatus), labeled in ORF by H. Malco-
vati as incertae sedis, pertains to his speech pro se de vi, for if he himself is to act
as Jason, it would be well-founded as well to display his opponent as Pelias, an
antagonist known from the same mythical tradition (Austin 1977: 69).20 Cicero
therefore could have referred to a far broader context than it appears at first sight.
Knowing that the prosecutor juxtaposed Caelius with the insensitive leader of
the journey who abandoned his mistress having secured the gold, the speaker
was compelled to alter the audience’s point of view. The lines familiar to them
from Ennius’ work are here adequately manipulated, whereby what they hear can
be more or less understood as follows: ‘[otherwise] lady Medea wandering anx-
iously, with her heart deeply wounded by love, would have never inflicted this in-
jury on us [hanc molestiam nobis exhiberet]’. The last sentence was interpolated
by Cicero, who intended to create a new quality upon the well-established plot
and trite lines. In his version, then, it is the young lad who undertakes a perilous
journey (migratio) to the Palatine, where he falls into the snare set by the local
Medea – Clodia Metelli (Wiseman 1990: 80f; Leigh 2004: 309).
The single, mostly short utterances of Greek myth in Cicero’s Speeches are not
simply an illustration of thought, which we have attempted to show with the ex-
ample of the Medea figure. The ‘law of metamorphosis’ proves a fitting device to
study the phenomenon, giving some answers to the questions of how and to what
purpose Cicero employs a myth. It is almost certain that, although the ancient
rhetoricians valued mythological exemplum only as a means of bestowing pleas-
ure on their listeners, Greek myths, viewed within the broader cultural landscape
of the late Roman republic, served as an intrinsic part of the argumentatio.
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Soledad Llano Berini
The Use of Myths in Humanistic Satire.

The Example of Antonio Vinciguerra
After the long Middle Ages, the humanistic period, which comprises in Italy the second
half of the fourteenth century and all of the fifteenth century, is presented as a renewal of
the prevailing mentality. The artists and intellectuals turned their gaze toward the classical
world and Greek and Latin language and literature, designed as an example of the spir-
itual man and the cradle of great masters. The initial study of classical texts, Philological
Humanism, in the fourteenth century, developed with the new century into a humanism
centred on literary and philosophical creation, and led the way to the foundation of a new
civilization. It is in this specific context that one must analyse the work of the Venetian
humanist Antonio Vinciguerra. It echoes the classical tradition of the satire, not only in
terms of gender, but also of content, his satires being true invectives against the society
of the time. The study that is presented is centred on the use of classical myths and their
protagonists that Vinciguerra applies in his satirical work. We will attempt to analyse how
the author uses these myths as positive and negative examples of how the vices affect a
society that is no longer medieval.
Introduction
This paper attempts to analyze, through the satirical work of Venetian Antonio
Vinciguerra, the importance of the classic example in the humanistic era, to
which the author belongs, and more specifically the use he makes of the myths in
his satirical production, whether they are merely a form of scholarly ornament or
a way to exemplify vices of contemporary society.
Humanism is a philological and cultural movement born in Italy in the four-
teenth century and developed throughout the fifteenth century. The intellectuals
of the time felt the need for a change, a renewal of society and the medieval men-
tality prevailing at the time taking the experience of classic splendor.
The richness of Italian municipal corporation has been central to the emer-
gence of this intellectual movement. The demand for culture and teaching that
accompanies a rich society acted as a catalyst for the development of the hu-
manities.
Among humanists, the Middle Ages was considered a dark age, a time that was
not to be taken into account and during which nothing of quality was produced.

68 Soledad Llano Berini
Si trattava quindi di una lunga e fastidiosa parentesi fra lo splendore dell’antichità e il

ritorno delle buone lettere. Ma se nel mezzo non c’è che sozzura, allora l’operazione non
potrà venire che da un’operazione di pulizia totale, un colpo di scopa che non trascuri
neanche un angolino, dalla lingua e dalla letteratura ai costumi e alla vita di tutti i giorni.
(Rico, 1998: 9)
In order for this new age to become a reality, poetry and studia humanitatis
had to flourish as they had done in the past. The starting point of this cleansing
had to be the Humanities, beginning with the Latin language, which had to be
studied and cultivated, ‘purified by the imperfections’ that had characterized
medieval Latin. Only by knowing and following the example, and the language,
of the classical authors could the perfection represented by them be reached. In
the words of one of the most important and active supporters of this movement,
the Roman Lorenzo Valla:
La lingua di Roma ha dato i contributi più importanti al bene dell’umanità: il latino ha
educato i popoli alle arti liberali, li ha dotati di leggi migliori ha aperto loro la strada
ad ogni sapienza e in definitiva li ha liberati della barbarie. Il latino non si è imposto ai
barbari con la forza delle armi ma con quella dei valori, dell’amore, dell’amicizia e della
pace. (Rico, 1998: 5)
The humanistic study of classical works was a true philological work, a job of
analysis and textual criticism, which proposed to truly know the Greek and
Latin Works, neglecting the medieval translations and copies, and to return to
the originals.
The classic precept of imitatio becomes a form of the humanists’ aemulatio.
Therefore the imitation of classical authors did not mean a duplication, but tak-
ing the classic example as a point of reference to make their voices heard.
The satire. Antonio Vinciguerra’s works

The author1
The figure of Antonio Vinciguerra, called il Cronico2, now almost forgotten, was
fairly significant in the second half of the fifteenth century, both in political and
literary fields of humanistic northern Italy.
1 For all the biographical details of the author, we consulted the very complete work of
Beffa (1975): Antonio Vinciguerra cronico, segretario della Serenissima e letterato.
Herbert Lang. Berna.
2 Name by which Vinciguerra was called, mentioned for the first time in the elegies of
Paolo Marsi (Beffa 1975: 11).
The Use of Myths in Humanistic Satire 69
As was the custom among humanistic intellectuals, il Cronico combined his

life as a writer with his work at the Signoria of Venice. We are at a historically
unstable period in Italian history, a time during which the small states that made
up the Italian territory were in constant competition at a political and military
level, but also at the cultural level. The writers and artists were not only an ac-
tive part in political life, but also ‘i detentori del potere politico pensavano di
rafforzzare la legittimità e il prestigio del proprio dominio attraverso l’opera di
umanisti, letterati e artisti’ (Anselmi and Grillini 2003: 10). Vinciguerra became
part of this environment primarily not as a writer but as a diplomat, but this close
relationship between politics and cultural life was certainly helpful and served
also as a catalyst for his literary activity. We can speak in fact of a Vinciguerra be-
longing to an ‘Umanesimo civile’3 in which political and cultural life constantly
intertwined.
Vinciguerra was not a prolific author, as indeed you might imagine, bearing in
mind he was essentially a diplomat with a career, uninterrupted until his death,
full of tasks that led him to different courts of Northern Italy. There he met and
came into contact with some of the leading literary figures of humanism, includ-
ing Poliziano, Niccolo da Correggio and Pico della Mirandola.
The Genre
Despite the fact that we can find satirical cues already in Cielo d’Alcamo or
Giacomo da Lentini and Dante’s Divine Comedy, before the fifteenth century,
satire wasn’t bound to any specific genre. We should talk, instead, of contamina-
tion and interference.
During the fifteenth century, courtesan literature brought satire into wide use as it was
the appropriate tool to express the political malaise and social conflict of that era of
Italian history. But it was in the late fifteenth and early sixteenth century when satire
emerged as a literary genre itself. It is in this specific moment that the figure of Vin-
ciguerra became of the utmost importance, relevant due to the fact that he was respon-
sible ‘d’aver creato o consacrato con l’esempio suo la forma, rimasta poi prevalente nella
tradizione letteraria italiana, del ternario come forma metrica caratteristica della satira.’
(Cian 1929: 392–93)
It is important to emphasize that the sole novelty of this author is the use of terzina
as a specific meter for satire given that the themes and language solutions his work
offers are not innovative at all. We will have to wait until the early sixteenth century
and Ariosto’s satirical work to really find an example of Italian satire.
3 Garin 1978.
In the first half of the fifteenth century we can rarely find examples of capitoli,
of satirical or moralizing content due to the fact that the terzina was considered
a metric form of low stylistic level, and poets were heavily influenced by the high
style imposed by Petrarch.4
It is true that Vinciguerra was the first to produce a satirical work in terzine
but here ends his merit. Vinciguerra lacks originality and, with an inelegant
style, he develops true invectives against certain attitudes and human vices, and
makes his own some of the themes, motifs, images and even whole verses of the
authors who ‘inspired’ him (Dante, Petrarch, Juvenal, Pope Innocent III, Vale-
rio Massimo). His pieces are long sermones that are difficult and heavy to read.
This is due to his ostentatious ornamentation of examples taken from classical
mythology and history and the lightness with which these themes are treated,
mostly canonic of the genre.
Antonio Vinciguerra’s satires

As we said before, Vinciguerra was not a prolific author. Among his works satires
have a significant position. There are ten preserved, but only the first six were
published during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.
We work here with the copy of the Biblioteca Nazionale Universitaria di
Torino, edited in 1560. The volume contains the six satires but in this paper we
decided to analyze only the 4 that present the most interesting features:
Contra falsum et imperitum vulgi iudicium is an invective against the people
and their false judgments. It harks back to Juvenal and, as the poet of Aquino
did, contrasts the corruption of his time with the innocent life of the age of
Saturn.
Contra vitia capitalia.Vinciguerra parades, with the thoroughness that char-
acterizes him, the deadly sins with plenty of detail.
Consolatoria in morte filiae, as indicated by the title, does not belong to the
satirical genre but to that of consolatoria. It was composed on the occasion of the
death of the daughter of il Cronico’s teacher and friend, Giovanni Caldiera. It is a
moral and ascetical sermon on death and the transience of human life with remi-
niscences and coarse derivations from the Divine Comedy and the Triumphs.
Accompanied by a large number of examples of classical antiquity, throughout
4 For this type of content frottola was the preferred meter, a type of varied meter com-
position, made of bizarre thoughts, sententious sayings riddles, etc.. But the space
reserved for the frottola will be inherited in the second half of the century, by the
capitolo. (Tissoni Benvenuti 1974: 304)
this lengthy piece there is a succession of invectives against Libitina, goddess of

the underworld.
In De coelibatu, virginitate et continentia, with an ascetic content, he offers a
defence of virginity. Vinciguerra declares himself against marriage and therefore
in favour of celibacy, something that can only be reconciled with the exercise of
virtue and wisdom.
The classical models

From reading and analysing Vinciguerra’s satirical work we know that he was a
great connoisseur of literature, history and ancient philosophy. Although there
are numerous references to characters and events, fiction and historical chroni-
cles adorning his compositions5, the work of two Latin authors immediately
comes to mind when reading these pieces.
The first model is that of Juvenal. As well as in the work of the poet of Aquino,
in Vinciguerra’s works the autobiographical motifs disappear almost completely
to make room for an outsider satirical ‘I’. This satirical ‘I’ is isolated from a society
that feels contaminated by the most atrocious vices, to the extent that moralism
becomes the proper weapon to express his refusal of the world around him.
In Juvenal’s satires the teachings and moral precepts totally disappear, giv-
ing way only to a violent, sometimes sarcastic, complaint of evils and vices that
plagued society, but from a pessimistic and fatalistic point of view. The only ref-
uge for this human behaviour is the past, the return to a time when traditional
Roman values were respected.
Vinciguerra’s satires, as well as those of Juvenal, are violent invectives against a
society full of vices. Facing this society the author feels like an outsider and takes
the role of an informer.
The second classical model is Horace. Regarding the use of mythological ref-
erences, not present in Juvenal’s work, Horace’s sermones work as a model. The
exemplum mythologicum, which is the use of mythology to clarify or give more
intensity to a certain concept or passage in the works of Horace, is also located
in Vinciguerra’s satires. The Latin author used mythological element in two dif-
ferent ways, as the principal subject of the piece or to illustrate small passages or
situations (exemplum mythologicum) (Santana Henríquez 1990: 1026). The lat-
ter is used by Vinciguerra but it seems that the main function is to demonstrate
the erudition of the author more than to provide clarity. In Vinciguerra’s satires
5 Lucius Tarquinius Priscus, Marcus Aemilius Scaurus, Cratinius, Persius, Cleanthes

among others.
the gods participate sometimes directly, sometimes their mention is only in an

unspecified enumeration of names, merged with characters from ancient history
and Christian tradition, adding solemnity to the piece.
Mythological References
As we mentioned above, the use of mythological references in Vinciguerra’s satiri-
cal work are used in different ways and they can be divided into three categories:
invocations, purely ornamental references and exemplifying references.
Invocations
As was customary, the poet seeks the help and protection of the Muses, who rep-
resented the supreme ideal of art, and also of the gods related to literary activity
such as Apollo (god of all arts) also known by the epithet of Phoebus (the brilliant).
Spirto gentil, magnanimo, et sublime,
che qual mecena al venusin poeta,
adorni di favor mie caste rime.
Tu sei di Febo il salutar pianeta,
che drizi in porto il travagliato legno,
ch’il mar senza di te sempre inquieta.
Non posso di Nettuno il vasto regno
solcando remigar, se giù dal cielo,
di mia salute non discopro il segno. (V, 1–9)
Another invocation is of more interest. This makes reference in the first terzina
to the superiority of the ancient age through the intense cultural life of the island
of Lesbos and two of the greatest exponents of the archaic Greek lyric poetry
(Alcaeus and Saffo).
King Periander, Museum and Amphion are mentioned in the second terzina
due to their importance in the artistic field.6
Ove è Lesbio, da cui primo si noma
Quel modular, che poi Sapho, et Alceo
Dietro seguir con più dolce idioma
6 King Periander was the tyrant of Corinth and an intellectually superior man con-
sidered one of the seven wise men who gave great ímpetus to the arts. Museum was
either the son or disciple of Orpheus, raised by nymphs and a diviner. Amphion built
the walls of Thebes with his music.
Ove è Periandro Re, ove Museo,

ove è Amphion, che con la cetra in mano
le mura a Thebe dolcemente feo. (I, 118–123)
Ornamental element
The ornamental use, as its name indicates, has no other function than to beau-
tify the poems and to demonstrate the erudition of the author. Il Cronico makes
extensive use of mythology in this way, one might even say too much, based on
the high number of references with which the texts are decorated that makes
the reading of the poem more difficult. Among these references we can find the
lighter ones, which were part of the collective imagination of the time such as
that of Parcae (or Fates), the weaves of the fate of mankind.
Lasciovi a quel cimento, che risolve
le vostre glorie frivole e caduche
che duran quanto il fil la parca volve. (I, 190–192)
We can also find other references more hidden or complex such as the reference
to Clio, the muse of history.
O fortunato a cui sonante tromba
dietro riman non di terso oricalco,
ma di musa piu celer, che colomba. (I, 97–99)
Exemplifying references
Following the model of Juvenal, in whose works the only shelter to human be-
haviour was in the past, the return to an era where Roman traditional values
were respected, Vinciguerra also reflects the theme of the Golden Age. A time
when people lived peacefully without the vices that ruin the modern society.
Here we find the myth of the god Saturn who settled on the Capitol hill creating
an extremely happy kingdom.7
Beata fu la prima gente agresta,
che regnante Saturno in terra visse
di sua dolce fatica, utile, e honesta.
[…]
7 The myth of Saturn, ancient Italic god, identified with Cronus, appears in Hesiod
(Works and days).
Ne l’oro, che è cagion di tutti i mali,

trovato havea questa libido immensa,
ch’oggi per tutto va battendo l’ali. (I, 76–84)
Another reference that goes back to classical times of splendour is the one
through the Roman goddess Minerva8 and Apollo, both opposed to Venus (the
Roman goddess of love and sensuality), Silenus (raised by Dionysus and later
ruined to the vice of drinking) and Bacchus (identified with the ecstasy and lib-
eration of the senses).
Di Minerva, et di Apollo hor non si stima,
Venere in pretio con Sileno, et Bacco,
et per loro ogni pazzo si sublima. (I, 175–177)
Negative mythological examples appear in two different forms. Sometimes the

author changes the myth to make it negative. In this way, the effect on the reader
is more intense, more dramatic. One of the clearest examples can be found in
Contra vitia capitalia. Here Vinciguerra gives us two examples to represent how
pride and arrogance control contemporary society. This is represented by the
myth of Marsyas and the myth of Arachne. In this case Marsyas wins the music
contest, defeating Apollo, and Minerva is destroyed by Arachne.
Et Marsia cinto di loquace piche
triomphar, et Minerva si distruge,
godendo Aragne, et l’altre sue nemiche.
Sometimes mythological references are used to exemplify. Either myths or nega-

tive characteristics of the gods are used by Vinciguerra as examples in the depic-
tion of the deadly sins. We will describe here only three: envy, lust and anger. The
first that we find in the text is envy, associated with the goddess Juno (the wife of
Jupiter, always represented as a vindictive woman) who slammed her husband
out of the house and welcomed the harpies.
Poi che l’avara et invida Iuone,
sbarrato ha l’uscio, et vol che non entri a Giove
de altro vello mantel che di montone.
[…]
Fra lor voglie crudel, atroci, et rie,
siede l’invidia di virtù nemica,
tutta ripiena d’odij, et gelosie.
8 Assimilated to Pallas Athene, who protects intellectual activity.

Questa è la fera livida che intrica,

tutti i disegni gloriosi, et chiari,
questa è colei che i cor gentil fatica. (II, 52–60)
Remarkably this sin is represented also by a wild beast, which makes us think
back to Dante’s Commedia.
The second is lust that takes the form of an extraordinary beast and which is
associated with the venereal thirst (the sensual, physical love) and the Roman
goddess Flora, through the licentious games that took place during the Floralia.
It is also associated in the third terzina with the story of Circe, narrated in the
book X of the Odyssey (the delight of lust held in Ulysses with Circe). In this
case, however, it also reflects Christian musings, given that the pig in the Chris-
tian tradition symbolizes not only greed but also lust.
Treccie ritorte in crespanti cornete,
cincinnetti, riccielli, et calamistri
sproni che accendon la Venerea sete.
[…]
Stili, et mollette son fidi ministri
da inarcar ciglia, et dilatar la fronte
ove ha il gioco di Flora suoi registri.
[…]
Circe mai in tanti porci non disperse
i compagni di quel che in sul telaro
lasciò la moglie, et diece anni si perse. (II, 177–192)
The last case of negative mythological examples is that of the sin of anger. It is
interesting that it is the only time that the god Jupiter is associated with some-
thing negative in the satires of Vinciguerra. The episode of terrible violence
against his own son narrated in the myth of Zeus and Tityos becomes here the
perfect example of anger.
Le briglie di ragion spezza, et dissolve,
quel maigno furor, che vive polpe
fa spesso, convertir in poca polve.
Quel avoltor, che Giove per le colpe
di Titio dette a roder gl’intestini,
non men vorace che affamata volpe, (II, 252–257)
Regarding the positive examples, we find the most of them within satire VI
devoted to virginity. In this piece Vinciguerra provides a series of examples
drawn from mythology, the Sacred Scriptures and also from history. We wit-
ness here only a few references to mythology such as the one of Cassandra,
priestess of the temple of Apollo, who had the power of foresight; and that of
the vestal priestess Claudia, who, according to legend, in order to show the
strength of his honesty took a ship with a girdle towards the harbour.
Cassandra ogni secreto a Troia diede
del suo futuro incendio, ma creduta
non fu, come di raro il ver si crede.
Claudia vestale vergine impoluta,
menò col cingol suo la impatta nave,
che non potea crollar Roma saputa. (VI, 91–94)
Lastly, I wanted to include a reference to Camilla who, although not being a

character from classical mythology, appears in the Aeneid and forms part of the
purely Italic mythology. Camilla was the daughter of the king of the Volscians
(an ancient Italic people of Osco-Umbrian origins). Famous for her loyalty to his
father and for making enterprises similar to those of the Greek Amazons, she
had sworn eternal virginity. It also appears in Dante’s Inferno (Inferno 1, v. 107).
La regina de Volschi anchor non pave
venir armata al presidio di Turno,
con squadre virginal grate e soave. (VI, 97–99)
Conclusions
As we have seen, a high number of classical deities with their attributes and
symbols appear scattered throughout the text, but we also find references to
Christian tradition and history.
This is not surprising if we contextualized Vinciguerra’s work in Humanism.
The use of both mythological and classical references was the perfect way to dem-
onstrate the superiority of the ancient culture and the teachings of the classical
authors. It was also a truly effective way to exemplify the moral lack of the society.
Il dispiegamento di citazioni e reminiscenze classiche che distingue immediatamente gli
umanisti può sembrarci oggi semplice routine, mancanza di originalità, un mero segno
di riconoscimento superficiale, e magari così sarà per i meno accorti; ma per i più dotati,
anche senza arrivare alla statura di Alberti, il continuo riferimento al mondo antico era
soprattutto un sistema di analisi e critica. (Rico 1998: 90–91)

References
Anselmi G.M., Forni G. & Ledda G., 2003, L’Umanesimo e il Rinascimento. Pagine
di letteratura italiana, Roma: Carocci.
Beffa B., 1975, Antonio Vinciguerra Cronico, segretario della Serenissima e letterato,
Berna: Herbert Lang.
Boerio G., 1829, Dizionario del dialetto veneziano.Venezia: Andrea Santini e
figlio.
Cian V., 1929, La satira, Volume I, Milano: Dottor Francesco Vallardi.
Garin E., 1978, L’Umanesimo italiano, Roma: Laterza.
Grimal P., 2000, Enciclopedia della mitologia, Le Garzantine. Milano: Garzanti.
Rico F., 1998, Il sogno dell’Umanesimo. Da Petrarca a Erasmo, Torino: Einaudi.
Tissoni Benvenuti A., 1974, La tradizione della terza rima e l’Ariosto, in: Segre
C. ed., Ludovico Ariosto: lingua, stile e tradizione. Atti del congreso organizzato
dai comuni di Reggio Emilia e Ferrara: Feltrinelli.
Sansovino F. ed., 1560, Sette libri di satire di Lodouico Ariosto. Hercole Bentiuogli.
Luigi Alamanni. Pietro Nelli. Antonio Vinciguerra. Francesco Sansouino. E d’altri
scrittori. Con un discorso in materia della satira. Di nuouo raccolti per Francesco
Sansouino, Venezia: Francesco Sansouino et C.
Santana Henríquez G., 1990, Elementos míticos y paralelos estructurales en la obra
épica in Espejo de paciencia de Silvestre de Balboa. In Humanismo y perviven-
cia del mundo clásico: actas del I Simposio sobre Humanismo y pervivencia del
mundo clásico, Alcañiz, 8 al 11 de mayo de 1990, Cádiz: Servicio de publica-
ciones de la Universidad de Cádiz, 1021–1031.

Katarzyna Chiżyńska
Telemach(us) – Telmah – Hamlet.

The Myth of Telemachy in the Hamlet
by William Shakespeare1
Both Odyssey and Hamlet are one of the most known works in the European culture and
are often included on lists of the world’s greatest literature. The speech is an attempt to
present the issue of the myth of Telemachy, mainly presented in first four books of Odys-
sey attributed to Homer, and its transposition in Shakespeare’s Hamlet. Both main char-
acters (Telemachus / Hamlet) of these texts are young princes that have lost their fathers
(Odysseus / old Hamlet). They both have to eliminate the enemy that wants to take place
of the king (the suitors / king Claudius). Farther Telemachus story as well as Hamlet’s
can be generally recognized as the story describing the journey from boyhood to man-
hood. Similarities that can be found between Telemachy and Hamlet show that Odysseus’
son story can be one of the literary source of the Shakespearian play. By comparing two
conceptualizations of construction of the literary character it is possible to emphasize, on
one hand, the similarity between Greek epic poem and Elizabethan tragedy and on the
other hand, differences between ancient and English Renaissance culture and philosophy.
Upon careful reading of Hamlet by William Shakespeare and The Odyssey by

Homer, and to be more precise, the part depicting the story of Telemachus often
called the Telemachy2, we come across numerous analogical events and motifs.
The analogies are so frequent and distinctive that it is difficult not to get the
impression that the ancient epic poem was a source of inspiration for one of the
greatest Elizabethan playwrights.
There is no distinct proof though that Shakespeare knew the works of
Homer3. And even if he had had access to them, he would not have been able to
1 The article was written during the author’s scholarship at the Hardt Foundation
(Vandoeuvres, Switzerland) in November 2013.
2 Telemachy usually refers to the first four books of The Odyssey. In a broader sense
the term is used to refer to all events in the life of Telemachus, which are described in
Homer’s epic poem.
3 Apart from the analogies in the stories, there are also noticeable similarities between the
authors of The Odyssey and Hamlet. Literary critics have similar doubts whether they
really existed, and, if so, whether they were the authors of those stories. The so called
Homeric Question (see: Wolf 1985; Nagy 1996) as well as the Shakespearian Authorship
Question (see: Laurence 1925; Gittings 1960) flourished in the 18th century.
80 Katarzyna Chiżyńska
read them in their original version4, since the first translations of The Odyssey
were published after Hamlet had already been written5.
We do know, however, that Shakespeare attended a grammar school offering a
very high standard of Latin classes (see: Baldwin 1944: 619). Therefore, if Shake-
speare knew fluent Latin, he may well have taught himself ancient Greek. In the
Elizabethan period there existed some Greek grammar books written in Latin
(see: Kujawińska-Courtney 1999: 208). Thus, it cannot be excluded that Shake-
speare knew the text of The Odyssey, and that it became – besides the chroni-
cles by Saxo Grammaticus and the works of Thomas Kyd6 – a less obvious, but
equally important source of inspiration for one of the best known Elizabethan
tragedies – The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark7.
In the course of analysing the aforementioned analogies between the epic
poem and the tragedy it becomes clearly visible that the majority of them do not
constitute mirror images, but contain certain shifts, mainly caused by different
time when both works were created and, in consequence, the whole theological
and moral context as well as the dissimilar visions of man in Antiquity and the
Renaissance. One might venture the statement that Shakespeare transposed the
mythical story depicted in the Homeric epic and adapted it for the needs of a
different epoch and a distinct literary genre – the Elizabethan revenge tragedy.
A comparison of corresponding parts of The Odyssey and Hamlet reveals a
certain regularity. The representation of the Telemachy that exists in the trag-
edy may be perceived as Shakespeare’s ironic commentary on the epic reality
described by Homer.
4 The only notion on the classical education of Shakespeare comes from Ben Johnson,
who did not, however, hold the greatest Elizabethan poet in high esteem. In a poem
dedicated to Shakespeare he wrote that the playwright knew ‘small Latine and lesse
Greeke’ (Jonson 1910: 287–9).
5 The very first English translation of The Odyssey, published in 1616, was done by
George Chapman.
6 The best-known sources of Hamlet are the Norman-Icelandic legends put into Latin
writing by Saxo Grammaticus at the turn of the 12th and 13th century, and two works
by Thomas Kyd: the lost tragedy entitled Hamlet and The Spanish Tragedy. What links
the three sources is the motif of fake insanity.
7 The allusions to the resemblance between Telemachus and Hamlet can be found in
Ulysses by James Joyce (see: Joyce 2009; Ungänz 2007; Hart, Hayman 1977).
The Myth of Telemachy in the Hamlet by William Shakespeare 81
The time has come now to have a closer look at the analogies between the
stories of Telemachus and Hamlet. In both, the main protagonist is a young,
sensitive and wise prince (Telemachus – Hamlet), responsible for the fate of his
kingdom (Ithaca – Denmark). His father – a king and a warrior – is absent:
Odysseus has gone missing upon his return journey from the Trojan War (it is
not known whether he is dead, but he is frequently referred to as being so), the
previous king of Denmark, King Hamlet, was murdered. The prince lives in the
king’s palace with the Queen Mother (Penelope – Gertrude) and with a figure
that usurps the right to both the queen and the throne: in the epic it is the 108
Suitors with their leader Antinous, while in Shakespeare’s tragedy – Claudius,
the king and Gertrude’s husband.
In other words, in both cases the scene is a kingdom without its rightful ruler,
and both texts present the problem of succession – the rightful heir cannot take
the throne: in The Odyssey the obstacle is the unknown fate of the previous king
(Hölscher 1996: 138), while in Hamlet it is the new ruler and Gertrude’s second
husband, King Claudius (Sh. 1919, V, II, 65).
Both Telemachus and Hamlet face a formidable challenge, to rise to which they
need to become more mature. They are both obliged to avenge their fathers, i.e.
to kill the person/people willing to take the place of the former ruler (the suitors
in The Odyssey and Claudius in Hamlet). In both stories the order of vengeance is
given by a character coming from another world (Athena in The Odyssey and the
Ghost of Hamlet’s late-father in Hamlet).
In both cases the people who are supposed to become victims of venge-
ance set a trap to murder the protagonist (the murder plan is always connected
with a voyage from which Telemachus/Hamlet is not expected to come back
alive). And yet both protagonists escape death, return home, quite changed,
and perform the given task by killing the enemy who threatens the security of
the kingdom8.
8 The similarities between the Telemachy and Hamlet can be observed on the level
of surface structure, i.e. in the plots, as well as in the deeper structure, as a result
of actantial analysis. In both stories there is – following the typology proposed by
Souriau – Lion (the Force of the drama) represented by the prince (Telemachus /
Hamlet), Sun (the Good for which Lion fights) represented by the kingdom (Ithaca
/ Denmark) and Mars (the Lion’s Opponent), represented by the people who wish
to take the old king’s place (the Suitors / Claudius). We also find here Lion’s help-
ers (Athena / Horatio) (see: Souriau 1950). The similarities can be also observed
between the names of two main characters, what was suggested in the title of this
paper. One name red backwards sounds like the other one.
The similarity of the two stores is also confirmed by the fact that both pro-
tagonists are often referred to in the context of the Myth on the House of Atreus9.
Telemachus and Hamlet are compared to Orestes, who was obliged to avenge the
death of his father, Agamemnon, by killing his murderers.
It is also curious to observe the similarity in the fate of two other characters,
who have the same name – Laertes. In the epic poem Laertes is Odysseus’ father,
while in Hamlet he is the son of Polonius and the brother of Ophelia. Homeric
Laertes leads a modest and plain life far away from the royal palace, desperate
after the disappearance of Odysseus and the death of his beloved wife, Anticlea,
who died of grief, longing for her son (Homer 1919, XV, 353–360). Shakespearian
Laertes does not live at the royal castle either, grieving over the death of his father,
which is shortly afterwards followed by the death of his sister, Ophelia, who loses
her mind after losing their father, among other things (Sh. 1919, IV, V, 4–7).
Thus, there are clearly noticeable analogies between the fate of Laertes in the
epic and the tragedy – both characters lose a man from their immediate family
(the son in The Odyssey and the father in Hamlet), which leads to another death,
this time of a woman from their closest family (in The Odyssey Laertes loses his
mother and in Hamlet his sister). The cause of death of the two women is grief
over a family member who had perished earlier (in The Odyssey Laertes’ wife
dies of grief, longing for her son, Odysseus, and in Hamlet one of the causes of
Ophelia’s death is her despair after losing her father, Polonius).
Let us have a look now at the aforementioned shifts that accompany the ana-
logical constituents of the stories of Telemachus and Hamlet. In both the plot
begins soon after or just before two ceremonies: a funeral and a wedding (Homer
1919, II, 220–3; Sh. 1919, I, II, 176 and 178). And in both cases the funeral is a
prerequisite for the wedding.
In The Odyssey, from the very beginning the discussion revolves around
the two events, neither of which, however, has taken place yet. When we meet
Telemachus, nothing is already foregone; there is no certainty whether Odysseus
is dead and his symbolic funeral is still in the planning phase, while Penelope
is doing everything possible to avoid her second marriage, and, consequently,
neither of the ceremonies takes place. In Hamlet the die is cast in the backstory;
King Hamlet is dead and Gertrude has married again. And yet it is Shakespeare
9 The comparison of Telemachus to Orestes can be found explicite in the text of The
Odyssey (see: I 298–302, III 307–309). Numerous scientific dissertations have been
devoted to the analysis of the analogies between the position of Hamlet and Orestes
(e.g. see: Bodkin 1977; Kott 1987).
who puts the words ‘All may be well’ (Sh. 1919, III, III, 72) into the lips of the
usurper Claudius.
The issue of time is present in both The Telamachy and Hamlet, while the
words spoken by Hamlet ‘The time is out of joint’ (Sh. 1919, I, V, 189) aptly
describe the status quo both in Denmark and on Ithaca.
The main subject of Homer’s epic is Odysseus’s return journey home after
the ten-year Trojan War, which – due to numerous perturbations – takes him
another 10 years. Despite his long absence no one takes the throne of Ithaca and,
thus, the story of The Odyssey takes place during an interregnum. The old king
disappears, his rightful heir does not take the power and time freezes. In conse-
quence, strangers (the Suitors) begin to aspire to the throne. Therefore, one may
say that Ithaca is being destroyed by the stoppage of time.
In Hamlet, however, everything happens very fast, too fast. The queen remarries
in less than two months after her late husband’s unexpected death (see: Sh. 1919,
I, II, 138). The words of the Ghost ordering Hamlet to take his revenge by killing
Claudius may be understood in the context of time being ‘out of joint’. The Ghost
wishes Hamlet to turn the clock back. It’s beyond the prince to bring his father
back to life, but he can restore the state of affairs, as it was just after the death of the
old king. The prince is expected to assassinate Claudius, which will turn Gertrude
into a widow again and enable Hamlet – as the rightful heir – to accede to the
throne of Denmark.
Telemachus’ aim is similar, as Athena orders him to take revenge by killing the
Suitors, who claim the throne of Ithaca. Prior to completing the task, however,
Telemachus is supposed to try to find Odysseus, in order to attempt to restore the
state of affairs from 20 years ago, just before Odysseus set out on the Trojan War.
Both Telemachus and Hamlet take an order of vengeance from a figure rep-
resenting their king-fathers, one who does not come from the world of men. In
the epic poem, so as not to intimidate Telemachus, Athena visits him in human
shape, and the order takes the form of a proposal (Homer 1919, I, 269–271) to
which Telemachus responds: ‘Stranger, in truth thou speakest these things with
kindly thought, as a father to his son, and never will I forget them’ (Homer 1919,
I, 307–8).
Further in the text Telemachus is several times assured of the righteousness of
the intention to murder the Suitors. He is also tempted by the promise of fame
that he will gain upon avenging Odysseus10. What is more, Telemachus has no
10 Telemachus hears from Nestor that: ‘so good a thing is it that a son be left behind
a man at his death, since that son took vengeance on his father’s slayer, the guileful
trouble whatsoever recognising Athena, nor does he doubt the rightness of her
commands. ‘And in his mind he marked her and marvelled, for he deemed that
she was a god’ (Homer 1919, I, 321–3).
In Hamlet the ghost does not allow for an unambiguous determination of its
provenience (Sh. 1919, I, IV, 40–2), and the demand to kill Claudius takes the
form of a categorical order. Furthermore, despite the fact that Hamlet agrees to
follow the order without demur, he is not promised fame and glory in return, but
instead he is informed about the risk of disgrace (Sh. 1919, I, V, 31–4).
As I have already mentioned above, Telemachus immediately recognises his
situation, while Hamlet remains unconvinced about killing Claudius until the
Third Act when he sees the performance of a troupe of actors (Sh. 1919, II, II,
633–4). In the first three acts, which translates into a period of time equalling
almost four months (Sh. 1919, III, II, 120–1) Hamlet single-handedly verifies
individual characters and attempts at resolving his doubts, which is expressed
in his monologues and questions he asks and which are mainly left unanswered.
Telemachus, however, is never alone. In any action he takes he is always ac-
companied by Athena: she comforts and calms him down, gives him courage,
dulls Suitors’ vigilance (Homer 1919, XX, 345–6), organises him a vessel and
a crew (Homer 1919, II, 382–7), provides him with good winds, and – what
seems to be most peculiar – she prays to Poseidon and later listens to her own
prayers (Homer 1919, III, 55–6; III, 62)11. In the second part of the epic, apart
from Athena, it is Odysseus himself who also takes parental care of Telemachus,
while the verification of the guilty characters is performed by Telemachus (to
the smallest extent), Odysseus, Athena (Homer 1919, XVII, 360–4) and the wet-
nurse Eurycleia (Homer 1919, XXII, 417–8; 421–2; 424–5)12.
Aegisthus, for that he slew his glorious father. Thou, too, friend, for I see thou art a
comely man and tall, be thou valiant, that many an one among men yet to be born
may praise thee’ (Homer 1919, III, 196–200). Athena uses exactly the same reasoning
to convince Telemachus to assassinate the Suitors (see: Homer 1919, I, 294–302).
11 Despite this Nestor’s son still expresses sorrow over the fate of Telemachus, saying:
‘even as it is now with Telemachus; his father is gone, and there are no others among
the people who might ward off ruin’ (Homer 1919, IV, 166–7).
12 Kirk explains this specific position of Telemachus in the following manner: ‘Telema-
chus is too young to establish any claim without special support; in a way, though, he
influences the situation as male head of the household (…)’ (Kirk 1962: 142).
Importantly, the reunion of the father and son shifts the burden of responsi-
bility and doubts almost entirely upon the shoulders of Odysseus13. It is Odys-
seus, not Telemachus, who ponders over the consequences of killing the Suitors
(Homer 1919, XX, 37–43). In the Homeric world, however, all such fears and
doubts are dispelled by Athena (Homer 1919, XX, 48–51; XVI, 170–1).
In Shakespeare’s tragedy the characters cannot hope for divine assistance, for
which they do not even dare to ask. Witnessing Ophelia’s insanity, Laertes merely
utters a rhetorical cry: ‘Do you see this, O God?’ (Sh. 1919, IV, VI, 179). Claudius
strives to pray, but he is well aware of that fact that his prayers will produce no
effect (Sh. 1919, III, IV, 97–8).
In both stories the main protagonist also experiences a moment of weakness
and despair14. Predictably, Homer grants Telemachus the luxury to do so: other
characters show full understanding and compassion. Telemachus bursts into
tears when listening to a story about his father, and all those present join him in
his grief (Homer 1919, IV, 184–6).
In the world of Elizabethan tragedy there is no room for weakness. In his mo-
ment of despair, as can be deduced from the description of Hamlet’s appearance
and demeanour, the vulnerable and helpless prince visits Ophelia, the woman he
loves (Sh. 1919, II, I, 76–82). But even she is incapable of showing a scintilla of
understanding for his state of mind. Instead she reports him to Polonius, taking
the role of a loyal daughter (see: Wilson 2003).
It is also worth mentioning the characters who in both stories behave in a
similar fashion.
13 On numerous occasions Homer makes his characters nostalgically remember the lost
Odysseus, whose return to Ithaca would restore peace and order in the kingdom. This
motif is most often exploited in the first four books of the epic, i.e. in the Telemachy
(see: I, 164–5; I, 253–4; I, 266–7; II, 58–9; XVII, 537–540).
Even though it is Athena who places the order of vengeance upon Telemachus, he is
supposed – in a way – to kill the Suitors in substitution of his absent father. Once back
on Ithaca, Odysseus automatically accepts the burden of plotting the revenge, which
he completes, following the persuasions and advice given by Athena (Homer 1919,
XIX, 51–2.
14 In both stories similar words are uttered when characters focus on their own feelings
and have inner monologues, or more precisely, dialogues with their heart and soul.
Upon hearing the Suitors with maidservants Odysseus turns to his heart, saying:
‘Endure, my heart; a worse thing even than this didst thou once endure’ (Homer
1919, XX, 18–19). Hamlet, gaining the knowledge on the death of his father, says:
‘But break my heart, –for I must hold my tongue!’ (Sh. 1919, I, II, 159), ‘Till then sit
still, my soul’ (Sh. 1919, I, II, 255), ‘O my prophetic soul!’ (Sh. 1919, I, V, 16).
Those claiming the right to the throne always act in a noisy, clamorous man-
ner. When feasting, the Suitors always make a racket, shouting and singing
(Homer 1919, I, 150–2, I, 365–6; IV, 767), which is exactly what Claudius does to
celebrate his triumph (Sh. 1919, I, II, 124–8; I, III, 7–12).
There are also similarities in the behaviour of Telemachus and Hamlet – their
demeanour undergoes a change, which is noticed and commented upon by other
dramatis personae. Hamlet puts on a mask of a lunatic to judge the reactions of
the people in his surroundings, and frequently uses sarcasm, which is practically
incomprehensible to anyone else. Unlike Hamlet, the son of Odysseus openly
speaks his mind (Homer 1919, II, 310–16) and publicly curses the Suitors: ‘With-
out atonement, then, should ye perish within my halls’ (Homer 1919, I, 380;
II, 145), which surprises everyone (Homer 1919, I, 381–2).
Similarly to Hamlet, Telemachus reprimands his mother for her misdemean-
our, but – unlike Hamlet’s – his words bring the intended effect (Homer 1919,
I, 356–363). The conversation between Hamlet and Gertrude looks utterly dif-
ferent, as the prince comes to his mother once he has verified the words of the
ghost and is ready to lay his vengeance upon the murderer of his father. In con-
sequence, the queen becomes afraid of her own son and calls for help (Sh. 1919,
III, 4, 21 and the following), which results in the death of Polonius who has been
eavesdropping.
Both Hamlet and Telemachus gradually grow into the challenge they face15.
Hamlet needs to verify all his assumptions and gain the knowledge that enables
him to diagnose how bad the situation of the Kingdom of Denmark truly is,
whereas Telemachus undergoes a rite of passage from being a boy to becoming a
man (Homer 1919, XX, 308–10).
Furthermore, even though the change in behaviour of both protagonists is
seemingly ignored16, their provocative manner puts them in jeopardy. It is the
Suitors in The Odyssey (Homer 1919, XVI, 371–4) and King Claudius in Hamlet
(Sh. 1919, III, IV, 14–15; IV, IV, 61–4) who plot the assassination of the prince.
Hamlet manages to avoid the ambush by himself, whereas ‘prudent’ Telemachus
escapes death exclusively due to the warning sent by Athena (Homer 1919, XV,
15 In time Telemachus gains glory and general respect (see: Hölscher 1996: 139), while
Hamlet loses his good name.
16 One of the Suitors says: ‘Telemachus, thou braggart, unrestrained in daring, let no
more any evil deed or word be in thy heart’ (Homer 1919, II, 303–5), while Hamlet
hears from his mother: ‘Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted colour off, / And let thine eye
look like a friend on Denmark. / Do not for ever with thy vailed lids / Seek for thy
noble father in the dust:” (Sh. 1919, I, II, 68–71).
27–32). The son of ‘cunning’ Odysseus could not be Hamlet’s match, and yet it
is he who will ‘live ‘happily ever after’. The Suitors and Claudius prepare another
trap, but this time it is only Telemachus who survives17.
Moving on, both Homer and Shakespeare exploit the subject of female weak-
ness and instability. In Hamlet we have two major female characters: Gertrude,
who remarries her late husband’s brother without prior mourning period, and
Ophelia, who rejects Hamlet following the orders from her father. No wonder
then that at a certain point Hamlet shouts out: ‘Frailty, thy name is woman!’
(Sh. 1919, I, II, 146).
In The Odyssey, however, there is Penelope – an archetype of a faithful wife,
loyally waiting for her husband for 20 years. Thus, the reader may find it in-
triguing that Athena advises Telemachus to return to Ithaca, and while speaking
of Penelope she says: ‘Beware lest she carry forth from thy halls some treasure
against thy will. For thou knowest what sort of a spirit there is in a woman’s
breast; she is fain to increase the house of the man who weds her, but of her for-
mer children and of the lord of her youth she takes no thought, when once he is
dead, and asks no longer concerning them’ (Homer 1919, XV, 19–24).
Another significant motif present in both stores is the resemblance of the
son to his father18, or even their mutual identification. On numerous occasions
Telemachus is informed of his resemblance to Odysseus, e.g. in the meeting with
17 Both texts contain similar statements about the subject of fortune-telling. Telemachus
believes it, whereas the Suitors mock it (Homer 1919, II, 178–182; II, 201). Like the
Suitors, who are doomed to death, Hamlet also sneers at it, saying: ‘Not a whit, we
defy augury’ (Sh. 1919, V, II, 205).
It is worth noticing Shakespeare’s interesting choice of words. Auguries in the ancient
world was the practice of fortune-telling by studying the flight of birds; the same kind
of fortune-telling is most popular in The Odyssey.
18 Another curious fact is that both Odysseus and old Hamlet look very similar in the
memories of other characters – they are remembered to be wearing an armour, com-
pared to gods and depicted as brilliant leaders. Athena describes Odysseus, saying:
‘Would that he might come now and take his stand at the outer gate of the house, with
helmet and shield and two spears, such a man as he was when I first saw him’ (Homer
1919, I, 255–7).
When remembering King Hamlet, Horatio says: ‘he was a goodly king’ (Sh. 1919,
I, II, 186), while prince Hamlet provides the following description of his father:
‘Hyperion’s curls; the front of Jove himself; / An eye like Mars, to threaten and com-
mand; / A station like the herald Mercury / New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill: /
A combination and a form, indeed, / Where every god did seem to set his seal / To
give the world assurance of a man’ (Sh. 1919, III, IV, 56–62).
Menelaus he is told that: ‘Such were his feet, such his hands, and the glances of
his eyes, and his head and hair above’ (Homer 1919, IV, 149–150). For Telema-
chus the confirmation of his physical and mental resemblance to his father is the
source of self-confidence and the stimuli that initiate the process of growing up.
The resemblance between the old and young Hamlet is not based on physical
appearance. Instead Shakespeare gives them the same name. Therefore, upon
reading just the list of the dramatis personae, someone who has no knowledge
of the story itself may wonder which Hamlet is the title character of the tragedy.
Even though Telemachus and Hamlet face a similar challenge of avenging their
fathers19, the primary task for the former is to gain glory, following his father’s foot-
steps, whereas the Danish prince is actually supposed to perform the task given by
his ghost-father, so to purge Denmark. In other words, Telemachus is to be just
like his father20, while Hamlet is expected to fulfil his father’s expectations of him.
In both texts, the absence of fathers results in the presence of characters who
substitute them, acting in loco parentis. In The Odyssey there are the wise Nestor
and Menelaus – Odysseus’s companions from Troy, and the caring Athena, who
does not abandon her role even after Odysseus’ reappearance on stage. Regardless
of the circumstances Telemachus may always trust them, and use their advice or
assistance. In Shakespeare’s tragedy the father is substituted by his brother, who
becomes Gertrude’s second husband. It is Claudius, who murdered King Hamlet
and is now striving to assassinate prince Hamlet. King Hamlet’s ghost appears in
the story, but is incapable of taking any action, except for burdening his son with
a duty to take vengeance. In consequence, Hamlet may hope for assistance from
neither of them – he mistrusts Claudius and does not know if he ought to lay his
trust in the words of the ghost.
19 Some vital discrepancies between the position of Telemachus and Hamlet ought to
be pointed out. The latter has only one real chance to converse with his father’s ghost
(during the second encounter he is merely urged to perform the task). King Hamlet,
and more precisely his spectre, can provide his son with nothing more than a handful
of information necessary for Hamlet to swear to fulfil his will. On the other hand, not
only does Telemachus regain his lost father, but he may also use his assistance to lay
the vengeance upon the Suitors.
20 In The Odyssey the relationship between the father and son is a recurring motif: ‘Few
sons indeed are like their fathers; most are worse, few better than their fathers’ (Homer
1919, II, 276–7). The voice of John Heath is of grave importance here: ‘Odysseus proud-
ly refers to himself twice in the Iliad as the “father of Telemachus” (2.260, 4.354) – the
only character in the epics to identify himself by his relationship with his son – and the
story of the Odyssey is in part the tale of the son’s fulfilment of his parental heritage.’
(Finkelberg 2011, vol. III r-z, s.v. Telemachos [J. Heath]).
The similarities between The Odyssey and Hamlet can also be observed in
the final parts of the stories. In both, the old state of affairs is eventually re-
stored, and, once ‘out of joint’, time goes back to its right place. The difference
is, however, that in The Odyssey the world returns to its state just before the
departure of the king, while in Hamlet the old world must disappear, since the
creation of a new order – represented by Fortynbras – becomes imperative.
While Shakespeare kills all the representatives of the Danish monarchy, Homer
finds a place for both the old ruler and the future king of Ithaca. Thus, Hamlet
is a story of a seizure of wife and power, while The Odyssey tells a tale of an at-
tempt to do so.
It is also worth noticing that in both stories sons follow their fathers’ footsteps.
In Ithaca we have two physically very similar representatives of the royal family –
the older one reclaims his throne, which after his death will one day be acceded
to by the younger one. This gives a base for stability and rightful authority, which
is firstly executed by Odysseus and afterwards by Telemachus, who in numerous
aspects takes after his father.
The plot of Hamlet opens with the recent funeral of King Hamlet and closes
with the upcoming burial of his rightful heir. The son also follows his father’s
footsteps – like his father, prince Hamlet dies because of a trap set by Claudius,
and thus the tragedy ends with two dead Hamlets.
It is also worth noticing that in the epic the characters who perish are only
those really deserving to die, and the extermination is well-planned and car-
ried out methodically. In Hamlet people get killed randomly: the accidental
death of Polonius, which leads to the tragedy of innocent Ophelia, Gertrude’s
fatal mistake with poisoned wine, the passing of Laertes, stabbed with a poi-
soned sword, or Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, who perish instead of Hamlet.
In the world of Telemachus it is Tyche that guarantees order, harmony and
justice, while in Hamlet’s, destiny seems to have been substituted with tragic
irony, which causes – as Tom Stoppard once wrote – that: ‘The bad end unhap-
pily, the good unluckily’ (Stoppard 2007: 80).
What is worth adding is the fact that both authors decide to include a scene of
a collective murder and the description of a palace chamber filled with victims’
bodies (Sh. 1919, V, II, 349–352). In The Odyssey the corpses of the Suitors are
carried away (Homer 1919, XX, 437–9), while Athena definitely terminates the
bloodshed, announcing the truce between the families of the perished Suitors:
‘Then for all time to come a solemn covenant betwixt the twain was made by
Pallas Athena’ (Homer 1919, XXIV, 545–7).
At the end of Hamlet, Fortynbras orders Hamlet’s body to be carried off the
battle scene (Sh. 1919, V, II, 380–3), and the pacifying role of Athena is taken
by the survivor Horatio, whose task is to storytell the events in the royal castle.
Thus, Horatio says: ‘But let this same be presently perform’d, / Even while men’s
minds are wild: lest more mischance / On plots and errors happen’ (Sh. 1919, V,
II, 378–380).
Visibly, the world created by Shakespeare is governed by different laws to the
ones ruling the Homeric reality. The similarity of the situation in which Telema-
chus and Hamlet found themselves, however, allows for numerous analogies,
which may be found not only in the layer of the plot and action, but also in the
course of analysis of individual motifs, scenes and themes. The perception of
Shakespeare’s masterpiece in the context of The Odyssey shows that the hypoth-
esis nominating the epic poem as one of the sources of inspiration for the crea-
tion of Hamlet may be true, since it is possible to read the tragedy using the myth
of the Telemachy as a key. The plot of Hamlet may, therefore, be read as an ironic
commentary to the idyllic world of The Odyssey.
Translated by Konrad Brzozowski
References
Ahl F., Roisman H.M., 1996, The Odyssey Re-Formed, Ithaca and London: Cornell
University Press.
Baldwin Th.W., 1944, William Shakespeare’s Small Latine and Lesse Greeke, vol. II,
chapter XLIX ‘Upper Grammar School: Shakespeare’s Lesse Greeke’, Urbana:
University of Illinois Press.
Bodkin M., 1977, Wzorce archetypowe w poezji tragicznej, transl. Mroczkowski
P., in: Studia z teorii Literatury, Archiwum przekładów “Pamiętnika Literack-
iego”, Głowiński M., Markiewicz H. ed., Wrocław – Warszawa – Kraków –
Gdańsk: Ossolineum, 269–287.
Finkelberg M. ed., 2011, The Homer Encyclopedia, vol. I-III, Wiley-Blackwell:
Chichester - Malden.
Gittings R., 1960, Shakespeare’s rival: a study in three parts, London: Heinemann.
Hart C., Hayman D. eds, 1977, James Joyce’s ‘Ulysses’: Critical Essays, California:
University of California Press.
Hölscher U., 1996, Penelope and the Suitors, transl. Richter S., in Reading the
“Odyssey”. Selected Interpretive Essays, ed. with an introd. by S.L. Schein,
Princeton - New Jersey: Princeton University Press.
Homer, 1919, The Odyssey, with an English transl. by A.T. Murray, vol. I–II,
Cambridge, MA.: Harvard University Press; London: Heinemann.
Jonson B., 1910, To the memory of my beloved master William Shakespeare and
what he heath left us, in: The Works of Ben Jonson, vol. 3, London: Chatto &
Windus.
Jorg I. de, 2001, A Narratological Commentary on the “Odyssey”, Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press.
Joyce J., 2009, Ulysses, Teddington, Middlesex: Echo Library.
Kirk G.S., 1962, The songs of Homer, Cambridge – London - New York – Mel-
bourne: Cambridge University Press.
Kott J., 1987, Orestes, Electra, Hamlet, in idem, Eating of the Gods, transl. Taborski
B., Czerwiński E.J., Northwestern University Press.
Kujawińska-Courtney K., 1999, ‘Controversies over Shakespeare’s classical
education’, Collectanea Philologica, Łódź: WUŁ, 207–215.
Laurence B.E., 1925, Notes on the authorship of the Shakespeare plays and poems,
London: Gay and Hancock.
Nagy G., 1996, Homeric questions, Austin: University of Texas Press.
Pontani F. ed., 2007, Scholia graeca in ‘Odysseam’, vol. I–II, Roma: Pleiadi.
Shakespeare W., 1919, Hamlet, prince of Denmark, with introd. and notes by
K. Deighton, London: Macmillan and Co.
Stoppard T., 2007, Rozencrantz and Guildernstern are dead, New York: Grove
Press.
Ungänz J., 2007, Telemachus - An Analysis of the First Chapter of James Joyce’s
‘Ulysses’, Munich: GRIN Publishing GmbH, 21 and sqq.
Wilson J.D., 2003, Antic disposition, in idem, What happens in “Hamlet”, Cam-
bridge: Cambridge University Press, 101–13.
Wolf F.A., 1985, Prolegomena to Homer, transl. with introd. and notes by A.
Grafton, G.W. Most and J.E.G. Zetzel, New Jersey – Princeton: Princeton Uni-
versity Press.

Raffaele Ruggiero
Orpheus’ Myth in Vico*
Vico chose the myth of Orpheus and Amphion as the model of civilization builders. The
two ancient heroes were founders of governments, because in Vico’s works the first found-
ers of civilizations were heroes and poets. On this basis, the first form of a juridical sys-
tem was a poetical one, and also the Law of the Twelve Tables was a “serious poem”. An
analysis of Orpheus’ myth and its function in the development of Vico’s thought (from
the juridical works of 1720–21) could improve our knowledge of the historiographical
principles at the basis of his masterpiece, the New Science of 1744.
The myth of Orpheus and Amphion appears for the first time in Vico’s works
in the sixth Inaugural Dissertation, which he presented on October 17th, 1704
during the Opening Ceremony of the Academic Year, as Professor of Rhetoric
at the University of Naples. The figure of Orpheus also returns in paragraphs
123 and 124 of De universi iuris uno principio et fine uno (The one principle and
the one end of universal right), the first treatise of the so-called Universal Right,
the huge juridical work composed by Vico between 1720 and 1722. In the same
work, Orpheus and Amphion appear again together in chapter nine of De con-
stantia philologiae (On the consistency of philology), which is the second part of
the De constantia iurisprudentis (On the consistency of jurisprudence), the second
and last treatise of Universal Right. Herein, the author tries to establish a com-
mon link between law, poetry and foundational myths. Before listening directly
to Vico’s words, it is important to keep in mind that Vico’s treatise is intended
to demonstrate and establish new historical principles, useful to reinforce, on a
solid basis, our knowledge of the past (Ruggiero 2010: 76–85).
In the 11th book of the Odyssey (XI, 260–65), Homer mentioned Amphion and
Zetus as founders of the Theban walls, with seven doors and strong towers, ‘be-
cause without walls they cannot live in the large Thebes, albeit they were strong’,
but Homer does not explain how Amphion succeed in building the walls without
fatigue. The mythical tale is in the third book of pseudo-Apollodorus’ Bibliotheca
(III, 5): while Zetus is doing all the labour alone, Amphion summoned stones
* I express my gratitude to Alessia Loiacono, who has revised my text and the transla-
tions of Vico’s quotes.
94 Raffaele Ruggiero
together with the music of his lyre, and the stones built the walls themselves. The
allegorical interpretation of the myth is that the musical ability of Amphion, that
is his poetical capacity of persuasion, convinced the people of Beotia (dull as
stone) of the necessity to build a city where they could live together in peace (that
is establishing a commonwealth with a juridical order). On the same basis Vico
interpreted the myth of Orpheus, where the ancient hero-poet with his music
and singing could charm the birds, fish and wild beasts, coax the trees and rocks
into dance, and divert the course of rivers. Among the ancient sources some are
pseudo-Apollodorus’ Bibliotheca (I, 3, 2) and Ovid, Metamorphosis 11: ‘with his
songs, Orpheus, the bard of Thrace, allured the trees, the savage animals, and even
the insensate rocks, to follow him’.
Foundational myths are well established in Western tradition since the origin
of Greek literature: the best-known example are the five ages of human races
(genos) in Hesiod’s Erga (Erga 109–201), where the poet shows a peculiar idea of
human life as a cyclic progress, and whatever has been, will once return; an idea
not far from Vichian theory of «corsi e ricorsi». It is interesting to underline that
Hesiod’s development of history and human civilization is clearly orientated
towards the age of Zeus, where in another very diffused foundational myth, that
of Prometheus, Zeus appears as a tyrant who rules with violence and causes
unnecessary suffering. This image of Zeus is one of the most important clues
against the attribution to Aeschylus of the Prometheus chained, and however it
shows a peculiar use of foundational myths in Greek tragedy (West 1979).
Describing the origin of Roman Law, Vico affirmed that ‘this tradition of just
violence was, thereafter, emptied of its brute force and channelled into more
compassionate forms in the commonwealths founded on laws and changed into
the civil right of the Quirites, the Roman fathers’.1 To explain how the original
violence and abuses of the stronger against the weaker were transformed in the
juridical links at the basis of Roman patriarchal society, Vico referred to the
foundational myth of Thebes’ walls. Regarding Orpheus and Amphion, the Nea-
politan philosopher wrote: ‘The things here narrated leave room for the impor-
tant conjecture that, for the reasons given above, the poets themselves recounted
that Orpheus and Amphion, both poets and heroes, were the first founders of
1 De uno, § 123, p. 92 Pinton-Diehl: ‘Quamobrem ius Quiritium nihil aliud est quam
ius maiorum gentium, hoc est ius proprium patrum, qui uni gentes fundarant, quod
quia nondum erant leges positae, principio iustae violentiae mos fuerat: qui mos dein-
de, omni vi adempta et corpulentia, in graciles formas attenuatus in republica legibus
fundata abiit in ius civile Quiritium seu patrum Romanorum’.
Orpheus’ Myth in Vico 95
cities’.2 Being the ‘founder of cities’, in Vico’s idea, means to enforce laws and or-
ganize a civil government: well, how do these activities relate to Orpheus’ myth,
and how to the origin of Roman juridical system? In chapter nine of the De
constantia philologiae, Vico explained: ‘All mythologists, in unison, proclaimed
that these [the old Giants, that is human beings in their original wild condition
of beasts] were the wild beasts, which Orpheus tamed with the sound of the lyre;
these were the stones that came together to form the walls of Thebes at the music
of Amphion’s harp’.3
Vico’s argument is somewhat puzzling. He thought that the foundational
myths, such as that of Amphion and Thebes’ walls, hid an allegoric meaning:
the ability of Orpheus in taming beasts with his music, and the ability of Am-
phion to summon stones together with his harp to build the walls of a big town,
stood for the original use of poetry as a tool of civilization. For this reason, he
said that the founders of cities are indeed the poets. The idea is immediately
suggested by Horace’s Ars poetica, where the Roman poet says that Orpheus
made human beings shrink from brutality, and Amphion moved the stone-like
people of Thebes to build the walls. Horace himself commented on these myths,
explaining that the purpose of poetry was ‘to divide public and private right, to
separate the sacred from the profane, to regulate matrimony and curb license,
to build towns and inscribe the laws’. So Vico, who commented on Horace’s Ars
poetica for his private pupils, transforms the text of the Latin poet ‘into an ac-
count of sapienza poetica [poetic knowledge] that turns rhetoric into an inquiry
into being with others’ (Marshall 2010: 207–208).4 Really, the idea that poetry
was an original form of theology, and that the religious feeling was the basis of
civilization was well established by Isidorus of Seville in his ethymological trea-
tise, and following in Isidorus footsteps was a letter of Francesco Petrarca to his
brother Gherardo (December 4, 1349):
Quesitum enim est unde poete nomen descendat, et quanquam varia ferantur, illa ta-
men clarior sententia est, quia cum olim rudes homines, sed noscendi veri precipueque
vestigande divinitatis studio […] flagrantes, cogitare cepissent esse superiorem aliquam
potestatem per quam mortalia regerentur […]. Itaque et edes amplissimas meditati sunt,
2 Ibid., § 124, 92 Pinton-Diehl: ‘Quae sic enarrata gravi coniecturae faciunt locum, ut
his de causis primos urbium fundatores et heroes et poetas Orpheum et Amphionem
ipsi poetae tradiderint’.
3 De constantia philologiae, IX, 8, 356 Pinton-Diehl: ‘Mythologos uno ore docere hoc
fuisse feras quas Orpheus lyrae sono cicuravit et saxa ex quibus Amphion, ad lirae
quoque sonum coeuntibus, Thebarum muros construxit’.
4 Vico’s annotations are now published by G. De Paulis (Napoli: Guida, 1998).
que templa dixerunt, et ministros sanctos, […] et verbis altisonis divinitatem placare et
procul ab omni plebeio ac publico loquendi stilo sacras superis inferre blanditias, num-
eris insuper adhibitis quibus et amenitas inesset et tedia pellerentur. Id sane non vulgari
forma sed artificiosa quadam et exquisita et nova fieri oportuit, que quoniam greco ser-
mone ‘poetes’ dicta est, eos quoque qui hac utebantur, poetas dixerunt.5
These ideas were also well established in Neapolitan culture at the beginning of
the Enlightenments, as shown by the Considerazioni intorno alla poesia degli Ebrei
e dei Greci, a treatise of Biagio Garofalo (a correspondent of Pietro Giannone and
Vico), published between 1716 and 1719 and immediately enclosed in the Index
librorum prohibitorum because the author discussed the Bible as profane myths
(Garofalo 2014: 12–13, 25, 102).
The strings of the musical instruments of Orpheus and Amphion (chorda)
are an allegory of the bounds accepted by civilized human beings, as well as
of the authority necessary to enforce the respect of reciprocal obligation in an
ordered society. Hence, the original violent submission of Giants by the first
civilized men is represented by the poetical myths, and these are in turn the
first forms of juridical bond in the ancient political societies. ‘During that pe-
riod of human adolescence’, Vico wrote, ‘which is the age when fantasy is most
powerful in human beings and, consequently, was the century of the poets,
which marched through history as a heroic, fabulous time, the first founders
of republics transformed the right of the greater gentes into a sort of imitation
of violence’.6
The myths of Orpheus and Amphion evolve, in Vico’s theory, into images of a
just government. The most accomplished allegory in this context is that of Her-
cules as seen by the Gauls: ‘The establishment of this public authority, according
to some, was represented among the Greeks by the head of the Gorgon, whereas
for others by the lyre of Orpheus, of Amphion, or of Apollo, that, resounding
with the songs of the laws, composed the symphony of humanity. The Gauls had
a Hercules of ruder character, who, with the chains issuing from his mouth, that
is, with the words of the Law and not by brute force, chained humankind, not
5 F. Petrarca, Familiares Epistulae, X iv 3–4. Marco Grimaldi, who attends to a search

about the medieval meaning of lyric poetry, politely suggested me Petrarca’s text.
6 De uno, § 124, 92 Pinton-Diehl: ‘Et in illa quadam generis humani adolescentia,
quae aetas in homine phantasia plurimum pollet, quare et id saeculum poetarum
fuit, et omne id tempus in historia heroicum seu fabulosum excurrit, primi rerum-
publicarum fundatores ius maiorum gentium in quasdam imitationes violentiae
commutarunt’.
by its bodies, but by the ears, which stand for the sense devoted to learning the
humanities’ (Bassi 2004: 117–29).7
Herein, Vico tries to explain the origin of the actus legitimi, that is the juridical
actions protected by law and listed by Papinianus, in the famous fragment from
his Quaestionum libri and placed at the end of the Digesta (D. 50.17.77). The
relationships among citizens, in the most archaic period, were regulated through
the balance of power and the direct use of violence. The progressive civilization
caused the conversion of brute force into the force of juridical bonds: thus, the
foundational myths are tales about the establishment of a juridical order and a
civil government. Furthermore, human beings were bound together not by vio-
lence but by the force of persuasion exercised by law and order. In the light of
this, the history of nexum is really emblematic. The original function of the lex
nexi was to oblige, in the closer physical sense, the debtors towards the creditors:
the insolvent debtor becomes the slave of his creditors, who can occasionally split
up the corpse of the debtor and distribute the parts among themselves to recover
their credit on the body of the debtor (De Marini Avonzo 2001: 24–28). The
progressive transformation of this violence into a more reasonable (and perhaps
useful) juridical obligation aroused the attention both of ancient Roman jurists
and modern scholars: ‘the obligation no longer needed chains for the body but
imposed a certain ligament consisting in a formula of words’.8 Here Vico suggest-
ed a panoramic explanation, useful – at least in his theory – to clarify the origin
of all actus legitimi: ‘Thus, trough the practice of these imitations of violence, the
right of the Roman Quirites [citizens with full civil rights] appeared to perform
the fable of the ius gentium; these, not others, as they have been interpreted until
now, were what Justinian quite wisely called fables of the ancient right’.9 Once
again, as David Marshall has observed, ‘Vico does not simply replicate classical
precedent. He radically revives it. From the feats of Orpheus and Amphion, Vico
confects an extraordinarily thick description of what he terms sapienza poetica,
7 De constantia philologiae, XXVIII, 15, 481–82 Pinton-Diehl: ‘Hoc publicum imperium

constitutum, inter Graecos fuit aliis Gorgonis caput, lyra aliis Orphei, aliis Amphionis,
aliis Apollinis, quae, adsonans ad legum carmina concentum excitavit humanitatis.
Rudius Gallis fuit Hercules, qui ore, hoc est verbis legum, non ultra manu, catenulas in
hominum aures, disciplinarum sensum, non in corpora iniicit’.
8 De uno, § 124, 92 Pinton-Diehl.
9 Ibidem: ‘Et sic per haec violentiae imitamenta ius Quiritium Romanorum quandam
iuris gentium fabulam agere videbatur: quas et non alias, ut hactenus sunt interpre-
tati, Justinianus satis erudite iuris antiqui fabulas vocat’.
by which he means the poetic faculties that were brought into being by the first
semiotic acts of human communities’ (Marshall 2010: 208).
As is known, after completing the Universal Right, Vico abandoned both the
Latin language and the juridical approach, and in 1725 he published in Italian
the first version of his masterpiece, the New Science, or better Principles of a new
science about the common origin of nations. He found a more effective tool to dem-
onstrate the new historical principles supporting his theory, and this tool was the
synergy between Philology and Philosophy, as historical human sciences. Then,
till the end of his life, Vico continued to correct and elaborate his work, publishing
a second edition of the New Science in 1730; a third one circulated in 1744, only a
few weeks after his death, edited by his son, Gennaro.
The connection between the ancient poetry (or “theological poetry”, using
Vico’s expression) and the origin of social and political institutions was already
defended in the Universal Right, but it is better illustrated in the New Science,
where Vico writes:
But these treacherous reefs of mythology will be avoided by the principles of this Science,
which will show that such fables in their beginnings were all true and severe and worthy of
the founders of nations […]. As for the rough chronological tempests, they will be cleared
up for us by the discovery of poetic characters, one of whom was Orpheus, considered as a
poet-theologian, who, through the fables, in their original meaning, first founded and then
confirmed the humanity of Greece. This character stood out more clearly than ever in the
heroic contests with the plebeians of the Greek cities. That was the age in which the poet-
theologians distinguished themselves, for example Orpheus himself, Linus, Musaeus, and
Amphion. The last of these, with the self-moving stones (that is the doltish plebeians)
erected the walls of Thebes, which Cadmus had founded three hundred years before; just
as Appius, grandson of the decimvir, about as long after the foundation of Rome, fortifies
the heroic state for the Romans by singing to the plebs the strength of the gods in the aus-
pices, whose knowledge was held by the patricians.10
10 G. Vico, Scienza nuova (1744), in Vico 1990, § 81, 475: ‘Ma questi duri scogli di mito-
logia si schiveranno co’ principi di questa Scienza, la quale dimostrerà che tali favole,
ne’ loro principi, furono tutte vere e severe e degne di fondatori di nazioni […]. L’aspre
tempeste cronologiche ci saranno rasserenate dalla discoverta de’ caratteri poetici, un
de’ quali fu Orfeo, guardato per l’aspetto di poeta teologo, il quale con le favole, nel
primo loro significato, fondò prima e poi raffermò l’umanità della Grecia. Il quale
carattere spiccò più che mai nell’eroiche contese co’ plebei delle greche città; ond’ in tal
età si distinsero i poeti teologi, com’esso Orfeo, Lino, Museo, Anfione, il quale de’ sassi
semoventi (de’ balordi plebei) innalzò le mura di Tebe, che Cadmo aveva da trecento
anni innanzi fondata; appunto come Appio, nipote del decemviro, circa altrettanto
tempo dalla fondazione di Roma, col cantar alla plebe la forza degli dèi negli auspici,
della quale avevano la scienza i patrizi, ferma lo stato eroico a’ romani’.
As David Marhsall pointed out, ‘in Vichian inquiry, Orpheus becomes a poetic
character for obligation, for the stipulation of connections between persons […]
The lyre of Orpheus stands for taming the wild beasts of Greece, harnessing
them with the chords, bonds of obligation, and rendering them, thus, human.
Further, to become human is, in Vico’s rendition, to become susceptible to obli-
gation’ (Marshall 2010: 217–18).
Three centuries after the mythical foundation of Thebes by Cadmus, the poet
Amphion fortified the town, building the walls of stones moved only by his
music, that is he persuaded the dull people of Beotia to live together accepting
common rules, laws and a civil government. After the same time span, three
hundred years after the mythical foundation of Rome, Appius Claudius Caecus
led a political campaign against the tribunes Licinius and Sextus and their re-
forms (his speech is in Livy VI 40–41), though he took the initiative to publish
the calendar and the juridical formulas (legis actiones), opening the practice of
law and the juridical protection of rights to the new emerging classes in Roman
society. Vico, in his typical concise style, clarifies the links between the cultural
and political development: Orpheus (and the other “poet-theologians”) appears
as the equivalent of the Roman politician, able to establish the juridical order
without forgetting the religious origin of law enforcement in the Roman tra-
dition. The link between Appius Claudius Caecus (consul in 307 and 296 b.c.)
and Appius Claudius Crassus Regillensis Sabinus (head of the decemvir in 451)
– actually the first was the grandson of the second – enables Vico to recall the
decemvir and the Law of the Twelve Tables, confirming that his attention is com-
pletely devoted to outlining the development of human civilization through the
improvement of political institutions.
In 18th century culture, the myth is ‘fable’, although in Vico this mythical fable
turns up ‘true and severe’, because he portrays the truth proper to every mythi-
cal discourse. This peculiar truth is conveyed by linguistic expressions, while
the mythical expression is the native linguistic expression (Carandini 2002 and
Bassi 2004: 35). The poetical foundation of the first political communities col-
limates with the fictitious character of the first forms of right (ficticia, which is
imitative of ancient violence): therefore the past and the origin of civilization
were reinterpreted in a wider cultural horizon. The idea of poets as builders
of civilian government will return in a letter of Hölderlin to his brother, Carl
Gock, January 1, 1799 (Hölderlin VI: 189–92).11
11 I express my gratitude to Domenico Mugnolo for his observations during the confer-
ence and for the indication of Hölderlin’s letter.
At the dawn of modernity, Vico recalls to our memory the image of the birds’
town, built by birds in the Aristophanic comedy to escape from political corrup-
tion and to revive the original condition of human sociability: ‘First I advise that
the birds gather together in one city and that they build a wall of great bricks, like
that in Babylon, round the plains of the air and the whole region of space that
divides the Earth from the Heaven’ (Aristophanes’ Birds, ll. 550–52).
References
Bassi R., 2004, Favole vere e severe. Sulla fondazione antropologica del mito
nell’opera vichiana, prefazione di Andrea Battistini, Roma: Edizioni di Storia
e Letteratura.
Carandini A., 2002, Archeologia del mito. Emozione e ragione fra primitivi e
moderni, Torino: Einaudi.
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chelli.
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Manuela Sanna, con la collaborazione di Anna Lissa, Milano: Angeli.
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Bremen: Luchterhand, VI.
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West M.L., 1979, ‘The Prometheus Trilogy’, Journal Hellenic Studies, 99, 130–48.

Agata Buda
The Time and Space of Antiquity in

The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde
The article covers the idea of time and space in the context of various types of time-space
relations according to Mikhail Bakhtin. In the novel by Oscar Wilde The Picture of Dorian
Gray one may easily distinguish such spaces as: the space of antiquity, individual space,
as well as literary space. There also exists artistic chronotope, which should be considered
as the most crucial for understanding the whole literary work by Wilde. Wilde’s creation
of the space of antiquity is an attempt to restore the ancient ideals of art and beauty, in
accordance with the statements of aestheticism. The writer exploits such mythical figures
as Adonis, Apollo and Narcissus, combining them with the idea of a perfect piece of art.
The category of space and time can be viewed as one of the most crucial con-
struction elements when analysing a literary work, as it may fulfil several func-
tions in the work of art. It becomes the background for the events taking place,
it frequently conveys a metaphorical meaning hidden behind the figures and
places, and it can also offer the reader the image of a whole book, if it is presented
in the incipit in a detailed way1. Spatial dimensions can be easily distinguished in
the well-known novel by Oscar Wilde The Picture of Dorian Gray. Following the
categorization by Mikhail Bakhtin2 one may notice the great number of spaces
that alternate one with another, as well as those that stay in some oppositions.
Although one of the main protagonists of the novel, Dorian Gray creates around
him a unique individual space, there appear to exist other essential spaces to which
the characters refer. One of these spaces is the historical space of antiquity. It is not
a new idea for nineteenth-century writers and poets, as the first English novels by
Samuel Richardson and those by Charles Dickens exploited ancient motifs. Their
presence is significant, as it helps to strengthen contemporary culture (Stabryła
1980: 9). For Wilde, as well as for other nineteenth-century artists and thinkers,
1 George Hughes is of the opinion that a typical incipit describing the place of an action
influences the way the reader understands the whole literary work, and it is the best
remembered part of the book (2002: 20).
2 I based my interpretation of The Picture of Dorian Gray mainly on Bakhtin’s analysis
of chronotope (1982).
102 Agata Buda
antiquity was a model, cultural and artistic ambition, it was “useful past”. They
saw a nineteenth-century gentleman in the figure of an ancient Greek (Evangelista
2009: 9). As the academic points out, Greek culture for Wilde constitutes an anti-
dote for English middle-class philistinism (Evangelista 2009: 127).
In The Picture of Dorian Gray, the space of antiquity is constructed on the
basis of the idea of prefiguration3. The idea employs the motif of ancient art
(painting and drama), as well as the presentation of the ancient structure of the
world and its modern equivalent. First of all, it is crucial to point out that the
name of the main character, Dorian, is meaningful. As Ross claims, the name
has a double meaning for nineteenth-century scientists:
As northern invaders of earlier Greek settlements they were celebrated, particularly in
Germany, as paragons of Aryanism, while the erroneous notion that they introduced the
institution of paiderastia into Greece led to ‘Dorian’ becoming a code word for Greek
love (Ross 2013: 170).
The motif of ancient art becomes a major factor creating the vision of an ideal
piece of art. It frequently appears as the reflection of the characters’ longing and
dreams of the ideal. The work of Basil Hallward is the representation of a perfect
picture. He finds in the young man the model to be imitated: ‘What the invention
of oil-painting was to the Venetians, the face of Antinous was to late Greek sculp-
ture, and the face of Dorian Gray will someday be to me,’ (Wilde 1891(1997): 11).
The perfect ancient vision of a human body became for Basil the source of inspi-
ration while creating his masterpieces:
I had drawn you as Paris in dainty armour, and as Adonis with huntsman’s cloak and
polished boar-spear. Crowned with heavy lotus – blossoms you had sat on the prow of
Adrian’s Barge, gazing across the green turbid Nile. You had leant over the still pool of
some Greek woodland, and seen in the water’s silent silver the marvel of your own face
(Wilde 1891 (1997): 81).
It seems that the painter wants to see the revival of the perfection of ancient art in
the figure of his model. As Evangelista claims, comparing Dorian to the figures of
Paris or Adonis functions here as merging ‘the classical tableaux into a phantas-
magoria in which Dorian’s body is transposed in time, translated into the artistic
medium and consumed through intertextuality’ (Evangelista 2009: 153). One
cannot disagree with the academic who further claims that Basil subconsciously
3 According to Stanisław Stabryła (1980: 7–8), three ways of using ancient motifs in litera-
ture exist: revocation (imitation of the motifs and subjects), reinterpretation (changing
the meaning of the motifs, polemics or even the deformation of the motif) and prefigu-
ration (analogy between the ancient pattern and its modern representation).
The Time and Space of Antiquity in The Picture of Dorian Gray 103
expresses his desire for other man by giving his figure an ancient context. This
context enables the painter to admire young Dorian apart from the repressions
of contemporary world (Evangelista 2009: 153). Comparing Dorian Gray to the
Greek boy Antinous, and to other ancient figures, is the attempt to cross the bor-
der between the two époques. The existence of the space limits is obvious here:
the past tense expresses the closed space of antiquity, and the future form will is
the promise of creating a new space of art. These temporal terms can be viewed as
the elements marking the spatial points, enabling things to move freely from one
space to another. They also shape the text in the form of a story (Grabias 1994:
252 in: Krauz 2005: 138), as they underline the unity of the observer’s and the
object’s location, as Krauz claims (2005: 138). The past tenses used in the above
descriptions enable us to look at the presented object from various perspectives;
enumerating the names connected with antiquity is the example of a wide pano-
ramic look, on the other hand, referring these names to the figure of one particu-
lar model means narrowing the space to one detail: the perfect masculinity4. This
notion is also discussed by Wilde through the attempt to employ the whole plot
of the novel into the myth of Narcissus. The reason of Dorian’s destruction was
the clash between the aesthetic system connected with antiquity and represented
by magic picture with the nineteenth-century morality; it is impossible though,
to lead a Greek life in Victorian England (Evangelista 2009: 152). Dorian longs
for ancient ideals and that is why he dreams of becoming immortal like ancient
gods. Unfortunately, what he gains is only the gods’ physicality; his body resem-
bles the bodies of Greek gods or statues, but his soul is changeable (Ross 2013:
164). ‘The attempt to capture the former in the latter, to impose permanent form
upon it’ is what Ross defines as flux – the opposition to stasis (Ross 2013: 164).
The vision of a perfect piece of art and the reception of the ancient patterns
is one of the elements of the idea of humanitas. As Aleksandra Jakóbczyk-Gola
claims (2010: 437–438), the process of anthropomorphisation in art is an indis-
pensable factor reflecting the notion of humanitas. The ideal proportions of a
model let us understand humanitas as the presence of a human being in art. In
The Picture of Dorian Gray Basil Hallward fulfils his mission of an artist in the
context of an ideal model reflecting ancient sources. He consciously realizes
the idea of humanitas in practice, following the term mimesis (Jakóbczyk-Gola
2010: 428). In this case it is not only imitatio but creative aemulatio5. Creating a
4 The role of the expressions connected with the location in the space and the space
limitations is widely discussed by Krauz 2005: 135–145.
5 Barbara Milewska-Waźbińska underlines the importance of two phenomena that
appeared in medieval times in reference to ancient inspirations: imitatio - imitation
104 Agata Buda
perfect piece of art by Basil Hallward means following ancient concepts of har-
mony and proportion. These are the ideas expressed by Plato as indispensable
in creating perfect art (de Michele 2005: 48). Proportion and symmetry are the
most crucial elements constituting the perfection of the piece of art (Tatarkie-
wicz 1988: 137) and the Dorian’s picture seems to respond to it. The essential
thing is to fit into canon – which refers to measure – the layout of proportions
(Tatarkiewicz 1988: 143). But, as Ross points out, Basil imitated a body, instead
of giving a body to an ideal; in this way Dorian became ‘the imitation of divine
and unchanging form’ (Ross 2013: 165).
The concept of ancient love is also included in the plot of the novel by Wilde.
The writer uses ancient structure of the male relationship; Dorian is ἐραστής
(lover), and Lord Henry is ἐρώμενος (beloved). According to Ross (2013: 168),
the difference between the ancient model and this in the novel by Wilde lies
in the switch of roles; Dorian is enslaved to Henry, while in ancient Greece
ἐρώμενος, who is older, becomes enslaved to the young one. Moreover, as Evan-
gelista claims (2009: 153), Wilde’s aim was also to show another relationship as
based on a classical model. Love between Dorian and Basil corresponds with the
figure of a male ἐρως described in Phaedrus by Plato:
[It is] a form of divine madness or enthusiasm […] which is beneficial to philosophy and
art. [Basil’s] erotic investment in Dorian evolves from sexual obsession to the creative
triumph of the painting – from madness to genius (Evangelista 2009: 153).
This perception of Dorian’s figure by Basil, as the object of fascination refers to the
role model presented in the words of Socrates; the philosopher states that a man
in love seeks in his beloved divine features, tries to impose on him a divine cult6.
Apart from the vision of a perfect model and picture, the novel by Oscar
Wilde presents the prefiguration of an ancient drama. The major point of this
phenomenon is a theatre where Sybil, Dorian’s beloved, works. The theatre itself
appears to be disgusting and the play Dorian watches – mediocre:
There was a dreadful orchestra (…). Romeo was a stout elderly gentleman, with corked
eyebrows, a husky tragedy voice, and a figure like a beer-barrel. Mercutio was almost as
bad. (…) They were both as grotesque as the scenery, and that looked as if it had come
out of a country-booth. But Juliet! Harry, imagine a girl, hardly seventeen years of age,
with a little flower-like face, a small Greek head with plaited coils of dark-brown hair
(…) (1891 (1997): 38).
of a pattern and content, and emulatio - continuation and renewing ancient sources
(2010: 87).
6 Plato, Phaedrus, (http://classics.mit.edu/Plato/phaedrus.html, (14.07.2014).
The motif of relationship between Dorian and Sybil takes over the structure of
an ancient tragedy. Her death which was perceived as the effect of Dorian’s ac-
tions, becoming for him the epitome of a perfect Greek tragic play. Dorian boasts
about the fact that he found the analogy:
And yet I must admit that this thing that has happened does not affect me as it should.
It seems to me to be simply like a wonderful ending to a wonderful play. It has all the
terrible beauty of a Greek tragedy, a tragedy in which I took a great part, but by which I
have not be wounded (1891 (1997): 71).
In the course of the action, Dorian returns in his thoughts to the figure of Sy-
bil, always perceiving her death in the context of an ancient play. Sybil always
became for him a ‘wonderful tragic figure’ (1891 (1997): 74), who died of love
and in this way, showed the ‘supreme reality of love’ ((1891 (1997): 74). Dorian
himself realizes that he is supposed to make a choice like a tragic hero. He is
to decide whether to choose an honest life or continue the hedonistic way of
living. Dorian eventually commits an error of judgement and makes the wrong
choice:
Yes, life had decided that for him – life, and his own infinite curiosity about life. Eternal
youth, infinite passion, pleasures subtle and secret, wild joys and wilder sins – he was
to have all these things. The portrait was to bear the burden of his shame: that was all
((1891 (1997): 74)
The reference to the Greek tragedy becomes the essence of Dorian’s image in
the novel. The difference is – as it seems – that the young man has a choice. He
has to decide about his further life and he is aware of that. Nevertheless, Dorian
chooses the destructive way of living. The events in his life resemble the typical
plot of an ancient play; one tragedy causes another and so on. There appears the
accumulation of events: after Sybil’s death Dorian kills Basil, Sybil’s brother, and
also indirectly causes the death of his friend Alan Campbell, before finally dying
himself. Dorian’s gradual fall is a modern representation of an ancient construc-
tion of drama. Another example of an ancient drama used as a model in Wilde’s
novel is the conversation between Basil and Dorian concerning the painting.
They are standing in front of it and exchanging the words in the form of Greek
tragedy. Basil says he was sure Dorian destroyed the picture, Dorian, however,
claims this is the picture that destroyed him (Ross 2013: 164). In the whole tragic
course of action, Dorian was still faithful to the ancient ideals, which constituted
for him the ideal and beautiful world. He aspired to become similar to Gaius
Petronius, or even more than that:
[He] found, indeed, a subtle pleasure in the thought that he might really become to the
London of his own day what to imperial Neronian Rome the author of the Satyricon
106 Agata Buda
once had been, yet in his inmost heart he desired to be something more than a mere
arbiter elegantiarum (1891 (1997): 91)
Dorian’s dream was to find his own way of life, combining power, eternal beauty
and possessing the knowledge of perfection. His lust for sin and evil came from
his fascination with historic ancient figures, with whom he shared a similar type
and temperament. The yellow book lord Henry gave him, and especially its main
character, became the representation of Dorian’s dreams:
The hero of the wonderful novel (…) he tells how, crowned with laurel, lest lightning
might strike him, he had sat, as Tiberius, in a garden at Capri (…), and, as Caligula, had
caroused with the green-shirted jockeys in their stables, and supped in an ivory manger
with a jewel-frontleted horse; and, as Domitian, had wandered through a corridor (…),
looking round with haggard eyes for the reflection of the dagger that was to end his days
(…), and then, heard men cry on Nero Caesar as he passed by; and, as Elagabalus, had
painted his face with colours (…) ((1891 (1997): 101)
The space of antiquity is closely connected with the motif of beauty. Bakhtin
distinguishes several motifs that can be found in every kind of space (1982:
294). In the novel by Oscar Wilde beauty constitutes the most important motif,
as it is the major idea of Wilde’s preoccupation with the aesthetic movement. In
The Picture of Dorian Gray beauty is portrayed as a timeless value: although an-
tiquity is the representation of beauty, this value is not located only in one par-
ticular place or time, but the search for beauty is omnipresent, it stays beyond
any chronotope7. In the preface to his novel Wilde clearly defines the position
of beauty in the artist’s world, saying that ‘They are the elect to whom beautiful
things mean only beauty’ (1891 (1997): 3). Later, Dorian Gray, in the conversa-
tion with lord Watton, expresses their mutual view on the sense of human life,
admitting:
I remember what you had said to me on that wonderful evening when we first dined
together, about the search for beauty being the real secret of life (1891(1997): 36).
The idea of beauty becomes the idea of perfection and happiness that have always
been looked for by people of different époques. That is why beauty constitutes the
universal value that cannot be appointed to one particular time-space. Neverthe-
less, the concept of beauty has its roots in the ancient world. Plato himself per-
ceived beauty as the phenomenon pleasant for eyes but not necessarily connected
with truth (de Michele 2005: 37). That is why Dorian’s picture is enjoyed by others
7 Władysława Książek – Bryłowa (2005) points out at the existence of so called timeless
truths that are independent of any time and space.
but it does not reflect Dorian’s character. It is worth mentioning here how beauty
evolved in the minds of the ancient artists. As Stępień claims (1986: 21), before
Plato, three theories on beauty existed: Pythagorean beauty as combination of
measure, proportion and order, sophistic subjective pleasure for eyes and ears and
finally Socrates’ usefulness for its aims. Plato linked these ideas into the definition
that presents beauty as appropriateness and pleasure for eyes. What Basil Hall-
ward did, was to exploit these ancient ideas while creating his picture of a friend.
The painter also followed the concept of Aristotle concerning beauty: a piece of
art should imitate and supplement reality, as well as keep and commemorate what
inevitably passes (Stępień 1986: 59). The picture of Dorian is the epitome of art
that is beautiful and has the aesthetic value (Stępień 1986: 59). It fulfils the idea
of the eternal beauty. But for the ancient artists, beauty can be seen not only by
admiring the physical side of an object, but also by noticing its moral value. For
Greeks, κάλλον (beautiful) means not only what attracts by its charm, but it also
refers to virtues and good character (de Michele 2005: 39, 41). That is why the
concept of καλοκἀγαθία became popular in antiquity, as connecting beauty and
goodness of spirit (de Michele 2005: 45), as well as beautiful thoughts and habits
(Tatarkiewicz 1988: 137). Plato in his Symposium underlines also the superiority
of spiritual beauty over the physical one; additionally, he pays attention to the fact
that an object becomes beautiful through taking part in the idea of beauty which
can be perceived through its reflections (Stępień 1986: 21). In this view, the figure
of Dorian Gray becomes the epitome of perfection; in the beginning though, he
seems to be innocent, morally pure and possessing high moral values. Those who
met him admired his ideal body and charm, reflected in the picture, perceiving
his character as analogous to his looks.
Literary chronotope is another area that can be distinguished in the novel by
Wilde. It is mainly connected with literary criticism, as it frequently refers to
particular artists and works of art. The major space that emerges here is the space
of English literature. Lord Watton criticizes English people for not being able to
read good books, which is why he denies the sense in writing valuable literature.
The literary space is characterized by surfiction, as Watton definitely rejects the
idea of realism in nineteenth-century English novels:
Names are everything. I never quarrel with actions. My one quarrel is with words. This
is the reason I hate vulgar realism in literature. The man who could call a spade a spade
should be compelled to use one. It is the only thing he is fit for (1891 (1997): 134).
The criticism of literature has also some universal dimension, as it is an abstract

kind of space. There is no reference to a particular place or person when Wilde
describes the ideal artist:
108 Agata Buda
No artist has ethical sympathies (…). No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express
everything.
Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an art.
Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art (1891 (1997): 3).
In this way Wilde presents a universal space of poetry and prose, independent
of the events shown in his novel8. Literary art is presented here from a wide
perspective.
The third type of a wide space presented by Wilde is undoubtedly the most
crucial; the space of the picture of the main protagonist. This space is closely con-
nected with the idea of painting. Basil’s studio is the unchangeable background
for this space. It is the point of reference for analysis of the artistic creation by
Basil Hallward. The picture of Dorian was created in a pleasant room, full of light
and nice smells. It promises to be a real artistic masterpiece:
The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind
stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent
of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn (1891 (1997): 5).
It is not a totally closed space, not separated from the other spaces, inviting and
full of life. It is the starting point for the journey that the picture is going to take.
The object becomes alive, it is personified and is moved to a completely contrast-
ing space, which is the room in Dorian’s house. During the journey the reader
witnesses a big change in the picture as well as in the behaviour of Dorian Gray.
Both the picture and Dorian Gray undergo changes: the object becomes ugly
and disgusting, while Dorian Gray becomes cruel and aggressive. Nevertheless,
Dorian remains static, as nothing changes in his appearance. He looks exactly
the same throughout the major part of the novel. This phenomenon is called a
time gap (Bakhtin 1982: 286–287). According to Bachelard, this is a feature that
is frequent in different kinds of chronotope: compressed time (1994: 8). The idea
of the changing picture introduces the reader to the fantastic, extra-terrestrial
kind of space. As Małgorzata Klimczak states, this type of space is very vast and
quite unknown; in this way the area cannot be fully understood, but rather it
evokes fear and doubt, making a human being confused and lost (2005: 61–65).
In the case of Dorian Gray’s behaviour, the addressee of the novel gets to know
the deepest levels of the human soul, those that refer to the negative side of the
human character; this inner space of the protagonist can symbolize hell as the
ultimate place of evil and corruption.
8 Pirecki (2005) points out that the kind of space that lacks detailed information about
the time or place, it is an unfinished area, located both everywhere and nowhere.
The space of the picture is definitely a detailed type of space, as its central point
is the portrait. This is the object that is very carefully described and observed from
different locations. Its journey from one room to another is analogous to its chang-
ing appearance: the more disgusting the picture becomes, the more Dorian tries to
hide it. This space is also dynamic, as it influences people’s decisions and reflects
their drawbacks. Finally, the portrait is the iconic representation of Dorian’s con-
science, the visualization of his moral fall. The analysed space has its limitations
which are marked by the rooms, and everything revolves around the picture. The
chronotope can be also easily defined, as its descriptions contain a number of loca-
tive and time expressions, as in the portrayal of the journey to the room upstairs,
which is the final destination of the portrait:
‘Can you move it, covering and all, just as it is? I don’t want it to get scratched going
upstairs.’ (…)
‘I will show you the way, Mr Hubbard, if you will kindly follow me. (…) I am afraid it
is right at the top of the house. We will go up by the front staircase, as it is wider.’ (…)
‘I am afraid it is rather heavy,’ murmured Dorian, as he unlocked the door that opened
into the room that was to keep for him the curious secret of his life and hide his soul
from the eyes of men.
He had not entered the place for more than four years – not, indeed, since he had used it
first as a playroom when he was a child (…). There was the huge Italian cassone (…). There
the satinwood bookcase filled with his dog-eared schoolbooks. (1891 (1997): 85–86).
The space of this room differs from Basil’s studio, as it is not easily accessible. It is
at the top of the house, so in a place that only the house’s inhabitants can reach.
The space of the location is marked by such locative words as: ‘the staircase’, ‘up-
stairs’, ‘at the top’ and ‘the locked door’ which appear to be an obstacle for a prob-
able visitor. The intimacy of this place is underlined by the reference to Dorian’s
childhood memories and the time expressions (‘for more than four years’, ‘since
he had used it first’, ‘when he was a child’) evoke the feeling of melancholy and
mystery. The experience of visiting the room by Dorian is very personal and is
perceived by the main protagonist as the perfect escape from the outside world
that could discover his secret. In this context the location of the room – at the top
of the house – corresponds to one of the directions of the spatial cross created by
Juan Eduardo Cirlot9; the direction ‘up’ may symbolize here the way of life of the
main character which is not accepted by the others. Dorian Gray escapes from
the common ways of behaviour and hides himself in a distant place. The room
9 Juan Eduardo Cirlot created the idea of a spatial cross, whose three dimensions repre-
sent possible symbolic interpretations of a given text, for instance the vertical part of
the cross can be the representation of the opposition: heaven - hell (2000: 335).
110 Agata Buda
with the picture is Dorian’s personal cosmos, it is a world within a world (Gilson
1994: ix). The top place in a house may be also understood as a shelter from
any dangers; here, Dorian accepts the rationality of the top floor, which makes
the thoughts clear (Bachelard 1994: 18). Distinguishing the artistic space in the
novel shows the mutual existence of literature and painting. The descriptions of
the picture can be understood as an example of intertextual references, which are
included in the idea of interart10.
The ancient space in The Picture of Dorian Gray constitutes a background
for the creation of the main hero. It corresponds to the artistic space of the
picture itself which is the pivot of the whole story. The idea of analysing the
novel in terms of the chronotope shows art as the linking element. The space of
antiquity, literature and painting alternate one with another, making the literary
work complete.
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Tiziana Ottaviano
Gabriele D’Annunzio and Apollo
Gabriele D’Annunzio was undoubtedly a great figure in the Italian literary world. His
attitude and approach to life, treated as works of art, introduced a fresh point of view to
Italian literature. He proved to be a versatile artist, interested in new trends, but often
quite changeable. He wrote prose, drama works for the stage, poetry, and also collabo-
rated with the theatre. He began his literary activity as one of the main representatives of
decadence in his country, but over the years he also managed to improve and develop his
work directing it towards various concepts, such as aestheticism, a new vision of Über-
mensch and panism. He was a charismatic figure, very esteemed, and his words exerted
a great influence on the society of his time. D’Annunzio was a sophisticated aesthete with
a particular talent to appreciate all that was beautiful and uncommon. He demonstrated
a tendency to hide himself in a fictitious world that was the essence of art and aesthetics.
Although his prose is full of rich detailed descriptions, worthy of attention is his out-
standing poetic work. In particular, the whole cycle of poetry entitled ‘Laudi del cielo, del
mare, della terra e degli eroi’ presents the highest levels of artistry. Here his fascination
with classic tradition and mythology is clearly visible. In the third book of poetry, enti-
tled ‘Alcyone’, D’Annunzio repeatedly refers to both the mythological topoi and explicitly
presents, reinterprets and adapts them to his needs. The period during which Alcyone was
completed coincides with a turbulent love affair with the Italian actress Eleonora Duse.
This fact is significant in a particular way because of the poet’s references to the mytholog-
ical characters Apollo and Daphne. D’Annunzio took inspiration from this myth writing
‘L’Oleandro’, a composition in which the author tells about the transformation of Daphne
into a plant. The story presented in this lyric is, without doubt, significantly different from
the one shown by Ovidius in ‘Metamorphoseon’. In D’Annunzio, Daphne wants to connect
with Apollo physically and spiritually. The whole poem is characterized by a sophisti-
cated sensuality typical for this author. Interesting and also worth noticing is the analogy
between the poet and Apollo and Daphne and his muse Eleonora Duse. The analogy is
shown as well in the poetry ‘La pioggia nel pineto’. The symbolism of the characters and
the situations in which the characters are located is clearly visible here. This lyric is defi-
nitely a tribute to the senses and its analysis is usually carried out on this level. On the
other hand, I would like to draw particular attention to the reference to the classical tradi-
tion, and to emphasise the process of the metamorphosis that takes place in the poem and
involves the character as well as the poet and his beloved.
Gabriele D’Annunzio was born in Pescara in 1863 in a wealthy middle-class fam-

ily and had already started to write literary works in his school years. In 1879, as
a young student, he published his first collection of poems entitled Primo vere,
114 Tiziana Ottaviano
a work which became immediately very successful. He started his studies at the
University in Rome at the Faculty of Letters and in 1881 he began to collaborate
with Angelo Sommaruga’s magazine, Cronaca bizzantina. In 1882 he published
a collection of poems, Canto novo and the stories of Terra vergine. In 1884 the
same publisher presented his next work, Intermezzo di rime, in which the artist
realizes an aesthetic and intellectual art. The publication of Intermezzo di rime
was immediately followed by the publication of Il libro delle vergini, a collec-
tion of four short stories. In 1889 Gabriele D’Annunzio published the novel Il
piacere. This event became a literary turning point as it introduced the decadent
trend and aestheticism into the Italian culture of the 19th century. With this novel
D’Annunzio inaugurates a new kind of psychological and introspective prose,
destined to be a great success. In 1895 he became romantically involved in a
relation with the famous actress Eleonora Duse and went to live in Versilia, in
the ‘villa Capponcina’. The relationship with Eleonora Duse would increase the
poet’s interest in the theater, for which he wrote a number of works such as:
Sogno d’un mattino di primavera, Francesca Da Rimini, La figlia di Iorio. Gabriele
D’Annunzio was not only a literary man, he was also the herald of Italy, Vate a
poet-soldier of the Great War, a Commander of Fiume. He had a considerable
influence not only in the domain of arts but also in the social sphere. He took
part in Italian political life in 1897 as a deputy of the right wing, passing in a
short time, in 1900, to the ranks of the extreme left. He was immediately favour-
able to the intervention of Italy in the First World War, waging an intense inter-
ventionist propaganda. He distinguished himself during the war with a series of
spectacular actions, for which he was decorated several times. As a consequence
of untreated wound on the right eyebrow arch, he was forced to pass a long pe-
riod of convalescence in almost total blindness. During this period he wrote the
draft of ‘Notturno’, a work in lyrical prose considered a real masterpiece due
especially to its reflective and meditative content, so different from the previous
style of the writer. The work would be published in 1921. After the end of the
war, between 1919 and 1920, with his legionari he occupied Fiume, which was
not assigned to Italy by the victorious Allied powers. As a result of the Treaty of
Rapallo, Fiume became a free city but D’Annunzio did not accept the agreement
and the Italian Government, using force, obliged him and his legionari to leave
the city. Disappointed by the experience of Fiume, D’Annunzio retired to the
villa in Gardone Riviera, which was subsequently renamed ‘Il Vittoriale degli Ital-
iani’. He built here a kind of mausoleum of memories and mythological symbols
which, referring to D’Annunzio himself, make of him the central pivot. Here he
died in March the 1st, 1938 (Spinosa 2013; Antonicelli 1964; Borghese 1909).

Gabriele D’Annunzio and Apollo 115
Gabriele D’Annunzio was undoubtedly an important figure in the Italian liter-

ary world. He made his life a true work of art, embodying his artistic ideals in
their actions, he brought into the art of his country an innovative change and a
new freshness. He proved to be a complete artist, fascinated by everything that is
new and often very changeable. During his long career he wrote prose works and
plays, poems, and also worked in film. He made his debut as a representative of
decadence in his country, but over the years he developed his literary idea and
led it in the direction of other artistic concepts such as aestheticism, the concep-
tion of the Superman and the panismo. He was a charismatic figure, well-known
and appreciated by the people of his country.
His words as well as his actions exerted a great influence on the society of the
time. This sublime aesthete was denoted by the particular talent to surround
himself by the beautiful and the uncommon. He took refuge in a world almost
an imitation that represented the quintessence of art and aesthetics. Although
his prose production is undoubtedly very rich and famous we must also keep in
mind his magnificent poetry. In particular, the collection of five volumes entitled
Laudi del cielo, del mare, della terra e degli eroi, known under the title of Laudi.
The project was realized by the poet only partially, because all the work allowed
for the production of seven books: one for each star of the Pleiades. The poetry
collections were designed in response to the poet’s trip to Greece in 1895 and
1899. The first three books are strongly affected by the inspiration of classical
tradition and mythology. The third volume, Alcyone, is considered a masterpiece
of decadent-symbolist poetry. In this book, the importance of myth and of the
classical era is very clear. Here D’Annunzio took as models the poets Virgil, Ovid,
Homer and other Greek poets. Even the language is influenced by classical and
archaic terms and there are numerous Latinisms. Alcyone is a sort of diary of the
summer in Versilia (Roncoroni 1995). In this book, the communion between
man and nature is fully expressed: man identifies himself and plunges into the
landscape in which he is located, In this way he becomes a participant of natural
phenomena. In turn, nature is humanized in a melodic, vital and harmonious
rhythm. The Superman in panistic conception is one who manages to live in pure
joy and vitality and to become part of nature. One of the major themes of the po-
etry of D’Annunzio is the panismo or the interpenetration taking place between
man and nature, which goes so far as to cause the vegetal metamorphosis of man,
who turns into a plant. Man becomes an integral part of the fibre of the universe,
he becomes a part of the beauty of the world, he becomes nature.
The poet’s intimate relationship with nature is revived through the recovery of
the myth, reinterpreted, the myth seems to be able to restore in him the original
vitality, away from the contamination of civilization. The poetry and its language
are the means by which the poet intends to recover an authentic relationship
with the natural world, interpreting and reproducing its speech and musicality.
The immersion in nature is obtained and expressed by means of images, sensa-
tions, emotions, sounds, scents full of sensuality and life force.
Gabriele D’Annunzio takes advantage of the myths, using them as tools to
develop themes of particular relevance to him. A good example is the myth
of Apollo and Daphne, presented for the first time in the poem L’oleandro and
which still echoes in the famous poem La pioggia nel pineto. The love story of
the god Apollo for the nymph Daphne is an opportunity for D’Annunzio to
develop the themes that fascinate him in a particular way. On the one hand
the transformation of a woman into a tree - an extreme panistic theme, on the
other hand, the story presented by the author is full of a strong sensuality which
is a characteristic element in the artistic production of Gabriele D’Annunzio.
L’oleandro was composed, or rather completed, in one night on the 2nd of August
1900. From the first moment, the poet called his poem eclogue and in fact the
idyllic scenery - the twilight along the shore of the sea and the conversational
nature of poetry, is typical of eclogues and idylls (Roncoroni 1995: 366–374).
Throughout the poem, you can see how dreams and reality intertwine continu-
ously. The opera is divided into five parts of different lengths, each consisting
of hendecasyllables verse but each one characterized by a different rhythm. Part
III of the poem presents the story of Apollo and Daphne. This part includes the
verses 207–400 and opens with a 14 hendecasyllables verse, linked more by as-
sonances than by rhymes.
In the analysis of the poem, I would like to start by focusing attention on
the exaltation of the senses that the poet develops in the text. In L’oleandro,
D’Annunzio presents for the first time the myth found in the book of the Meta-
morphoses of Ovid. But the inspiration and the influence of the Roman author is
seen only in the subject chosen by D’Annunzio and not in the metrical form of
the composition. In Ovid’s composition the verses follow the classic hexametric
rhythm, while inspired by: Dante, Tasso, Ariosto, D’Annunzio chooses the hen-
decasyllable, the metrical rhythm more common in the Italian poetry.
The story briefly presented in the poem is as follows: Daphne, who is the
daughter of the river god Peneus, is the unrequited love object of the god Apollo.
The god of the Sun chases her into the woods manifesting his passion for her but
the nymph runs away scared, begging her father for help. Her father then trans-
forms her into a laurel tree. This plant consequently becomes sacred to the god
Apollo, mindful of his feelings for the woman from whom he had barely stolen
a kiss. The story presented by Ovid, under certain, relevant aspects, strays from
the story reinterpreted by D’Annunzio. The poet leaves out the important role,
which Eros plays in thr story. It’s just because of the anger of the God of Love
that Apollo falls in love with Daphne, struck by the golden arrow. Moreover, just
by the action of Eros, the fluvial nymph, being struck by the lead arrow, is not
able to feel any affection for the God of the Sun. In the poem of Ovid, the nymph
invokes her father for help, and as a consequence she becomes transformed into
a laurel tree, analogically as in the poem of D’Annunzio. In the story presented
in the ‘Metamorphoses’ any change of the mind of the woman is not even taken
into consideration. Next element which differs the poem of D’Annunzio from
the one of Ovid, is found at the end of the story. Here we can see clearly that
D’Annunzio doesn’t abandon completely the classical tradition but adds a more
adequate ending to the message which he wants to transmit. D’Annunzio aims at
presenting the story as an expression of a sensual passion, which finds it’s crown-
ing moment in the transformation of the laurel into a blooming oleander, full
of red flowers, which bring in mind the lips of the young woman. The classical
story is far from the D’Annunzio’s sensualism. Moreover, it presents an example
of unrequired love, where the passion of the God Apollo meets with the refusal
of Daphne and her desire of preserving chastity.
In the times of antiquity, the Sun god was also considered the god of the arts,
music and the patron of poetry. For Gabriele d’Annunzio, the god was the quin-
tessence of art and beauty. In this first poem the poet explores just this char-
acter. He presents him as magnificent, radiant, passionate. The character that
D’Annunzio embodied in the poem is called Glaucus, he is a recurring figure in
the poetry collection Alcyone. We should note that in this opera the desire, the
ambition of Glaucus/D’Annunzio to become an artist worthy of Apollo is easily
perceptible. Worthy to an extent to be crowned with the triumphal laurel:
Ed il cuore profondo mi tremò,
tremò della divina poesia.
Ond’io pregava: “O desiderii miei,
stirpe vorace e vigile, dormite!
E voi lasciate che nel vostro sonno
io mi cinga del lauro trionfale!”
vv. 43–48
Throughout the whole poetic cycle containing the lyric, the poet is hidden un-
der the guise of Glaucus, but in the poem L’oleandro it is the very Apollo and
not Glaucus that is the main character, who, along with his beloved Daphne,
focuses attention. The story of Apollo is located in the central part of the eclogue
and around this story orbit all the characters and other stories. The god is men-
tioned several times throughout the poem, first clearly presented by the story in
vv. 221–440, but also in the remaining verses of the repetition of the phrase: The
Day (…) will not die, in verses 17–18, 432–433. And also in the above mentioned
phrase which refers to the laurel of Apollo.
The eclogue seems to present, as D’Annunzio wrote later in La pioggia nel
pineto: ‘the lovely fable that yesterday beguiled you, that beguiles me today.’ (cit.
Reynolds 1952: 13–16) In fact, the main characters of the story are named af-
ter characters from mythology. For almost the whole composition it is not clear
whether we are really dealing with mythological characters, and if so, whether
we have entered with the poet the fictitious reality, or is it just an illusion built
by D’Annunzio. The figures present are Erigone, Arethusa, Berenice and Derbe.
The poet however, as has been said above, is hidden under the guise of Glaucus.
In the classic style references in the text, nothing makes allusion to the illusion
created by D’Annunzio. The fable/the illusion is revealed only at the beginning of
Part IV in the verses 401–402: ‘E così della rosa e dell’alloro parlò quell’Aretusa
fiorentina.’ Finally in the last part of the poem, the poet makes it clear that the
characters nell’ecloga have taken fictitious names and in fact all persons belong to
the contemporary times of D’Annunzio
In the poem, the story of Daphne and Apollo begins when Daphne is trying
to escape from the god, and implores her father for help. The initial fear of the
god’s passionate courting is suppressed in the moment in which he manages to
reach her and clasp her to himself. The heat of her lover’s passion arouses her
and she wants to submit to it, but just at this moment the transformation into a
tree begins. During the metamorphosis Daphne calls Apollo, pleading for help.
The Sun god cannot stop however the transformation of his beloved, he only
says: ‘Ahi lassa, Dafne ch’arbore sei fatta!’ in verse 274 and later in verse 283:
‘Ahi lassa, Dafne, chi ti trasfigura’. Another repetition of the pattern of the verse
is made after the complete metamorphosis of the nymph, the god express his
regret, saying:
Ahi lassa, Dafne, ch’arbore sei tutta!
Ahi, chi ti fece al mio desio diversa?
vv. 336–337
At the beginning of the poem we can notice a clear contrast between the
nymph - described with the adjective fluvial - and Apollo accompanied by
words synonymous with fire. In the text, the woman is associated with water
but she is not a part of it, while the god Apollo is just an example of Superman
in the panistic conception, he is a man, a human being but he is also fire and
therefore an element of nature. Quickly, I would like to list the words - adjec-
tives and verbs - associated with Apollo: infiammato desìo, l’alito del dio diventa
fiamma, un fuoco feroce (…) ghermisce, brama del veloce fuoco, ardore, forza
luminosa, furente, l’anima del dio ardente. When Apollo is kissing the lips of
Daphne she is not yet completely transformed, so her mouth lights up. The
laurel after the kiss of Apollo lights up (vv. 390–391): ‘l’arbore luce d’un ba-
glior sanguigno, qual bronzo che si vada arroventando’, and next (vv. 394–395):
‘Misteriosa l’arbore s’arrossa ma sul suo fuoco piovon le rugiade’. The morning
light wakes Apollo up, who, seeing the tree in bloom, emits his cry of wonder,
irraggia tutto il lido. The god Apollo is always described by epithets and verbs
that emphasize his close connection with fire. The god of the Sun is a part of
nature. We should pay particular attention to the fact that; in this composi-
tion, in every description of Apollo, his fiery nature is underlined. A similar
situation, even if in a smaller scale, can be found in Ovid. Also in this case, the
epithets regarding the God of the Sun are thematically connected with fire, the
most vivid example is present in the following verses:
Come, mietute le spighe, bruciano in un soffio le stoppie,
come s’incendiano le siepi se per ventura un viandante
accosta troppo una torcia o la getta quando si fa luce,
così il dio prende fuoco, così in tutto il petto
divampa (…)
Ovidio, Met. I, vv. 492–496
As far as D’Annunzio is concerned, the epithets and verbs describing the woman
vary in the course of the lyric. In Ovid the descriptions of the nymph are far
more laconic. We should notice, that in the composition of the Italian poet, the
descriptive aspect is highly amplified and variegated. Fluvial nymph Daphne is
introduced at the beginning of the lyric L’oleandr’: ‘correva lungo il fiume, chia-
mando il padre dall’erma sponda, la puledra di tessaglia galoppa, la ninfa fluviale,
getta un grido che per la selvaggia sponda risuona.’ Until this moment the nymph
is not yet transfigured, the descriptions of her appearance are very limited - the
link with water is present several times when it appears, but each time, when it
appears, it is always accompanied by the figure of her father:
(…) < Inseguiva il re Apollo Dafne
lungh’esso il fiume, come si racconta.
La figlia di Peneo correva ansante
chiamando il padre suo dall’erma sponda.
vv. 221–224
and also:
All’alito del dio doventa fiamma
la chioma della ninfa fluviale.
<O padre, o padre> grida <tu mi scampa!>
vv. 232–234
It seems that in this way D’Annunzio wants to show that, at the moment of plant
metamorphosis, the woman almost evolves into something more complete, into
something that she already possesses and which is already ingrained in her. She
does not lose her proper-self completely because the passion and the sentiment
that consumed her is still present and it is manifested by means of the bloom-
ing flowers and by the colour of her lips. The fluvial nymph abandons her old
features – she evolves, changes, becomes a superior being, joined with nature,
she becomes a part of it. The overwhelming passion has consumed her and she
is reborn as a tree. The metamorphosis of Daphne is presented in a very sensual
way. It is possible not only to see but to also feel the transformation. In this case
the epithets referring to the arboreal theme are really numerous. Starting from
the verse 266 we can already see the metamorphosis of the woman, described
for the first time in the following manner:
Bianca midolla in cortice lucente
in folti pampini uva delicata
vv. 266–267
The transformation has already begun, starting from the lower limbs, it is still
hardly perceptible, but by means of arboreal epithets, the poet suggests that the
metamorphosis is taking place. Daphne is in Apollo’s arms; the arms are com-
pared to the shining bark which covers the tree/Daphne, its internal part is de-
scribed as white pith – in the next verse the body of the nymph is compared to a
delicate grape. Then D’Annunzio slowly makes us understand why the woman is
being transformed into a tree - verse 271 says:
Tenera cede il seno; ma al ventre
in giuso, quasi fosse radicata,
vv. 270–271
In these verses the word radicata seems to be the first real indication of the trans-
formation going on. D’Annunzio is dosing out information, from line to line,
cleverly creating a crescendo of epithets that increase exponentially during the
metamorphosis of Daphne. For the first time the adjective green appears:
Subitamente Dafne s’impaura:
le copre il volto e il seno un pallor verde.
vv. 275–276
The woman is already unable to escape or move. In this verse the explicit transi-
tion is not yet seen; D’Annunzio makes it clear in the next verse by saying:
Nell’umidore del selvaggio suolo
i piedi farsi radiche contorte
ella sente da loro sorgere un tronco
che le gambe su su fino alle cosce

include e della pelle scorza fa
vv. 286–290
The legs of Daphne turn into roots and trunk, the change is fast and unstoppable.
The sudden metamorphosis that is taking place in the woman moves from the
bottom to the top, next the upper limbs are transformed into branches, creat-
ing the corolla of the the tree. This metamorphosis is inexorable, in verse 310
D’Annunzio wrote: ‘(…) e i lai sono vani’. Over the duration of ten verses the
transformation of Daphne is complete:
Il dolce crine è già novella fronda
intorno al viso che si trascolora.
La figlia di Peneo non è più bionda;
non e piu ninfa e non e lauro ancora.
vv. 320–323
The last phase of the transfiguration came only for her eyes and her mouth, eve-
rything has already changed into green sap and only the woman’s mouth is blood
red, she groans and still begs Apollo, with tears coming from her eyes. But here
in verse 339 the sense of sight leaves Daphne:
Le palpebre son due tremule foglie;
li occhi gocciole son d’umor silvestro
vv. 340–341
The mouth still seems to resist the transformation, in the shadow of the branches
the mouth is blood red, still alive, still human.
Curvasi Apollo verso quella ardente,
la bacia con impetuosa brama.
Ne freme tutta l’arbore; (…)
vv. 347–349
Apollo leans over to kiss the mouth of Daphne, here again we can see that when
the god is mentioned, the fiery words of value are immediately brought into the
verses. Daphne’s lips are burning, and in response to Apollo’s kiss, the tree almost
lights up. The woman has not completely lost consciousness in the metamor-
phosis into the plant. In the contact with Apollo the crown of the tree, extends
towards her beloved. The laurel is a woman and is alive.
(…) s’accende
l’ombra intorno alla fronte sovrana;
ogni ramo in corona si protende.
e la fronte d’Apollo è laureata.
vv. 349–352
With this last gesture, the transformation of Daphne is completed. The ruby
mouth is gone, now under his lips Apollo feels only leaves and berries. Daphne
seems to have been completely transformed. At this point, D’Annunzio slightly
changes the ending of the story, making it more sensual. After the full metamor-
phosis of the woman, singing to appease his heart rises in Apollo. The beauty of
Daphne has created a song so sweet that, henceforth, the laurel twig has become
the highest sign of recognition to be assigned to someone. In the finale Gabriele
D’Annunzio introduces a completely new aspect to the story; waking up at dawn,
Apollo remains incredibly amazed to discover that his beloved laurel tree is full
of fragrant flowers and they are as red as the lips of Daphne. This is the final ges-
ture that the woman has made for her beloved. The love of the god for Daphne,
his night song, the cry of wonder all of this has given rise to a new plant: the
oleander. Ovid presenting the story of Apollo and Daphne in the Metamorphosis,
doesn’t concentrate on the sensual aspect of the transformation. This description
is undoubtedly more developed in D’Annunzio, who inspiring himself on the
Roman poet’s verses creates a richer descriptive version of the story. In Ovid, the
phase of the metamorphosis of the woman in narrated in only five verses:
Ancora prega, che un torpore profondo pervade le sue membra,
il petto morbido si fascia di fibre sottili,
i capelli si allungano in fronde, le braccia in rami;
i piedi, così veloci un tempo, s’inchiodano in pigre radici,
il volto svanisce in una chioma: solo il suo splendore conserva.
Ovidio, Met. I, vv. 548–552
We can notice that the motives presented by Ovid are used also by D’Annunzio,
even if in the developped and reinterpreted form.
L’oleandro, although it was included in the collection Alcyone as the second one
in the order of appearance and belonging to Dithyramb II, was written two years
before the famous poem La pioggia nel pineto, dated 1902, included in the collec-
tion in Dithyramb I (Roncoroni 1995: 245–252). The similarity of the expressions
and all the rhetorical figures of speech however, show a close affinity between the
two compositions. In the ‘La pioggia nel pineto’ D’Annunzio goes away from the
obvious connection with the mythological tradition, but the slow transformation
of Hermione, the woman to whom the poem is addressed, into a vegetal be-
ing brings to mind the transformation of Daphne. In the previous composition
Gabriele D’Annunzio was identifiable in the figure of Glaucus, here, by analogy
of what the two characters are saying, we can state that the poet is identified with
Apollo. In L’Oleandro, Apollo is a source of inspiration for Glaucus/D’Annunzio,
and a character who plays a role of great importance, under the form of the Sun,
in the invocation, and in the presentation of the story of Daphne.
In La pioggia nel pineto, the poet takes a step forward. He is inspired by the
mythological story, uses it to express fully his own conception of panismo, to
create a real tribute to the senses. D’Annunzio, the poet, in just this case may be
identified with Apollo the patron of the poet and leader of the Muses. In this es-
say the author acts as a guide to his woman in the slow process of metamorpho-
sis into the plant. Hermione, from the poetry La pioggia nel pineto, seems to be a
return of the mythological figure of Daphne. Hermione however, unlike Daph-
ne, is guided by the poet in this transformation, she becomes a superior being,
she and nature become one. Even if only for a moment, the woman abandons
her human guise, transcends the objective reality. In this composition the meta-
morphosis becomes something more than a mere change of form, it becomes
almost an evolution, the possibility of achieving a higher level of consciousness,
the highest form of being a superman, or super being. In the poem La pioggia
nel pineto, the poet Gabriele D’Annunzio and Eleonora Duse his muse, who
appears under the name of Hermione, are walking in a pine forest. The forest
presented in the poem is situated in the area of Marina di Pisa, in Tuscany and
it was a place of frequent visits by the poet. During the walk, the author and his
beloved are unexpectedly caught in a summer shower of rain. Raindrops falling
on plants and trees, create a true spectacle of nature, magic and varied. The rain
stimulates the sense of smell and other senses. The pair of lovers go deeper and
deeper into the forest, where, surrounded by the beauty of nature, they begin to
merge into it, becoming a part of it. Already in the middle of the second verse
we see the transformation and the introduction of words which refer to it. The
poet describes the face of his muse, comparing it to a wet leaf, her hair giving off
the scent of brooms. The complete transformation occurs within the duration of
the rain shower, and in the last verse the metamorphosis is complete. Hermione
is as fresh and lively as a young plant, the heart in her chest is like a peach, her
teeth and gums are unripe almonds, eyes like pools of water. The faces of the
poet and the woman are called sylvan, and here D’Annunzio uses the adjective
from the Latin name silvae - forest, or the adjective silvanus – deriving from
the forest. The meaning of the word can also refer to the Roman god of forests
and wildlife - Silvano, often identified with the Italic god Faunus or with the
Greek Pan (Gentili 1981: 244–246). The image of woman is as a part of nature
or perhaps even an integral part of it. The poem ‘La pioggia nel pineto’, presents
the complete and perfect blend with nature, and it is the highest manifesta-
tion of panism developed by D’Annunzio. According to this pagan idea, linked
to the tradition of Greek mythology, the ego is overshadowed and relegated
to a secondary place (Gentili 1981: 238–239). The subject becomes part of na-
ture, but does not disappear completely in it, moreover, through this fusion, the
subject may be able to express feelings, not only its own but also the feelings of
the world around him.
In the two poems presented above we have the opportunity to witness the
metamorphosis of the human element in nature. The prophet/Vat’ Gabriele
D’Annunzio, along with Hermione leads us to the discovery of a higher level
of perfection, an extension of our senses. He plays the role of a guide, a mentor.
Undoubtedly, the Ovidian motif of Apollo and Daphne is a recurring element in
the literary creation of D’Annunzio, for his desire for glory, but also for the way in
which Gabriele D’Annunzio is dedicated to the art. Understood on a broad scale,
we can say that in the figure of Apollo as a patron of poetry, who is closely tied
to the Muses, D’Annunzio wanted to find himself and he wanted to be inspired
by Apollo. Clearly, from the opinions that prevail on D’Annunzio, taking into ac-
count his artistic contribution not only on the nationally but even the European
scale, we can say that this character seems to have been inspired, with a consider-
able success just by the great god Apollo himself.
References
Antonicelli F., 1964, La vita di D’Annunzio, Torino: ERI.
Borghese G.A., 1909, Gabriele D’Annunzio, Napoli: Ricciardi Editore.
Gentili S., 1981, Trionfo e crisi del modello dannunziano, Firenze: Nuovedizioni
Enrico Vallecchi.
Nasone P.O., 1979, Le metamorfosi, trad. e cura di Marzolla P.B., Torino: Einaudi.
Paratore E., 1966, Studi dannunziani, Napoli: Morano.
Pasquario V., 1919, D’Annunzio, poeta e soldato, Genova: Oliveri.
Piga F., 1979, Il mito del superuomo in Nietzsche e D’Annunzio, Firenze: Vallecchi.
Reynolds L., 1952, The Dublin magazine, Vol. XXVII, No 3, 13–16.
Roncoroni F. a cura di, 1995, Alcyone, Milano: Oscar Mondadori.
Spinosa A., 2013, D’Annunzio - Il poeta armato, Milano: Oscar Mondadori.

Tomasz Kaczmarek
Cain, or the Secularization of Myth
The expressionist theatre was a response to an ideological and religious crisis of values.
Transcendence, rejected in the age of rationalism not only by science, but also, paradoxi-
cally, by religion itself, has become a reference point for renegade artists. The continuing
secularization of the Church was a logical result of the rejection of the dogmas imposed
by the fathers in charge of the ossified institutions.
“Ah! race of Abel, your carcass

Will fertilize the steaming soil!
Race of Cain, your appointed task
Has not been adequately done;
Race of Abel, your disgrace is:
The sword is conquered by the pike!
Race of Cain, ascend to heaven,
And cast God down upon the earth!”
William Aggeler, (Charles Baudelaire),
The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)
There have been many different interpretations of the story of Cain over the cen-
turies and the very character has been the inspiration for a number of literary
works. Writers usually tried to copy very faithfully the biblical story, just like
Victor Hugo in La Légende des siècles. With the crisis (at the beginning of the
20th century) which gave rise to ‘the physiological decadence of Europe’ as de-
scribed by Nietzsche and ‘the ontological emptiness’ introduced later on by Io-
nesco, there was a breakdown in the scientific and religious values, and man was
deprived of any refuge. Even his mental integrity turned out to be a very tenuous
construct invented only for the mind’s use (Kaczmarek 2010). In those times
of galloping relativism, the Biblical character of Cain gained a completely new
quality. It was the expressionists who most frequently referred to Cain, as in him
they discovered the germs of a New Man who they were fighting for, especially
that the Bible, stripped of its message of love, ceased to be capable of conveying
any transcendental values.
Expressionists create their work in the spirit of spreading secularization,
which is based on two fundamental premises: ‘the death of God’ announced
126 Tomasz Kaczmarek
by Nietzsche on the one hand, and the harsh criticism of both religion and the
fossilized institution of the official Church on the other.
The term ‘secularization’ has various meanings. In her book Le théâtre expres-
sionniste et le sacré Catherine Mazellier-Grünbeck refers to the typology by Hein-
rich Lübbe, who distinguishes between three different meanings of the word. For
us the most interesting definition is the one concerning the scientific concept
which determines the emancipation of scientific reasoning from religious super-
vision (Lübbe 1975: 59). In this definition the primacy of ecclesiastical discourse
is rejected, as it does not fit in with rationalist reasoning. Together with the fall
of transcendence, secularization also manifests itself, especially at the beginning
of the 20th century, as a hostile attitude to the Church and its religion abound-
ing ad absurdum in dogmas maladjusted to the reality of that time. According to
Heinrich Heine, the process of secularization was started by Luther himself, and it
comes to an end with the materialism of Feuerbach who claimed that the essence
of religion was its anthropological dimension; God was just a human invention
and thus the Creator was dethroned by His own creation.
Certain hostility towards the Church is clearly expressed by writers, philoso-
phers and even theologians themselves. The clergy are accused of material inter-
ests, abandoning Christ’s teaching, trading with the authorities; while Karl Barth,
a famous theologian, does not even hesitate to profess that atheism was the true
essence of the Church of that time (Zahrnt 1966).
Manifesting their aversion to official Church teachings, expressionists resort
to parodying some recurrent Biblical motifs. Their favourite themes are free
transpositions of the motifs of the Apocalypse and the Last Judgement. However,
it’s not only sarcasm we find in the works of the new generation, they also reveal
the search for true religion, the original religion that catered for transcendence
and not only worldly goods. This is clearly expressed in the works of Charles
Péguy, one of the most popular French poets in Germany. A large number of
authors (including such theologians as Paul Tillich and Karl Barth) criticized
the teaching of God which had been twisted and contorted by men, and they
indicated (mostly inspired by the Old Testament) the ruthlessness, brutality and
even sadism of the Creator himself, who simply plays with human fate like with
puppets. In many dramas of the time, therefore, we can find Biblical figures like
Saul, Noah or Cain, as well as the Holy Trinity and the Nazarene himself, who
for many was a symbol of a rebel, and not a guardian of conservative laws of the
chosen social caste.
The appearance of the characters is based on two principles: most often they
are settled in contemporaneity, and the texts they come from are deliberately
modified to the disadvantage of Judaic-Christian teachings. Therefore, the most
Cain, or the Secularization of Myth 127
popular trend is to reverse the values; for instance Noah, traditionally depicted
as an amiable character, in the play by Ernst Barlach, Die Sündflut, is a crazy old
man who blindly carries out God’s commands. Saul, the title character of the
drama by Franz Jung, appears to be nicer than in the Old Testament. The author
in a way rehabilitates the first king of Israel making him a victim of human fate
directed by God, and thus he also belittles the courage of David, who here is
presented as a primitive cut-throat. The figure of Cain is also popular, which is
seen not only in a number of dramas but also in the periodicals, such as the an-
archistic newspaper Kain. Zeitschrift für Menschlichkeit (1911–1919) and Kain-
Kalender (1912–1913) both edited by Erich Mühsam.
What is it that fascinated the expressionists in this rather negative charac-
ter that had his brother’s blood on the hands? Biblical Cain was a crop farmer,
whereas his brother Abel was a shepherd. They both were to bring the Lord an
offering related to their occupations. Cain brought the offering of the earth’s
crops while Abel brought the sheep. God did not treat them equally; he was
pleased with Abel’s sacrifice but not with Cain’s. It is hard to comprehend the
decision of the Creator, and the Bible does not explain the reasons either. As a
result Cain grew angry, dejected and jealous, incapable of understanding why
one offering was better than the other, if both were brought in good faith. After
a quarrel with his brother; in a bout of fury Cain attacked Abel and killed him.
God then sentenced him to eternal wandering and he forbade anyone to raise
their hand against him.
The story of murder presented in this way has had numerous interpretations
over thousands of years, and it has been interpreted on a few levels (Ratajczak
1980: 253). Some interpretations refer us to the ancient conflicts between the
nomadic shepherd tribes and the tribes leading a settled life who were devoted
to crop cultivation (Kosidowski 1967: 23). Other writers saw the desire to win a
woman as the underlying reason for the conflict between the brothers (Sandauer
1977: 203–205), which was in an awkward way also somehow combined with pat-
ricide. The father-son feud was a recurrent motif in expressionist drama (Frenzel
1962; Richard 1993).
The legend of Cain is very popular in the Romantic era, in which, just like in
the case of the Byronic drama, the character is compared to Lucifer and symbol-
izes the modern Prometheus. He is sentenced to suffering and rebellion, he defies
God referring to His own paradigms such as love, hatred and crime. Wasn’t it the
Lord who accepted favourably the offerings of blood? Didn’t He get delighted with
burning bodies? Writers question the nature of patricide, and whether evil really
derives from Hell. And so Cain-Satan will appear in many works of decadents
like Przybyszewski (Szlakiem Kaina, Pierwsza pieśń ‘Cherubina’) who makes the
protagonist doubt whether Satan is truly Satan and God is really God. The values
here are completely reversed, which is typical of the world of twisted moral norms
and illusory redemption measures. Nothing is certain anymore, apart from the
certainty of uncertainty.
Although the expressionists derive inspiration from the decadent tradition
(even though they deny it), in the case of Cain they place particular empha-
sis on his rebellious nature; he destroys the norms and rules, he personifies the
rebellion and he disregards the outer form. “As a deeply stigmatised character,
commonly condemned by everyone, rejected by society, regarded as the personi-
fication of evil, dishonour; he was most suitable for the revision of the fossilised
notions” (Ratajczak 1980: 259). The new interpretation of the motif changed
Cain into a new symbol, an analogy of a particular attitude to fate, thus granting
him a universal dimension.
As this article is restricted in length, I am forced to limit myself to a few dra-
mas that are most representative of both German and Polish expressionism, in
which the figure of Cain is the best example of the secularization of myth in the
theatre.
Friedrich Koffka, a playwright forgotten in our times but regarded by Ihering
as ‘the dramatic hope’ of the expressionist theatre, wrote a few dramas which
feature biblical figures such as David or Cain. The latter, quite contrary to the
Biblical tradition, is a surprisingly positive character despite the act of mur-
der which was perceived by the expressionists as a symbolic act only (instances
of allegorical patricide and sometimes even matricide were treated in a similar
way). The author presents Cain as a rebel against the unjust divine laws which
he has to face. He is an outcast damned by God, but he is an extremely sensitive
character who, furious in the extreme, kills his brother, but before the act he re-
proaches Abel for his cynicism: ‘Abel, there was a flower in the field - the flower
was white, it was a beautiful lily […] I watered it every day. And you Abel, while
walking across the field, you trod on it.’ (Koffka 1974: 170)
In this way Cain condemns his brother for crumpling up an innocent and
beautiful flower as if the beauty has been destroyed by pragmatism, or in other
words the ‘common sense’ which Abel stands for. Even though it is Abel who is
traditionally regarded as a martyr, Koffka reverses the roles and depicts Cain as a
character rejected by a cruel society which blindly obeys the will of God invent-
ed by themselves and forgets about any spiritual values and feelings that could
potentially be found in every human being. As often happens in expressionist
theatre, Cain personifies all the young generation of social outcasts doomed to
solitude, but it is in the solitude that they discover rebellion against stale values
and objection to the hypocritical world. This peculiar ‘cainism’ reveals the truth
about the people who ‘think in the appropriate way’ and it presents them as a
group deprived of ‘Souls’; and the Soul was what all the German young genera-
tion fought for under the banner of expressionism. That is why, paraphrasing
Augustine of Hippo in The City of God, we can say that Abel is an earthly man,
whereas Cain is certainly not a divine man but a spiritual type, a peculiar prophet
of the new faith. The author preserves here the typically expressionist poetic lan-
guage, however, we cannot talk about excessive gushiness, rather the elevation
of style. This rhetoric comes from the romantic period, when a loner screamed
to express his world-weariness. In many aspects the play refers to Byronic Cain,
who also questioned the sense of life and his own fate in his monologues:
And this is / Life! Toil! and wherefore should I toil? - because / My father could not
keep his place in Eden? / What had I done in this? I was unborn: / I sought not to be
born ; nor love the state / To which that birth has brought me. Why did he / Yield to the
serpent and the woman ? or / Yielding, why suffer? What was there in this? / The tree
was planted, and why not for him? / If not, why place him near it, where it grew / The
fairest in the centre? They have but / One answer to all questions, “Twas his will /And
he is good.” How know I that? Because / He is all-powerful, must all-good, too, follow?
/ I judge but by the fruits – and they are bitter – / Which I must feed on for a fault not
mine. / Whom have we here? – A shape like to the angels / Yet of a sterner and a sad-
der aspect / Of spiritual essence: why do I quake? / Why should I fear him more than
other spirits, / Whom I see daily wave their fiery swords / Before the gates round which
I linger oft, / In twilight’s hour, to catch a glimpse of those / Gardens which are my
just inheritance, / Ere the night closes o’er the inhibited walls / And the immortal trees
which overtop / The Cherubim-defended battlements? / If I shrink not from these, the
fire-arm’d angels, / Why should I quail from him who now approaches? / Yet – he seems
mightier far than them, nor less / Beauteous, and yet not all as beautiful / As he hath
been, and might be: sorrow seems / Half of his immortality. And is it / So? can aught
grieve save Humanity ? / He cometh. (Byron 1901: 215–216)
Expressionists seem to be inspired by the work of Byron published in 1822, es-

pecially when it comes to the figure of Cain, who symbolizes opposition to the
divine laws considered not only unjust but also absurd. German writers must
also have known the poem Abel and Cain (in The Flowers of Evil) by Charles
Baudelaire, a poet worshipped by expressionists, in which outcasts rise from
their knees and go to Heaven in order to banish God and his followers once and
for all. Jerzy Hulewicz, a Polish writer associated with the expressionist magazine
Zdrój published in Poznan, referred to the same theme.
The author of Ego eimi builds the action of his drama around three ‘appa-
ritions’ which appear like visions from the border between dream and the real
world. The first one is dedicated to the conflict between the first two brothers.
Abel demands that Cain bring God an offering in order to confirm his faith. Cain
seems not to understand this requirement, as he constantly keeps praying to and

worshipping God in his heart and the Lord does not need any superficial signs
of love. It is clearly seen that Hulewicz resorts to creating characters who are not
human-like but incarnations of certain ideas. There is a clash of two worlds: Cain
carries God in his heart, whereas Abel needs signs to legitimise his faith, not in
front of the Lord but in front of other people. That is why Cain does not have to
expose his soul, whereas Abel does. In the character of Abel ‘we sense the criti-
cism of the formal Church, which not only favours superficial religiousness, but
treats it as the basis for the rites and rituals, which as a result supplant spiritual life,
contemplation and the direct and immanent contact with the Spirit’ (Ratajczak
1980: 262). It is the religiousness for show that Hulewicz criticises, reproaching
Abel for searching for God outside and not in his heart as though all the signs of
his presence were to come from the outside world. Cain has God inside, which
makes him, according to the work by Paul Kornfeld, a spiritual person; whereas
Abel represents a psychological person. ‘The psychological person’ is perceived
from the outside and as such is the subject of scientific analysis. ‘The spiritual
person’ is sensed from the inside in his unique originality (Kornfeld). Following
Martin Heidegger we could say that Cain represents authentic existence, whereas
his brother is an example of inauthentic existence (Sokel 1962: 98). And so we
have here, as often happens in expressionist theatre, a symbolic murder, which
shows the victory of the Spirit (Cain) over matter (Abel). The symbolism of the
murder goes even further in the play. Both Cain and Abel are not real characters
but they represent elements existing in man. Therefore, Cain-Man in his act gets
rid of his opportunistic and indolent nature for the sake of his individual and
spiritual development.
The next apparitions are not associated in any way with the Biblical story, they
describe the descent of Cain on Earth, as if he were a Messiah. He is banished
from the Earth, but he manages to sow the seed of his teaching in a boy, who later
on as a Man-Cain will be looking for a New Man. His descent is preceded by the
burning of the city of shadows where no true man can be found. In the two last
apparitions Hulewicz reveals his attachment to the idea of reincarnation and to
the rebirthing of the spirit thanks to constant self-development.
Perhaps the most ironic and amusing interpretation of the story of Cain can
be found in the novel by José Saramago (2009), in which the author pinpoints
numerous mistakes made by God and therefore he questions the logicality and
validity of Church traditions. The rejection of Christian dogmas did not mean,
though, for the expressionists the rejection of Christian mythology. On the con-
trary, they were extremely interested in it. However, in the light of the inevitable
secularization of the Church and its teachings, the mythology was revised and
critically interpreted, and the incongruity of the one and only holy exegesis en-
dorsed by the clergy was exposed. Expressionists, who advocated allegorisation,
focused on Cain, who, over the centuries, was perceived as an envious fratricide,
and in him they discovered the story of the descendant of the first couple on
earth anew. They were far from overinterpreting or reading à rebours, they meant
to search for a New Man who would fight for his own spirituality, getting rid of
the fetters (such as religion, the industrialisation of society, etc.) that prevent him
from being free. That was the goal that expressionists wanted to attain, believing
quite naïvely that the New Messiah would wake up one day in the form of a real
man, or even in mankind. Were they really so gullible, of which Brecht accused
them later on? The author of Mother Courage and Her Children may have been
mistaken, which is reflected in a number of works presenting apocalyptic visions
devoid of any illusion. Nevertheless, it should be emphasised that it is the search
for the spirituality of man that is the essence of humanity, even though, or per-
haps especially if, the efforts resemble Sisyphus’ struggle described by Camus.
References
Byron G.G., 1901, Cain: a mystery, in: The Poetical works of Lord Byron, New
York: Charles Scribner’s Sons.
Frenzel E., 1962, Stoffe der Weltliteratur, Stuttgart: A. Kröner.
Kaczmarek T., 2010, Le Personnage dans le drame français du XXe siècle face à
la tradition de l’expressionnisme européen, Łódź: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu
Łódzkiego.
Koffka F., 1974, Kain. Ein Drama, in: Horst Denkler (Hrsg.), Einakter und kleine
Dramen, Stuttgart: Reclam.
Kornfeld P., 1971, L’Homme spirituel et l’homme psychologique, in:
L’Expressionnisme dans le théâtre européen, Paris: Editions du CNRS.
Kosidowski Z., 1967, Opowieści biblijne, Warszawa: Iskry.
Lübbe H., 1975, Säkularisierung Geschichte eines ideenpolitischen Begriffs,
München: Alber.
Mazellier-Grünbeck C., 1994, Le Théâtre expressionniste et le sacré, Bern: Peter
Lang.
Ratajczak J., 1980, Zagasły « brzask epoki », Szkice z dziejów czasopisma « Zdrój »
1917–1922, Poznań: Wydawnictwo Poznańskie.
Richard L., 1993, L’Expressionnisme, Paris: Somogy.
Sandauer A., 1977, Bóg, Szatan, Mesjasz i…?, Kraków: Wydawnictwo Literackie.
Sockel W., 1962, ‘Estetyka ekspresjonizmu’, Przegląd Humanistyczny 4.
Zahrnt H., 1966, Die Sache mit Gott. Die protestantische Theologie im 20. Jahrhun-
dert, München: Piper.

Katarzyna Wojtysiak-Wawrzyniak
Juan Antonio Castro Tauromachy. Between

the Myth and the Art of Corrida
The play «Tauromachy» by Juan Castro (1927–1980) transforms the ancient myth of
Theseus and Minotaur. Queen Pasiphae, wife of King Minos of Crete slept with a bull
sent by Zeus, and gave birth to Minotaur, a creature half man-half bull. King Minos was
embarrassed, but did not want to kill the Minotaur, so he hid the monster in the Laby-
rinth constructed by Daedalus at the Minoan Palace of Knossos. Theseus is the great
Athenian hero. He announced to King Minos that he was going to kill the Monster, but
Minos knew that even if he did manage to kill the Minotaur, Theseus would never be
able to exit the Labyrinth. Theseus met Princess Ariadne, daughter of King Minos, who
fell madly in love with him and decided to help the hero. She gave him a thread and told
him to unravel it as he would penetrate deeper and deeper into the Labyrinth, so that
he knows the way out when he kills the monster. Theseus followed her suggestion and
entered the labyrinth with the thread. Theseus managed to kill the Minotaur and save
the Athenians, and with Ariadne’s thread he managed to retrace his way out. I analyse
the play «Tauromachy» from the cultural anthropology point of view. The bullfighting
is a culturally important tradition and a fully developed art form on par with painting,
dancing and music. The matador de toros (killer of bulls) is considered the artist and the
dancer, possessing great agility, grace, and coordination. Castro, referring to the myth
of the Minotaur and Theseus present philosophical and ironic story about the essence
of the culture of Spain. Corrida is not only a sign of the sensitivity of the Mediterranean
culture, it’s also a myth that is a living experience. Matador in Spain has the status of the
Greek hero and the bull is treated as a kind of totem. «Tauromachia» referring to the
Greek tragedy style shows that the myth is not something ancient, but brings a sense
of community.
The play Tauromachy by Juan Castro (1927–1980) transforms the ancient myth
of Theseus and the Minotaur. Queen Pasiphae, wife of King Minos of Crete, slept
with a bull sent by Zeus, and gave birth to the Minotaur, a creature half-man,
half-bull. King Minos was embarrassed, but did not want to kill the Minotaur,
so he hid the monster in the Labyrinth constructed by Daedalus at the Minoan
Palace of Knossos. Theseus, the great Athenian hero announced to King Minos
that he was going to kill the monster, but Minos knew that even if he did manage
to kill the Minotaur, Theseus would never be able to exit the Labyrinth. Theseus
met Princess Ariadne, daughter of King Minos, who fell madly in love with him
and decided to help the hero. She gave him a thread and told him to unravel it
134 Katarzyna Wojtysiak-Wawrzyniak
as he penetrated deeper and deeper into the Labyrinth, so that he would know
the way out when he had killed the monster. Theseus followed her suggestion
and entered the labyrinth with the thread. Theseus managed to kill the Minotaur
and save the Athenians, and with Ariadne’s thread he managed to retrace his
way out. I analyse the play Tauromachy from a cultural anthropological point
of view. Bullfighting is a culturally important tradition and a fully developed art
form on a par with painting, dancing and music. The matador de toros (killer of
bulls) is considered an artist and a dancer, possessing great agility, grace, and
coordination. Castro, referring to the myth of the Minotaur and Theseus pre-
sents a philosophical and ironic story about the essence of the culture of Spain.
Corrida – bullfighting - is not only a sign of the sensitivity of the Mediterranean
culture, but is also a myth that is a living experience. The matador in Spain has
the status of the Greek heroes and the bull is treated as a kind of totem. The play
Tauromachia, referring to the Greek tragedy style, shows that myth is not some-
thing ancient, but current, bringing a sense of community.
Before I exploring the drama Tauromachy, I would like to introduce briefly the
figure of the author and features of his theatre. Juan Antonio Castro was born on
23rd of June 1927 in the city of Talavera de la Reina, in the Castilla-La Mancha re-
gion of Spain. He died in 1980 of a chronic disease, leaving a life’s work of drama-
turgy. He began his career as a poet and in 1961 received the prestigious Adonais
Prize for his work. As he emphasized, his theatrical calling, however, came quite
late. It should also be noted that Castro as a playwright developed close to the
theatre. In his hometown he actively worked with numerous theatrical groups,
among which the group El Candil (Oil Lamp) is worthy of mention. Their de-
but was the play Bodas del pan y del vino (The Wedding of Bread and Wine), an
auto sacramental mixing lyric poetry and drama. In 1965 Castro received the
Guipúzcoa award for his play Plaza de Mercado (Marketplace). Plays worthy of
note include: Quijotella (Lady Don Quixote, 1971) Tiempo de 98 (Year 98, 1973);
Tauromaquia (Tauromachy, 1975); De la buena crianza del gusano (About the good
upbringing of a poor thing, 1975); ¡Viva la Pepa!, (Long Live Pepa!, 1980).
Even if, based on his biography, we should classify Juan Antonio Castro as
part of the Spanish Realist Generation, saying so in this case would not be suf-
ficient.1 Castro is a unique figure in the theatrical panorama of his age, and his
dramaturgy is a sui generis phenomenon. It is so comprehensive and varied that it
is impossible to classify it in any specific generations or tendencies; indeed, as the
1 See: Porrúa Turanzas 1983: 279.

J.A. Castro Tauromachy. Between the Myth and the Art of Corrida 135
author said: ‘I don’t know if it is possible to label any one line in my theatre.’2 The
playwright experimented with different theatrical genres, from auto sacramental,
through tragedy, tragicomedy, comedy and farce, to sainete. For Castro, every-
thing was possible, from theatre based on a word, to theatre where the basic - or
even the only medium - is the body. He tried to encompass all types of theatrical
signs, implementing Gordon Craig’s model of total theatre.
The theatre of Juan Antonio Castro is deeply literary and poetic, which can be
seen in the choice of his plays’ themes, which are mostly derived from high cul-
ture. However, the form of the plays is usually avant-garde in terms of rhythm,
syncopation, juxtaposition of the scenes, the overlapping of narrative plans and
mysterious motives. The combination of influences derived from high culture
with avant-garde procedures creates a new, fresh quality. His theatre is, without
a doubt, theatre in its dual meaning: it is well known and appreciated, but it
is also imbued with folklore, meaning it derives from tradition and is not only
intended for an elite audience. Castro, through connecting Culteranismo theatre
with its roots in folklore achieves some kind of ideal, connecting what is usually
not meant to be connected, creating living and authentic dramaturgy, which is
a voice of all social classes. It is not accidental, because for Castro of paramount
importance was a dialogue with the audience.
The play Tauromachy, written in 1971, is part of a Spanish trilogy, complement-
ed by two other plays: Tiempo de 98, oraz ¡Viva la Pepa! Juan Antonio Castro’s
Tauromachy consists of a prologue, the first act containing twelve scenes and a
second act with ten scenes. It is no accident that my attempt at analyzing Tauroma-
chy is placed between the myth and the art of corrida, because that seems to be
the author’s intention. Castro in his play used the myth of Theseus, Ariadne and
the Minotaur and the phenomenon of corrida. These two narrative plans overlap,
showing that the myth is not treated as an expired story, but has its own peculiar
continuation in the art of tauromachy, and in this way becomes a myth of our
times, in which, as Mircea Eliade says, we go back to the beginning.
The phenomenon of tauromachy, which Castro included in the title and
which is one of the plot’s pillars, is not a romantic and picturesque trope associ-
ated with Spanishness, but a phenomenon in which Mediterranean sensitivity is
reflected. Tauromachy (from the Greek tauros – ‘bull’ and machomai – ‘to fight’),
also called corrida, or for taurophiles el toreo (from the Spanish verb torear – ‘to
fight with a bull’), or la lidia (from lidiar – ‘to tether a bull’), is one of the basic
identification marks of Spanishness, especially “Andalusiness”.
2 Yorick pregunta 1972: 67.

The influence of tauromachy can be seen in Spanish lexis, for example tener
vergüenza torera (literally to have a toreador’s shame) which means to run away
from danger.3 The Spanish have special dictionaries of tauromachy (diccionarios
taurinos, diccionarios de la tauromaquia) entirely about the performance.4 This
subtle and poetic lexicon about the art of tauromachy reflects the way Spanish
people think about this performance. The verb bailar (to dance) means to fight
the bull without respite, abanicar (to fan) is the pendulous motion which a torero
makes with his muleta in front of the bull’s head. The word adorno (ornament) is
used to describe how the torero kneels down before the bull, facing away from him.
This is an indication of ultimate courage and artistry. There is also the expression
bordar el toreo (to embroider / perform tauromachy with superb craftsmanship),
meaning the torero’s complete mastery.5
Corrida has a number of different aspects: mythological, historical, technical,
aesthetic, and even ethical. My goal is not – and cannot be – a deep reflection
concerning this topic; however I will try to show the mythical-anthropological
aspect which exists in Juan Antonio Castro’s play. The plot of the myth in the
play, as I mentioned before, is interlocked with tauromachy and the cult of the
bull which exists in Mediterranean culture.
In the beginning Juan Antonio Castro signalizes the dominant theme of the
play, namely, the art of tauromachy. In the prologue Rapsod performs a song in
honour of it:
Hermosa fiesta española,
hecha de garbo y de suerte,
gallardía que a la muerte
reta con la banderola
que una chulapa manola
hizo de seda bordar;
cintura de un natural
que hace del torero eje:
vida y muerte se desteje
en esta fiesta triunfal. (Castro 2000: 153)
Amazing, Spanish fiesta, / made up of grace and luck, / dignity, which death / does battle
to the accompaniment of a bannerette / which an impudent girl embroidered with silk;
/ a natural belt / making the toreador the core [of the performance]: / life and death dis-
embroil / in this victorious fiesta.
3 See: de Torres Martínez 2006: 1829–1846.

4 See: Nieto Manjón 1987; Sánchez de Neira 1879.
5 Cf: Ríos Ruiz 1990: 165–190.
This is a performance taking place between life and death, or as we might say,
death is always around the corner. The symbol of death is blood, in itself numi-
nous, the symbol of the a beginning and the end. In this beautiful yet cruel per-
formance, the role of the toreo has a totally tragic character, because the whole
ritual is a preparation for the public slaughter of a bull.
Andrés Amorós Guardiola, one of the greatest Spanish authorities on tau-
romachy, says the following about corrida: “For some people, tauromachy is
one of the things that distances us [the Spanish] from the rest of Europe, from
the contemporary, from civilization. For others, it is the most national of spec-
tacles (…), or ‘the most magnificent fiesta existing in the contemporary world’
(Federico García Lorca).” (Amorós Guardiola 1987: 51) Enrique Tierno Galván
considers corrida a “national event” and treats is as a declaration of Spanish cul-
ture. (Tierno Galván 1971: 61) Likewise, José María Moreiro thinks corrida is
an undisputed sign of identity anchored in Spanish culture. (Moreiro 1994: 14).
Whether viewed positively or negatively, corrida is undoubtedly an aesthetic ex-
perience. Andrés Amorós shrewdly says: “It seems that it lies in the nature of
fiesta, it does not leave anybody indifferent, it provokes total admiration and
hatred, [feelings] from the bowels.” (Amorós Guardiola 1987: 135)
In the prologue of Castro’s play there exist two different figures: a blind man
and a mother, the latter who damns the bull – the killer of her son – saying, ‘May
the black bull be praised and so may be his black figure, who gave black death to
my child, son of my bowels. May his bloodstained horns be damned, and also his
black milk, with which he was fed by a black cow.’ (Castro 2000: 153) The ambiva-
lence of the mother’s feelings of admiration/hatred towards the bull, despite being
totally irrational from our point of view, is completely justified when we look at
the bull as an animal which is highly revered in the Spanish world.
As López Izquierdo says, all Mediterranean cultures denote the figure of a bull
in their myths, art and religion.6 Álvarez de Miranda, in his book Ritos y juegos del
toro, points out the existence of the bull, saying: ‘(…) An ancient cult of the bull ex-
isted in Iberia. (…) In the Guadalquivir valley in Southern Spain, earthen bull figu-
rines were discovered, which are related to the Turdetan and Tartessian culture,
which was mainly agricultural and pastoral.’ (Álvarez de Miranda, 1998: 21–24).
The bull is connected with myth and ritual, and its images dating back to the
Paleolithic Age have even been found in the Cave of Altamira. Other examples
are the cave paintings from Valonsadero, dated to between the IV and I mil-
lennium B.C., giving us information about ancient tauromachy. It shows a man
6 Izquierdo 1990: 28–43.

stopping an animal’s attack by grabbing its horn in one hand and embroiling him
in a rag – a muleta – with the other.7
The first scene of the first act of the play begins with the choir and Ariadne’s
lament. They blame Pasiphae for her love of the Bull, which goes against human
nature, and because of which the Minotaur-hybrid with its bull-human figure
was born. The choir talks about Crete, which they believe is a city without a
future and destined to fall.
In the second scene, Theseus appears and decides to kill the Minotaur, saying
to Ariadne: ‘Today fate assumed the name of Minos, your father, and sends me
for sacrifice. For the moment, fate will not be called the name of the tyrant King,
but the name of the monster which awaits me in the labyrinth. My fate is called
Minotaur, but the fate of the Minotaur is called Theseus. For one of them death
awaits, while the other will be granted life. You will be my reward; I will live to
love you. If I win, the prize will also be received by my Pueblo who will no longer
have to pay this cruel tribute. My destiny, Ariadne, is a struggle. I give myself to
it. (Castro 2000: 160).
Theseus wishes to forget about the passion feels for Ariadne. She gives him
some thread to help him escape the labyrinth. Bidding him goodbye, she sings
him a copla:
Cuando salga el toro,
que no le haga quite nadie;
que estoy citado con el
a las cinco de la tarde.
(Castro 2000: 161)
[When the bull appears / do not disturb him / because I arranged a meeting with him
at 5 PM.]
The traditional time to start corrida is the afternoon, often called tarde de toro
– ‘the bull’s afternoon’. The spectacle usually takes place at 5 PM. The bull in
tauromachy is treated as an equal rival, which is why Theseus talks of a meeting,
and not of killing him. The bull does not get reduced to a thing (being forced
to die), because it would make the corrida lose its spiritual and tragic element.
In harmony with the true spirit of corrida the bull is, as Kant would say, the
equivalent of mankind, and thus is enshrined and given the respect due to all
living things. It is not an animal destined for slaughter; it is treated as part of a
ritual and as a totemic animal emanating from the rich history of Mediterranean
Sea basin.
7 See: Delgado 1996.

The spectacle of tauromachy can indeed be treated as a ritual, performance,

dance, or even a sport. In this spectacle, both the life of the bull and human are
paradoxically exposed to the same danger. We can look on corrida as a tourna-
ment, where equal rivals stand to fight. This is why we should keep in mind the
fact that the bull is not harnessed, toro bravo8 dies in a fight. The lives of both the
human and the bull are treated with the same respect. Both bull and matador are
equal partners, who gain equal status in the face of Death, who can take either
one of them.
The third scene of the first act shows the binding and the death of the Minotaur.
Antonio Castro renews the Cretan myth of the Minotaur by combining elements
belonging to the traditional mythology with own creative additions and the ele-
ments of Spanish culture. In the ancient myth Theseus found and killed the Mino-
taur in the deepest, darkest part of the labyrinth.9 The area was covered with bones
from the people the monster had killed. He was the first person to find his way out
of the maze. In Castro’s play there is no motive of labyrinth, instead we can see the
motive of arena, the place characteristic for the spectacle of tauromachy. Theseus,
in ancient myth does not defeat the Minotaur conspicuously, while in Castro’s play
his struggle with the beast is being watched by the residents of Pueblo who identify
themselves as the hero.
The choir, consisting of Pueblo residents, shout for the fight, chant the words:
‘We played in order to feel like a hero with you in the arena. Die or triumph. Kill
or be killed. (…) We played so that we can shout at you and feel free and power-
ful, and be someone important for this one afternoon.’ (Castro 2000: 163–164)
Then the choir adds: ‘We are the Pueblo, your own blood.’ (Castro 2000: 164) It
is worthy of note that in Spanish culture the symbol of blood does not serve a
trifling role. Not only is it about the motif of blood, but also its valorisation.
As previously mentioned, during corrida, the bull, despite the seeming cru-
elty, is treated as an equal partner. Castro fully realizes that this is why when
Theseus fights the Minotaur he says: ‘For a moment they seem to be one body’
(Castro 2000: 164). And as Theseus kills the Minotaur, he describes the monster’s
eyes: ‘His last look has something of human despair.’ (Castro 2000: 164)
The fight between Theseus and the Minotaur can be interpreted as an initia-
tory meeting with Death. The mythical labyrinth, or the arena, can be treated
symbolically as the bowels of the Minotaur, and the entrance to the labyrinth/
arena as an analogy to the gaping mouth of the bull. The topography of the area
8 See: Domecq y Díez 1986.

9 See: Doob 1990; Páez Casadiegos 2007.
becomes the topography of the insides. Also, the figure of the labyrinth/arena
suggests mystery and a journey, therefore the way through the labyrinth/arena
retains the stigmas of an initiation ritual.
The fourth scene shows the dialogue between Theseus and Minos. Castro
introduces here a dramatized attempt at reflection about the phenomenon of
the myth itself.
Minos: You killed the myth.
Theseus: I overcame my own fate.
Minos: You killed one myth, but gave life to another one, the myth of Theseus, the
killer of the Minotaur.
Theseus: Lord, please let me rest. I am wounded by the beast.
Minos: Fame will heal your wounds.
Theseus: Lord, I earned the right to freedom.
Minos: No. You became a slave and servant of higher ideas. The flag of Pueblo and
the homeland. You will never be free. (Castro 2000: 165)
The culture of Spain directly refers to the Greek cult of heroes, who earned their
fame and immortality on the battlefield. The matador’s extraordinary skills are
treated as the greatest display of heroism. The torero is indubitably a national
hero in Spain, and a torero who died on Plaza de toros (Bull’s plaza), in a fight is
double the hero.
The fifth scene shows Ariadne trying to seduce Theseus. Under the pretext of
the meeting of two lovers, Castro weaves a philosophic-ironic reflection about
the condition of the hero – the Minotaur’s matador.
Ariadne: How come he who defeated the beast cannot defeat a woman…who wishes
to be vanquished.
Theseus: I cannot, Ariadne. I no longer belong to you.
Ariadne: Oh yes, you are mine.
Theseus: I am dedicated to fame. I am in thrall to its power, which uses me.
Ariadne: You are the power itself. Try it on me.
Theseus: I belong to the beast, which I have to kill every day. I am the myth of two
bodies, like the Minotaur, who I killed: I am both man and beast. (Castro
2000: 167).
In the ancient myth Ariadne is, how Karl Kerényi rightly called her, the ‘mistress
of the labyrinth’10. It is because of her that Theseus is able to enter the labyrinth,
kill the beast and come out alive. In Castro’s play Ariadne is a young girl in love
with Theseus. She does not have any particular traits nor abilities, she is pure
and innocent. It is worth to mention that Kerényi points out that «Ariadne» is
10 Kerényi 1996: 105.

a Cretan-Greek form for «Arihagne», the ‘utterly pure’ Ariadne in Castro’s play
entirely keeps those attributes.
The sixth scene shows the Pueblo in dialogue with Theseus. The choir, made
up of Pueblo residents, chants: ‘We hope you will kill the beast. As it dies, our
fear will partially die too. We hope you will triumph: it is a compensation for us
people without fame. We hope you will live in wealth: it is a compensation for us
hungry people. (…) We can see ourselves in you. It is like you were born from us.
Your power is almost that of the power of a king, and it is our victory, a victory
for us, the subjugated people. As long as you will live, we will triumph in you. If
you die, the power you represent will slowly die.’ (Castro 2000: 167–168).
The seventh scene of first act shows Minos’s wife trying to seduce Theseus with
her charm. As Pasiphae says: “Theseus as a man, my love, does not interest me.
There are many men like him. The hero, the Minotaur’s matador – there is only
one.” (Castro 2000: 168). In Greek mythology, Pasifae means ‘wide-shining’. Like
her doublet Europa, her origins were in the East, in her case at, she was the sister
of Circe. The effect of the Greek interpretation was to reduce a more-than-human
female, daughter of the Sun itself, to a stereotyped emblem of grotesque bestial-
ity and the shocking excesses of female sensuality and deceit. In other aspects,
Pasiphae, like her niece Medea was a mistress of magical herbal arts in the Greek
imagination.
Castro show Pasiphae as a unfulfilled, ageing queen, for whom Theseus is a
form of entertainment and a kind of reward. Pasiphae tries to seduce the mata-
dor by emphasizing her good points and understating the virtues of Ariadne.
In the ninth scene Theseus arrives to Spain, where He is called ‘the first mata-
dor In history’. Mythical hero becomes the Spanish matador. The plan of the
myth and the plan of corrida overlap.
This scene is an attempt to show the history of corrida. Castro points out the
ancient cult of the bull in Iberia, the first attempts at knightly corrida on horse-
back and the flourishing of the art of corrida under the rule of Philip II.
It is worth mentioning that the current standards of corrida emerged in the
Age of Enlightenment. They were created by the Sevillian torero José Delgado
Guerra, also known as Pepe-Illo. In 1796 he published the work Tauromaquia o
arte de torear, in which he showed the art of corrida, described different breeds
of bull and presented a codex of the way a true torero should behave.11
The tenth scene shows a conversation between a young matador and an ex-
perienced master. Castro reflects on the condition of the matador’s profession,
11 See: Wolff 2003: 771–780.

and social and psychological conditioning. The eleventh scene shows a dialogue
between the ruler and Theseus. The sovereign says: ‘Neither women nor memo-
ries this afternoon. Now you are ‘Theseus’, and do not forget it. Go and triumph.’
(Castro 2000: 182) Theseus is a hero, a warrior. The only reason a warrior lives is
to win. The climax of the bullfight is welcomed with the exclamation ¡Óle!, which
then echoes in the memory of the viewers.
The twelfth scene shows a bullfight with all its stages: the matador entering
the arena, the bull’s release, the respective thirds: the meeting, the impalement
with bannerettes of the bull’s withers, the toast, the dance with the muleta, and
the death of the bull.
Doubtlessly the dramaturgy of corrida is complicated, as it resembles the steps
of a strictly codified dance in which both the toro and toreo take part. In order
to correctly illustrate the mathematical mastery of tauromachy, I will quote the
words of Pepe-Illo on the choreography of the final thrust:
So we finally reach the moment of final thrust, which deserves the greatest
respect and is the most difficult, but which fully satisfies the taste of the audi-
ence. There are many rules for different types of bulls. During this moment
the matador has to position himself on the right side and enter [into the circle
marked by the bull], with the muleta in the lefthand isolated [from his body]
and the épée in the other (…); [the matador] in this way teases the bull; then
he backs off, takes control of him and then humiliates him. At the same time
he bends his body, and then using the muleta he thrusts the épée into the bull’s
body and thus gives him the final stab, while evading the horns of the bull.
(Pepe-Illo 1984: 61)
The first scene of the second act begins with the choir, who are celebrating
Theseus’s virtues. The second scene shows the dialogue between Theseus and the
matador Juan, who says ‘Tauromachy is like affection, to everybody their love
seems special.’ (Castro 2000: 189) Juan also mentions the fear of corrida: ‘The
fear before the performance is so terrible even my body feels it. The beard grows
faster. (…) The stomach digests faster, the pores open, you sweat more and want
to piss every half an hour. All because of this fear.’ (Castro 2000: 189).
The third scene shows the dialogue between Theseus, Minos and Ariadne.
The fourth scene shows the dialogue between Ariadne and Theseus. He de-
sires fame, while she only wants for him to survive. In the fifth scene we can
see Theseus and the priest. This dialogue is full of tenderness and irony. The
priest says: ‘How can you care about external dangers if you have a pure heart?’
(Castro 2000: 201)
The sixth scene shows Theseus, the blind man and the mother in sorrow,
who cries for her son. Theseus says: ‘When the black bull appears, let me
sacrifice myself. His death bears my name, so my death will bear his.’ (Castro
2000: 204)
In the seventh scene the choir chants an invocation about the bull: ‘Virile bull
show us your virility, bull on the field give us your arrogance, bestow upon us
your false freedom (…)’ (Castro 2000: 204). The eighth scene shows the ritual of
the bull’s sacrifice.
It is worthy of note that in Álvarezo de Miranda’s opinion, corrida is above
all in praise of the rules of life. Originally death was not part of the ritual, and it
was introduced to the fiesta a posteriori because of its merging with the hunt and
tournament. The paradox of Spanish corrida – as Miranda says – is fundamen-
tally the fact that when it no longer was sacral, it started to seem like a sacrifice.
In the ninth scene the deaths of famous torero are mentioned. Their deeds
are celebrated by three groups: the first sings, the second recites and the third
speaks. The voices overlap. In the world of tauromachy, memory plays an im-
portant role, because without it, it would not be possible to understand both the
social rituals, which are present in fiesta, and the cult of torero. The places where
memory can recall and revive the heroic deeds of matadors are tertulias tauri-
nas (speeches about the bulls) – a phenomenon characteristic of the culture of
the Iberian Penisula, meaning a social gathering of a cultural and artistic nature.
Tertulia functions as a salon for aficionados (enthusiasts), and they usually take
place in bars and private houses. These places are - as Jan Assamann would say –
‘memory-making’, in which knowledge of the art of tauromachy and recollections
of a torero’s masterful thrusts are born and bequeathed.
El torero, also called el diestro, serves multiple roles in the world of tauromachy,
treated as an actor, gladiator, warrior, dancer, or even as a martyr or saint. This
multitude of roles requires an enormous amount of artistry from the torero, as
no artist stirs the audience to such an ovation, or even frenetic ecstasy. Andrés
Amorós says: ‘(…) despite the development of our society, the figure of the torero
doubtlessly even today causes a prevailing admiration that cannot be compared to
the admiration of any popular idol. (…). Very few footballers or singers provoke
(…) such incredible madness.’ (Guardiola 1987: 64).
Despite all its dignity and reality, tauromachy does not fit into the aesthet-
ics of realism. Corrida ‘overcomes’ realism, to leave a place for the aesthetic
of Death.12 Thanks to the peculiar choreography of both the toro and torero’s
steps, we accompany what is hidden from our eyes – the sinister mystery of
Thanatos. It is worth quoting once again the words of Lorca. In Juego y teoría
12 See: Arias 2002: 31–44.

del duende he accurately states: ‘In all countries Death is the end. It comes and
the curtain falls. But not in Spain. In Spain the curtain rises. (…) The deceased
in Spain are more alive than the deceased in any other place in the world.’
(Lorca 1986: 129).
The death shown to the public, the death in an agora, a cruel yet magnificent
death, is a true death. We see it face to face. Lorca says of tauromachy: ‘The
bullfight is probably Spain’s most poetic and vital richness. (…) I think that
tauromachy is the most exquisite fiesta that exists in today’s world; the pure
drama in which a Spaniard sheds his best tears and vents his greatest anger. It
is the only place where we can go and be sure to see death wrapped up in the
most incandescent beauty. (Lorca 1986: 129) Tauromachy does not natural-
ize the over-naturalness of death, neither does it rationalize its irrationality. It
shows death as it is. To look Death in the face and ‘cross over’ with it seems to
be the most beautiful legacy of tauromachy.
References
Amorós Guardiola A., 1987, Toros y cultura, Madrid: Espasa-Calpe.
Castro J.A., 2000, Teatro escogido. Tauromaquia, Madrid: Editorial Avispa, vol. I.
Doob P.L., 1990, The Idea of the Labyrinth. From Classical Antiquity through the
Middle Age, Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press.
García Lorca F., 1986, ‘Juego y Teoría del duende’, Cuadernos del Centro Dramatico
Nacional 7.
Kerényi K., 1996, Dionisos. The archetypal image of indestructible life, Princeton:
Princeton University Press.
López Izquierdo F., 1990, ‘Historia del toro bravo’, Historia y vida 267.
Martín Arias L., 2002, ‘Tauromaquia o cómo plantarle cara al Horror’, Trama y
fondo 12.
Moreiro J.M., 1994, Historia, cultura y memoria del arte de torear, Madrid:
Editorial Alianza.
Nieto Manjón L., 1987, Diccionario ilustrado de términos taurinos, Madrid:
Espasa-Calpe.
Páez Casadiegos Y., 2007, ‘El Minotauro en su laberinto’, Eidos 5, 94–127.
Pepe-Illo, 1984, Tauromaquia o arte de torear, Granada: Biblioteca de la cultura
andaluza.

Porrúa Turanzas J. ed., 1983, Direcciones de teatro español de posguerra, Madrid:

Editorial CSS.
Ríos Ruiz M., 1990, Vocabulario elemental taurino, in: idem, Aproximación a la
Tauromaquia, Madrid: Edición Istmo, Colleción Fundamentos.
Sánchez de Neira J., 1879, El toreo. Gran diccionario tauromáquico, Madrid:
Libreria Manuel Guijarro.
Tierno Galván E., 1971, Escritos (1950–1960), Madrid: Tecnos.
Torres Martínez J.C. de, 2006, El campo léxico de la tauromaquia en el Diccion-
ario del estudiante (RAE), in: Villayandre Llamazares M. ed., Actas del XXXV
Simposio Internacional de la Sociedad Española de Lingüística, León: Univer-
sidad de León.
Wolff F., 2003, ‘¡Torero!¡Torero!’ La ética del torero y sus diez mandamientos, in:
A. García-Baquero G., Romero de Solís P. (eds.), Fiestas de toros y sociedad,
Sevilla: Universidad de Sevilla.
[Author unknown], ‘Yorick pregunta. Responde Juan Antonio Castro’, 1972,
Yorick 53.

Maria Judyta Woźniak
‘Exiled Arcadians’ – Presence of Myth

in the Poetry of Antonio Colinas and Zbigniew
Herbert
The poetic diction of Antonio Colinas and Zbigniew Herbert is substantially built on
mythological references, in particular allusions to the Arcadian myth. Although Arcadian
allusions are rarely articulated in a straightforward way, their concealed presence may
be detected at various levels of poetic expression. They are mostly of polemic nature as
regards the tradition. This common feature of poetic imagination is an inspiration for a
comparative study of both contemporary poets. A special reflection of ‘Arcadian’ quests
are poetic references to fine arts – sculpture and painting. The characters created by Coli-
nas and Herbert want to believe that, in the extraordinary sphere of art works, all that
passed away continues to exist in what still remains. Ruins and surviving fragments of
sculptures and paintings refer to the entirety they used to be a part of, thus becoming a
sign of the connection with the lost land of happiness. The time of art, particularly the
one symbolized by paintings, is embodied in the time of the Eternal Present that pro-
tects against evanescence, destruction and loss of what is important. Interpretation of
selected poems by Colinas and Herbert creates an opportunity to thoroughly examine
contemporary versions of the eternal myth presented by the poets who, though living at
a geographical distance from each other, feel deeply related to the same Mediterranean
culture. It also demonstrates diverse poetic suggestions regarding their own recognized
position on ‘the exiled Arcadian’.
An important feature of the poetic diction of Antonio Colinas and Zbigniew

Herbert are mythological references. It is not a coincidence that there have been
so many studies written on mythological motifs in the poets’ works, their sym-
bolic meaning, or more generally, the poets’ attitude towards the antique legacy.
An exceptional example in this respect is the poetic perception of fine arts, par-
ticularly paintings and sculpture. It is defined by the presence of myth being
deeply rooted in the imagination of both authors. It is not so much about refer-
ring to existing myths but about the manner of the poetic world’s creation.
Before I move on to the main subject, I let me just mention a few words on
the proposed juxtaposition. There are numerous reasons why it is worth reading
the works by the two poets together. Antonio Colinas (a Spaniard, born in 1946)
and Zbigniew Herbert (a Polish poet, 1924–1998) are also prose authors and

148 Maria Judyta Woźniak
translators, writers of the broadly defined present times1. Both create new forms
of poetic expression in a period which seeks, ‘a new diction’ – Colinas tries to
find something which opposes the ‘poesía social’2, whereas Herbert writes in
the times of the post-war crystallization of the new poetic language. Both poets,
often regarded by critics as representatives of classicism3, are strongly related to
the Mediterranean culture in a broader sense, not only with its mythology, but
also the antique tradition remains a fixed point of reference4 for them.
In Herbert’s poetry the author himself inspire to reflection over the Arcadian
myth when he calls himself ‘an exiled Arcadian’ (in the poem ‘Balkony’ from the
collection entitled Hermes, pies i gwiazda)5. In some other places his hero feels
‘an exile of clear shapes’. After all, Herbert, as many critics observe, highly valued
the sense of sight emphasizing his preference for sight and colours rather than
hearing and sounds6. In Herbert’s poetry, works of art have ‘clear shapes’, i.e. well
defined forms and colours, palpable, visible, perceptible by the senses. Selected
interpretation tools, suggested to readers by the Polish poet, may also be applied
to the interpretation of the creative works by Antonio Colinas, which is demon-
strated by the poems quoted in the following part of this study.
It is the condition of ‘an exiled Arcadian’, to have the feeling of losing one’s
identity and being exiled to the chaotic contemporary world that causes contem-
plation of works of art, stemming from the need to freeze time. Let us emphasize
that the need itself is the origin of all myths. Therefore, it is about the manner of
poetic thinking which derives from the same source as all myths, not only antique
1 Both poets won many prestigious literary awards.

2 The poet is one of the representatives of the so-called ‘novísimos’, poets born in
the years 1939–1953, also called ‘the 1970 year’, together with, among others, Pere
Gimferre, Guillermo Carnero, who opposed political and social objectives of litera-
ture and requirements of clarity and transparency with regard to the language.
3 Herbert himself suggested this link saying: ‘What I am looking for now is; my own,
imaginary classicism formula, poetry that would have a chance to endure’ (Herbert,
Zawieyski 2002: 41). See also: Alonso Gutiérrez 2000.
4 Such a definition of the intellectual and spiritual community of both poets describes
the nature of the comparative method that I adopted. As Teresa Kostkiewiczowa writes,
such an approach is closer to the ‘methodological modernity’: ‘It does not matter if there
are actually any similarities, i.e. parallelisms, homologies, convergences, analogies, syn-
chronisms, etc.’ (Kostkiewiczowa 1998: 14).
5 As a matter of fact, Stanisław Barańczak reminds us that the theme of banishment
from the symbolic Arcadia, being the central motif of the poet’s creative work, was
noticed quite early by critics (Barańczak 2001: 47).
6 See e.g.: Ligęza 2005: 180.
Presence of Myth in Poetry of A. Colinas and Z. Herbert 149
ones. According to Leszek Kołakowski, all forms of myths functioning in our cul-
ture present the same common motif, i.e. ‘the desire to freeze physical time by
imposing on it a mythical form of time, i.e. one which enables us to see not only
change, but also an accumulation in the flow of things, or it allows us to believe
that which has already passed still remains, with regard to its value, in what lasts’;
‘that decomposition and destruction affect only the visible layer of existence, do
not affect the other which is resistant to ruin’ (Kołakowski 1994: 10).
The hope of finding an everlasting time, being the hope which gives rise to
all myths, appears in a special way in the poems by Colinas and Herbert which
tell about sculpture and paintings. The essence of this quest is the continuous
confrontation between myth and awareness of the present7. In what way then do
poetic works express the mythical need to freeze the passing of time, to reach the
full form of the eternal sense?
Like in the works of Eliot, the reflections presented by Colinas and Herbert
regarding the time which is always present derive from experiencing the decline
of the civilization and culture of their own period. Since, in this historical, cruel
and unpredictable time Arcadia is beyond reach, the poets see a hope for pre-
serving the Eternal Present in ‘the miserable time’ by means of works of art8
which help us to feel– let us here use the phrase of Mircea Eliade – the depth and
continuity of time (Eliade 1992: 202). In his collection of essays entitled Labirynt
nad morzem, Herbert wrote about experiencing such a time on the Athenian
Acropolis: ‘Then I repeated myself the inept formula: it is and I am, and the
huge time space dividing our dates of birth shrank, vanished. We were present.’
(Herbert 2000: 129). What the expression ‘present’ means here is living in the
same time, but free from the present day seen as temporary reality. Colinas also
wishes to save art from the limiting, too close bond with the latter: ‘It is time we
stopped creating art, judge art and assess art, depending on its time relevance.’
(Colinas 1981: 38).
7 The cited work by Stanisław Barańczak, Uciekinier z Utopii (‘An Exile from Utopia’) is
one of the classic interpretations of Herbert. What the scholar observes in it is a poet
torn between legacy of tradition and empirical knowledge of the present-day reality
- disinheritance (Barańczak 2001: 59). For more information on the confrontation
between myth and the present-day reality see e.g.: Pujals Gesali, de la Flor 1981: 3.
8 Stanisław Barańczak claims: ‘[…] the main issue in Herbert’s poetry is the fact that it
is based on the scheme of continuous confrontation between the Western tradition
and the experience of the Eastern Europe citizen, the past with the present, the cul-
tural myth with the fact.’ (Barańczak 2001: 44). What I am particularly interested in
in this case is the confrontation of the past with the present: the myth with the fact.
Is the hero created by Colinas or Herbert able to find a shelter for themselves
in the eternity of art?
Herbert’s poem entitled W pracowni from the collection of poems Studium
przedmiotu juxtaposes two manners of creation. The first one is characteristic
of God, and its fruit is the existing world – too perfect, as the poet says, to live a
peaceful life inside it. The other one has nothing in common with the divine act
of creation. The world of painting created by the artist is human, ‘good and full
of mistakes’, it provokes a desire to stay within it:
oko chodzi sobie
od plamy do plamy
od owocu do owocu
oko mruczy
oko uśmiecha się
oko wspomina
oko mówi można wytrzymać
gdyby tylko udało się wejść
do środka
tam gdzie był ten malarz
bez skrzydeł
w opadających pantoflach
bez Wergiliusza
z kotem w kieszeni
fantazją dobroduszną
i nieświadomą ręką
która poprawia świat
[the eye is walking
from stain to stain
from fruit to fruit
the eye is murmuring
the eye is smiling
the eye is recollecting
the eye is saying it is bearable
if only one could get
inside
where the painter was
without wings
in his dropping shoes
without Vergil
with a cat in his pocket
kind-hearted fantasy
and an unaware hand

which mends the world]
In the world created by the painter one can move freely as one wishes, it is per-
missible to be imperfect and express oneself in an imperfect way. It is a typical Ar-
cadian space, not perfect, but built as it was required by humans and their dreams
of happiness. It would be wonderful to live there (‘if only one could get / inside
/ where the painter was’). However, it is impossible to get into the world that the
painter preserved in his work. The time of the painting, the time of Arcadia saved
by the artist belongs to the closed past.
A similar experience is described in the poem by Colinas ‘En el museo’ (Silen-
cios de fuego):
Quisiera penetrar en ese cuadro […]
Penetrar en el cuadro y recibir
de repente el temblor de los cerezos
en el rostro como un fuego que inflama.
No existir, mas durar en las miradas
de cada visitante del museo.
No existir, mas arder muy lentamente
en las llamas-colores del pintor.
No ser nunca como es la carne nuestra,
que no cesa en su grito, y que perece.
[I wish I could penetrate the painting […]
Penetrate the picture and suddenly
experience trembling of cherry trees
on my face, like a fire that burns.
Not exist, but last in looks
of each museum visitor.
Not exist but burn very slowly,
in the flames – colours of the painter.
Never to be like our body
which does not stop screaming, which passes.]
The poet juxtaposes the desire to exist like works of art with the life limited by
the mortal body. Surviving in the looks of visitors unexpectedly turns out to
be more valuable since it is not subject to physical death. Thus, the time of the
painting, although unreal, appears to be eternal9. The desire to be united with
art, which exists in a time that does not pass (‘¡Fundirse en arte para no morir!’),
9 Cf: Navarro Durán 1997: 254.

becomes fully understandable. The way in which art exists – unattainable,

impossible to follow, seems to be more valuable and more complete than human
existence.
It happens so because the life of art is eternal, even if it is subject to destruc-
tion. Thus, works of art preserved in fragments are mainly a sign of the past, a
proof of the entirety that used to exist and which was created to imitate Arcadia.
An eternal moment, an everlasting time, a superior order shows through what is
mostly destroyed – broken ceramic plates and statutes.
Todo era signo y símbolo:
aquel poco de griego borroso sobre un mármol […]
Estatuas, ¡tan deformes!, instauraban el orden
en el mundo […]
[Everything was a sign and a symbol
of a slightly vague Greek character on the marble […]
Statues, so deformed! They restored order
to the world]
– this is what Colinas writes in his ‘Canto XXV’ (Noche más allá de la noche).
Jacek Brzozowski aptly points out that Herbert, during his poetic journey
back to the source, i.e. Greece, found only fragments:
He found remains, fragments […]. These fragments do not form a whole, a more or
less official vision of Hellade. Thus, the first lesson the traveler most probably learns
is that the world was not saved as a whole, therefore, it exists for us and may be de-
scribed only in unrelated fragments, scraps, episodes, fleeting moments. (Brzozowski
2000: 247)
The scholar concludes that these fragments survived because they are impor-
tant. Therefore, one should read them, find their scattered meanings. The poet
himself must have been aware of the fragmentary nature of the world when he
entitled his poems ‘Fragment wazy greckiej’ (Struna światła) or just ‘Fragment’
(Studium przedmiotu). It is not without a reason that in ‘Raport z oblężonego
Miasta’, included in the collection of the same title, the fear of losing the ruins
means a fear of losing everything valuable in human life:
pozostało nam tylko miejsce przywiązanie do miejsca
jeszcze dzierżymy ruiny świątyń widma ogrodów i domów
jeśli stracimy ruiny nie pozostanie nic
[what we have left is only attachment to this place
we still hold ruins of the temples, ghosts of gardens and houses
if we lose the ruins, there will be nothing left]

The poet’s special liking for fragmentary works of art stems from the belief
that experiencing elements or incomplete parts revives the desire for the Great
Whole. In his poetry, as José Paulino Ayuso indicates:
Archaeological remains, fragments of statues, ruins are not simply some remnants, but a
trace of the past which is exposed to the eyes of the observer in all its glory, suggestive-
ness and with poetic power, as a work of art and cultural picture of history; human past
that is at the same time subject to the flow of time. (Colinas 2002: 134)
The poet often mentions ‘the ruins lesson’, particularly in his ‘treaties on har-
mony’ (Colinas 2010: 60). A similar lesson is taught by each work of art which
was destroyed by time. Just as in the case of Herbert, pictures of ruins do not
arouse any fascination with destruction, but strengthen the attitude of protest
against etiam ruinae periere. The presence of fragments of a greater whole which
was lost gives hope for reconnection, hence they are clearly present in the poetry
of Colinas and Herbert10.
The poem by Colinas entitled ‘Cabeza de la diosa entre mis manos’ (Astrola-
bio) tells about a close, in the most literal sense, relation with a deformed work
of art:
Barro oscuro conforma tu figura
que mantiene el tiempo detenido.
[…]
Pero lo que ha durado esta cabeza
frágil que ha contemplado tantos siglos
la muerte de los astros, que en mis manos
descansa, se hace fugazmente eterno.
[…]
Misterio de dos barros que han brotado
de un mismo pozo y bajo un mismo fuego.
Mas sólo a uno de ellos concedió
el Arte la virtud de ser divino
y, en consecuencia, no morir jamás.
[Dark clay builds your figure,
that preserves the retained time.
[…]
10 Let us mention that the presence is both themed and hidden. It is worth mentioning
that Colinas and Herbert often use traditional versification patterns combing them
with non-metric formats – see: e.g. Herbert’s ‘hexametric reminiscences’ which refer
to the whole antique tradition being ‘a promise of return to Arcadia’. Cf.: Mikołajczak
2007: 54.
But all that the fragile head survived,

the head which observed death of stars for so many centuries,
and which rests in my hands, becomes fleetingly eternal.
[…]
A secret of two clay pieces which stem
from the same source, the same fire
but art gave the divine power only to one of them
and that is why it will never die.]
Time, which destroys humans, depriving them of time, enriches works of art. Is
it not why Herbert strives to find ‘a statue merged in youth’ in his Struna światła,
the poem ‘Do Apollina’? What passed turns out to be eternal since, paradoxi-
cally, it was preserved in the sculpture fragments. The clay head is seemingly
as perishable and fragile as human existence, however, in contrast to the latter,
it participates in immortality. An interesting continuation of this idea may be
observed in Herbert when he mentions the land where ‘statues mature’. In his
poem ‘Ołtarz’ from the collection Struna światła, the main character bends his
head over a broken low relief so as to decipher its symbolism. Interpretation of
the fragments leads to a more general reflection on evanescence, filled with fear:
nie wiesz jakie twe słowo i jaki kształt może błahy
przechowa zmarszczka kamienia – nie to co myślisz że tobą
i nie wiesz czy krew i kości może rzęsę wybiorą
w ziemi ułożą łaskawej gdzie dojrzewają posągi
[you do not know what word of yours and perhaps a trivial shape
will be saved by a stone wrinkle – not what you think you are
and you do not know if it is blood or bones, they may pick an eyelash
and put it in the gracious land when statues mature]
Paradoxically, art grows in hiding, enriching itself with new meanings as time
passes. In contrast to art, mankind does not know which part of their life hap-
pens to oppose the flow of time – it may happen that something that is least im-
portant will remain, ‘perhaps a trivial shape’? On the other hand, a fragment of
the painting may tell even about the essence of life and death. In his other poem
from the collection Struna światła, ‘Fragment wazy greckiej’, a few pages further,
the main character:
zamknął oczy
wyrzeka się świata
liście zwisają w cichym powietrzu
drży gałąź potrącona cieniem odlatujących ptaków
i tylko świerszcz ukryty
w żywych jeszcze włosach Memnona
głosi przekonywającą
pochwałę życia
[closed his eyes
renounces the sun
leaves hang in the silent air
a branch jostled by the wind is shivering
and only a cricket
hidden in Memnon’s hair
is praising life convincingly]
Contemplation of the poem brings a desire to gaze at works of art for one’s entire
life, just like in the poem ‘La estatua mutilada’ (Astrolabio) by Colinas:
Me habría quedado allí, mirándote, una vida.
Aquel cuerpo astillado por el frío y el tiempo […]
No sufres destrucción. Tu poder es tan alto
que hoy parecía que de tus brazos tronchados
se escapaba la vida del que te contemplaba.
[I would stay there looking at you, for my entire life.
The body broken by cold and time […]
Destruction does not affect you. Your strength is so enormous
that today it seemed the life of the one who contemplated you
escaped from your broken arms.]
Even if someone ‘lost’ their life devoting it to contemplation, they would only
lose an existence limited by time, and what they would gain in return is a chance
of participating in eternity. Is it possible, though? The desires are expressed in the
conditional: ‘they would’, which suggests these desires cannot be satisfied.
If the time of the former Arcadian harmony, in which the world formed a
whole, undivided into the past, present and future (Markiewicz 1989: 67), still
penetrates art, it means it belongs to a mythical vision of the world. Neverthe-
less, thanks to works of art, it is recognisable. Paintings and sculptures keep the
memory of a time which does not pass, creating a place where, though indirectly
and insufficiently, the presence of myth can be observed. Paradoxically, it is the
fragmentary nature of works of art and their unavailability that reveals the ‘clear
shapes’ of Arcadia for contemporary mankind.
The quoted poems, although they form only a minor part of the creative works
of Herbert and Colinas, make us realize how deeply the myth penetrates their
poetry tissue, bringing a much more significant meaning than any repetition of
a fictional pattern or use of ancient requisites. Works of poets not subject to any
kind of influence or relation also demonstrate affinities in their perception of the
Arcadian myth, being both clear proof of its topicality and cultural inspiration.
References
Colinas A., 2011, Obra poética completa, Madryt: Siruela.
Herbert Z., 2008, Wiersze zebrane, ed. R. Krynicki, Kraków: Wydawnictwo a5.
Alonso Gutiérrez L.M., 2000, Antonio Colinas, un clásico del siglo XXI, León:
Universidad de León.
Barańczak S., 2001, Uciekinier z Utopii, Warszawa-Wrocław: Wydawnictwo
Naukowe PWN.
Brzozowski J., 2000, Antyk Herberta, in: Poznawanie Herberta 2, Franaszek A.
ed., Kraków: Wydawnictwo Literackie.
Colinas A., 1981, Razones para una poética de nuestro tiempo, in: Cava S.F.,
‘Antonio Colinas’, Cuervo 2.
– 2010, Tres tratados de armonía, Barcelona: Marginales Tusquets.
López Torrijos R., 1994, Prólogo in: Mitología clásica, Madrid: Celeste Arte.
Eliade M., 1992, Próba labiryntu. Rozmowy z Claude-Henri Rocquetem, trans.
Środa K., Warszawa: Sen.
Herbert Z., 2000, Labirynt nad morzem, Warszawa: Zeszyty Literackie.
Herbert Z., Zawieyski J., 2002, Korespondencja 1949–1967, Kądziela P. ed.,
Warszawa: Zeszyty Literackie.
Kołakowski L., 1994, Obecność mitu, Wrocław: Wydawnictwo Dolnośląskie.
Kostkiewiczowa T., 1998, Komparatystyka literacka – zakres i treść pojęcia. Status
naukowy badań porównawczych, in: Badania porównawcze. Dyskusja o me-
todzie. Radziejowice 6–8 lutego 1997 r., Nowicka-Jeżowa A., ed., Warszawa:
Świat Literacki.
Ligęza W., 2005, Historia muzyki według Pana Cogito, in: Portret z początku
wieku. Tworczość Zbigniewa Herberta – kontynuacje i rewizje, Ligęza W, Cicha
M., eds., Lublin: Wydawnictwo Archidiecezji Lubelskiej Gaudium.
Markiewicz H., 1989, Literatura a mity, in: Markiewicz H., Literaturoznawstwo i
jego sąsiedztwa, Warszawa: Państwowe Wydawnictwo Naukowe.
Mikołajczak M., 2007, W cieniu heksametru…. Interpretacje wierszy Zbigniewa
Herberta, Zielona Góra: Uniwersytet Zielonogórski.
Navarro Durán R., 1997, Luz y armonía en ‘Los silencios de fuego’, in: Colinas
A. et alii, El viaje hacia el centro [La poesía de Antonio Colinas], Madrid:
Calambur.
Paulino Ayuso J., 2002, ‘Antonio Colinas’, Thélème. Revista Complutense de Estu-
dios Franceses 17.
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Colinas: Lo mítico’, Insula, 410.

Dorota Jędraś
The Myth of Atreides in Letter to Orestes and

Supper by Iakovos Kambanellis
The article focuses on the use of Atreides’ myth in two plays by Iakovos Kambanellis,
Letter to Orestes and Supper. The differences between Kambanellis’s characters and their
equivalents known from mythology are shown and examined. Since the actions of these
characters are presented through the prism of modern times and problems, women’s is-
sues in a patriarchal society and family relations between characters known from the
myth of Atreides are examined. Attention is paid also to the techniques of metatheatre
that Kambanellis used in both of these plays. The author of the article tries to answer the
question why metatheatre is used again in relation to mythology.
In the work of Iakovos Kambanellis (1921–2011) mythology always played a

very important role. The author in his plays usually referred to the myth of
Odysseus1. Among the mythological characters there is one more though, very
special to Kambanellis, to whom he gave a lot of sympathy. It is Clytemnestra.
Kambanellis wrote two one-act plays about the myth of Atreides: Letter to
Orestes (Καμπανέλλης 1994a) and Supper (Καμπανέλλης 1994b), which were
both written in the years 1991–1992 and were put on the stage together as the
two first parts of a trilogy with the title Supper2.
Kambanellis, in a short note that was attached to the theatrical programme
prepared for the first show, wrote that always when he saw the next adaptation or
reinterpretation of the myth of Atreides, he felt that Clytemnestra was wrongly
assessed or no one was trying to explain or justify her decisions (Καμπανέλλης
1994c: 19–20). He decided, therefore, to rewrite the story of Atreides so she could
take part in the discussion and explain her acts. On this basis, Clytemnestra’s
monologue, Letter to Orestes, was written. This drama could be interpreted as
a kind of feminist manifesto against coercing women in a world dominated by
men. It seems, however, that this perspective could deprive the text of a num-
ber of other equally valuable layers of meaning. However, without a doubt, the
problem of a woman’s place in society and family is the most important one that
is discussed in the drama. In other dramas, the author does not always, or even
1 Direct references to the character of Odysseus are in the dramas: Odysseus, come back,
Κανείς και οι Κύκλωπες, The Last Act.
2 The third part of this trilogy, Πάροδος Θηβών referred to the myth of Labdacides.
160 Dorota Jędraś
rarely, support the female characters. In those where Odysseus was the main
character, Penelope was a secondary character, either shown quite ironically or
even in a negative way, and the author seemed not to care much about her future.
So it was not, generally speaking, a woman’s place in society that was most im-
portant for Kambanellis but the defence of this particular woman, Clytemnestra.
Furthermore, in Letter to Orestes Kambanellis doesn’t try to protect her from
the consequences of the committed acts or to show that she shouldn’t be mur-
dered, he just lets her explain her behaviour without interfering in the myth it-
self. Clytemnestra knows that she will not avoid death, she knows what she has
done and, as she says, the truth is that her life ended when she came to Mycenae
for the first time and got married to Agamemnon (Καμπανέλλης 1994a: 26–27).
She believes that it is going to be Electra who will kill her and she wants to stop
her. She doesn’t even think it could be Orestes. She knows she will be killed but
she doesn’t want her child to do this.
Clytemnestra’s monologue is just one scene during which, ready to die, the
heroine is writing a letter (or actually she starts to write a few times and then
she speaks out loud what she wants to write) in which she wants to explain
her past behaviour. The acts of the well-known heroine are presented from her
perspective, so from the perspective of a woman, and first of all of a mother.
Clytemnestra opposes the dominant role of men in society, presents her husband
as a despot, a ruthless egotist who, to fulfil his plans, even sacrificed the life of his
own daughter. She accurately describes her life with Agamemnon, and with this
detailed and honest description she tries to justify her actions.
Their marriage was arranged because, as she says, the only thing a woman can
choose is her wedding dress (Καμπανέλλης 1994a: 27). Although after the wed-
ding she tried to carry out her marital duties, from the very beginning she actu-
ally had just one duty – to give birth to a son for Agamemnon. The only thing she
heard after giving birth to Electra was that she had let him down (Καμπανέλλης
1994a: 28). Agamemnon spurned them both. Finally, Electra also came to the
conclusion that her mother was the one to blame because she was the one that
had given birth to a girl. When Iphigenia was born, Clytemnestra was left with
her all alone. Orestes appeared in the world as the result of rape – Agamemnon
once came home drunk and raped his wife thinking that she was, in fact, one of
his lovers. The long-awaited son quickly became the pride and joy of the whole
family. Even Electra spent time with him because it was the only way to draw her
father’s attention. When Orestes was five, Agamemnon decided that from now
on he would be responsible for his upbringing. Clytemnestra was left alone again
with Iphigenia, who Agamemnon also took just a little later. A lot of mothers
lost their children during the Trojan War, but Agamemnon sacrificed the life of
The Myth of Atreides in Letter to Orestes and Supper by I. Kambanellis 161
their daughter consciously. It was only Aegisthus, with whom she created a real
relationship, who helped her to understand what a happy life means. She also
indicates that is was the people of Mycenae who wanted him to rule because of
his intelligence, and he claimed from the beginning that he would leave as soon
as Agamemnon returned. Clytemnestra, until the last moment, had been hiding
from him her plans to kill her husband, because Aegisthus was too kind to take
part in this murder. She committed the murder in the belief that it would be
Agamemnon would kill both her and Aegisthus.
Clytemnestra does not blame Agamemnon for everything. It was she who
made the mistake that destroyed her life and determined the fate of her family.
She didn’t leave Agamemnon as soon as she realized what kind of a man he was.
She should have left him then, but she did not, and everything that happened
later was just the consequence of this one mistake.
The idea of the second drama appeared when Kambanellis was writing
Clytemnestra’s monologue. Supper is a kind of continuation of Letter to Orestes.
First, Kambanellis came up with the sentence: ‘we live to act, we die to think’.
Than he started to think who might say that and in what situation (finally it is
said by Aegisthus (Καμπανέλλης 1994b: 66)). And on the basis of this sentence
he created the story of the meeting of the characters that are all connected with
the myth of Atreides. The element that joins those two dramas is Clytemnestra’s
letter which is written in the first drama and appears a few times in the second,
during the last supper. In Supper Kambanellis treats the myth in the same way
as in one of his other dramas, The Last Act (Καμπανέλλης 1998). He suggests a
solution that somehow ‘saves’ the mythological characters. In this case he rescues
them from the pangs of conscience that torment the youth representatives of the
family. He creates a new ending for their story.
A few years after the events of the first drama, Iphigenia organizes a sup-
per in the country house of Pholos, Electra’s husband. At the table gather those
who are alive: Electra, Iphigenia, Orestes and Pholos, and those who are dead:
Clytemnestra, Agamemnon, Aegisthus and Cassandra. Although these are
mythological figures, references to various texts of ancient literature can be seen.
The story of Iphigenia’s life is similar to the one that was shown to Euripides in
Iphigenia in Tauris. The figure of Pholos refers to Euripides’s Electra.
In Supper Kambanellis combines the mythology with Christian and Greek folk
tradition. Only Iphigenia knows that it is going to be their last supper. The sup-
per was organised for the whole family; places are also prepared for those who
are dead, but those who are alive are actually not aware of their presence. Despite
this they put on the plates of the dead ones bread and they pour wine into their
glasses. Bread and wine are symbols taken from the Christian tradition, just like
162 Dorota Jędraś
the whole idea of the last meal, while sharing the food with the dead ones is taken
from the Greek folk tradition.
Those who are alive do not hear what those who are dead are saying. In this
way, or perhaps because of it, Kambanellis is playing with the dialogue. Some-
times, as Pouchner noticed, you can get the impression that it is a series of short
monologues instead of a dialogue (2010: 682). Largely this drama is like Letter to
Orestes, an apologia - all of those who are present at the supper want to explain
their actions, they look for understanding and forgiveness.
At the beginning the dead are speaking. They wish the young could hear them,
mainly because they can see what is happening with them. The remorse that tor-
ments them makes them look much older than they really are (Καμπανέλλης
1994b: 37). Agamemnon believes that his children should leave the past behind
and just move on.
The supper takes place in a country house, not just because it is close to
the cemetery where the dead ones were buried but mainly because Electra
and Orestes are afraid of revenge of the people who condemn them for the
matricide. Even Pholos feels guilty. He married Electra because that was what
Clytemnestra and Aegisthus, his friends, wanted from him. And he fell in love
with her. But their marriage is a fiction, and because of it Electra conspired
more and more with the followers of Agamemnon, and finally she persuaded
Orestes to kill their mother3. However, Iphigenia tries to convince him that he is
not guilty of anything, that he never hurt anyone. Before the supper, one by one,
everyone washes their hands as if it was a ceremonial cleansing. They pray for
the souls of the dead ones and speak about them: Pholos mentions the wisdom
of Aegisthus, they wonder who really Cassandra was, and Electra still defends
her father, claiming that he was not in a relationship with Cassandra.
Iphigenia curses the letter written by her mother and which Orestes keeps
reading all the time. It would be much better if Orestes had never got it. The letter
itself and the fact that he read it too late bother him more than the fact that he
murdered his mother. Iphigenia, however, believes that reading this letter earlier
wouldn’t have changed anything – they just didn’t want to believe Clytemnestra.
Electra begins to recall her mother and it turns out that from her point of
view the situation looked quite different than it was described by Clytemnestra.
Electra was glad that Clytemnestra was in a relationship with Aegisthus, she
was still young and beautiful and she deserved love. Electra had never seen
3 Kambanellis expands and explains the history of Electra and Pholos’s marriage, which
is briefly mentioned in Euripides’s Electra.
happier people than her mother and Aegisthus. Although she avoided close
contact and conversations with Clytemnestra, she always secretly watched her.
Clytemnestra admits that she knew about it and that is why she always left the
doors ajar (a thing that she didn’t mention in her letter).
They recall also the night of murdering their mother, inter alia, acting out the
moment of killing her (Καμπανέλλης 1994b: 62). Iphigenia claims that she has
found the solution for their situation – they should go on a journey, as far away
as possible. It has even already prepared but first they have to finish the food
and drink the wine. Only Clytemnestra has a premonition about what is going
to happen but she cannot warn the others. Agamemnon, not understanding the
metaphor of journey, considers the children’s desire to leave as a betrayal of the
family. At the same time it seems like there was nothing wrong with matricide for
him and certainly he doesn’t see it as a crime, he doesn’t even seem to understand
their remorse. His children should rule, it is their right, their duty and no one
should take it from them. When the living begin to feel sleepy, Pholos is the one
who guesses what is happening – Iphigenia had slipped poison into the wine.
She calms him down – in his glass there is just wine, he is not guilty. Iphigenia
believes that poisoning her siblings is not murder but a way to rescue them from
the horrible past, a sign of love and forgiveness.
The play suddenly stops. The actor who plays the role of Aegisthus explains
that the actors don’t know the last sentences of the play, but in his opinion it’s the
right moment to finish (Καμπανέλλης 1994b: 68).
The creation of Electra’s character should receive special attention in these
two dramas. Although in Letter to Orestes Clytemnestra explains the acts of
her daughter, she creates quite a negative vision of her. Her character corre-
sponds with the Electra complex known in psychology. She is a girl for whom
the mother becomes her rival in the battle for the favour of the father (except
for the part that concerns sexuality). Clytemnestra knows how her daughter
sees her and why she treats her so badly, and she even believes it’s her fault
at some point. Agamemnon is also guilty, as it was because of him that Elec-
tra never accepted Aegisthus. She fights for her father’s love even though the
only words which she heard from him were that he regrets she was born a girl
(Καμπανέλλης 1994a: 26). Clytemnestra, despite knowing all of this, loves her
daughter and the most important thing for her is that it is not Electra who
kills her. She doesn’t want to avoid death, she knows she will be killed, but
she is aware that if Electra does this, she will never forget it (which is shown
perfectly in Supper). The Electra from Letter to Orestes is more like a character
from Hugo von Hofmannsthal’s Electra – ruthless, a traitor of her mother, of
all women. In Supper more information about Electra helps to create a different
164 Dorota Jędraś
opinion about her. She is still not the Electra from the The Flies by Sartre, but
Kambanellis gives her much more human features and thoughts, he lets her
explain some actions and show the situation from her point of view.
The characters of Pholos and Aegisthus are also interesting figures. Although
they are men, they are created in a different way than Agamemnon. Agamemnon
is first of all a ruthless ruler and father who, seemingly, even after death, watch-
ing the consequences of his actions, cannot understand his mistakes. Aegisthus
and Pholos do not have the blood of Atreides. Pholos is a simple man, a farmer
who understands the situation much better than the others. There is no reason
for that, but he blames himself for Clytemnestra’s death. While Aegisthus by all
is considered as a kind and well-read, wise man. Philosophizing he comments
on almost any of hearsay statements, what makes G. Pefanis treats him as ironic
character (2000: 114). There is a reason why the actor playing his character ex-
plains to the audience that the text stops and comments on it in a typical for him
way. The actor does not leave his role as a man who must always have the last
word, and who feels obliged to explain gathered the situation.
All the plays of Kambanellis that directly refer to mythology have one thing
in common: metatheatre4. It is used also in Letter to Orestes and Supper. The
author clearly wrote in the stage directions that the objects on the stage should
be limited to items that just imitate later scenography, for example the table on
which Clytemnestra writes her letter may be replaced by a wooden box. There
should stand out just two items. In the first play it should be the doors through
which Clytemnestra’s murderer comes (Καμπανέλλης 1994a: 25). In the second
play it is the supper table on which there necessarily have to be bread and wine
and there have to be eight places (Καμπανέλλης 1994b: 39). The viewer has to
feel that he is taking part in a rehearsal, not a spectacle.
The reasons for such a decision could be different. Perhaps the idea was to
deprive the viewer of the sense of artificiality that often is often caused by theatre
scenography (Πούχνερ 2010: 665). It might also be a reflection of the author’s
words that appeared in the note attached to the theatrical programme. He wrote
that when someone is very much involved in the theatre, with time the boundary
between the real world and the world of the theatre fades. Between actors and
fictional characters real bonds are then born instead (Καμπανέλλης 1994c: 19).
So maybe thanks to creating the impression of the rehearsal the author wanted
4 The exception is the drama Odysseus, come back, though, it shows commonly used
theatre tricks, such as pre-recorded applause, but it is used in a different situation, and
can be seen as a form of introduction to the later used technique.
to show the thin line between the work of the actor and the actor identifying
himself with the character he is playing and, more generally, between the real
world and the world of the theatre. As already mentioned above, even the actor
who plays the role of Aegisthus does not leave his character behind, despite the
fact that the text that he was to play has ended.
What is more, all the elements of real life, instead of the scenography that
would introduce the viewer into the ancient world, help the viewer understand
the situation of Clytemnestra through the prism of modern times. It is in fact
modern times that allow us to read the myth of Atreides in this way. It allows
us to see Clytemnestra not as a mythical heroine but as a human being, a wife,
mistress, and most of all, a mother. In fact, as described briefly by Pefanis, the
idea of using myths in Kambanellis’s plays was to show contemporary prob-
lems. In his opinion, the author under the influence of a particular mythologi-
cal figure was wondering how this character would be retained in the modern
world, how he would face the problems of modern society, and this was the
beginning of his work on a new text (2000: 116–118). Undoubtedly, in these
two dramas it was the character of Clytemnestra, it was her story that was
transposed to contemporary times, which helped us to read it again, explaining
both her myth and, through the symbolic heroine, showing the problems faced
by the modern world.
Taking into consideration other dramas of Kambanellis, it cannot be said that
women’s issues always used to draw the author’s attention. There is no doubt,
however, that in the dramas presented here, Kambanellis takes the side of wom-
en. His contemporary approach to the problem of family, especially the mother
in the myth of Atreides is quite feminist, which was not denied also by Papan-
dreou (1994: 17) and Grammatas (1994: 211). The plays in their metaphorical
layer show the fall and demoralization of a patriarchy. Women are the ones who
bring help, who had to put up with how men treated them, who understand
the causes and the consequences of committed actions. Among the men just
Aegisthus and Pholos have been endowed with wisdom and common sense.
They didn’t kill anyone but they are also not from the family of Atreides, they
are not under their curse. They both entered the world of myth of Atreides, as
we can say, from the outside and they both had different roles to play in it. That
is why Pholos is the only one who does not die. Iphigenia believes he should
not die. The death at the end of the dramas is not punishment for anyone, but
it can be seen as a kind of deliverance. Thus, a strong focus on the problems of
women in the Letter to Orestes gets weaker in Supper, where the problem is seen
from the perspective of not only the mother but the whole family. The division
between characters that are alive and those who are dead and the re-application
166 Dorota Jędraś
of metatheatre techniques allow this drama to be considered in other, more

complex contexts.
References
Γραμματάς Θ., 1994, ‘Μύθος και διακειμενικότητα στή δραματουργία του
Ιάκωβου Καμπανέλλη’, in: Θέατρο, τόμος ΣΤ’. Athens: Κέδρος, 203–226.
Καμπανέλλης Ι., 1979, Οδυσσέα γύρισε σπίτι, in: Θέατρο, τόμος Β’. Athens:
Κέδρος, 205–295.
– 1994a, Γράμμα στον Ορέστη, in: Θέατρο, τόμος ΣΤ’, Athens: Κέδρος, 23–36.
– 1994b, Ο Δείπνος, in: Θέατρο, τόμος ΣΤ’, Athens: Κέδρος, 37–68.
– 1994c, ‘Σημείωμα του συγγραφέα για την παράσταση του τρίπτυχου «Ο
Δείπνος»’, in: Θέατρο, τόμος ΣΤ’, Athens: Κέδρος, 19–20.
– 1994d, Πάροδος Θηβών, in: Θέατρο, τόμος ΣΤ’, Athens: Κέδρος, 69–90.
– 1998, Η τελευταία πράξη, in: Θέατρο, τόμος Ζ’, Athens: Κέδρος, 165–242.
Παπανδρέου Ν., 1994, ‘Ο μύθος των Ατρειδών στο νεότερο θέατρο’, in: Θέατρο
τόμος ΣΤ’, Athens: Κέδρος, 11–18.
Πεφάνης Γ. Π., 2000, Ιάκωβος Καμπανέλλης. Ανιχνεύσεις και προσεγγίσεις στο
θεατρικό του έργο, Athens: Κέδρος.
Πούχνερ Β., 2010, Τοπία Ψυχής και Μύθοι Πολιτείας. Το θεατρικό σύμπαν του
Ιάκωβου Καμπανέλλη, Athens: Παπαζήσης.

Maria Pavlou
Mythical and Sartrian Influences in Yannis

Ritsos’ The Fourth Dimension*
The paper focuses on one of Yannis Ritsos’ finest and most mature achievements: The
Fourth Dimension. The collection consists of 17 sustained dramatic monologues, most
of which draw on Ancient Greek tragic myth. As I argue, Ritsos’ stance towards ancient
Greek myths should be examined not only through a biographical lens − as the poet’s
attempt to talk about personal experiences and mischief in an allegorical way − but also
through the filter of major 20th century political and intellectual trends, more particularly
Sartrian existentialism. Ritsos’ ‘Agamemnon’ is used as a case-study.
The Fourth Dimension

The Fourth Dimension (FD) constitutes Yannis Ritsos’ finest and most mature
achievement. The collection consists of 17 sustained dramatic monologues com-
posed between 1956 and 19751, most of which draw on Ancient Greek tragic
myth and are named after the mythic characters who deliver them. The mono-
logues are addressed to a recipient, who remains silent throughout. Both speaker
and recipient remain unnamed; their identity, however, can be surmised either
from the title or the stage directions that open and close the monologues, provid-
ing useful information regarding the time and place of the delivery.
Unlike George Seferis who, influenced by Eliot’s ‘mythic method’, resorts to
myth in order to criticise and expound on Modern Greek realities, Ritsos’ inten-
tion is to both ‘deepen’ the ancient Greek myth per se and render it contempo-
rary. It is within this spectrum that we should comprehend the fact that he does
not focus only on ‘photogenic’ tragic characters, but also gives voice and brings
to the foreground marginal figures, such as Ismene and Chrysothemis. Ritsos’
* This paper is part of the research project “Our Heroic Debate with the Eumenides”:
Greek Tragedy and the Poetics and Politics of Identity in Modern Greek Poetry and
Theatre, which is funded by the Research Promotion Foundation of Cyprus. I would
like to express my thanks to Vayos Liapis and to the audience at the ‘Reception of
Ancient Myths’ Conference for their suggestions and remarks.
1 The Fourth Dimension was first published in 1972 with sixteen poems. Phaedra was
written in 1974–5 and was included in subsequent editions.
168 Maria Pavlou
heroes are both ancient and contemporary; whereas they retain their recognis-
ability, at the same time they are modern: they smoke, wear nightshirts and little
crosses, and live in houses with contemporary objects. What is more, they are
divested of their heroic grandeur and throw away the mask of the mythic Über-
mensch. Ritsos’ characters are ‘human’ and troubled by contemporary agonies
and concerns.
In addition to the contemporary elements fused into, and confused with, the
mythic material, the poems of the FD are also implanted with autobiographi-
cal data. In fact, some have attempted to read this collection only through a
biographical lens, even though such an approach severely undermines its very
essence, which is − as the title seems to imply − to transcend time.
Ritsos’ Agamemnon
In what follows I would like to focus my attention on ‘Agamemnon’, one of the
most celebrated poems of the FD. The poem is dated December 1966 - October
1970 and was written in Athens, Sicyon, and Samοs. On 21 April 1967 Ritsos
was arrested by the right-wing Greek military junta and was displaced to con-
centration camps, first on Gyaros and then on Leros. Due to a chronic tuber-
cular condition he was transferred to the island of Samos, where he was kept
under house arrest in his wife’s house until 1970, the year when he completed
his ‘Agamemnon’.
Ritsos, Aeschylus, and Existentialism

A cursory glance at Ritsos’ ‘Agamemnon’ suffices to reveal its debts to, and in-
tertextual links with, Aeschylus’ Agamemnon. The story-line remains more or
less the same: after a ten-year absence Agamemnon returns to Argos victorious,
bringing with him the prophetess Cassandra, daughter of Priam. He enters the
palace in glory, treading on red fabrics, only to be slain by Clytemnestra, his wife,
and Aegisthus, her lover. Even though our evidence regarding Ritsos’ method of
work and the means he had at his disposal during the detention period is scarce,
the thematic and verbal affinities that the two poems share indicate that he must
have worked directly from the ancient Greek text.
In spite of its apparent mythical influences, though, Ritsos’ ‘Agamemnon’ is
also loaded with existentialist overtones, a feature that characterises many of the
poems of the FD with a mythical kernel. Ritsos’ mythical characters adopt a pro-
foundly existentialist stance, in the sense that they question, reflect and muse
upon their existence − life and death. Even though their finale is always the one
Mythical and Sartrian Influences in Y. Ritsos’ The Fourth Dimension 169
prescribed by the ancient myth − Ajax and Phaedra commit suicide, Agamem-
non is murdered by Clytemnestra, Orestes commits matricide etc. – the rationale
behind this finale is entirely transformed. Ritsos’ heroes are never playthings at
the mercy of gods, fate, and/or contingency. Rather, they take full responsibility
both for their past actions and for the decisions they make for the future in full
awareness of their consequences. Even when they decide to commit suicide, they
do so as a result of conscious deliberation, not because they feel trapped by con-
tingency or by extraneous factors.
While a number of researchers have acknowledged the existential orientation
of the FD, heretofore this aspect has not received adequate attention. The first
extensive and elaborate study on this issue is a recent article by Vayos Liapis, who
examines Ritsos’ ‘Orestes’ (completed in 1966 and also included in the FD) in re-
lation to Jean-Paul Sartre’s ‘The Flies’. The number of thematic and verbal conver-
gences that Liapis traces between the two plays starkly manifests that Ritsos must
have been influenced by Sartre’s play, an observation that holds true for many
poems of the collection.2
To be sure, Ritsos makes no explicit references to Sartre or other existen-
tialist philosophers in his work. Yet, it would be legitimate to assume that he
was familiar with the French Existentialists, not only because he was fluent in
French and could have had access to their output before its belated translation
into Modern Greek, but also because many plays, especially by Sartre, were
staged in Athens during the 1950s and 60s, and were commented upon and
reviewed in the newspapers and literary journals of the time. Moreover, we
should not forget that Ritsos would have felt a certain affinity with Sartre, not
least because of the latter’s political convictions and activism.
In what follows I will embark upon an analysis of Ritsos’ ‘Agamemnon’ in an
attempt to read and ‘unpack’ the poem from the viewpoint of Sartrian existen-
tialism. As will become clear, Ritsos weaves a number of fundamental existen-
tialist tenets into the tragic myth in order to deepen, enrich, and contemporise it.
The Other’s Look - Bad Faith

In Aeschylus, Agamemnon’s return is prepared by the Watchman’s speech,
Clytemnestra’s dream and beacon speech, as well as by the Herald’s report.
Ritsos omits these preliminary events and picks up the Aeschylean text at the
emotionally-charged point when the hero enters the palace with his wife. From
2 See also Pavlou (2013) on Ritsos’ ‘Ajax’.

170 Maria Pavlou
the opening stage directions we are informed that the setting of Agamemnon’s
dramatic monologue is inside the palace, in the dining room. Agamemnon re-
moves his military uniform and helmet − a symbolic act foreshadowing the ‘un-
heroic’ stance he will subsequently adopt − and talks to his wife, a ‘beautiful,
austere, imposing’ woman, with a ‘distant, tired smile’, even though it is uncer-
tain whether she is listening to what he says: ‘You order them to be quiet, I beg
you. Why are they still shouting? / For whom are they applauding? What are
they cheering for? / The executioners, maybe? their corpses? / [….] Look, there’s
an ant going down the wall / [….] / I envy it. / Let it be, don’t brush it away − it’s
climbing the table, it’s picked up a crumb; / its burden is bigger than it is −just
look− that’s how things always are / the burdens we all bear are always bigger
than we are’ (49–50)3.
Agamemnon censures the crowd’s hurrah for a victory that is, in essence,
Pyrrhic, and even calls himself ‘an executioner’, thus equating the Trojan War to
a hideous massacre. The idea of the hollowness of the victory and its devastating
cost recurs time and again in the poem, more forcefully in the passage below,
where Agamemnon reflects in distaste upon his recent triumph and debunks
the glorious nature of war: ‘thousands of murders, covert and overt, thousands
of errors and graves. / Such heroics are far from me –‘ (55). Throughout Ritsos’
rendition Agamemnon appears as an exhausted and battle-weary man, who falls
short of his epic and tragic image and is reduced to human terms. The stance
he adopts is a far cry from Aeschylus’ Agamemnon, who arrogantly boasts of
his military victory (810–28), and even dares to claim the gods of Argos as his
partners in the sack of Troy (811). This utterly ‘unheroic’ stance is poignantly
expressed in the prosaic ant vignette which ingeniously introduces one of the
major existentialist themes of the poem; the Others’ look and the great bur-
den that one’s public image imposes upon one’s shoulders. Not only should one
build an ‘image’, but one also needs to constantly strive to sustain and nurture
it. The ‘Hell’ caused by other people (thematised in Sartre’s play ‘No exit’) is
most profoundly expressed in the following passage: ‘How we ‘ve let our hours
slip by and vanish, struggling foolishly / to assure ourselves a place in the con-
sciousness of others. Not one / second of our own, in all those long summers, to
watch / a bird’s shadow above the wheat − we could have been sailing in it / or
silent trophies, for more glorious conquests. We did not sail’ (53). Agamemnon
realises that his life could have taken a different route, if only he was after more
3 All translations (with slight modifications) are from Green and Bardsley’s translation.
References to the translation are made by page.
worthwhile projects. Eager to ‘build a place in the consciousness of others’, he

sacrificed his very own ‘consciousness’ and happiness and lived in what Sartre
defines as ‘bad faith’ (self-deception).
Alienation – Transcendence
Agamemnon’s wish to escape from everything that comprises his past and his
identity, what Sartre would call his ‘facticity’, is evident from the opening of
his monologue. Whereas in Aeschylus Agamemnon seeks to hold the assem-
bly again − confirmation of his constitutionality (844–6) − here he greets the
crowd ‘with a gesture almost of nervous impatience’ (49) and then beseeches
Clytemnestra to make them keep silent. Agamemnon even renounces his scep-
tre, which he considers ‘unbearable’, and ‘relinquishes’ the marital bed to his
wife, stressing that he prefers to remember her body ‘vibrant’ and young’ (51).
He even feels alienated and detached from his own children (50). Of particular
interest is Agamemnon’s stance towards the ‘woman howling on the stairs’ −
an implicit reference to Cassandra. Whereas in Aeschylus Agamemnon orders
Clytemnestra to welcome Cassandra with kindness (951–2) and hails her as the
“choice flower” of the booty they brought from Troy, here he rejects her outright
as his mistress, and asks his wife to accommodate her, along with the rest of the
booty, as she wishes: ‘Keep all the booty, or share it − there’s nothing I want. /
And that woman howling on the stairs, take her as your slave /or as a nurse for
our son (where is he, in fact? I didn’t / see him) − not for my bed, no / a totally
empty bed is what I need now, in which to sink, to be lost, to be, / to have my
sleep, at least, unobserved, not to care / if my face is as severe as it should be or
if the muscles / in my belly and my arms have gone slack’ (50). Immersed in his
stifling loneliness Agamemnon wishes only for an empty bed where he can just
‘exist’, where he can be ‘alone’ and almost ‘nonexistent’ like the ant of the first
scene, free from the fetters imposed upon him by others.
Anguish
The shift in Agamemnon’s Weltanschauung and his decision to transcend his
‘facticity’ do not emerge spontaneously or in vacuo; on the contrary, they have
been carefully prepared. The fierce storm that befalls Agamemnon’s ship during
the homeward journey seems to constitute such a crucial turning-point:
On the voyage home, in the Aegean, one night in a great storm
the helm broke. Then I felt a terrified sense of freedom
right at the heart of this lack of direction. I peered
172 Maria Pavlou
with unbelievably clear vision through the darkness; saw

a life ring tossing on the waves. I was able, indeed,
in the dim torchlight, to make out on it the word ‘Lachesis’.
And this life ring, that name, and the fact that I saw them,
gave me a curious strength and calm; and I told my self:
‘Only let this life ring be saved, and nothing is lost’.
The next day, the Aegean grew calm; I saw the life ring floating
amid the wrecked ships and splintered wood. I fished it out.
I have it still in my duffle like a secret life preserver. If you want to,
you can hang it as a memento in one of the rooms
or throw it away - I no longer have need of it. ‘Lachesis’, it says. (58)
Τhe vignette clearly alludes − both thematically and verbally − to the Herald’s
description of the hurricane in Aeschylus’ Agamemnon 653–6. Yet, whereas in
the tragic play Agamemnon’s ship remains unscathed from the storm, something
which the Herald ascribes to the intercession of a divinity, whom he identifies
with Fortune (661–4), in Ritsos the helm breaks and Agamemnon’s ship is left
out of control. This complete lack of control engenders in Agamemnon a ‘terri-
fied sense of freedom at the heart’.
I would suggest that Agamemnon’s peculiar feeling could be elucidated if
read in relation to the Sartrian notion of ‘anguish’. According to Sartre, this is the
feeling that one experiences when entangled in a ‘situation’ where he is forced
to make a decision. The sheer fact that man is ‘condemned’ to be entirely free,
Sartre argues, serves to evoke in him a sense of anguish, which emanates from
his awareness that he has to make a decision without receiving any support or
guidance from a transcendental agent. This freedom is frightening, and it is
easier − and more tempting − to run from it into the safety of roles and values
defined by society, instead of facing it. Even though Agamemnon finds himself
in the midst of a situation that is necessarily constraining, he is free to choose
among a number of alternatives: to give up, fight to survive, or commit suicide.
It is this phenomenological apprehension of his absolute freedom that endows
Agamemnon with an ‘unbelievably clear vision’. Yet, Agamemnon does not
make an active decision, but rather prefers to flee from his anguish and ascribe
his salvation to his fate, here symbolised by the lifebelt that he sees floating on
the sea, bearing the name ‘Lachesis’.4 Whereas the next day Agamemnon fishes
the buoy out the sea and keeps it securely in his bag, upon his arrival at Argos he
treats it with disdain because he now realises that he is not fettered by a destiny
that needs to be fulfilled; that he is his destiny.
4 Lachesis was one of the three Fates; she was responsible for one’s future.
Nothingness – Death
One of the most imposing passages of the poem is Agamemnon’s reference to his
entrance to the palace halls:
How strange your eyes look; and your voice was strange, when you said:
‘Slave-women, why are you standing around like that? Have you forgotten my order?
I told you to lay the carpets from carriage to house so the pathway
Would be all crimson for my lord’s passage’. Inside your voice
Was a deep river, and it was as if I were floating upon it. When I walked
On those purple carpets my knees grew weak. I looked behind me
And saw the dusty prints of my sandals on the bright crimson
like those fishermen’s corks that float
above hidden, submerged nets. Before me I saw the slave-girls
unrolling still more crimson carpets, as it they were pushing the crimson wheels of
fate. A shiver ran up my spine.
The whole scene is reminiscent of the well-known ‘carpet scene’ in Aeschylus’

Agamemnon (783–974), while Clytemnestra’s order to her slave-women is a
verbatim allusion to lines 908–11 of that play. Yet, whereas in Aeschylus Ag-
amemnon’s treading on the red fabrics is associated with hybris, in Ritsos no
such connotations are in evidence. In fact, his Agamemnon steps on the red
carpet even wearing his sandals.5 The ‘dusty tracks’ from the sandals on the
carpet are ingeniously compared to ‘the fishermen’s corks that float over the
hidden, sunken net’, an association that evokes the ‘net’ imagery recurrent in
Aeschylus (1114–5, 1611) and the deathly connotations of the red fabrics. At
the same time though, this image also brings to mind Aeschylus’ Choephori
505–7, where one’s children are compared to the corks that float over a sunken
net, the point of comparison being that a father can transcend death through
his offspring. Ritsos’ divergence from his ancient models is notable for two
reasons; on the one hand, by playing down the idea of metaphorical ‘deliver-
ance’ from death present in the Choephori passage Ritsos throws into relief the
inevitability of death and the notion of nothingness. On the other hand, Ritsos’
twist of the net-metaphor in the Agamemnon also allow us to infer that, even
though death is fated, humans can also choose the moment of their death; if
the corks that prevent the death-like net6 from sinking are Agamemnon’s own
tracks, the implication is that Agamemnon can exert certain control upon his
own death.
5 Contrast Aesch. Ag. 944–5.

6 Cf. Cassandra’s vision in Aesch. Ag. 1115: Is this a net of death? (ἦ δίκτυόν τί γ’ Ἅιδου).
174 Maria Pavlou
Agamemnon’s confrontation with death − here alluded to by the ‘shiver’ than

runs down his spine − empowers him with a lucid vision; suddenly all things
turn into glass and he sees through them, as if they were transparent and had
lost their essence: ‘Little by little everything was stripped, became calm, glassy,
/ walls, doors, your hair, your hands − / exquisitely transparent glass − not a
breath of mortality clouds it−/ behind the glass / you can distinguish nothing-
ness, indivisible − something ultimately whole −/ that first complete wholeness,
unwounded, like nonbeing’ (54).
Nausea
The celebrations held for his homecoming, in conjunction with the alienation
that he feels from everyone and everything, inflicts upon Agamemnon a pecu-
liar, gripping feeling, which he calls ‘nausea’:
And the fires on the altars − this smoke
and the smell of roasting meat − nausea − no, not from the storm at all−
something acrid in the mouth, a fear
in the fingers, the skin− as when, one night, in summer,
I started up from sleep, a crawling stickiness over my whole body;
I couldn’t find the matches; I stumbled, lit the small lantern:
one the tent, ground, sheets, shield, helmet,
thousands of slugs; I stepped on them barefoot, I went outside. There
was a faint moonlight,
naked soldiers had started a fight, laughing, fooling
with those hideous crawling creatures − and they were hideous
themselves, their cocks
shook like slugs. I plunged into the sea; the water did not cleanse me;
the moon dragged at my left cheek, and it too was sticky,
yellow, yellow, viscous. (50)
Agamemnon ventures to disassociate this feeling from the storm that befell his
ship during the return journey, and describes it as an ‘acrid’ taste in the mouth
and a kind of ‘fear’ that penetrates his fingers and skin. This overpowering feeling
reminds Agamemnon of a past experience in the camp, when he woke up one
night only to find himself among thousands of slugs. Even though he plunged
into the sea in order to cleanse himself of the slugs’ slime, the water was also
sticky, yellow and viscous − the whole world was in a way nauseous and he
couldn’t escape from it.
In an attempt to get out of his predicament and find respite from the nau-
seous bout that attacks him again upon his arrival to Argos, Agamemnon ini-
tially clings to two things from his past − the only things from his past that he
does not renounce outright: a) the ashtray, where at night he used to leave his
cigar to smoke itself, ‘like a distant chimney in a tiny Ithaca, or like his personal
star’ (p. 51), an object that symbolises his vicarious travels and dreams; b) his
wife’s young body, which he prefers to remember as a ‘marvellous statue’. Nev-
ertheless, by the end of his monologue Agamemnon realises that neither of the
two can offer him the order he is looking for − the ashtray because it symbolises
dreams that were never actualised, and Clytemnestra’s young body because it is
no longer young.
At the end of the poem Agamemnon has another flash of nausea − more severe
this time. Things start to jell and form a gelatinous mass, whereas objects are dis-
engaged from their usual frames of reference. Everything turns into a disgusting
mass, which is compared to a sack of dirty clothes redolent of blood, urine, and
sweat. Agamemnon is now confronted by bare existence:
A little while ago
everything was glass - faces, bodies, objects, places, you, me, our children -
glassy, exposed, gleaming - of hard, clear glass. I observed them with interest,
almost with exultation [….]
And so, suddenly
as if the glass had softened - no longer held its shape, was no longer transparent,
as if it had never had shape or been transparent - it fell in a heap on the ground
with all it contained - a turbid mass, like a grimy sack
where they let dirty underclothes pile up to be washed one day,
and don’t wash them - they ‘re tired of them; […..]
And they have indeed forgotten them,
and what will they do to remember? - the stuff ’s rotted completely, shut up
in its own smell of ancient sweat, urine, and blood.
The term ‘nausea’ per se, its particular usage in the passage, and its associations
with viscosity and superfluidity are evocative of Sartre, more specifically his
book Nausea (La Nausée 1938), where ‘nausea’ is described as a kind of ‘sweetish
sickness’.7 According to Sartre, nausea is the feeling of discomfort and unease
that emanates from our experience/meditation of the contingency of existence.
It is not merely a reaction that we have when triggered by a stimulus, but rather
a psychosomatic experience, which relates to our grasp of the world. As such,
‘nausea’ is an ontological feeling − a phenomenon of being; we are inside nausea,
nausea is not inside us. Agamemnon’s bouts of nausea, especially the second one,
are akin to the experience that Roquentin, Sartre’s protagonist in the Nausea,
has with the root of a chestnut tree that he observes one day in the park, an
7 Sartre 2007: 15.

176 Maria Pavlou
experience that helps Roquentin to find the ‘key to Existence’ and define the
cause of his nauseas.8 Just like Roquentin, during his last attack of nausea Agam-
emnon finds himself detached from any fixed meaning and realises, even more,
the meaningfulness of the human condition − a life without order or a demon-
strable station and value. Weighed down by the absurdity of life Agamemnon
consciously chooses death over life.
Death as a conscious choice

What should be stressed at this point is that Agamemnon reaches his final de-
cision gradually, as the poem unravels. This gradual awareness is reflected in
the five references to the bath that he entreats Clytemnestra to prepare for him,
an overt intertextual link to Aeschylus, where the bath constitutes the place of
Agamemnon’s murder.9 In the first instance, which follows the reference to his
nausea, the bath is associated with relaxation and catharsis; that is why Agam-
emnon asks Clytemnestra to make it ‘very hot’ (50). In the second reference the
bath is envisioned as a means by which Agamemnon can assuage the ‘shiver’
that he feels in his spine, while walking on the crimson carpet (52). As the poem
progresses, however, the bath is invested with ominous connotations. Accord-
ingly, in the third reference Agamemnon associates the bath with his own death
(‘Before I get into the bath […] / I can even / sense the approximate hour of my
death’ (54)). The last two references occur near the end of the poem in the form
of ring composition, encasing Agamemnon’s ultimate bout of nausea. In both
cases Agamemnon asks Clytemnestra if the water has cooled, leaving it to be in-
ferred that it has. The bath has become now the very ‘shiver’ that he first felt while
stepping on the red carpet: it has become death itself. Disgusted by his last bout
of nausea, Agamemnon consciously yearns for the bath-death and steadfastly
tells Clytemnestra to follow him, if she wishes. The poem masterfully closes with
an imperative: ‘To the bath, to the bath, / the water will cool, it will have cooled.
I’ m going. You stay here - it’s / not necessary. You insist? − Come.’ (61)
Conclusion
To conclude: as I have tried to demonstrate, even though Ritsos’ ‘Agamemnon’
is modelled on Aeschylus’ play of the same title, at the same time it is infused
with ideas that adhere to French existentialism and serve to both deepen and
8 Sartre 2007: 104–10.

9 Aesch. Ag. 1107–11, 1128–9, 1540–1.
contemporise the ancient myth. The poem has been described by Prevelakis as
‘an elegy of pessimism’,10 due to its overall grim tone and Agamemnon’s final
decision. While writing ‘Agamemnon’ Ritsos believed that he was about to die,
due to the failing of his health; it would be, therefore, legitimate to assume that
Agamemnon’s musings upon death, the nothingness of life, and the absurdity of
war, certainly reflect Ritsos’ own feelings, his own weariness, and bitter disap-
pointment. Yet, it would be wrong, I think, to argue that the poem promotes
an utter negation of life, advancing death as the only possible alternative to the
wasteland of human emptiness. In fact, in the Ion episode that precedes the ul-
timate bout of nausea (60), and which I didn’t have time to discuss here, Ritsos
sheds light upon an alternative route via which order and meaning can be found:
the passionate commitment to a purpose. It is this route that Ritsos followed dur-
ing his life, despite his ongoing mischief and plights. Besides, as he pointed out
in an interview he gave in 1981: ‘The poet always believes in the value of life, be-
cause, if he considered it to be vain, there would be no reason for poets to write’.
References
Liapis V., 2014, ‘Orestes and Nothingness: Yiannis Ritsos’ Orestes: Greek Tragedy
and Existentialism’, International Journal of the Classical Tradition 21.
Pavlou M., 2013, ‘Στοιχεία Υπαρξισμού στον ‘Αίαντα’ του Γιάννη Ρίτσου’
[Εxistentialist Themes in Yannis Ritsos’ ‘Ajax’], Logeion 3.
Prevelakis P., 1981, O Ποιητής Γιάννης Ρίτσος: Συνολική θεώρηση του έργου του,
Athens.
Ritsos Y., 1978, Ποιήματα, τόμος ΣΤ’ (1956–1972): Τέταρτη Διάσταση [Poems,
Volume VI (1956–1972): The Fourth Dimension]. 6th edn. Athens (19th repr.,
Athens 2001).
– 1993, The Fourth Dimension, transl. Green P., Bardsley B., Princeton: Princeton
UP.
Sartre J.-P., 2007, Nausea, transl. Alexander L., with an introduction by Howard
R., New York: New Directions.
10 Prevelakis 1981: 427.

Anna Zaorska
About the Politicization of the

Antigone Myth by Rolf Hochhuth
The Antigone myth is one of the most famous myths in the history of literature. The his-
tory of sisterly love is as old as human civilization, but it still provokes the literati into
attempting new interpretations nonetheless. Rolf Hochhuth relocated the ancient plot
into the times of the Nazi Regime. Die Berliner Antigone tackles the problem of National
Socialism and the ‘conditio humana’ as well. Hochhuth’s Antigone rejects human laws
and buries her dead brother – a nameless officer sentenced to death for his ‘shameless’
remark: ‘the 6th Army had been destroyed not by the Soviets, but by the Führer’. Interest-
ingly, Anne, alias Antigone, is not motivated by politics or religion but she’s still dragged
into political machinations and the extermination system nevertheless. Heiner Müller
wrote in his biography: ‘Myths are condensed collective experiences, and, on the other
hand, a kind of Esperanto, an international language that is no more understandable only
in Europe’. Based on Hochhuth’s story one can analyze transformations of a myth and
functions attributed to it only to notice that models of human behaviour are basically the
same. In his short novel, the German writer only references ancient myth showing read-
ers, through modernization, how timeless the theme is.
‘Sometimes, it might be helpful if we went hundreds of kilometers away or hundreds of years

back, to the past that we know only through legends and myths in order to see what can be
found there […]: ourselves.’
Christa Wolf1
According to Heiner Müller, ‘Myths are condensed collective experiences, and,

on the other hand, a kind of Esperanto, an international language that is no
more understandable only in Europe’ (Müller 1992). The history of Antigone
and her sisterly love is as old as human civilization, but it still provokes the
literati into attempting new interpretations nonetheless. Over the centuries, the
stuff of Antigone has been revised and staged frequently. In the 20th century its
connection with the two World Wars was established, the expressionist play
Antigone by Walter Hasenclever, dated 1917, Rolf Hochhut’s short novel Die
Berliner Antigone (1963) and Bertold Brecht’s adaptation of Hölderlin’s version
of the ancient drama, entitled The Antigone of Sophocles (1948) to name but a
few. Rolf Hochhuth, who became famous after publishing his play The Deputy
1 Wolf 1988: 11.

180 Anna Zaorska
in 1963 that highlighted the issue of the passivity of the Catholic Church and
Pope Pius XII towards the Holocaust, relocated the ancient plot into the times
of the Nazi Regime. Die Berliner Antigone tackles the problem of National So-
cialism and the ‘conditio humana’ as well. What is more, on the basis of the play,
transformations of the myth can be analysed.
The reference to the Antigone myth has already been placed in the title.
However, it does not denote the Antigone of the ancient playwright but one
from Berlin. It makes clear that, on the one hand, the text by Hochhuth refers
to ancient traditions, and on the other hand it revolves around the present. It is
Sophocles’ plot thread that has been taken over by the author, who modernizes
it, changing the place of the action, the names of the characters and the lan-
guage. The genre is also a novelty: Hochhuth writes not a new drama, but a short
novel with an omniscient narrator. The action is not arranged in chronological
order and it is composed, apart from the external action, from the internal per-
spective of the ideas, memories and experiences of the two protagonists. With
that, Hochhuth allows the change of the perspective, albeit it is limited due to
the constellation of characters and the lack conversations and confrontations
between the protagonists.
Readers get acquainted with the title figure during her appearance before the
court. The Berlin Antigone is called Anne, which according to Detlef Brennecke
might be an allusion to Antigone: Anne - An(tigo)ne (cf. Brennecke 1987: 48).
Anne is a young student of medicine who buries her brother, a traitor to the state,
in spite of the prohibition. Her brother remains in the text a nameless – which is
not without importance – officer who fought in the Battle of Stalingrad. He was
sentenced to death, because
instead of being grateful for his evacuation by one of the last planes from the encircle-
ment of Stalingrad as a seriously wounded person, after his recovery, the man stated
indecently that the 6th Army had been destroyed not by the Soviets, but by the Führer.
(Hochhuth 2006: 6)
The corpse of the executed – as he is called by the prosecutor during the court
proceedings – is to be handed over for medical research. Anne wanted to pre-
vent it from happening, therefore she stole her brother’s body and buried it in
the Invalids’ Cemetery in Berlin. She does not intend to show the ‘resting-place
of her dead brother’ (Hochhuth 2006: 6), even though she could also receive the
death penalty. Being aware of the risk ‘she persists with her lie, wracked with
nerves and silent’ (Hochhuth 2006: 6). The entire constellation of characters has
been taken by Hochhuth from Sophocles: Anne is betrothed to Bodo, the son of
the general judge. The general judge leads the trial and he should also impose an
About the Politicization of the Antigone Myth by R. Hochhuth 181
adequate punishment. Accordingly, he represents in Hochhut’s text the power of

authority.
In contrast to Sophocles’ Antigone, Anne is by no means a heroine. Her ac-
tions are motivated neither by political reasons nor religious ones. Eberhard
Hermes rightly points out that she is often inconsistent in her behaviour and
‘almost breaks down with her internal weakness and fear of death’ (Hermes
1992: 160). One can dare remark that she acts somewhat intuitively. Even if the
priest tries to persuade her that ‘according to the Christian faith, a non-buried
person can also find its rest’ (Hochhuth 2006: 12), it will not be enough to shake
her resolve. However, she is not as strong as her mythological counterpart. Even
before funeral of her brother Antigone is aware of possibility of death sentence
regardless she took the great risk. When Creon prepares to punish both sisters,
Antigone pushes Ismen away saying:
No! for thy choice was life, but mine was death (Sophocles 1848: 55)
and when Ismen is willing to share punishment with her sister, she replies that
she came to terms with vision of her death
So be it. Thou still livest; but my soul
Is dead the while, e’en since I served the dead. (Sophocles 1848: 57)
Unlike Antigone Anne did not recon with death sentence and threats of the judge
broken her down. In letter to her fiancé she forces herself to write that she didn’t
consider dying for what she did pointless. Besides Anne shows fear of death, and
in the feeling of weakness she presents a plea for clemency. She makes a plea for
clemency after all her relatives are dead. (comp. Hochhuth 2006: 9).While the first
part of the action is focused on what is happening in the courtroom, the second
part deals with Anne’s imprisonment. It shows explicitly how the main character
copes with the threat of capital punishment, how she analyses the whole situation.
The present and the retrospective view are still mixed up together.
Anne often has doubts about the sense of her sacrifice. When the desire to
live gains the upper hand, she might have been willing to give up were it not
connected with the disinterment of her dead brother. It’s worth noting that
heroine’s actions are concentrated on her brother and family ties and not on
ideas or fighting with Hitler’s regime. On the other hand Sophocles‘ Antigone
emphasises importance of laws of gods and for her death is not as awful as living
in disgrace:
Then suffer me, imprudent as I am,
To meet this menaced evil. Come what will,
It cannot take from me – a noble death! (Sophocles 1848: 13)
182 Anna Zaorska
Anne is closely surrounded by death, which helps her to insist on her deci-
sion. The general judge considers her loss of mental balance as extenuating cir-
cumstances: ‘after the conviction of her brother, as is known, the suicide of her
mother followed.’ (Hochhuth 2006: 8) As soon as she hears about the suicide of
her fiancé, she thinks her life is worth the sacrifice, but she feels anxious about
it nevertheless. Due to postponed execution time Anne lives through psychical
torture. It emphasizes that she’s not ready to die:
Sometimes Anne was rescued from fear by dead, fiancé, mother, brother making unbeliev-
able, like her death, believable without fear, as if true reliable freedom. At that times she
was ready. At nights, when she was lying, her will to live dominated. (Hochhuth 2006: 9)
Anne acts, unlike Antigone, undoubtedly not in religious terms. As Brennecke

mentioned, a devout Christian she is not (comp. Brennecke 1987: 50). She es-
capes into the insight that ‘only death can give shelter to people. Death, not
God.’ (Hochhuth 2006: 16) Anne has been sentenced to death. The cynical order
given by Hitler goes: ‘the condemned woman shall in person replace the lost
body for medical research’ (Hochhuth 2006: 7). However, her death should not
be understood as a punishment itself. The condemnation is to be regarded as a
deterrent measure: ‘The accused shall be decapitated and ‘handed over’ as an
effective deterrent to those students of medicine who may have helped by the
removal of the corpse of her brother.’ (Hochhuth 2006: 7) The text contains also
a reference to the student protests in Munich:
Here, in the capital of the Reich, under malicious eyes of the Diplomatic Corps, what
had been ordered by Hitler additionally, a discreet investigation of harmless querulous
students should be conducted: awkward enough, that in the spring the hostile press got
wind of the students’ protests in Munich, because Friesler’s Court acted abruptly, but too
conspicuous anyway. (Hochhuth 2006: 7)
Friesler’s Court sentenced to death Sophie and Hans Scholl and some of their
‘accomplices’ as well. This passage emphasizes how the Nazi tyranny worked.
And while Creon could have been justified, because he was considered the pro-
tector of his state, attempting to punish the traitor Polyneices who had attacked
his homeland Thebes in order to seize power, such a justification of Hitler is
certainly impossible (Brennecke 1987: 50). His power is founded on fear, terror
and threat. Every kind of criticism should be banned, every opposition oblit-
erated, even though the criticism that had been uttered by a nameless soldier of
the Battle of Stalingrad was not levelled at the state but at Hitler.
It appears that in Hochhuth’s text Creon is missing (cf. Helmes 2011: 91),
or rather that we have to deal with two characters of Creon. The general judge
who acts within the law of the Third Reich and sentences Anne to death could
be the first one. He follows blindly current law and Hitler’s orders. The gen-
eral judge does not even dare to confess that his son Bodo has been secretly
betrothed to that ‘girl, the sister of the one convicted of high treason’ (Hoch-
huth 2006: 7). However, the general judge is not a despot and tyrant, as Creon
by Sophocles is, because it is not within his power, he only represents the high-
est authority. In the beginning of the story he even hopes that he can save
Anne, and therefore he seems to be quite a positive figure. Despite that, one
cannot fail to notice that his attitude has despotic features. During the trial he
threatens:
You may consider all the time whether your helpful accomplices from the anatomical
institute could find there the corpse of your brother again, but everybody in the know
should be by means of delivering of his decapitated body absolutely certain that we, the
National Socialists are going to eradicate every manifestation of defeatist insubordina-
tion. (Hochhuth 2006: 9)
However, the general judge does not act independently, he only follows law
and order and, what is more, represents his dictator. The other character that
can be compared to Creon is Hitler himself. He is by no means a protagonist
and occurs mainly in the background, but his role is not to be underestimated.
Hitler is the person who keeps the whole action going, he is a despot and tyrant.
There is in the courtroom a ‘bust of the Führer’, a ‘colossal bronze’ (Hochhuth
2006: 6). It is crucial that through his orders he is still present in the text. His
presence, even though obscure leaves its mark in the whole text. In the end it
is evident that only the general judge is going to take the consequences. On
the eastern front, Bodo commits suicide in a Russian cottage, because he is
convinced that Anne is already dead. After that, Hitler bestows on the judge
the highest honour of the Cross of Merit. In the tragedy by Sophocles, Creon
had the possibility of comprehending his mistake, but had to pay for it as a
result. Because there is no confrontation with Anne, Hitler cannot regret his
decision. It only accentuates his despotism, for that he ‘remains uncontested in
his headquarters and is not in need of giving reasons for his decision towards
Anne’ (Hermes 1992: 168).
The general judge is a tragic figure who the internal conflict is mirrored in:
on the one hand he wants to save the fiancée of his son, but on the other hand
he advises Bodo not to announce their engagement, and in the end he sentences
Anne to death. His dilemma is a conflict of interests: family vs. politics, morality
vs. reasons of state. Eberhard Hermes correctly remarks that the scene with Cre-
on and Haemon in Antigone by Sophocles has a different function to the scene
at the railway station, at the last moment before sending Bodo to the eastern
184 Anna Zaorska
front (comp. Hermes 1992: 168). The scene illustrates mainly the conflict be-
tween father and son and being on the horns of a dilemma. What is more, an
encounter at another point in time had happened, before Antigone, alias Anne,
was sentenced. Only just being on the eastern front, Bodo reads about the sen-
tence to death from Anne’s farewell letter. The scene visualises the lack of any
communication between the two characters. The protagonists persist tacitly with
their points of view without any attempt to convince the partner. Standing before
the judge, Anne does not even dare justify herself or to explain her behaviour.
To follow Eberhardt, there is also no confrontation between Antigone and the
representative of the state:
In accordance with the plot structure, the constellation of characters is varied. Being a
play of two characters, the drama of Antigone has a double turning point, because the
action evolves between the contrary main figures as an argument. There is no argu-
ment in the short novel, but merely self-assertion and contempt for other people at the
political level, where decisions are made, and the collapse, fear and trying to get out of
the situation are regarded as the small ambitions of people who are forced to take the
consequences of the decisions and therefore play either the role of the victim or the
sympathiser. For that reason, the figure of Anne is here – in contrast to Antigone – not
a heroine of the resistance who faces Creon self-confidently, but rather a woman in her
loneliness and weakness in view of the death who does not enjoy the consideration of
public. But Creon, her rival, is split into two different characters. For Hitler, Anne is
merely one of the ‘harmless querulous students’ (S.7, Z.21/2), whose case is to be settled
without sensation. (Hermes 1992: 169)
What does attract attention is the passivity of Anne and the general judge as well.
He admits that he ‘may not have been able to rescue the delinquent from the run-
ning machinery of annihilation.’(Hochhuth 2006: 15) On the contrary, Anne was
capable of acting only until the trial.
An unsolved issue is the way Antigone, alias Anne, dies: does she meet her
death like a saint, does she carry a photo in her hands to ‘hold her sight on one
point’ (Hochhuth 2006: 18). Fact that Anne dies with six other convicts gives it
a collective meaning. Anne is another victim of regime, unable to stand against
tyrant. Her death will not collapse structures of Nazi state like Antigone’s death
shaken Creon and his world. At the end of the novel Hochhuth presents Hitler
watching with his staff execution of men that on 20 July 1944 wanted to over-
throw the system. The text is closed with the epitaph:
The Berlin Anatomy
received between 1939–1945
corpses
of 269 executed women. (Hochhuth 2006: 18)

Anne dies as namelessly as her brother and the other executed women. She also
dies as namelessly as the other victims of the Nazi tyranny. Interestingly enough,
Anne does not act in political terms, but she is involved in the Nazi machinery
of extermination.
In his work, Rolf Hochhuth relies on facts. However, his short novel is not a
historical documentation, but only remains literary fiction. The text is dedicated
‘to Marianne’ (Hochhuth 2006: 5). Marianne Heinemann was Hochhuth’s wife
(comp. Kreuzer, 2006: 68). Maintaining the socialistic tradition of their family,
her parents died tragically. Her mother, Rose Schlösinger, was decapitated in 1943
in Berlin, for supporting the resistance group established by Arvid and Mildred
Harnack. Her father, Bodo Schlösinger, shot himself dead in a Russian cottage in
order to take the blame and save his wife from execution. Hochhuth’s short novel
Die Berliner Antigone was, for the most part, based on those events.
‘Antigone becomes […] a symbol for resistance against autocratic politics and
for individual rights in contrast with collective force. 1917, in the time of World
War I, Walter Hasenclever in his Antigone, one of the first expressionist plays, rais-
es his voice against war […]’ (Hermes 1992: 17). In Hochhut’s text, Anne does not
act in political or moral terms. With this in mind, she does not put up resistance,
she is rather a victim of National Socialism. Detlef Brennecke notes correctly:
As Bertolt Brecht knows, as Rolf Hochhuth certainly does, namely that ‘the great per-
sonality of the resistance in the ancient drama does not represent the fighters of the
German resistance who apper to us the most important’.
What the author wants to take into consideration is rather ‘the role of the use of force’
[…], becoming manifest mainly in the language of the violated. (Hermes 1992: 58)
Hochhuth shows the reality of the totalitarian system and the disregard for human
dignity. He describes ironically how people who are sentenced to death are called
‘packages’ (‘a term for patients with short life expectancy’) (Hochhuth 2006: 15).
However, the reader is confronted with death from the very first page:
The term mass grave was banned. The government of the Reich used to bury the dead
belonging to a community grave regardless of expenses: there were not only the clergy-
man of both religions with a well-spoken party dignitary present, but also musicians of
the guard of honour and standard-bearers. (Hochhuth 2006: 5)
What is more, the text emphasizes the way the Nazis treated their political
opponents: they had to be gone as discretely as possible, because everything
should give the impression of being in accordance with the law. The use of force
finds expression in the silence of the protagonists: ‘Sometimes, the silence is the
loudest scream’. With his update of the ancient text, Rolf Hochhuth proves that
the ‘conditio humana’ has changed over the centuries not too much.
186 Anna Zaorska
The myths contain great potential for identification. Therefore, the myths are
not to be understood as fantastic and fabulous tales, but rather as stories that
convey timeless moral truths. This is possibly the reason why the myths have
accompanied us up to the 21st century and why they cause fascination among
writers and literary specialists, because the great potential of the Antigone myth
consists in its topicality. Christa Wolf writes:
With this in mind, as a model that often is enough to collect our own experiences of
the present, that allows us to keep time distance, whose stories are almost fabulous,
very attractive and realistic nonetheless, so that we, the people of the present day could
recognize ourselves in the behaviour of the acting figures – with this in mind, the myth
seems to me that it may be useful to the contemporary narrator. It might be helpful for
us to perceive ourselves in our time in a new mirror, it emphasizes our characteristic
features that we do not want to notice and releases us from the daily triviality. It forces
us in a special way to consider the humanity which is, in my opinion, the issue of every
narration. (Wolf 1988: 14–15)
It cannot be denied that many writers often took up the myths in times of turn-
ing points and wars in order to express chosen problems in the form of a parable.
Inge Stephan claims that the role of the myths gains importance mainly when the
national identity is threatened. Leszek Kołakowski is right in his assertion that
we use myths to make time stand still. We believe that what has passed away will
remain in its values and ideas (Kołakowski 1972: 18).
Translated by Łukasz Plęs
References
Brennecke D., 1987, Rolf Hochhuths Novelle Die Berliner Antigone, in: Wolff R.
ed., Rolf Hochhuth. Werk und Wirkung, Bonn: Bouvier.
Helmes G., 2011, Antigone in Nazi-Deutschland, in: Bauer M., Jäger M. eds.,
Mythopoetik in Film und Literatur, München: Fink.
Hermes E., 1992, Interpretationshilfen. Der Antigone-Stoff. Sophokles, Anouilh,
Brecht, Hochhuth, Stuttgart: Klett.
Hochgeschurz M., 1988, Christa Wolfs Medea. Voraussetzungen zu einem Text.
Mythos und Bild, Berlin: Gerhard Wolf Janus.
Hochhuth R., 2006, Die Berliner Antigone, Stuttgart: Reclam.
Müller H., 1992, Krieg ohne Schlacht. Leben in zwei Diktaturen, Köln: Kiepenheuer
& Witsch.
Kołakowski L., 1972, Obecność mitu, Warszawa: Czytelnik.
Kreuzer H., 2006, Die Berliner Antigone. Nachwort, in: Hochhuth R., Die Berliner
Antigone, Stuttgart: Reclam.
Sophocles, 1848, The Antigone, in: Donaldson J.W., ed., The Antigone of Sophocles
in Greek and English, London: J. W. Parker & Son.

Victoria Yefymenko
The Myth of the Minotaur in Postmodern

Narrative Space
This paper attempts to examine the transformation of the classical myth of the Minotaur
in contemporary fiction, in particular, in S. Sherrill’s novel ‘The Minotaur Takes a Ciga-
rette Break’. The analysis is conducted using the methods of cognitive poetics and narra-
tology. Narratological analysis of the novel addresses such issues as the time of the narra-
tion, characterization, and interrelations between the narrator and the focalizer etc. The
study of the narrative also includes exploration of the ways in which narrative structures
cause cognitive effects in the reader. The reception of the myth of the Minotaur in post-
modern culture is reflected in the process of construction of mental representation of the
story. In our paper we apply the Text World Theory to compare the conceptual structure
of the classical myth and Steven Sherrill’s novel and analyse intertextual links between
them on the level of fictional worlds. Application of narratological and cognitive theory
to the analysis of the novel results in a better overall understanding of the postmodern
interpretation of the classical myth and a re-evaluation of the roles of its main characters.
Mythological motifs have been widely used in the literature of various epochs.
Special interest in myths is observed in the 20th century as a result of a reas-
sessment of values and re-examining classical myths. Ziolkowski believes that
the revitalized return to antiquity in the early twentieth century can be attrib-
uted to World War I, which generated an urgent search for principles of order to
compensate for the chaos of the immediate pre- and post-war years (Ziolkowski
2008: 18). The well-known Russian researcher Meletinsky points out that, in the
20th century, ‘re-mythologization’, i.e. the revival of myth, became a rapid pro-
cess, affecting various sides of European culture. Among the main components
of this process is the recognition of myth as an ever-living beginning that per-
forms a practical function in modern society, and singling out in it the concept
of eternal reiteration (Meletinsky 2000: 15).
One of the most often quoted myths in the 20th and early 21st centuries is the
myth of the Minotaur. The popularity of this classical myth in the modern world
can be explained by its universal character. It combines images of the hero and
the monster, the labyrinth and the search for ways out of it. The image of the
Minotaur combines human and animal features that help to associate it with a
modern person, his search for identity and place in the world, and the struggle
with fears and superstitions. The labyrinth acquires a highly symbolic meaning
190 Victoria Yefymenko
in the works of modern authors who believe that a person is trying to escape the
labyrinth throughout his whole life.
Literary works based on the classical myth are characterized by its non-tra-
ditional interpretation. The myth of the Minotaur is re-examined as a whole,
as well as its separate characters and their relations with other characters. For
instance, the image of Theseus undergoes changes. Instead of a noble and lofty
character he is regarded as a warrior and heir to the throne, who took advantage
of the situation and gained power. His actions are dictated not by inborn nobil-
ity but by circumstance. The image of Ariadne receives a new interpretation as
well. She is not always ready to do everything for Theseus, and in some cases she
even helps the Minotaur.
But the biggest changes in contemporary fiction affected the Minotaur. At the
turn of the 21st century the Minotaur more and more often was interpreted as
a positive character in culture. This happened as a result of a re-examination of
the previous experience, desire to have a look at typical things from a different
perspective, a reluctance to follow tradition and an attempt to replace estab-
lished images with contrasting ones (Kuznetsova 2009: 21). As Semino points
out, mythological stories do not dwell on the mental and personal life of char-
acters, so we know little or nothing about their thoughts and feelings (Semino
2009: 44). Modern writers try to make the character of the Minotaur, which
was only outlined in the ancient Greek myth, more complex and whole-hearted.
Many authors see in the Minotaur the embodiment of the duality of human
nature, a combination of human and bestial features. Mostly it is a tragic image,
a lonely creature with an extremely complicated inner world symbolized by the
labyrinth. In contemporary art the myth of the Minotaur becomes a space for
experimentation.
The myth of the Minotaur is a part of a Cretan cycle of ancient myths and
myths about the heroic deeds of Theseus. But bull cults and pictures of a half-
bull, half-man were widespread not only in Ancient Greece, but in Egyptian,
Sumerian, and Assyrian cultures. According to generally accepted beliefs, the
Minotaur was a creature with the head of a bull and the body of a man. But Ovid,
for instance, whose Metamorphoses was one of the primary sources of this myth,
called him simply ‘the twin form of bull and man’, and some authors (Dante,
Blake) believed that the Minotaur had a man’s head and a bull’s body. He was
a child of Queen Pasiphae, the wife of Cretan King Minos, and the white bull.
The Minotaur lived at the centre of the Cretan Labyrinth, constructed by the
famous architect Daedalus by order of King Minos. As a penalty for killing Mi-
nos’s son Androgeus, the Athenians had to send seven youths and seven maidens
every seventh or ninth year (some accounts say every year) to be devoured by the
The Myth of the Minotaur in Postmodern Narrative Space 191
Minotaur. Theseus, son of Aegeus, king of Athens, volunteered to go to Crete and

kill the Minotaur. With the help of Ariadne, daughter of Minos, who gave him a
ball of thread, Theseus got into the Labyrinth and killed the monster.
So, this is the classical myth, and now we will refer to the modern novel, writ-
ten by American writer Steven Sherrill The Minotaur Takes a Cigarette Break
(Sherrill 2003). Here the Minotaur has been transformed from a monster eat-
ing human flesh to a creature with human needs. Now he lives in the American
Deep South and works as a chef in a restaurant. Occasionally the Minotaur tries
to recall his life five thousand years ago, but he doesn’t remember a lot. From the
prologue readers find out what had happened in the Cretan Labyrinth: Theseus
made a deal with the Minotaur, announced himself the winner and the Mino-
taur escaped through the back door. This transformation of the classical myth
paves the way for the story described in the novel. As mentioned earlier, the
Minotaur leads an ordinary life in America. ‘He isn’t known for his boldness’
(Sherrill 2003: 274), the author points out. Though he eats meat, his favourite
food is onions. When the Minotaur falls in love with Kelly, the waitress from the
restaurant where he works, he is too shy to tell her about it, and it is Kelly who
takes the first step in their relationship. Apart from working in the restaurant and
dating Kelly, the Minotaur’s real passion is car repairs. So, the character’s routine
has nothing in common with the life of the mythical monster. But at the end
of the novel this ordered life comes to an end: the Minotaur, who knows about
Kelly’s desire to leave the town, buys a corn dog trailer and plans to start a new
life together with Kelly.
The analysis of the postmodern interpretation of the classical myth will be con-
ducted using the methods of cognitive poetics and narratology. Narratological
analysis of the novel addresses such issues as the time of the narration, characteri-
zation, interrelations between the narrator and the focalizer etc.
Time, according to Genette (1980), may be viewed in three respects: order,
duration and frequency. Concerning the order of the narration, there are recur-
rent instances of analepsis, when the protagonist recollects past events of his
life in America or even in the Labyrinth. The major part of the book consists
of scenes and dialogues where story duration and text duration are more or
less identical, so the average pace of the novel is normal. There are also cases
of descriptive pauses characterized by the minimum speed and, correspond-
ingly, decelerated pace. When we talk about frequency, we mean the relations
between the number of times an event appears in the story and the number of
times it is narrated in the text. In the analysed novel, frequency is singulative,
i.e. the author tells once what happened once. Even when the Minotaur recol-
lects his life in the Labyrinth, he refers to different episodes.
Another important component of narratological analysis is characterization.

According to Rimmon-Kenan (2002: 59), there are two basic types of textual in-
dicators of a character: direct definition and indirect presentation. Though there
are instances of direct definition in the novel (e.g. detailed description of the
Minotaur’s body, especially the transitional zone where the animal’s skin meets
with the human, or his horns), indirect presentation predominates. First of all, it
is expressed by one-time and habitual actions of the character. The latter include,
among others, car repair and activities in the kitchen of the restaurant where
the protagonist works, and reveal his static aspect. The Minotaur’s speech plays
an important role in his characterization. In spite of the fact that it consists of
interjections (‘Mmm’, ‘Unnnhh’) and one-word sentences at most, the surround-
ing people understand him. But readers get information mainly from his inner
speech. The appearance of the Minotaur, though exotic and unusual, is taken as
natural by people among whom he lives. The only episode where the Minotaur
was taken as an unusual and even hostile creature happened at the drug store
where he met a little boy who was scared by the Minotaur and even tried to kill
him with a toy gun. Especially interesting are external features which at least
partly depend on the character, for instance, the clothes. Having the bull’s upper
part of the body, it is difficult or even impossible to find, for example, a T-shirt
which fits. So the Minotaur always buys two similar T-shirts and makes one ac-
cording to the size of his chest. Finally, his environment (a rented mobile house
in a remote town) explains his desire to buy a trailer and move somewhere else.
The novel is a third-person narrative with limited point of view, where the
reflector is the focalizer. The Minotaur is the internal focalizer with restricted
knowledge and subjective evaluation of events presented through his eyes. The
internal focalization remains fixed throughout the novel. The problems with the
protagonist’s vision, namely existence of a blind spot created by the bridge of
his nose that makes a person or a thing right before his eyes invisible, affect his
focalizing abilities. The novel has an extra-diegetic narrator, who is superior to
the story and whose presence is revealed in the description of the setting, iden-
tification of characters, commentary and judgements. At the same time it is a
heterodiegetic narrator, because he does not participate in the story.
The study of narrative is not restricted to narratological approaches, but
includes also cognitive poetic analysis. We tried to apply Text World Theory,
developed by Werth (1999) and Gavins (2007) and construct text worlds to
analyse intertextual links between the novel and the classical myth on the level
of fictional worlds (Doležel 1998: 202). The first abstract was taken from Ovid’s
‘Metamorphoses’:

Minos resolved to remove this shame, the Minotaur, from his house, and hide it away in
a labyrinth with blind passageways … In there, Minos walled up the twin form of bull
and man, and twice nourished it on Athenian blood, but the third repetition of the nine-
year tribute by lot, caused the monster’s downfall. When, through the help of the virgin
princess, Ariadne, by rewinding the thread, Theseus, son of Aegeus, won his way back
to the elusive threshold, that no one previously regained, he immediately set sail for Dia,
stealing the daughter of Minos away with him, then cruelly abandoned his companion
on that shore (Ovid: 270).
This passage contains several text worlds, but we are interested in the text world
located in the labyrinth. The opening sentence of this text world (the second
sentence of the passage) positions the text world in space and time: it contains
a spatial adverb there referring to the labyrinth, and several verbs in the simple
past (walled up, nourished, caused) – a tense form for describing events at a cer-
tain temporal distance. Enactors – the Minotaur and Theseus are identified as,
correspondingly, twin form of bull and man, monster, and a son of Aegeus. These
are examples of intensive relational processes in the identifying mode. The pas-
sage places the Minotaur in the passive position (he is walled up and nourished
by Minos and downfallen by Theseus).
The text world begins to advance beyond its initial world-building elements
thanks to function-advancing propositions expressed by verbs signifying material
action processes (e.g. Theseus rewinds Ariadne’s thread, wins his way back). At
the end of the passage spatial boundaries of the text world become narrower due
to the use of the object the elusive threshold of the labyrinth. In Text World Theory,
the reference to Dia (a small island off the northern coast of Crete) creates a world
switch into a new spatial zone and, correspondingly, a new text world.
The text world structure may be summarized in the following scheme:
Text world I
time: past
location: the labyrinth
object: elusive threshold
enactors: the Minotaur → twin form of bull and man, monster
↓
walled up by Minos
↓
nourished on Athenian blood
↓
downfallen
Theseus → son of Aegeus
↓
rewinds Ariadne’s thread
↓
wins his way back
Let’s compare this text world with the text world from Sherrill’s novel. This is the
novel’s prologue:
The Minotaur dreams of bargains struck, dreams – Brave young Theseus, golden boy,
butcher extraordinaire. Theseus deep in the Labyrinth comes face to face – Umbili-
cated hero, bound by fate, bound by love, bound by the filament of mislaid want.
Comes face to face in the chambered pit – hewn out of darkness, the chisel and rasp,
tools of deceit. Crafted from the planks and bones of mendacity. Theseus comes face
to face with the asthmatic huff and the pernicious snort of desire, rendered pure. The
by-product, hobbled from shame and hidden away – until Theseus – Theseus comes
face to face with the Minotaur. Theseus barters for his life. In the Labyrinth all deals
are shady. Skullduggery holds sway. From the front door ashen Theseus puts on a good
face, touts his victory – the Monster to market – while from the back the Minotaur
skulks into a tepid eternity; high, the cost of living (Sherrill 2003: 1).
The passage is a dream of the Minotaur, in which he relives past events of his
life. It is rendered in present tenses, but we assume that the action takes place in
the remote past. Reference to the labyrinth (and Theseus) triggers the reader’s
knowledge of the classical myth (if any) upon which a mental representation of
this scene is built. Spatial boundaries of the text world are specified by the identi-
fier chambered pit. Enactors, quite predictably, are the same - the Minotaur and
Theseus (besides, neither Minos nor Ariadne are mentioned). In this passage the
author mentions such objects as chisel and rasp with the help of which Theseus
initially plans to kill the Minotaur, but fails. In the classical myth there are dif-
ferent variants concerning the way Theseus slew the Minotaur. Ovid, as we have
seen, does not specify it, some authors say that he was barehanded, others – that
he had Ariadne’s sword or his own club.
One of stylistic devices used by the author in this passage is repetition. For
instance, multiple repetition of the past participle bound accentuates lack of free
will, doom that determines behaviour of the character. By repeating the phrase
‘comes face to face’ four times Sherrill achieves several results. First of all, the
verb to come as a verb of motion helps to set spatial boundaries of the text world.
Besides, motion in general attracts attention in human perception, and motion

verbs are foregrounded per se, so their multiple repetition strengthens this effect
and draws close attention to the confrontation of the two enactors.
As a rule, a text world is constructed by combining the information con-
tained in the world-building and function-advancing elements with the read-
ers’ background knowledge. In this case, events of the classical myth contradict
the outcome of Theseus and the Minotaur meeting in Sherrill’s novel: Theseus
barters for his life and becomes a fictitious winner, while the Minotaur is re-
leased from the labyrinth and receives eternal life. The traditional roles of the
Minotaur and Theseus are re-evaluated: the fierce monster grants life to the
usually irreproachably positive and extremely brave hero. And as mentioned
earlier, the rest of the novel describes the life of the Minotaur in the USA in
the 20th century.
The conceptual structure of the passage is as follows:
Text world II
time: remote past

location: Labyrinth → chambered pit
objects: chisel and rasp → tools of deceit, crafted from planks and bones of
mendacity
front door, back door
enactors: the Minotaur → asthmatic huff, pernicious snort of desire, by-product,
hobbled from shame, hidden away, the Monster
↓
skulks into eternity
Theseus → brave, young, golden boy, butcher extraordinaire,
umbilicated hero, bound by fate, bound by love, bound by the filament
of mislaid want, ashen
↓
comes face to face (repeated 4 times)
↓
barters for his life
↓
puts on a good face
↓
touts his victory
If we compare the conceptual structures of the two extracts, we can see that
their temporal and spatial boundaries remain the same. The enactors are also
the same, but there is an obvious contrast in their description, which is much
more detailed in the second case. It is evident that in the second text world there
are more identifiers and attributes, referring to both enactors (and especially
Theseus), and some of them have quite unexpected connotations. For instance,
Theseus is called not only brave, but butcher extraordinaire, which has a negative
connotation, and ashen after coming face to face with the Minotaur. The Mino-
taur is called monster (as in the first text world), but Sherrill puts more emphasis
on the shameful circumstances of his birth calling him a by-product, hobbled
from shame and hidden away. Incidentally, Nietzsche was one of the first authors
who did not regard Theseus as a real hero, and considered the Minotaur not
the evil monster, but a creature with uncontrollable inner nature. For Freud the
Minotaur was the embodiment of fear, instincts and suppressed desires (Kuznet-
sova 2009: 14, 16).
The authors focus on different actions and, correspondingly, enactors of each
of the text worlds establish different relations with each other. Thus, desire of
the modern writer to change the traditional roles of the classical mythological
characters results in the modification of the classical text world. Perception of
the Minotaur as a negative character changes, he is no longer cruel by his nature,
but rather timid and vulnerable.
To sum up, narratological analysis of Steven Sherrill’s novel The Minotaur
Takes a Cigarette Break, which is the postmodern transformation of the classi-
cal myth, has revealed peculiarities of such elements of the narrative as its time,
characterization, types of narrator and focalizer. Comparison of the text worlds
of the classical myth and the modern novel demonstrates that while world-
building elements remain the same, function-advancing propositions and at-
tributes/ identifiers are different. So, the myth of the Minotaur in postmodern
narrative space, though retaining certain intertextual links with the classical
ancient myth, receives a new interpretation and re-evaluation of the roles of the
main characters.
References
Doležel L., 1998, Heterocosmica: Fiction and Possible Worlds, Baltimore: The John
Hopkins University Press.
Gavins J., 2007, Text World Theory: An Introduction, Edinburgh: Edinburgh
University Press.
Genette G., 1980, Narrative Discourse: An Essay in Method, Ithaca: Cornell
University Press.

Kuznetsova N., 2009, The Myth of the Minotaur in the Cultural Context of
XX century, Moscow: Moscow State University Press. [in Russian]
Meletinsky E., 2000, The Poetics of Myth, translated by Guy Lanoue and Alexandre
Sadetsky, London: Routledge.
Ovid, 1893, The Metamorphoses, transl. Riley H.T., London: George Bell & Sons.
[in Project Gutenberg <http://www.gutenberg.org/files/26073/26073-h/Met_
VIII-XI.html#bookVIII_fableII>].
Rimmon-Kenan Sh., 2002, Narrative Fiction: Contemporary Poetics, London:
Routledge.
Semino E., 2009, ‘Text worlds’, in: Brône G., Vandaele J. eds., Cognitive Poetics:
Goals, Gains and Gaps, Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter, 33–71.
Sherrill S., 2003, The Minotaur Takes a Cigarette Break, Edinburgh: Canongate
Books.
Werth P., 1999, Text Worlds: Representing Conceptual Space in Discourse, London:
Longman.
Ziolkowski Th., 2008, Minos and the Moderns: Cretan Myth in Twentieth Century
Literature and Art, New York: Oxford University Press.

Visual and Performing Arts

Justyna Biernat
Mythical Transformations.
(A)Pollonia, directed by Krzysztof Warlikowski
towards Ancient Tradition
The main theme of Krzysztof Warlikowski’s drama project (A)Pollonia is sacrifice. There
are three narratives which revolve around this issue: the sacrifice of Iphigenia in Aulis,
Alcestis’ substitutionary death, and the shooting of Apolonia Machczyńska-Świątek. All
three characters present different stories; however, each depicts the problem of (self-)sac-
rifice. Iphigenia, as a votive offering for Artemis, was sacrificed on the altar by her father
and the Greek army, before their departure for Troy. Alcestis sacrificed herself in place of
her husband, who was destined for Hades. Meanwhile Apolonia was shot by a Nazi sol-
dier. In the performance of (A)Pollonia, ancient myths intertwine with World War II, as a
Polish woman attempts to rescue Jews in the town of Kock. The aim of this essay is to pro-
vide an analysis of the shifts within the ancient myth executed by Krzysztof Warlikowski.
I intend to discuss how sacrifice is depicted in his modern adaptation of the ancient text
and the results of bringing together contemporary issues (J. M. Coetzee, J. Little, H. Krall)
with the distant past (Aeschylus, Euripides). Though the director married such remote
subjects, the problem of the ambiguity of sacrifice is presented in the performance by a
coherent and consistent narration.
the altar will be my grave

Iphigenia-Alcestis-Apolonia
In one of the opening scenes of (A)Pollonia, directed by Krzysztof Warlikowski,

Clytemnestra slaps her daughter’s face. Iphigenia, who has mocked her death,
declares woefully: ‘The altar will be my grave’. These words, as well as the sacri-
fice scene, are a depiction of the substantial issue of the work – the ambiguity of
sacrifice and the violence between the sacrificial victim and the sacrificer. The
project explores the problem of (self-)sacrifice and depicts the internal con-
tradictions of the person sacrificed, who in fact is violently immolated on the
symbolic altar.
(A)Pollonia, which was first staged in Warsaw in 2008, oscillates between
three parallel narratives: the sacrifice of Iphigenia in Aulis, Alcestis’ substitu-
tionary death, and the shooting of Apolonia Machczyńska-Świątek. Iphigenia,
as a votive offering for Artemis, was sacrificed on the altar by her father and the
Greek army before their departure for Troy. Alcestis sacrificed herself in place

202 Justyna Biernat
of her husband who was destined for Hades. Meanwhile, Apolonia was shot by
a Nazi soldier. In the performance, ancient myths intertwine with the Second
World War, as a Polish woman attempts to rescue Jews in the town of Kock.
The aim of this essay is to provide an analysis of the shifts within the ancient
myth executed by Krzysztof Warlikowski. I intend to discuss how sacrifice is
depicted in his modern adaptation of texts from antiquity and the results of
bringing together contemporary issues (J. M. Coetzee, J. Little, H. Krall) with the
distant past (Aeschylus, Euripides). Though the director married such remote
subjects, the problem of the ambiguity of sacrifice is presented in the perfor-
mance by a coherent and consistent narration.
The performance begins with two actors sitting next to the mannequins of
children. It is Saturday 18th July 1942. In the Warsaw Ghetto, Janusz Korczak
plans to stage Abindranath Tagore’s play The Post Office. The actors (Maciej Stuhr
and Danuta Stenka) strut to the centre of the stage where we can see the ‘ghetto’ –
an area marked out by a white string. They place the mannequins on their knees.
Each one is ceremonially dressed, a head-scarf suggestive of the Jewish tzitzit.
The Hindu boy from Tagore’s play, who symbolizes the longing for freedom and
maturity in the face of a terminal illness, in this performance becomes the em-
bodiment of being held captive in a country under occupation. Amal seems to
represent all the Jewish children who only a few days after the staging of The Post
Office will be taken to Treblinka. Amal talks about how he yearns to travel, which
is transformed into the atrocious metaphor of the journey to the extermination
camp. The Hindu boy’s wisdom and calmness is replaced in the drama by anxiety
and anger. The Warsaw Ghetto scene compiled with the subtlety and symbol-
ism of the Asian play is a sign of the poetics of discord upon which the whole
performance is based. Within moments, the lonely and motionless mannequin
with its hand extended is replaced by Iphigenia. She runs across the stage to the
accompaniment of Chopin. She has a white dress for the First Communion, she
jumps, performs push-ups and crouches in a squat. It is as if she were trying to
relieve stress or ready herself for a fight. Agamemnon gives her a huge hug and
invites her to the table for the communal Sunday dinner.
After a while Iphigenia puts on red lipstick and smokes a cigarette. These last
gestures of youthful rebellion are doomed to failure and are in contrast to the
white dress of the First Communion and the acronym JHS embroidered on it.
Iphigenia will be forced and pulled by her father to her sacrificial death. The First
Communion becomes a journey to death. It is rounded off with the song ‘To
ostatnia niedziela’ (‘Last Sunday’) sung by Renatte Jett. Clytemnestra’s desperate
acts do not help – she tries to set fire to herself and others in vain. She silently
changes her dress and at the same time transforms into Cassandra, who then
Mythical Transformations 203
stands unmoving next to the victorious Agamemnon, returned from the Trojan
war. His speech is not only a calculation of victims of the Second World War, but
also an examination of his conscience. Agamemnon’s monologue exposes the
mechanics of a totalitarian state which abused his naivety and forced him to ‘cre-
ate something that has finally proved to be sick and evil’ (Agamemnon’s words in
the performance). Frozen with terror and humiliated, Cassandra slowly becomes
stronger in order to greet her husband and lover Agamemnon – this time as
Clytemnestra – with bread and salt.
She herself now speaks into the microphone and attracts him with the purple
of glory. Agamemnon’s murder appears as revenge for many victims – Iphigenia,
Cassandra, Clytemnestra and Amal. The multiplied and seemingly inconsistent
motifs form a coherent narrative which illustrates the oscillation of violence be-
tween the victim and its perpetrator. The main actors, Maciej Stuhr and Da-
nuta Stenka, who play several parts, expose a panorama of problems associated
with sacrifice and as a result the ancient myths are married with the history of
holocaust. It seems that all characters derived from Aeschylus Oresteia are drawn
into a trap of vengeance which in the performance is imminent necessity and
compulsion1. In the Aeschylean trilogy, Agamemnon is depicted only as a win-
ner and a great leader, meanwhile Clytemnestra acts as an instrument of the
sinister power – atē. Cassandra becomes a victim who has to consciously accept
her own death as she is aware of the forthcoming slaughter. She feels that the
Atrydean palace is weighed down by the curse and at the same time she sees a
liberator in her prophetic visions. However, the only thing she is able to do and
the only effort she can make is her wailing. The Chorus says: “You are out of your
mind, divinely possessed; you cry forth about yourself a song that is no song,
like a vibrant-throated bird wailing insatiably, alas, with a heart fond of grieving,
the nightingale lamenting ‘Itys, Itys!’ for a death in which both parents did evil”
(Sommerstein 2008). In the drama Cassandra is a mourner of her lost family,
homeland and finally of her own pathetic death. She calls in her laments the bird
which is an ancient, literary symbol not only of mourning, but also of vengeance.
Itys, a son of Prokne and Tereus was killed, boiled and served as a meal to his
father by Prokne. Tereus raped and mutilated Prokne’s sister Philomela and after
the vengeance of sisters with the cruel death of Itys, all characters were trans-
formed into birds, Philomela became a nightingale that is a figurative symbol
of a vindictive mourning. Every ancient mourner calls a bird which cries over
1 B. Hughes Flower used a term ‘drama of compulsion’ in his essay on Aeschylus’ trilogy
and a sense of vengance in it.
204 Justyna Biernat
miserable Itys. In the drama, Cassandra will not be able to take the revenge and
that is why she places her hopes in Orestes. However, in the performance where
the female characters are mixed and joined, Cassandra can avenge herself on her
perpetrator. She transforms from the mumbling and shaking victim into an ag-
gressive and satisfied butcher. The ancient rules of vengeance are abandoned and
all dramatis personae gain new abilities.
One of the metamorphoses made by Warlikowski is also Euripidean Iphi-
genia who has been placed into a modern ceremony of the First Communion.
Warlikowski abandoned a story of the arrival of the Greek army in Troy and the
hostile winds which stop it in Aulis. The dramatic irony of inviting Iphigenia
to her wedding with Achilles is exposed by Agamemnon’s gifts. Before she is
taken to her death, she receives silver slippers, earrings and a big embrace. The
symbolic preparation of the girl is analogous to ancient Greek animal sacrifice.
This ‘comedy of innocence’ (Burkert 1983) was the act of making an animal ‘will-
ing’ to be killed. The animal was encouraged to cross the holy space by means
of a basket of pearl barley. Inside the basket, there was a knife hidden. In the
performance, the sacrifice is exposed as an act of violence; however, it is com-
plemented by the idea of sacrifice as a dinner. The Atrydean family has a com-
mon Sunday dinner during which the quarrel and accusation occur. However,
that dinner lacks gods and that is why the death of the girl cannot be excused.
Iphigenia expresses her disagreement and incomprehension by being ironic. The
‘moral crisis’, which was defined by Lawrence, is a crisis in the face of which all
characters in the performance seem to be helpless. Warlikowski made Iphigenia
passive and incapable of the moral deliberation which could have helped her
to accept the atrocity of the gods and her father. Her despair was transformed
in the performance into a childish manifestation. Clytemnestra’s anger, though
grand, is not sinister at all. Only Agamemnon seems to be a more problematic
character in the performance, a character that is not able to comprehend the hid-
eous duty he has to do. In Warlikowski’s work Agamemnon becomes a doubtful,
deliberative and woven in necessity character, meanwhile Iphigenia transforms
into a pert and unruly girl, aware of her impending death and apt to be ironic.
This is a very significant shift in the interpretation of the drama where Iphigenia
is a representation of wisdom and calmness in face of threat. Iphigenia in Aulis
is the last extant playwright of Euripides and explores the problem of abnor-
mal, human victim. As Naiden claims, the gods wanted pleasant music during
the sacrifice, and in Euripidean drama the word anomos can be understood in
two senses: ‘lawless’ and ‘unmusical’. It means that the human sacrifice, depicted
in tragedy, was abnormal. The silence here is a proof of unnatural and perhaps
terrifying event. In the performance, there comes not only deformed music of
Chopin, but also scream of Iphigenia. The act of aggression is compiled with
the act of receiving Communion, again something shocking. Agamemnon is a
father and perpetrator at the same time for the victim, his affection mingles with
his perseverance. Iphigenia is only a victim, she will not have an opportunity to
become an avenger.
Undoubtedly, the problem of sacrifice and its ambiguity is focused on
Agamemnon in the performance. Iphigenia’s death motif is closed by the
Clytemnestra-Cassandra monologue who, shaken by her own act, mumbles
into the microphone about how strong and powerful daimōn is. Renatte Jett’s
songs provide a link between the palace of Atreides and the Thessalian house,
where a pregnant Alcestis, her husband and in-laws are sitting at the table.
There is also a stranger in a black suit, dark glasses and white, latex gloves.
Thanatos is restrained, he does his job in silence. He has found out from the
naked, effeminate Apollo, who he met in the toilet, that in place of Admetus,
he will take Alcestis to Hades. Before the Thessalian king and his parents are
introduced, our attention is focused on Alcestis. She puts on her dress in the
long, glassed room waiting for dinner. Next to her room, Thanatos prepares
syringes, then he greets his victim with a compliment. The silence of Alcestis
heightens the tension of the impending death. Admetus enters with a rose in his
mouth and a bottle of wine in his hand, his parents place a tureen and plates on
the table. During the dinner Alcestis relates a story she saw on television when
she was unable to sleep. It is an absurd tale about sexual intercourse between a
dolphin and a man, apparently a metaphor for her longing for fulfilment in her
relationship with Admetus. Before she sits next to Thanatos, she thrice changes
her dress. Her nervous stroll from the room to the table and the coffin in the
interior of the stage create the tension of waiting for death. Finally, when Thana-
tos pricks her wrist, somewhat unexpectedly, Admetus interrupts them. Alcestis
runs to the glassed box in which Apollo and Death were only just talking about
her. She personally sacrifices herself, which makes her death not a heroic act,
but a desperate suicide. Alcestis paints a house on the glass, then she slashes
her wrists with her red lipstick. Her suicide is stimulated by her mother-in-
law who has been screaming: ‘My son told me that you are empty, that you do
not give him anything, that your children are hungry, dirty and undressed!’
As we can see, there is a despotic mother-in-law coming between the spouses
and evidently Admetus is not able to brush her away. Alcestis, dying, asks her
husband if he loves her, if he loves her thighs, her ankles, knees and face. Her
mental condition and her anguished scream is an astonishing interpretation
of Euripidean poetics which in particular explores the dismemberment of the
characters. As Alcestis dies, Admetus fights with his mother until she falls to
206 Justyna Biernat
the ground. Hercules enters, a drunk, singing cowboy in black glasses, hat and
a long, leather coat.
He represents the comic potential of the drama – firstly as an inebriated cow-
boy and then as a clown. He is an incidental drunk who happens to stagger into
a Thessalian palace and tries to rescue Alcestis, but paradoxically she does not
want to be rescued. The quarrel between Admetus and his father will be inter-
rupted by Alcestis’ monologue from the screen. This is a symbolic closure of the
Thessalian motif which was opened by the video projection with Admetus (Jacek
Poniedziałek) and Alcestis (Magdalena Cielecka). They were asked about trivial
matters: common interests, favourite books and journeys, their first date and fi-
nally the most serious question: would you die for each other? The projection is
stopped at that moment. After so many incidents, Alcestis is shown alone in the
video in order to say goodbye to her husband and her own life as well. Her mono-
logue is a form of reproach and shows the grudge she harbours towards Admetus.
It is also an illustration of the poetic topos of a mourner married to Hades. In her
farewell monologue in the Euripidean drama Alcestis underlines – as Lloyd sug-
gests – what she loses, and does not express how substantial and purposeful her
self-sacrifice is. Meanwhile Admetus seems to be morally dubious. In the perfor-
mance he is another character involved in a set of dependences, another victim
of pathological relationships. Admetus, similarly to Agamemnon, addresses the
audience directly in order to make sacrifice a subject matter. There is a repetitive
question about appropriate behaviour and moral judgement. Admetus, like his
father, had a desire to stay alive. Their rhesis takes place during Alcestis’ burial.
Later, Admetus’ father chooses not to die again, when, stood against a wall and
asked by an SS officer to decide who should be killed: he or his daughter. Terrified
of coming back to life, Alcestis now becomes Apolonia Machczyńska-Świątek
who hid 25 Jews from the town of Kock. Before she was executed by firing squad,
a German officer asks Apolonia’s father who had been hiding the Jews. The officer
is played by the same actor, Wojciech Kalarus, who earlier played Thanatos, and
so it is Death itself that speaks to Apolonia’s father standing with his head bowed:
‘Punished will be the one who hid the Jews. If it was you, your daughter will stay
alive. If it was your daughter, you will stay alive. Suffice to say: «I hid them, my
daughter knew nothing.»’ The father, however, remains silent. Apolonia hugs the
mannequins of the children, the very same that staged their last performance in
the Warsaw Ghetto, and she shouts that she herself has been hiding Jews. She is
not escaping responsibility and does not accuse her father. In the performance
she is the only example of a voluntary sacrifice: she was trying to save Jewish
children’s lives at the expense of her own. Warlikowski uses the authentic story as
related by Polish writer and journalist Hanna Krall. However, the director made
some changes in the portrayal of one of Apolonia’s sons – Sławomir, who received
the honour of the Righteous Among The Nations on his mother’s behalf at Yad
Vashem. This award was granted in recognition of Apolonia’s act of obtaining
Aryan papers for Rivka Blatt, who thus survived the war. Blatt’s meeting with
Sławomir is on the one hand an attempt to preserve the memory of all the vic-
tims of the war, but on the other, it is a personal drama of those who survived.
He reads a poem by the Polish pianist and composer of Jewish origin, Andrzej
Czajkowski, entitled ‘Mamo, gdzie jesteś?’ (‘Mummy, where are you?’), which
serves to express not only his despair and longing for his mother, but also accusa-
tions against his mother and the saved Jewish woman for that his mother left him
alone. Blatt is also far from being free of the guilt accompanying the survivors of
the Holocaust. Sacrifice and death are problems of personal as well as collective
memory, intergenerational experience of trauma, particularly exposed by War-
likowski in this performance.
This part of the performance is derived from the story Pola by Polish writer
Hanna Krall. Warlikowski underlines the moment in Krall’s reportage, when
one of the policemen following Apolonia Machczyńska-Świątek, testifies the
demanding of lieutenant Brand – Apolonia or her father must die. The neces-
sary and abnormal sacrifice needs to be done at the order of the member of
the SS as a result father of Apolonia becomes her sacrificer without his will. A
mythological stories meet the history of the Second World War and the real,
extremely painful decisions. The problem of sacrifice is analysed with the use
of the historical events and literary sources. One of the modern traces in the
performance is not only the war, but also contemporary literature. Elizabeth
Costello (Maja Ostaszewska) has a great, long speech about animals and its
slaughter in slaughterhouses. The defender of the animal rights, who was a title
character in Coetzee’s short story, compares those animal slaughterhouses to
the Nazi concentration camps. The very strong comparison is a fulfilment of the
deliberation about victims and their deaths. The contemporary genocide seems
to be a horrifying ancient holokaustos, a holy burnt sacrifice.
A surprising combination of texts and topics creates an astonishing map of
sacrificial deaths and gestures. Historical events are interwoven with ancient
ritual murder and purification, and Warlikowski questions the limits of human
endurance and the role of sacrum in a world of cruelty. Iphigenia’s fate is con-
nected with the fate of Amal and the Jewish pupils of Janusz Korczak; Cassandra
is also Clytemnestra, Alcestis becomes Apolonia, and Orestes resembles Sławomir
Machczyński. Actually, none of these characters has typical features of a Greek
protagonist, if we define them by an insistent desire to stay calm in the face of suf-
fering and searching for sophrosyne. For Warlikowski’s protagonists the oscillation
208 Justyna Biernat
between the necessity of death and the will to live are devastating, and mutilate
their willingness to self-sacrifice and ability to forgive. One can say, following
Justina’s Gregory remarks on the poetics of Euripides’ Alcestis, that Warlikowski,
like Euripides, does not illustrate individual behaviours, but creates exempla. The
content of the performance is, similarly to the Euripidean Alcestis, the inter-de-
pendence between life and death. In fact, the dynamics of that dependence seems
to be repeatable regardless of whether it is Iphigenia who faces the sacrificial altar,
or Apolonia Machczyńska-Świątek facing the Nazi officer’s gun. The repeatability
of the characters’ actions does not have to be evidence of human passivity to the
cruelty of sacrum or evidence of human inability to commit self-sacrifice. Greek
protagonists are involved in the Second World War and what is more, instead of
(self-) sacrifice there comes incapacitating terror, the capacity for betrayal, ag-
gression and accusation. Despite that, there is still an opportunity for voluntary
sacrifice, and Apolonia is a great example of it. There is only a doubt at what ex-
pense it needs to be done. ‘Mamo, gdzie jesteś? Mamo, dlaczego nie ma cię tutaj?’
(‘Mummy, where are you? Mummy, why aren’t you here?’) asks Sławomir, who is
another victim in the set of implications. ‘Pozbawiłaś siebie życia, a mnie mojego
miejsca przy tobie’ (‘You deprived yourself of your life and at the same time you
deprived me of my place next to you’). One may say that it is not possible to rec-
oncile Sławomir Machczyński with Ryvka Blatt, Clytemnestra with Agamemnon,
Apollo with Thanatos. However, before Apollo shelters from the miasma of death
in Alcestis, he talked to Thanatos and informed him that Alcestis will finally leave
Hades. The moment of their meeting in the performance, which we may view as
a reconciliation, comes in the last scene. Renatte Jett’s songs gather all the actors,
providing an ending to the imaginary stories and allowing the protagonists to rest,
and, in spite of everything, laugh and dance.
References
Burkert W., 1983, Homo Necans: The Anthropology of Ancient Greek Sacrificial
Ritual and Myth, California: University of California Press.
Gregory J. ed., 2013, A Companion to Greek Tragedy, Oxford: Oxford University
Press.
Hughes Flower B., 2007, The Imagery of Choephore, (Lloyd, Michael, ed. Aeschylus,
Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Lawrence S., 2013, Moral Awareness in Greek Tragedy, Oxford: Oxford University
Press.
Lloyd M., 1985, ‘Euripides’ Alcestis’, Greece & Rome, 119–31.
Naiden F.S., 2012, Smoke Signals for the Gods: Ancient Greek Sacrifice from the
Archaic through Roman Periods, Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Sommerstein A.H. ed., 2008, Oresteia, Cambridge-Massachusss-London, Harvard
University Press.

Małgorzata Budzowska
Ancient Myth in Postmodern Theatre1
The theme of the paper assumes the existence of strong intercultural relationships be-
tween the myths of Mediterranean culture and contemporary European ways of thinking
about current social anxieties, which can be observed in the theatre. The paper analyses
the clash between the classical structure of ancient myth and postmodern aesthetics as
well as the postmodern philosophy of art. The presentation is divided into two parts.
Some theoretical issues relating to postmodernism in art, with a special focus on theatre,
are explained in the first part. Subsequently, a few examples of the most recent produc-
tions from Polish theatres are presented and discussed in relation to the artistic manner
of the reception of ancient myths on stage.
Introduction
As Patrice Pavis indicates, in contemporary theatre we deal with “(b)anal de-
sacralisation of great texts [which] means that nothing is safe from water dam-
age, from the pleasures of anal regression and from the imperious need to rub up
against everything that is wet and dirty, from the anal, banal but normal phase”
(Pavis 2013: 235). According to this conclusion, Pavis describes two radical tra-
ditions, and two forms of spectacle: wet and dry.
‘Wet theatre’ involves the actor’s energy, including physical destruction, obscen-
ity, organic liquids, and dirt. In this type of performance physical risk is connected
with the play with the text, which means arguing with the text (sensus de dicto) and
with an unclear hypotext (sensus de re). On the other hand, ‘dry theatre’ is rational
and clear, its purpose is to give an unambiguous meaning of the hypotext and exact
quotations from the text. These two stage practices very often are mixed in one
spectacle. An intellectual and emotional performance smoothly changes its form
and its meaning (Pavis 2013: 233–234).
This observation is associated with the common debate on fidelity to the text
of drama, which is still present and valid despite the revision of the Great Reform.
Contemporary mise-en-scènes of ancient dramas oscillate between two extremely
1 This article is a part of the research project Reception of Ancient Myths of Mediter-
ranean Culture in the Polish Theatre of XXI Century founded by the National Science
Centre (decision no. DEC-2012/07/D/HS2/01106). no. DEC-2012/07/D/HS2/01106.
212 Małgorzata Budzowska
reductionist attitudes. One of them – ‘pseudo-intellectual’ – defines the stage pro-

duction only as a loyal ‘expression and translation of a literary text’, while the
other completely rejects the text, treating the stage creation as an autonomous
piece of art (Übersfeld, 1999: 5–6).
Having regard to these divisions, we need to perceive that the distinction be-
tween staging that preserves a text, which means ‘dry’ intellectual theatre, and
staging that projects2, which is liquid (‘wet’) and independent from a text, is
questionable as it is difficult to determine criteria according to which a defined
and stable meaning of a text (invariant) could be identified. In the postmodern
way of thinking, an artist is in the situation of a philosopher. Artistic creation,
even if it is based on some drama text/texts, in postmodern aesthetics assumes
the form of a question. A director observes a text through the optics of a diffract-
ed canon – nothing is safe from critical rethinking and from inventive rewriting.
This attitude can be seen not only as damaging to the invariant meaning of a text,
but also as a creative work of imagination and mind. Besides this, it is hard to
prepare a production without an external perspective of the text, from a contem-
porary point of view, which could actualize a play and make it understandable
for the audience (Pavis 2013: 314–315).
Ancient myth and postmodernism

All the issues mentioned above create a theoretical background for an analysis of
the existence of ancient myth on the contemporary stage, understood and taken
into account both as a version described in ancient drama and as a director’s own
version based on the literary and cultural (anthropological) existence of a myth.
The index area of a myth creates a characteristic background of a myth’s iden-
tity and can be perceived as its invariant framework. This frame is changed by
incidental attributes assigned to it by literary or theatrical works. The subsequent
versions expand the index area and enrich it with additional, incidental traits
(Wachowski, 1993: 65). In postmodern poetics the index area of a myth is not
only changed but very often it is destroyed or deconstructed in a subversive way.
The name of the hero or heroine is the most visible and recognizable signature
of a myth3. When a mythical hero becomes a figure of art, he comes to be a new
2 Cf. D. Plassard 2003: 250–252.

3 Cf. Wachowski, 1993: 65: ‘(…) a [mythical] hero is somehow ‘external’ to his literary
portraits, he exists, like a myth, in a master plan. The externality of a mythical hero
in relation to his ‘image’, a character of drama, means that he must be equipped with
a set of index features by which he can be recognized and which enable one to ‘move’
Ancient Myth in Postmodern Theatre 213
incarnation of himself. His mythical dispositional structure gains a new actu-

alization in the form of an artistic character, shaped according to the context of
the creative process. The text of myth and the text of literary work and later of its
staging are connected by the hero’s name, which is a medium for index features
covered by transmutations of subsequent versions of a myth.
Along with the birth of Jacques Derrida’s idea of deconstruction, the text of
classical drama has begun to be considered from a polysemantic perspective.
This deconstructive invention has come to be a method of the contemporary
staging of ancient classical drama. According to Patrice Pavis (1988: 29), current
productions ‘are characterized by a mild reversal of perspective and an escape
from logocentrism that treats a text as a constant element which decides on the
form of staging.’
Contemporary theatre speaks a postmodern language to deconstruct a text
which is considered as a stable logos of a myth. The postmodern way of speaking
is regarded as a dissipative structure attracted by an idea of an artist only for the
moment of staging. Nonetheless, any ‘artistic attractor’ is seen through its visual
and verbal signs even though these are a distraction. They never construct a
stable form – the postmodern language avoids a synthetic and holistic approach.
Such a tactic of using the language of expressing an artistic idea which is still in
process, has a particular impact on theatrical creation.
Staging the classics

For the purpose of stage practise analysis it may be worth applying Pavis’ distinc-
tion between adaptation styles of the classics, emphasizing that nowadays this
scheme is frequently changed or mixed in stage practise. The main styles of the
classics’ adaptations on the stage are: 1. archaeological reconstruction; 2. histori-
cization; 3. recuperation of a text; 4. significant practise; 5. decomposition (mise
en piece/s); 6. return to the myth; 7. negation (Pavis, 2013: 207–209).
Archaeological reconstruction, which is sometimes considered as the ideal
style of the classics’ adaptation, in Pavis’ opinion is completely illusory. Recon-
struction of a spectacle’s form existing on the day of its premiere is only an ex-
ercise of performing in the old style, which, however, loses contact between the
contemporary audience and a text. Literal fidelity to a text paradoxically moves
him to particular works. This ‘transmutation’ is determined not only by the index,
but also by the incidental, supplementary, so to speak, peripheral features which may
not be reproduced, but which form a specific repository in consideration of the ‘basic
portrait’ [translation mine].
the audience away from a text. Historicization, which is an expression of faithful-

ness to the plot, is in opposition to the first style. The plot – situations, charac-
ters, conflicts are presented in the light of historical relativism. In other words,
the story described in the text becomes a model for the description of present
events. Recuperation of the text is the most radical method of its utilization. Text
as ‘material’ is used only as a polysemous element, verbal decoration in a collage
form of a performance. In this concept the new reading of the text is very often
impossible because words, losing their context, lose their meaning. Significant
practise is a style which opens the text to numerous possible meanings, to dia-
logue between the senses, their mutual complementarity. In the belief that the
text cannot be reduced to one global meaning, the spectacle rejects the hierarchy
of theatrical signs, glorifying the equality and openness of each stage sender (ac-
tor, music, light, costume, decoration etc.). Decomposition or mise en pièce/s is a
collage of scenes – it means a deconstruction of the text and the building up of a
new composition with ambiguous meaning. Return to the myth is a search for a
myth considered as the root of a text, is a search for universal mythos, an abstract
idea governing a plot. The negation style is a natural situation in mise-en-scene,
because a neutral reading of a text does not exist. Each time the performance is
subjected to meta-discourse and ‘cultural filter’, thus the text is never given (by an
actor) and received (by an audience) as pure and uncontaminated.
Postmodern theatrical techniques choose some of the styles described by
Pavis and adapt them to the postmodern aesthetics which, according to Lehmann
(2006), is characterized by parataxis, simultaneity, play with the density of signs,
excess, musicalization, and corporeality. Parataxis, simultaneity and density of
stage signs imply a lack of hierarchy and provoke a synesthetic perception. Cor-
poreality plays a privileged role as the realization and actualization of human
existence (Merleau-Ponty 2012). Musicalisation is included in this game, indi-
cating intercultural and interspecies polyphony.
The literariness and theatricality of the ancient myth become one of the is-
sues in staging, where the stage director is a mediator between the text/texts and
stage and can complete any deficiency existing in both the literary and theatrical
text (Übersfeld 1999). The mutual filling of gaps in both systems of signs – lin-
guistic of a literary text and meta-linguistic of a theatrical text – is an interpreta-
tive gesture of the stage director. This procedure for staging, however, is often
loaded with the mistake of variation, which strongly relativizes the reading and
re-reading of a text. But, postmodernism privilege a poetics of collage in per-
formance – ‘As a system, collage inaugurates a play of differences which is both
about and sustained by an absent origin.’ (Krauss 1981: 38). Moreover, this sys-
tem in theatre production refers to the intertextual basis of staging as well as to
various stage signs connecting each other in an ambiguous manner. It is a poet-

ics of agon – dramatic tension between different fragments of a mythical story,
which are connected not by a cause-and-effect relationship.
Oresteia by Maja Kleczewska4

In the production directed by Maja Kleczewska, intertextuality has special
value, because the director creates the staging on the basis of several dramas
which have adapted the Atreides myth directly or which just refer to the main
idea of this myth. In this group there are three ancient dramas of which only
two clearly adapt plots from the Atreides myth: Aeschylean Oresteia and Eurip-
idean Iphigenia in Aulis. Additionally, Euripides’ Hecuba is added here prob-
ably because it presents the cruelty of war which can cause a metamorphosis of
a good human being into a cruel creature. From the modern set of texts which
were chosen by the director for this production only Cassandra by Christa
Wolf is literally connected with ancient myth. Ingmar Bergman’s drama Scenes
from a Marriage seems to form a background of social and gender issues of
family life marked commutative love and hate. Heiner Müller’s adaptation of
the Shakespearean tragedy of Macbeth is presumably included in this set due
to the description of the struggle for power and moral degradation of a winner.
The next text which creates a basis for Kleczewska’s production is the screen-
play by David Hare for the Hours movie. This association can be explained by
the gender context of woman’s depression caused by her destructive involve-
ment in her relation with a man. Furthermore, this textual example extends
the intertextual repository for the staging by referencing the novel by Michael
Cunninghan (Hours) and to the novel by Virginia Woolf (Mrs Dalloway). All
these connotations raise the idea of mental illness which affects individuals
because of both their past and present. This polysemous textual foundation
of staging is best recapitulated by the last text – Heiner Müller’s Description of
a Picture. This work seems to be a metatheatrical ekphrasis of contemporary
staging. It presents a portrayal of images and reproduction of their meanings
which can be observed only via the aesthetics of trace. In fact, we deal with
a collage of potential meanings, their network of associations, which can be
denoted by the method of vectorization5. Quotations and clichés, their repeti-
tion, juxtaposition in different configurations, all this conceptual game with
4 Oresteia by Maja Kleczewska was performed in cooperation with National Theatre

and National Opera in Warsaw. Premiere: 14.04.2012.
5 Ref.: Pavis 1996.
texts and meanings is the main action that an artist can perform (Spies, Ernst
& Gabriel 1991). Such a concept of textual basis for a mise-en-scene of ancient
myth gives the impression of postmodern aesthetics indicated by its chaotic
and polyphonic nature.
Postmodernism seems to be a formal framework of the mise-en-scène of the
Oresteia by Kleczewska. The juxtaposition of stage signs appears seemingly as
a chaotic configuration. The spectator can observe on stage a picture consisting
of different characters who dialogue simultaneously in various configurations.
At the same time, the eyes and ears of the audience are stimulated by a TV. In
addition, the stage is strewn with the corpses of cats. Behind the stage there
is a screen where visual comments on the stage action are displayed. In this
moving scenic image, which distract spectator’s reception, we can observe the
special technique of focusing attention. It is like a camera zoom which focuses
on one element of the stage while the rest are muted, but still in action. Vectors
of attention are suggested by acting: dance, speech, stable image and requisites.
The direction of these vectors are finally chosen by the spectator.
The whole performance appears like a construction from Bergman’s drama.
The first scenes between the husband and wife (Agamemnon and Clytemnestra)
display different scenes from a marriage and from family life. At the same time,
the biggest requisite on the stage is a dead giant deer. A naked bloody girl who
comes out from the belly of the deer is a visualization of her parents’ memory.
This grim spectre is a horrifying remembrance of paternal guilt. The mythical
replacement of Iphigenia’s sacrificed body by the corpse of a doe is used here
to reveal the real father’s sin. This shade of Iphigenia, which is present on stage
almost all the time as an invisible ghost, creates a silent parodos and glossary of
the mythical core.
Scenes with Orestes and Electra refer to the psychoanalytical discourse about
the relationships between family members. In the communitas of family, which is
individual’s necessity, relations based on mutual grievances, accusations and feel-
ing of guilt must evoke hate and desire of revenge. Kleczewska follows the trace
of O’Neill’s interpretation of the Atreides’ myth (O’Neill 2012) and put members
of a family in the involvement of incestuous relationships between children and
parents and between kinsfolk as well. In this context, corporeality and sexuality
plays a privileged role on stage, not only as a medium of character but also as an
indicator of wet theatre where an actor’s body as an agent provocateur (Lehmann
2006: 162) performs its own discourse on the mythical logos. Electra unmasks her
desire only towards her father’s corpse in the erotic dance, which seems to be a
kind of necrophilia. The kinsfolk together perform dance macabre over the corpse
of their father, but Orestes barely hides his ambiguous feelings. His father’s death
allows him to be the one man in his mother’s life. Agamemnon, seen as rival, was
murdered by Orestes’ beloved mother. Squirming over a father’s body is the child’s
therapy, but it is also an incentive for revenge, especially for Electra. The mother’s
death is performed in a quiet scene, when Clytemnestra and Orestes lie together
in bed and take drugs. Orestes kills his mother with ‘a golden shot’, but his mur-
derous gesture appears more like the killing of destructive desire than revenge for
the death of his father.
In this mise-en-scène, we can notice a logos of Atreides’ myth, divided in may
pieces which, however, suggest a direction for the vector of meaning. It indicates
the pathology existing in a family, which is a net of connections that cannot be
cut off. Family is our fatum, is a net of necessities we have to live with. Murderous
gestures together with incestuous desires are an individual’s internal experiences
and Oresteia unmasks them and shows cruelty in crudo.
Oresteia by Michał Zadara6

The Oresteia directed by Michał Zadara is the staging of the opera by Iannis
Xenakis. This musical adaptation of the trilogy of Aeschylus is done by Zadara
in the historical context of Poland in the time after the Second World War. This
period was one of the darkest moments in the history of the country, because the
constructing of post-war reality was associated with the bloody feud between
Polish raiding parties of the imposed communist regime and the military forces
of the Polish underground army. This civil war in Poland, instigated by the So-
viet Union, is the framework for a new reading of an ancient myth. The mise-
en-scene made by Zadara preserves logos of the myth of the Atreides family,
becoming a simple re-contextualization. In Pavis’ terms, it is a historicization
style of staging when an ancient mythical story becomes a model for discussing
the historical facts of contemporaneity. The analogon for ancient drama emerges
through Aeschylus’ trilogy as a whole. An index area of this myth includes the
social evolution from identity constructed on the revenge to identity defined by
forgiveness and justice. In this approach, tragedy of family is replaced by tragedy
of society which seeks its new identity after the disaster of war.
The scenography, consisting of scaffolding, exemplifies the severity of the time
of communism and of the never-ending construction of the new state. The choir
of workers – activists, who carefully observe their leaders – interacts with the
stage design. On the stage, the audience can observe ‘a factory’ of the new order
6 Oresteia by Michał Zadara was performed by the National Opera in Warsaw. Premiere:
14.03.2010.
and the family of Agamemnon is put in the centre of this action. Agamemnon,
as a partisan of Polish underground army, cannot be accepted by the new regime.
On the other hand he is not able to accept another totalitarian rule in his state.
Betrayed by his country, he is also going to be deserted by his family. Agamem-
non has to be murdered by his own wife and her lover – communist cacique
Aegisthos – in order to establish the new regime.
In that way the cycle of vengeance has been initiated. The murder of Iphigenia,
as a motif of Clytemnestra’s action in this production, has been overshadowed by
political motivation of the king’s death. In this same manner the act of matricide
by Orestes was also committed. In this double murder the killing of Aegisthos is
more important than Clytemnestra’s. The son of Agamemnon is a communist ac-
tivist who develops a new phase of his regime and for this reason Aegisthos must
be killed as a symbol of the old stage of Stalinism. The plot of the revenge and
of Erinyes hunting for the murderer is then brought into the aspect of political
struggle to establish a new national identity.
Such a simple plot, described on stage by austere and primitive images, is sup-
plemented by the music of Xenakis. The chaos associated with the establishment
of a new political order is best translated by the music. The music of Xenakis
shocks with its asemantics and the illusory chaos. This piece of music by Xenakis
is close to punk aesthetics and its asceticism and dissonance in sound causes
anxiety and does not leave any spectator indifferent. Additionally, this impres-
sion is amplified with baritone vocals modulated by falsetto yelps performed by
the actor who plays the role of Cassandra. The clash between simple and severe
images on stage, where only the redness of blood can disturb the order, and the
chaotic music with clipped tones and with the wailing of Cassandra intensified
by the choir making a noise with rattles around the audience, has to be recog-
nized as a brilliant scenic solution. The effect of being surrounded by deafening
sounds and feeling of being in a trap of this kind of sounds puts the audience in
the situation of emotionally engaged perception.
The staging of Atreides’ myth by Zadara appears to be a game with formal theat-
rical effects assigned to operatic performances. The rigidity and conventionality of
the scenic movement was transgressed by the music. The sounds are the most im-
portant element of this production and they carry the logos of myth better than the
scenic images. The perversity of this type of performance refers to the postmodern
aesthetics of subversion. The subversive hierarchy of stage signs harmonizes with
the shift in emphasis inscribed in Atreides’ myth. The political background of this
mythical story was already obvious in antiquity, but its underlining by the proce-
dure of historicization envisaged by Zadara gives one the opportunity to rethink
the myth and its logos which carries still current mechanisms of human action.
Oresteia by Jan Klata7

This production is based not only on the ancient drama of Aeschylus, but also
on the Heiner Müller, Medea Material. This connection becomes important
in relation to the main idea of this staging, which is involved in a discussion
about postmodern reality. The mise-en-scene by Klata uses the poetics of hor-
ror movies in the ironical context of pop culture. The director seems to seek
to show the tragedy of Atreides as a simulacrum, because in the postmodern
reality a real tragedy is always appropriated by pop culture. Even if postmod-
ernism chooses to break with great narrations, it uses pop culture to reproduce
a ‘great news’ from a real tragedy. Narration appropriate to the current trends
is more important than facts. This tendency in the postmodern creation of
events is used by Klata to rethink the ancient myth. Heiner Müller’s drama can
be seen here as a postmodern voice referring to the warped world and to the
gender relationship between man and woman: ‘I want to tear humanity into
two parts / and live in the middle of an empty neither a woman / nor a man’
(Müller 1985)8.
The murder of Agamemnon is performed offstage, but the figure of
Clytemnestra, who stays on the stage, looks like a character from some horror
movie. Similarly, the character of Orestes, who learns his role of matricide, is
translated from the Atreides myth into the new context of a ‘professional’ killer.
He reads the book of some musician of a death metal band and wears a folic coat
like a professional assassin before a murder. But this character is presented on
stage with irony. He, along with his sister Electra, still wears a pupil’s uniforms.
Both protagonists play their role of children who are exposed to hatred within
their family, but Electra, with her appearance of an innocent girl, is a teacher of
hatred and vengeance. She builds an altar with her father’s skeleton and prays for
revenge and becomes the impulse for Orestes to kill his mother. In her actions
Electra looks a little like an emo girl who is fascinated by death.
The skeleton of Agamemnon is also an important requisite for Aegisthus.
This character’s role is inscribed in the context of bogus mental disability, an
effeminate masculinity which is able to achieve its goals by tricks. To express his
triumph he dances on stage with the corpse of Agamemnon. The effeminacy of
Aegisthus, who seduces Agammnon’s wife while he is away at war, is the index
feature of this mythical character.
7 Oresteia by Jan Klata was performed in the Old Theatre in Cracow. Premiere:
25.02.2007.
8 Translation mine.
The key part of the staging is dedicated to Orestes and his mental and physical
change from young innocent boy to assassin, who… still is a boy. His gestures
and mimicry are performed with exaggeration comparable to childish play. This
is a theatre of murder, played more for visual effects than for internal and essen-
tial reasons. This obvious metatheatrical acting is continued in the meeting of
Orestes and Erinyes. These goddesses of revenge, who look like prostitutes, wear
gas masks whereby their breathing is sinister and distressing. This ironic stage
trick becomes more comic when Erinyes starts to seduce Orestes.
The comic and ironic framework of this staging is further expanded by the
manifestation of Apollo. The god appears like a postmodern deus ex machina –
he is stylized like Robbie Williams and sings his song Feel: ‘Come and hold my
hand/I wanna contact the living/Not sure I understand/This role I’ve been given/I
sit and talk to God/And he just laughs at my plans/My head speaks a language/I
don’t understand’. The same role is played by the goddess Athena, who is in charge
of voting on Orestes’ act of matricide. And again we deal with a pop culture spec-
tacle of voting during some TV show like X-factor. An actress asks the audience
to vote, but finally her vote prevails to free Orestes from guilt.
A pop culture background is the formal framework for the staging of Oresteia
by Klata. The tragedy must be spectacular and able to sell itself. The Atreides
myth is put within an idea of the society of the spectacle already presented by
Guy Debord in the 60’s and which is still valid. The mythic circle of vengeance
designated in the index area of this myth is deconstructed on stage into the new
construction which makes a simulacrum of the tragedy.
Conclusion
The relation between text and its staging in contemporary theatre is an unsolved
problem, because an inter-semiotic translation is always an interpretation. As
Pavis indicates, ‘mise-en-scene exists only in the form of the structure observed
and reconstructed by a spectator on the basis of the significant system created
by a particular artistic team.’ (Pavis 1988). However, it must be such a structure
that can be perceived as a positive or negative reference to the textual or mythi-
cal invariant. A postmodern staging basically manifests its autonomy toward the
text, aiming at the creation of a ‘surplus’, a supplement, that enriches the logos
of the text (Adamiecka-Sitek 2005). Regarding the fact that ancient myth exists
in cultural imagination before a dramatic discourse and before its staging can,
it is obvious that this pre-existence creates some assumption and prejudices in
the audience’s mind. A theatre production has to face this ante-setting attitude
and tries to initiate a dialogue between the audience’s prejudice and the new idea
of the staging. This indication is of high importance in the productions of post-

modern theatre. Conscious tendencies to subvert a mythical index, to extend it
in various directions, to connect it with contemporary issues, to use it only as a
decorum without any conceptual work, to express it in specific language, all these
inclinations of postmodern staging make this dialogue difficult. The effort of un-
derstanding of an artistic significant system belongs to a spectator. Reception of
ancient myth via postmodern staging is a challenge for a spectator, but it is also
an excellent exercise for the imagination, a game with the spectator’s knowledge,
experiences and likes.
References
Adamiecka-Sitek A., 2005, Teatr i tekst. Inscenizacja w teatrze postmodernistyc-
znym, Kraków: Księgarnia Akademicka.
Krauss R., 1985, The Originality of the Avant-Garde and Other Modernist Myths,
Cambridge: MIT Press.
Lehmann H.-Th., 2006, Postdramatic Theatre. London: Routledge.
Marleau-Ponty M., 2012, Phenomenology of Perception. New York: Routledge.
Müller H., 1985, ‘Gnijący brzeg; Materiały do Medei; Krajobraz z Argonautami’,
Literatura na świecie 4, 183–191.
O’Neill E., 2012, Mourning becomes Electra, New York: Random House.
Pavis P., 1988, ‘Du texte à la scène : un enfantement difficile’, Théâtre/Public 79,
27–35.
– 1996, Les Analyses des spectacles, Paris: Editions Nathan.
– 2013, Contemporary Mise En Scène : Staging Theatre Today, transl. by J. Anderson,
London, New York: Routledge.
Plassard D., 2003, ‘Esquisse d’une typologie de la mise en scene des classiques’,
Literatures classiques 48.
Spies W., Ernst M., Gabriel J.W., 1991, Max Ernst Collages: The Invention of the
Surrealist Universe. New York: Abrams.
Übersfeld A., 1999, Reading Theatre. Toronto: University of Toronto Press.
Wachowski J., 1993, Dramat-mit-tradycja. O transtekstualności w polskiej drama-
turgii współczesnej, Poznań: Acarus.

Monika Wąsik
Odyssey Europe.
Contemporary German Theatre and
the Problem of Immigration
This essay analyses how the myth of Odysseus undergoes transformations in the German
speaking drama and contemporary theatre. It subjects selected dramatic texts and theatre
projects which revive the story of mythical journey to analysis. The German speaking lit-
erature and theatre notably often, especially in the second half of the 20th century, broach-
es the myth of Odysseus. It is clearly not hard to understand why the fate of the king of
Ithaca, unsuccessfully looking for the way back to his homeland, became a symbol of the
fate of modern man both after the disaster of World War II and the fall of the Berlin Wall.
The reception of the myth of Odysseus in the German speaking theatre and drama in the
second half of the 20th century is without a doubt inextricably linked with the processes
of the socio-political transformation in Europe. The latest interpretations of the history of
the king of Ithaca seem to be not only a highly political commentary on reality but also a
manifesto of the new identity of postmodern man. In an era of economic and social crisis,
and increasing religious prejudices and fears, the story of Odysseus has become again an
appropriate illustration of the problems of modern man.
The 20th century literature and German theatre have referred often to the myth
of Odysseus. It is not particularly difficult to understand the significance of the
story of Ithaca’s king, unsuccessfully searching for his way back to his native land.
In the light of the post-World War II reality and the fall of the Berlin Wall, the
myth seemed to be illustrating the fate of the contemporary human being even
more accurately. The authors, who left Germany in the 1930’s due to political
reasons, and for whom the return to their country turned out to be as difficult
as their emigration, perceived the story of Odysseus as the framework for the
post-war reality and the mirror of their own vagabond lives. The myth about
searching for the way back to Ithaca has been politically functionalised also in
the literary discussion on the reunification of Germany. The topic regained its
visibility in 2009, a year which marked the anniversary of the fall of the Berlin
Wall and saw the economic crisis deepening.
The reception of the Odysseus myth in German drama and theatre is un-
doubtedly related to the socio-political transformations in Europe. The contem-
porary Odysseus may masquerade as a miserable political refugee in search of
224 Monika Wąsik
employment and a new home far away from their motherland, but also a highly
qualified employer of a multinational corporation, an Odysseus without his Itha-
ka and a citizen of the world. The most recent interpretation of the myth also
seems to constitute a political commentary and a manifesto of the new identity
of the postmodern man. The world of the 21st century signifies constant migra-
tion and flow from one place to another, not only in search of adventures, but
also a better life and a new home, especially when the previous one is no longer
the foundation of peace and happiness and seems to be too confined to live in.
The phenomenon of migration has become a serious and media-centred
problem for Europe in the past few years. New transport solutions and the
‘time and spatial delocalisation of postmodern subjects’ (Zaidler-Janiszewska,
1996: 83), as referred to by Anna Zaidler-Janiszewska, make migration a direct
experience for larger numbers of the ‘global tribes’ (Luhmann 1975), and as such
become an integral organisational element in the global village. The anniversary
of the fall of the Berlin Wall, commemorated by a great majority of countries on
the old continent, has created a chance to reflect upon the historical unification
of Europe and triggered questions about its past. In the light of the developing
economic crisis and rampant political problems stemming from the reduction
of employment policies, European political viewpoints (and those of its leaders)
seem to be very much reliant on social and religious issues, as well as the idea of
social advancement achieved through ‘unifying the varieties’ in Europe. For the
Germans, summarising the past twenty years of the united country has gained a
greater significance, especially that the society is not as homogeneous as it was
sixty years ago. More importantly, according to the recent political debates trig-
gered by Thilo Sarazzin’s book ‘Deutschland schafft sich ab’ (Germany Is Doing
Away With Itself) or the acknowledged ‘philosopher’s dispute’, Germany does
not seem to be a ‘united’ society either.
Those socio-political fluctuations in Germany are continuously being
commented upon by contemporary German drama and theatre, working as
a socio-economical laboratory in which ‘the reality is not simulated mimeti-
cally, but described via a theatrical fiction enriched with socio-economic facts’
(Schößler 2009: 10). Therefore, those texts which have touched upon social,
political and economic issues from numerous perspectives, and electrified
German society for the past few years, often feature protagonists that do not
represent any social or economic value. Those protagonists are in many ways
excluded from society, perceived as unproductive and unwilling or unable to
succumb to the capitalistic order, or standing by different social, cultural or re-
ligious values. Very often, they remain neutral shadows, people with no names,
an invaluable burden to society, not willing to take responsibility for the fate
Contemporary German Theatre and the Problem of Immigration 225
of the people living on the edge and not succumbing to assimilation. It should
be noticed that, together with the development of an aggressive immigration
policy, German drama has started picturing the outsider as an excluded entity
and a foreigner at the same time. The most recent German dramas feature not
only young and well educated 30-year-olds unsuccessfully trying to find their
place on the employment market and confronted with capitalistic mechanisms,
but also even more oppressed foreigners, who do not have the possibility to
work, build their future, and gain political and social rights. The figure of Od-
ysseus – the wanderer deprived of rights and future prospects, who everywhere
appears as a stranger and what is more, as a potential thread – becomes a sign
of dilemmas of the contemporary world and therefore a topic for the theatre.
It is hard to escape the impression that the discussion conducted in the Ger-
man theatre runs parallel to the polemics carried out by conservative poli-
ticians, discussions ignited by Sarrazin’s book, or ‘the philosopher’s disputes’
covered by the most influential newspapers in the country. Falk Richter, the
author of dramas criticising the political system, has accurately summarised
the paranoia of fear and xenophobia:
Our society is driven by fear. People are scared. They are afraid of losing their jobs.
They are scared that their situation will worsen or simply change. They are petrified
that globalisation will take away their national wealth; that terrorists will attack; that
the economy will collapse; that the climate will get warmer, cool down, or that it will
get too dark, too light, too quiet, or too loud. Managing fear is a basic strategy carried
out by most governments, the media, and the entertainment industry. It is based on the
anxiety that nothing will remain as it used to and we will have to change our ways, per-
spectives, and abandon certain comfortable thinking patterns. We may even be forced
to think about ourselves in lightly worse terms, with a lesser pride and self-appraisal.
(Cud systemu 2010)
This fear against being stripped of work, living space and material goods by for-
eigners may lead to the simple conclusion expressed in the title of Dirk Laucke’s
drama ‘Für alle reicht es nicht’ (There is not enough to go round). Laucke depicts
a ruthless mechanism of social exclusion founded upon a self-accelerating hate
spiral. His protagonists, two unemployed people smuggling cigarettes across the
Czech-German border, find a truck with a group of Asians in it, most probably
cheated and left behind by people traffickers. Funny enough, the poor Asians are
left upon the mercy of the excluded and poor Anny and Jo, who become as ruth-
less as the ever hated system. Although far from being patriotic, Anna thinks that
in Germany there is only space for someone who is able to love that country. The
Asians would rather suffocate in the truck than be freed by the real Germans,
who guard their national security, workplaces, the core of being German and the
226 Monika Wąsik
so called leading culture (Leitkultur). A foreigner may be of a certain value, but

only when they may be exploited for the smallest amount of money.
Such a phenomenon of ‘civilised’ abuse of foreigners in Germany has been
exposed by Felicia Zeller in ‘Gespräche mit Astronauten’ (Conversations with
Astronauts), where she depicts a gigantic procedure of abusing young women
from Eastern Europe who are performing babysitter jobs in exchange for accom-
modation and food or the simple advantage of staying with a German family.
This vision is not as extreme as Roland Schimmelpfenning’s opinions about such
exploitation as being a new form of slavery. In ‘Der goldene Drache’ (The Golden
Dragon) awarded at Mühlheim Theatredays, the author depicts sexual slaves and
illegal workers from Vietnam, who are devoid of any social security, and perceives
the attitude towards them as a criminal procedure. When one of the protagonists,
lacking professional medical healthcare, is bleeding out after a provisional tooth
removal performed by his friend at the back of a restaurant, his co-workers (also
illegal refugees) throw his body into the river not to leave any traces of an illegal
immigrant. In Schimmelpfenning’s vision, the body of a nameless Vietnamese
sets off on a post-mortal journey home – similar to Odysseus sailing across the
seas and oceans to reach home, where his family awaits him, unaware of his tragic
fate.
Many such texts and theatre projects, often surpassing the frameworks of
solely artistic endeavours, literally refer to the myth of Odysseus and treat it as a
universal story about human misfortune, being at the same time ‘an adventure
and love story as well as family drama’ (Piekenbrock 2009: 9). An accurate ex-
ample refers to ‘Odyssee Europa’ (Odyssey Europe) mentioned in the title. The
play was staged as part of the RUHR.2010 festival, taking place after the Ruhr
district was granted the title of the European Capital of Culture. The central topic
was the area itself, an agglomeration of 5 million people in 53 cities comprising
the biggest industrial region of Europe. The direct outcome of ‘Odyssey’ is an
anthology of texts by six contemporary European authors, who – following the
project’s organisers – treated Odysseus as ‘the framework for a contemporary
European for whom standing face to face with others reformulates the questions
about their own identity’ (Sloane 2010: 7). The authors of the anthology make an
attempt to depict the story of Ithaca’s king from numerous perspectives, either
referring directly to Odysseus or reading the stories of contemporary protago-
nists via the prism of the mythical plot.
In this way the authors comment on The Odyssey and at the same time they
become post-modern continuators of the myth. In The Eleventh Song Roland
Schimmelpfennig even copies bigger parts of the original text and confronts
them with protagonists from the contemporary world – heroes of everyday
life who are far from heroic deeds or passion typical for heroes. The author
depicts the story of Odysseus in the contemporary context. Next to Achilles,
Agamemnon, Circe and of course Odysseus there appear such protagonists as
the Asian Woman from the Greengrocery’s, the Man from the Kiosk or The
Woman with Suitcases Standing on the Railway Platform. Their monologues
are intertwined with the monologues of the mythical heroes and even though
these two worlds are visibly separated from each other, at the same time, wor-
ryingly, they appear to be alike. The Eleventh Song of Schimmelpfennig is not
an account of the history of the mythological hero but rather a question about
the place of the contemporary Odysseus in the society and finally also about
the purpose and meaning of his journey. Does his journey really end with his
arrival in the longed-for Ithaca? Can the measure of a journey be nowadays
expressed in kilometres or by the hardships of travelling? The protagonist of
the drama Odysseus, Criminal by Christoph Ransmayr faces similar question.
The 20-year long journey of the title protagonist only seemingly was a suc-
cess, because Ithaca that appears in front of his eyes bears no resemblance to
the beloved homeland from the past. The land, which in Odysseus’ time was
very wealthy and affluent, is now in ruins. Demolished factories, hundreds of
paupers and criminals wandering on the streets were among others the con-
sequences of the regime of the so called ‘Reformers’ who ruled the land after
its king had disappeared. Ithaca is now a land plunged into chaos, it seems,
however, that its economical and moral fall does not bother its residents. Be-
sides, it is difficult to introduce reforms in a land, in which even Athena does
business with criminals. The slaughter of the Reformers, which was supposed
to be the beginning of a new era of the old reign of Odysseus and at the same
time the end of his wandering, unexpectedly starts a new journey of the king
not wanted in Ithaca. To his despair and Penelope’s relief Odysseus has to leave
his homeland. In the new Ithaca nobody needs the old king – one can say that
Odysseus does not fit in with the new times, he loses against the world which
he does not understand.
In case of texts which became part of the anthology Odyssey Europe, this new
interpretation of the history of Odysseus, a play with literary material, acquired
new meaning only at the time of its staging. However, the aim of ‘Odyssey Eu-
rope’ was beyond the mere publication of an anthology of contemporary drama,
proposing a new rereading of the Odysseus myth from the viewpoint of the
experiences of contemporary wanderers. All six plays were staged during the
festival in Oberhausen, Moers, Bochum, Dortmund and Essen. In order to par-
ticipate in the project, the audience had to agree to travel between the cities of
the Ruhr district. The participants commuted for two days by different means of
228 Monika Wąsik
transport, including a ship, and using the hospitality of strangers. During their
journey each of the participants was taken care of by the citizens of a particular
city. Making the audience step into new and ever changing situations was meant
to make them lose their sense of security, so that they identify themselves with
the protagonists of the plays.
A similar mechanism of confrontation, this time referring to the audience and
the contemporary Odysseuses, has been used in the ‘Get Away! Ein Crash-Kurs
in Theorie und Praxis der Migration’ performance, also developed by the theatre
in Oberhausen, just a few months after the completion of ‘Odyssey Europe’. In
the case of ‘Get Away!’, the protagonists assume the roles of emigration experts,
an unusual and yet increasingly popular discipline. The organisers of the project
conducted a street survey where they asked passers-by if they would ever imagine
emigrating from Germany and, if so, what would the reason be. Those who gave
affirmative answers were handed in tickets and encouraged to participate in a
multistage performance or better to say a workshop, performance and competi-
tion at the same time. Each of the participants could not only complete an Inter-
net-based course in emigration, but also talk to other participants (immigrants)
via Skype in a container placed in the city centre and serving as a provisional
tourist agency. The immigrants behind the computer screens would answer the
questions posed by the participants, acting as their mentors, giving practical clues
on how to live in a new country and cope with its bureaucratic system, how to
organise the trip and build your new life on the spot. Their stories and lessons on
‘immigration survival’ were commented on in short etudes by the performers or
during academic lectures given by scientists researching the problem of migra-
tion. The very table of contents of the aforementioned ‘crash course’ gives an idea
of the project’s nature. The course spans five chapters, each of which provides
instructions on how to cross the border, develop camouflage strategies, and build
a new identity. Striking histories of German emigrants were confronted with na-
ive imaginary knowledge on emigration displayed by the survey’s participants.
When asked about the destination, the respondents of the project most often
listed such warm countries as Italy, Australia or the United States, particularly
New York. The main reasons for emigration were bad weather and boredom in
their homeland. Having talked to the immigrants, especially those, who had to
leave their own countries due to difficult political conditions, the participants of
the project realised how naive their ideas of emigration had been. The promise
to test the efficiency of the advice provided during the workshops is also superfi-
cial. The ticket to one of the eleven countries selected by the organisers is a mere
provocation. Indeed, three of the course’s graduates will win the one-way ticket,
but wherever they go, they will do so as tourists.
The abovementioned dramas and theatrical projects constitute the next phase
in the reworking of the Odysseus myth in the German theatre. They are the act of
solidarity with the excluded, but above all a visible instance of opposition against
aggressive political discourse and media frenzy referring to the so-called ‘parallel
society’. Finally, they lay bare the bureaucratic administrative state machinery,
the idleness of political declarations, and paranoid societal fears based on the
assertions served by tabloid press. German conservative politicians try to con-
vince people that immigrants form the unemployed group and live at the state’s
expense. However, they fail to notice that until 2001 asylum seekers and refugees
did not have the right to work for three years. Sarrazin perceives immigrants as
uneducated and poorly qualified physical workers, but he does not notice the fact
that foreign scientific titles and documented proof of vocational qualifications are
barely acknowledged by the German system.
In the age of a cumulated economic and social crisis, and deepening religious
prejudices and fears, the story of Odysseus yet again becomes an adequate illus-
tration of the problems of contemporary man. It is also an excuse to ask about
‘European ideals’, and finally, interpersonal relations. In highly technologically
developed and mobile societies, the growth of creative capital is developed at the
expense of the social one. Individuals raised in such societies are less socially ac-
tive and do not feel part of their surroundings. An active professional life turns
out to be so absorbing that the only possible bonds are formed within a certain
group. This, on the other hand, leads to the lack of confrontation with different
minorities and closing oneself away from the otherness.
References
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nowo, Warsaw: Wydawnictwo Sic!.
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dramaturgy of theatre, film, radio, and television, 9.
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www.geheimagentur.net/projekte/get-away/> [accessed 2 January 2013].
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zur Theorie der Gesellschaft, Opladen: Westdeutscher Verlag, 51–71.
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planet_2010_1.pdf> [accessed 10 September 2013].
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die Zwischenwelt, in: Theater Theater. Aktuelle Stücke 2010. Odyssee Europa,
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230 Monika Wąsik
Sloane S.‚ 2010, Grußwort, in: Theater Theater. Aktuelle Stücke 2010. Odyssee
Europa, Frankfurt am Main: Fischer Verlag.
Schößler F., Bähr Ch., 2009, Die Entdeckung der „Wirklichkeit“. Ökonomie, Politik
und Soziales in zeitgenössischen Theater, in: Ökonomie im Theater der Gegen-
wart, ed. by Franziska Schößler, Christine Bähr, Bielefeld: Transcript Verlag.
Zeidler-Janiszewska A., 1996, ‘Polityka kulturalna w perspektywie przemian
kultury współczesnej’, Kultura Współczesna, 3/4.

Agnieszka Liszka-Drążkiewicz
The Story of Orestes as a Reflection of the

Transformations of Modern Society in Pylades
by Pier Paolo Pasolini
In my paper I examine the presence of some mythical themes in Pier Paolo Pasolini’s
artistic output. I focus mainly on his play Pylades, but I also make frequent references to
Pasolini’s other works. In Pylades, Pasolini retells Orestes’ story after the events depicted
in Oresteia. This text is not merely an adaptation of the myth but a comment on the con-
temporary social reality of post-war Italy, and a reflection of both social and psychological
transformations which took place in Italy in the 1960s and 1970s. In Pylades Pasolini con-
centrates on the conflicts between the main characters, Orestes, Electra and Pylades, and
uses them to stress the antithesis between the archaic culture, based on religion, and the
new one, focused on democracy, rationality and individual responsibility. In this conflict
the author tries to depict the contrasts of his own social and political reality. By retell-
ing this mythical history Pasolini shows the impossibility of reconciling the past and the
future, the two different ways of living, which, when pursued on their own, can became
extreme and dangerous.
The aim of the following paper is to analyse Pier Paolo Pasolini’s reinterpreta-
tions of ancient myths, mainly of the story of Orestes, as well as to present new
meanings which are attributed by the Italian author to the Aeschylus’ tragedies
of the Oresteia.
Born in 1922 in Bologna, Pier Paolo Pasolini received a classical education,
based not only on the knowledge of ancient literatures and art but also on very
high linguistic competences in languages. In fact, Italian secondary education
before the Second World War guaranteed fluency in Latin and a considerably
high level of competence in Greek. It is also evident how much the lectures on
ancient texts influenced Pasolini when we consider how often he returned in his
own works to the themes and motifs known from Greek and Latin literature, and
that every time he did it with a strong belief that in mythological stories even his
contemporaries may find the reflection of their own fate and condition (accord-
ing to Pasolini, mainly of the its social aspects).
In fact, as Massimo Fusillo puts it, in Pasolini’s works we can identify three
main mythological themes: that of Oedipus, Orestes and finally Medea. Fusillo
also claims that while stories of Oedipus and Medea gain in Pasolini’s interpre-
tation a profoundly anthropological meaning, the one of Orestes becomes, on
232 Agnieszka Liszka-Drążkiewicz
the contrary, primarily a political narration (Fusillo 2007: 139). This interest is
particularly visible from the 1960’s when Pasolini begins to translate some texts
from the ancient (mainly Latin) literatures. In 1960 he translated a small frag-
ment of Sophocles’ Antigone, but his most complete and most known translation
is probably his version of Plautus’ Miles Gloriosus published in 1963 with the
Italian title Il vantone (Siciliano 2005: 506). For the purposes of the present paper
the most important is of course Pasolini’s other translation, that of Aeschylus’
Oresteia, presented on the stage of the Greek Theatre of Syracuse in 1960, di-
rected by one of the most famous Italian actors of the time, Vittorio Gassman.
The director’s decision to entrust the translation to Pasolini was a consequence
of the information that the poet was at the time working on the Italian version
of Virgil’s Aeneid, which meant he was interested in ancient literature in general
(Pasolini 2001b: 1007). For Pasolini, the proposal to render one of the most im-
portant Greek tragedies in his language was both tempting and extremely dif-
ficult to accomplish because, as he put it himself in his Note from the translator:
‘Aeschylus is not Virgil and Greek in not Latin’ (Pasolini 2001: 1007). In other
words, Pasolini was convinced that his linguistic skills were considerably more
limited in Greek than in Latin. In addition to this, he also had little time to fin-
ish the translation because of some previous commissions and obligations to
complete before moving to Gassman’s proposal. He decided, therefore, to base
his translation not only on the original Greek version, but to use some of the
versions available in modern languages known to him. He used the French ver-
sion by Paul Mazon (1925) as well as the English one by W. G. Headlam and
G. Thomson (1938) and finally the Italian version translated by Mario Unter-
steiner (1947). Pasolini’s translation is strongly based on the French one (Fusillo
2007: 147) even though his version sometimes is very distant from it as well. It is
visible, however, that his Oresteia is, first of all, his own poetic vision and reinter-
pretation of Aeschylus’ text, and not a faithful translation.
In Pasolini’s version of Oresteia we can see a tendency which is also present
and equally important in his own works inspired by classical myths: he seeks
to make his text more modern and to show its main problems as being close to
the contemporary readers. Thus, in Oresteia the poet omits or transforms cer-
tain mythological elements: in his text Zeus becomes simply ‘God’, ‘temple’ is
translated as ‘church’, ‘Dike’ is called ‘Love’ and ‘Moyra’ is identified with ‘Death’
(Fusillo 2007: 148–149). In his own play Pylades, Pasolini goes further: he nar-
rates the story of Orestes’ life after the conclusion of the events described in
Aeschylus’ Oresteia.
Before we examine more thoroughly Pasolini’s reinterpretation of Orestes’
myth, it would be useful to see how he rewrites two other mythological themes:
Story of Orestes as a Reflection of the Transformations of Modern Society 233
the stories of Oedipus and Medea. The story of Oedipus is very important to
Pasolini; he returns to this theme in many of his texts, but it becomes most
prominent in his film Oedipus Rex (1967) and in a play published posthumously,
entitled Affabulazione (1977). The new approach to Sophocles’ tragedy is mainly
due to Pasolini’s knowledge of Freud’s and – maybe less obviously – Marx’ works.
In Oedipus Rex the director focuses on the relations between father and son and
he does so in consideration of Freud’s Oedipus’ complex. To achieve this he in-
troduces a narrative frame in which he then inserts the proper story of the king
of Thebes. The film begins with a Prologue in which we see a family: mother,
father and a little son in a small Italian town in the 1920’s. We can observe a
difficult relationship between father and son, based on envy and competition,
and the one between mother and son which is full of love and tenderness. In the
Epilogue the director shows instead the Italy of the 1960’s and an old, blind man
who wanders through a city (Pasolini’s native Bologna) playing the flute, guided
by a young boy (portrayed by Ninetto Davoli). Besides an overtly autobiographi-
cal meaning, the film contains another, social message: it shows the problem of
power which then becomes identified with the father, Laius, and it alludes to the
social changes in Italy which took place between the 1920s (Prologue) and the
1960s (Epilogue) (Casarino 1992: 32). Another reinterpretation of the Oedipus
myth is the play Affabulazione, also strongly inspired by Freudian psychoanaly-
sis, which examines the Laius complex and its social consequences in the mod-
ern world.
Another myth, essential for Pasolini’s works, is that of Medea. Like Sophocles’
Oedipus Rex before, here it’s Euripides’ Medea that constitutes the basis for the
director’s work. The tragedy is a strong inspiration for Pasolini, but his film from
1970 focuses predominantly on anthropological and not individual issues. It ex-
amines the cultural differences between two worlds represented respectively by
Medea (portrayed by Maria Callas) and by Jason. While the first comes from a
barbaric community, based on pagan cults, the other is a part of a modern and civi-
lized society, in which rationalism and pragmatism dominate. Pasolini sees a simi-
lar conflict in his own time, in which old, rural cultures were being supplanted by
a modern, Americanized model of society. The same problem appears in Pylades.
Pylades is inspired by the ancient tragedy, not only in its content but also in
its form. Here, as in other his plays, Pasolini introduces a division of the text into
episodes instead of acts and scenes, as well as having the Chorus, which frequently
comments on current events and situation. In Pylades Orestes, liberated from his
punishment and the presence of Erinyes by the decision of the Athenian Areopa-
gus, returns to Argos with his friend, with whom he seeks to introduce in his land a
new political order in spite of his sister Electra’s opposition. In Pasolini’s play, those
three characters, Orestes, Pylades and Electra, and their reciprocal relations con-
stitute the axis of the story. The three protagonists become representatives of three
different ideological attitudes, which are characteristic more of Pasolini’s contem-
poraries than to ancient Greeks.
Orestes, captivated by the new political solutions seen in Athens, brings to
Argos democracy and the cult of the goddess Athena, and with them he intro-
duces the new attitude of rationalism and pragmatism. The transformation is
very quick and sudden but it is also very simple: instead of the tyrannical reign
of Clytaemnestra and Aegisthus in the few past years, there begins a new demo-
cratic government based on the participation of all of the citizens. But with this
modification the old beliefs are discarded and previously praised gods are substi-
tuted by Athena, which in Pylades is identified with the Reason. By reconstruct-
ing in this way the story of Orestes after his return to Argos, Pasolini alludes in
quite an obvious manner to an equally sudden and violent social transforma-
tions which took place in his own times, in post-war Italy.
It is worth remembering that before the Second World War Italy was one of
the poorest countries of Europe: its economy was based mainly on agriculture,
and its industry definitely less developed than those of other countries, such as
Germany or France and limited only to certain, mainly northern regions. Italian
society was predominantly Roman Catholic, but its Catholicism often showed
bore many resemblances to the previous pagan beliefs. In this society there was
also ‘tyrannical power’ identified with fascism, a power that enslaves, but – and
this point is crucial to Pasolini’s opinions – is not able to influence the mentality,
beliefs or sense of the community of the citizens (Pasolini 1999: 290–291). The
post-war events brought very significant changes: not only was there a collapse
of the fascist regime followed by the introduction of democracy, but there were
many serious economic transformations as well – the reconstruction, necessary
after the war, fluently mutated into the economic boom: industries flourished,
and production and consumption levels rose significantly. Captivating visions of
modern American society became a reality in Italy, as well as in other western
countries. If we return to Pylades, we shall see a similar description of the situ-
ation in Argos after the transformations initiated by Orestes. The Chorus says:
Il reddito di ciascuno di noi è cresciuto del doppio.
I commerci della nostra città si sono moltiplicati:
I nostri prodotti si impongono nei mercati del mondo (…)
Le vecchie case sono state abbattute,
e nuovi palazzi si alzano tra le superstiti capanne. (…)
Ogni nuovo guadagno è un nuovo passo
che ci allontana dall’ingiustizia dei vecchi Dei. (Pasolini 2001a: 375)
It is precisely this ‘injustice of the old Gods’ or, more correctly, their mere existence
that constitutes another problem which Pasolini analyses while writing apparently
about mythical Argos. We can agree with Irene Berti who claims that Pylades is a
reflection upon modern democracy and the inevitable corruption of power (Berti
2008: 111).
Besides economic changes he perceives much more profound transformations
of people’s mentality and values. In fact, these transformations began many years
earlier, mainly during the Enlightenment period, but it was in the 1960’s when they
seemed to emerge in the whole of society. What troubles Pasolini most is the domi-
nation of rationalism, the complete trust in reason and the abandonment of old
views and values. He seems to come close to the opinion expressed by Theodor W.
Adorno and Max Horkheimer in their Dialectic of Enlightenment, that the reason
which was supposed to overthrow the reign of superstition, blind faith, became a
myth itself and even more, it became a tyrant (Horkheimer, Adorno 2002: 18–19).
In Pylades, Athena and her representative, Orestes, become, in fact, very similar to
the overthrown tyrants. Very often in his works Pasolini reflects upon the disap-
pearing of sacrum in contemporary society, and upon the fact that people abandon
their former traditions and old forms of religiosity which do not seem civilized
enough, in other words upon the transformation of religion into an institution. It
is one of the main problems featured in Pylades.
Another important character in Pasolini’s play is Electra. At first she is seen
mainly as Orestes’ opponent, the incarnation of a completely different ideol-
ogy. Even though she helped Orestes kill Aegisthus and Clytaemnestra, which
makes her an accomplice in the matricide, she has a very different approach to
the past. Regardless of her negative feelings for their mother, she feels it neces-
sary to remember her and consequently she becomes obsessively attached to old
traditions. She tells her brother:
Io ho odiato nostra madre, lo sai,
più di quanto tu stesso l’abbia odiata.
Ma, adesso ch’è morta, è tornata Regina.
Essa ha preso il suo posto tra coloro
che dominarono la terra; e che la dominano (Pasolini 2001a: 370)
For Pasolini, Electra symbolises above all the attachment to the past. The past,
which in the case of Italy, as mentioned before, was not perfect or flawless. For the
author, the concept of tradition is closely related to a simple, rustic religiosity, to
the values passed down from generation to generation, to the riches of cultures
and languages of little communities. Nevertheless, he does not deny that in the
case of his country the past also means social inequality, the difficult situation of
women, underdevelopment and obscurantism, and finally the tyranny of fascism.

In his Pylades Pasolini does not idealize Electra, on the contrary, he underlines
her obstinacy and her rejection of the future and of the new government, her vio-
lent rebellion against Orestes and he shows them all as her main limitations. At
the same time, by using this construction of Electra, the author shows a similar, if
opposite, limitation of Orestes’ attitude. She is blinded by the past as much as he
is by the future.
Finally, the third and the most important character in the play is Pylades,
who regardless of his initial faithfulness to Orestes, begins very quickly to dis-
cover some negative aspects of his ‘transition from barbarism to civilisation’
(Thomson 1973: 292). In contrast to Orestes, he sees some positive features of
Electra’s approach; he is confident one cannot simply and completely forget one’s
past as Athena would want them to, and that one cannot be subordinated to and
dependent on Reason alone. Pylades also ‘sees that to remove the past from
the collective consciousness is also to remove the possibility of any opposition
to the new regime’ (Ward 1995: 159). It is also Pylades who discovers that the
wealth resulting from the political transformation does not include everyone,
that somewhere, on the margins of society, somewhere in the forests around
Argos, there are those who are not able to adjust to the new reality and that they
live in hiding. Pylades’ critical remarks, directed to Orestes, are misinterpreted
and considered treason. Pylades is judged and sentenced to exile.
There could be no doubt about the fact that Pylades is the character closest
to the author himself. He reflects the author’s ‘idiosyncrasies and contradictions:
existentialist nihilism, revolutionary aspirations, the treason of his bourgeois ori-
gins’ (Berti 2008: 110). Just like Pasolini, Pylades hates the world he comes from
and the mentality in which he was brought up, but he remains a stranger between
the people he loves: the poor and simple. He ‘feels all the alienation of his own
condition, exclusion from the simple world of the peasants who support him, the
world he would like to belong to, but he cannot’ (Berti 2008: 107). Pylades is thus
destined to lose, because of his being an intellectual and not able to identify him-
self entirely with other social groups. Berti says also that while the main task of
the intellectual is to decipher reality, in the case of Pylades time is against him, be-
cause when he is finally able to understand the reality, his revelations will already
be old (Berti 2008: 107). In other words, reason is not able to describe the reality.
The Italian writer perceived the contemporary social reality in a similar way
as his protagonist: he appreciated the changes which had taken place but at the
same time he firmly criticised some tendencies he considered dangerous and po-
tentially fatal. He used to warn his contemporaries against a too violent and too
radical detachment from the past. Pasolini’s critics was often misinterpreted as
this behaviour pure sentimentalism, or worse, as a reactionary attitude and a hid-

den sympathy for the fascists. But in fact, like Pylades Pasolini hoped to create a
synthesis of those two extreme attitudes, to find a way between the fanaticism of
Orestes and the fanaticism of Electra. Just like Pylades, he simply wanted to turn
‘the past into an ideological weapon that can be turned against the homologizing
power structures of the present regime’ (Ward 1995: 159). One of the research-
ers of Pasolini’s work, Massimo Fusillo, whose studies focus mainly on the im-
portance and the role of ancient culture in the poet’s artistic output, claims that
during the process of translating Aeschylus’ Oresteia Pasolini believed in the pos-
sibility of realizing such a synthesis, but a couple of years later, during the editing
of Pylades, this particular hope disappeared completely (Fusillo 2007: 27).
In fact, in the play Pylades tries to become a leader of the revolution against
the new de facto sovereign, to lead those who had been excluded and margin-
alised to fight. Despite Pylades’ good will, the revolution turns out to be impos-
sible: his followers are only a small group of poor people, and even some of them
leave him when the news of Orestes and Electra’s new arrangement and alliance
reaches them. Unfortunately, the agreement is not of the kind Pylades himself
would approve of: it is not a step towards the future, moderate and conscious of
the past, with respect for tradition, but instead it turns out to be something one
could describe as a distribution of competences. Electra, allied with the Furies,
and Orestes, follower of the cult of Athena, divide their power. Orestes says:
Quanto al potere non posso però concederti
proprio la parità: ti chiedo solo la concessione
di un voto: quello di Atena,
lo stesso voto, che a parità di voti contrari
e favorevoli, un giorno mi ha salvato la vita.
Lascerai dunque che Atena, se vuole, si sieda
tra il numero uguale dei miei deputati e dei tuoi.
Electra answers him:
Le Furie nel tempio, Atena nel parlamento;
lo accetto. (Pasolini 2001a: 415)
The power has been divided between the two of them, but at the same time
their two attitudes have been separated. The synthesis between the past and the
future is realised under the sign of the Americanised consumerist society (Berti
2008: 109). For Pylades and his vision there is no space left and he has to admit
his failure. He is guilty and responsible for the situation because he sought power
and realised too late that in fact he wanted to build a new monument instead of
the previous one, and to introduce a new type of corrupted power, just like Or-
estes had done before (Fusillo 2007: 171).
In Pylades Pasolini continues his political interpretation of Aeschylus’ Or-

esteia which is seen as an illustration of the transition from a tribal society to a
democratic system in which the people gain new equality, taken from them first
by the aristocratic regime and then by Aegisthus and Clytaemnestra’s tyranny
(Fusillo 2007: 143). Such a vision is very close to the interpretation of Orest-
eia proposed by George Thomson in his Aeschylus and Athens, a study which
was probably known to Pasolini (its fragments were published with the text of
Pasolini’s translation of Oresteia) (Fusillo 2007: 143). This political transition
is underlined by Pasolini in his Pylades by the presence of the Erinyes. They
stand for the old, tribal community in which the ties of blood, and especially
the relationship between mother and child, was considered stronger than mar-
riage (Thomson 1973: 279). The transformation of the Erinyes into Eumenides
described in Pylades is identified with the sublimation of the primitive fury. In
this element, taken directly from Aeschylus, Pasolini once again declares his
views and indicates his most important enemy: the exaggerated rationalism
of the modern capitalistic society which tries to eliminate some of the basic
experiences of the human condition (Fusillo 2007: 20), such as faith. The force
and importance of these feelings is showed in Pasolini’s play when some of the
Eumenides transform back into Erinyes. This crisis is solved by Athena who
returns to Argos triumphantly and allows the alliance between Orestes and
Electra. Pylades can only demonstrate his will to remain excluded from their
modern world.
We can certainly say that in his play Pasolini uses the Orestes myth and that
he does it deliberately. He adds to it and to its continuation some new, contem-
porary contents, which – as it happens – are mainly of a political nature. It is
courageous behaviour, even if it happens very often in Pasolini’s work. We might
remember here his film Oedipus Rex, strongly influenced not only by the Freud-
ian, but also by the Marxist interpretation of the story. This kind of political
addressing of the myth was partially a consequence of the interests of the artist
himself, who at the time was strongly focused on such problems as social trans-
formations and the nature and mechanisms of power; it was partially a result of
his knowledge of ancient literature. We can certainly see in his texts the influence
of the conception of political meaning of the Orestes myth, as depicted in George
Thomson’s work, Aeschylus and Athens. The conviction that the Aeschylus trilogy
is primarily a transcription of political transformations becomes to Pasolini a
basis for his own, original play.

References
Berti I., 2008, Mito e politica nell’Orestea di Pasolini, in: Imagines. La Antigüedad
en las Artes escénicas y visuales, Logroño: Universidad de La Rioja.
Casarino C., 1992, ‘Oedipus exploded. Pasolini and the Myth of Modernization’,
October vol. 59, 27–47.
Fusillo M., 2007, La Grecia secondo Pasolini. Mito e cinema, Roma: Carocci.
Horkheimer M., Adorno Th.W., 2002, Dialectic of Enlightenment. Philosophical
Fragments, transl. Jephcott E., Stanford: Stanford University Press.
Pasolini P.P., 1999, Scritti corsair, in: Saggi sulla politica e sulla società, Milano:
Mondadori, 267–540.
– 2001a, Pilade, in: Teatro, Milano: Mondadori, 357–466.
– 2001b, Appendice a Orestiade, in: Teatro, Milano: Mondadori, 1005–1009.
Siciliano E., 2005, Vita di Pasolini, Milano: Mondadori.
Thomson G., 1973, Aeschylus and Athens. A study in the social origins of drama,
London: Lawrence & Wishart.
Ward D., 1995, A Poetics of Resistance. Narrative and the Writings of Pier Paolo
Pasolini, Madison: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press.

Anna Miller-Klejsa
The Night of the Shooting Stars – in the Circle of

Myths and Fairy Tales1
The author examines The Night of St. Lawrence (Notte di San Lorenzo, dir. P. and V. Tavi-
ani, also known as The Night of the Shooting Stars), placing the film in the context of other
Italian productions dealing both with the experience of war by Italians and the perspec-
tive of the child. Miller-Klejsa points to the religious and mythological themes present
in the film and attempts to interpret the child’s perspective adopted in the film, arguing
that this particular perspective causes the oneiric tone of the film. Filtering the events of
the Second World War through the perspective of the child’s consciousness leads to a vi-
sion somewhat detached from the reality. Were the Tavianis suggesting that in 1980s Italy
World War II was as distant as the ancient myths, and could only be understood through
such a formula? Or maybe on the contrary – that the legendary character given to war
events is to show the durability of this conflict in the collective memory and its signifi-
cance for the Italian cultural heritage?
The Night of the Shooting Stars (Notte di San Lorenzo, 1982), an award-winning
film (e.g. the Jury Prize at the Cannes Film Festival and five David di Donatello
awards) by Paolo and Vittorio Taviani, is an exceptionally personal work as they
return in it to the war-time tragedy of their childhood which they experienced
in their family town of San Miniato. In July 1944, Germans gathered the local
population in the cathedral assuring them that this way they would avoid the
danger of being blown up together with their houses which had been rigged with
explosives. Yet the cathedral and all those who sought refuge there shared the
same fate as the other buildings – most of the people died. The only survivors
were those who defied the orders of the foreign occupiers, and among them there
were the Taviani brothers who, as they declared in one interview, ‘were hiding
with a group of people from Germany and the Nazis trying to find the Ameri-
cans’2 (Riccardo Ferucci, Patrizia Turini 1995: 66). This carnage of war became
the theme of the brothers’ film début: San Miniato, July 1944 (San Miniato, luglio
1944) – a 10-minute documentary produced in 1954 in cooperation with Cesare
1 This paper has been prepared with financial support of National Programme for the
Development of Humanities granted by Polish Ministry of Science and Higher Edu-
cation (2012–2014).
2 The town in film is San Martino not San Miniato.
242 Anna Miller-Klejsa
Zavattini. Thus, The Night of the Shooting Stars is a kind of an artistic return to
the traumatic experience in a completely new non-documentary form.
From a child’s perspective – in the world of fables

The prologue immediately introduces the dream- and fable-like atmosphere of
the entire film. During the opening credits, the audience can see the interior of a
bedroom with a wide-open window through which we can see a navy-blue starry
sky. In the silence of the night the voice-over of a woman whispering can be
heard: ‘This is the Night of San Lorenzo, honey; the night of the shooting stars.
Here in Tuscany we say that each shooting star can make your wish come true.
Wait, don’t fall asleep – Do you know what my wish is tonight? To find the words
to tell you about a different Night of San Lorenzo many years ago’. The same voice
(as a narrative brace) returns at the film’s end: ‘This is how my story ends, honey.
I’m not sure if everything happened as I’ve told you now… I was only six then,
but it’s a true story…’
Cecilia is the narrator of the story. She tells the story of a massacre in her
home town which she witnessed many years ago. The child’s perspective in view-
ing the world justifies its peculiar supernatural properties. So it comes as no
surprise that, for example, when the girl looks at a painting presenting hellish
torments and an arch-angel with a sword, the blade begins to shine with real
light. The war-time tragedy becomes an exciting adventure: while waiting for
explosions, the girl asks God (her words once again in voice-over): ‘explode the
houses already, I’ve been waiting for an hour. I have never had so much fun’.
The child’s perspective also significantly determines the meaning of the film.
Filtering the events of WWII through the mind of a six-year-old girl leads to a
vision which is de-specified, if not completely apolitical (the girl is rather indif-
ferent to the news of liberation by the Americans and is happier for the earrings
she gets from one of the women). Thus, everything we see only confirms the main
character’s previous state of mind and her view of the world dominated by stories
which are told to children by their kin and which children absorb. Therefore, peo-
ple who participate in a fratricidal battle (a clash between partisans and fascists)
become, in the eyes of the girl, Trojan warriors as if taken straight from Homer’s
epic poem, quoted in one of the initial scenes by Cecilia’s grandfather. What is
more, a nursery rhyme her mother used to tell her has magical powers – like a
spell protecting the main character from one of the aggressors. Are the Taviani
brothers suggesting that in the Italy of the 1980s the Second World War was as
a remote topic for Italians as ancient myths and tales told as bed-time stories,
and that it is the only form in which they can be understood? Or maybe on the
The Night of the Shooting Stars – in the Circle of Myths and Fairy Tales 243
contrary – the events of WWII, with the added refinement of a legend, will indi-
cate the lasting character of the conflict in the collective memory and its signifi-
cance for Italian heritage?
The film does, however, include scenes which could not have been witnessed
by the girl (she could not have, e.g. participated in night of romantic union of
Galvano and Concetta). If we were to justify their presence in the woman’s
story, we would reach the conclusion that the story told by Cecilia is actually a
set of recollections composed of the experiences and feelings of the entire pop-
ulation of the town. In other words, Cecilia expresses the collective memory
through her individual recollections. The thoughts of travel companions and
the visualisations of their memories, audible to the audience and present in
the narration, seem to confirm this hypothesis. When the escapees are waiting
in total darkness on the outskirts of the town for the explosions announced
by the Nazis, Rosanna, one of the girls, imagines her empty house (handheld
camera shots present a corridor and rooms where we see the following: a danc-
ing young Rosanna, her as a teenager studying in her favourite yellow dining
room and finally a recent scene, with her as she is currently, looking at herself
in the mirror).
The main character of the film is the collective – the population of San Mar-
tino who, under the lead of Galvano Galvani (a practising local lawyer), embark
on a search for the American liberators. When the explosions go off, we see
zoom ins on the ears of individual members of the search party: an old man,
Cecilia and a wealthy woman (her wealth is stressed by the earrings she wears).
This sequence emphasises the peculiar character of the war-time tragedy – the
catastrophe (the loss of one’s home) affects all Italians, regardless of their age or
sex and, at the same time, it stresses the diversity of the collective main charac-
ter. It suggests diverse war-time experiences: it is obvious that the sound of an
explosion is perceived differently by a small girl and by an elderly man. Thus,
the elusive contents of Cecilia’s memories are considerably transformed under
the influence of the stories told by other participants of the dramatic events. The
story conveyed orally is filled with elements of local folklore (as it is stressed al-
ready in the introduction: ‘Here in Tuscany we believe’) but also the belief in the
cosmic order of things and the intervention of divine and supernatural factors
into the course of history. The belief in the connection between the earthly and
transcendent worlds (on an August night, San Lorenzo makes people’s wishes
come true). The Taviani brothers declared in one interview that ‘The Night is not
Thucydides’ The History of the Peloponnesian War. We feel closer to Herodotus’
(Taviani 1983: 18–19).

The Faces of the Enemy

According to Pierre Sorlin, The Night of the Shooting Stars is a chronicle of a civil
war (Sorlin 1995: 78). This might be true, as in this film, unlike in other films
made right after the Second World War, the emphasis is placed on the internal
division of Italians: the conflict between the supporters of Mussolini and anti-
fascists. The Nazis are virtually absent. They only appear in a few scenes – as the
butchers who kill a Sicilian woman who is running to meet an American-Sicilian
battalion in the funeral procession scene. The slow march of the Nazi soldiers,
being observed by a group of Italians, moving to the sounds of Wagner’s aria,
seems to be presenting ‘a human face of the enemy’ – one of the Nazis is singing
and tears are running down his cheeks. It is the fascists who are the real tormen-
tors in the film. They savagely deal with their political adversaries even though
they know them or are related to them. The fact that the film’s real anti-heroes
are actually people wearing black shirts is best exemplified by the scene of un-
justified cruelty: fascists (father and son) smash with clear delight the head of a
decrepit old man against a tree.
But a real fratricidal fight is the clash in the wheat field (which is the climax of
the film). Mussolini’s supporters attack partisans who had been joined by Galvano’s
group. A life-and-death fight breaks out, all the more tragic when you consider the
fact that in many cases families or friends stood against each other. In this turmoil,
among screams and groans, a sister fighting along the partisans suddenly meets
her brother, a fascist. ‘Does mom know you’re with them?’ she asks surprised. ‘In
Florence…’, the boy attempts but does not finish. He is killed by another fighter.
The scene of aiding the wounded could as well be summarised by the adage: ‘war
is madness’. There are two camps, fascists and partisans, which are trying to bring
their comrades back to the land of the living. One of the Italians, upon hearing
that in the other camp they have water, asks for some for one of the wounded. The
water-skin is passed from person to person but at the moment of handing it over
each person realises that they belong to two different camps. For a fraction of a sec-
ond they freeze with the impulse to help. Immediately, however, human kindness
is substituted with a deadly shot.
Fascists know no mercy – they kill in cold blood, even the defenceless and
decrepit. One of the most moving scenes is the one where Cecilia’s grandfather,
in an attempt to protect his granddaughter from the enemy, almost like Achilles
(a pseudonym he chose as his partisan name) flings a pitchfork (resembling a
spear) against one of the fascists. The mythical association is further strength-
ened by the sequence’s soundtrack. The natural sounds of the setting (the sound
of trampled cereal and war cries) begin to be accompanied in the sequence by
illustrative music – a peculiar march composed for trumpets announces the

final battle. The spear of the senile Achilles, who lacks the fitness of his literary
prototype, unfortunately misses his target and the fascist kills the old man in
cold blood in front of the child. That is when the girl translates the fighters into
mythical warriors who eventually kill the bad fascist. Partisans also use vio-
lence. One member of the resistance kills a fifteen-year-old fascist (who literally
on all fours begs for mercy) regardless of the boy’s age and begging, and of his
father who offers his life instead of his son’s.
The association between the fratricidal battle with a mythical clash, as if taken
straight from Homer’s Iliad, is a dramatically justified point of view of the girl
who grew up in a culture of ancient myth and it poses a strong significance for
the film’s message. The saturation of the whole story with references to an an-
cient epic poem mythologises WWII. Apart from the already mentioned scene
in the battle field and the old man’s war pseudonym (Achilles), it is also worth
mentioning that there is a considerable excerpt from the Iliad quoted by Cecilia’s
grandfather after a wedding between a pregnant woman and a partisan. Thus,
the story takes on the status of a philosophy of history. In this way the Tavianis
extract the affirmative aspect of a myth, its ability to form a social identity which
enables people to survive a crisis, preserving the memories coded in it. A myth
protects the community from spiritual degeneration.
The presented past is also mythologised through the means of stylistics of
the film. Apart from shots styled as Renaissance paintings (by Paolo Ucello and
Filippo Lippi), those which are based on geometric composition (mainly in col-
lective scenes) are also interesting. The Tuscan landscape, with plains and val-
leys filled with sunlight, olive gardens and green forests, is supplemented with
elements of mystic iconography: fields of golden wheat, clouds slowly moving
across the sky and water in the form of rivers or rain. As the Taviani brothers
admitted in one interview: ‘We create magical films. Fellini creates reality in the
theatre, we create theatre in reality’ (Taviani 1983: 18–19).
The Parable
Apart from ancient mythology, the second source of inspiration for the Taviani
brothers was the Bible. I will venture a claim that the story of the war-time ad-
ventures of Cecilia in the Tavianis’ film acquires the features of a parable where
fascism and Nazism are associated with evil whereas the resistance are assigned
such attributes as goodness and moral regeneration.
The escape of a group of inhabitants of San Martino seems to be compared
in the film to the Biblical exodus. The fact of breaking out of the captivity of
fascism (by leaving the town) would be from this point of view the escape from
the enslavement in Egypt (New Jerusalem Bible; Exodus 14: 1–24) while the
journey to the territories liberated by the Americans would be the pilgrimage to
the Promised Land (New Jerusalem Bible: Numbers 14: 8). This added meaning
is achieved by, e.g. Biblical iconography: the escapees, led by Galvano, resemble
sheep who require constant care from their shepherd (eg. New Jerusalem Bible:
Ezekiel 34: 23). The night escape sequence seems interesting in this context. The
inhabitants are dressed in black wraps or shirts. When the sun rises, they ea-
gerly take them off. The use of such costumes is obviously justified by the story
– black clothing is best for masking the escapees in the dead of the night. Yet it
would be difficult not to see the metaphorical meaning: rejecting fascism, the
symbol of which is, in fact, camicie nere.
Another example confirming the hypothesis of adding Biblical meaning to
the presented story of WWII is the scene of the miraculous meal in the field
of watermelons. The juicy fruit being devoured by extremely hungry travellers
bears associations with the divine manna. Christian traces can also be found in
a rather lengthy collective scene of bathing in the river, which is a form of a bap-
tism for the travellers – an act of cleansing the sins of the past. The fact that their
travels acquire the sense of the Biblical cleansing and rebirth is further stressed
by the extensive sequence of changing names after Galvano’s group joins the par-
tisans. Story-wise this is a justified attempt at misleading the enemy during a bat-
tle. However, it seems that this scene, being a kind of another baptism, is mainly
aimed at emphasising the fact that they are acquiring a new pristine identity, that
they are becoming fighters of the resistance.
Therefore, Resistenza in the film is associated with new life and rebirth. Its
significance for the history and cultural heritage of Italy is further emphasised
by the partisans’ names. Dante brings to mind The Divine Comedy, the master-
piece of Italian literature whose author is considered the father of the Italian
Renaissance and the codification of the Italian language, while the pseudonym
of Requiem, assumed by another man, invites the association with Guiseppe
Verdi. It is even more significant as it links the Italian resistance with the tra-
dition of the risorgimento liberation movements which led to the unification
of Italy and the formation of the new state3. Through incessant entangling, or
rather rooting the story in a structure of associations to other representations
3 Giuseppe Verdi was a composer and politician. Supporters of unification of Italy

wrote on the walls: VIVA V.E.R.D.I.! – acronym of the political slogan: ‘Viva Vittorio
Emanuele Re d’Italia’ (‘Long live Vittorio Emanuele king of Italy’).
(literary epic poems or Renaissance paintings), the film emphasises the signifi-
cance of the whole narrative of the Second World War for Italian cultural herit-
age. As Millicent Marcus points out, the apocalyptic dimension is given twofold
reinforcement on the musical score. ‘Verdi’s Requiem is replete with allusions
to Revelations, while the advent of the Americans is equated with the Second
Coming – it is the music of ‘Glory. Glory Hallelujah’, bearing witness to the
Lord’s earthly return, which convinces the townspeople that the Americans are
on their way’ (Marcus 1986: 368).
Biblical references are probably best identifiable in the scene of the fratricidal
fight between partisans and fascists in the wheat field. The clash between good
and evil is reminiscent here of the apocalyptic vision alluded to in one of the first
sequences of the film by a priest during a mass (he mentions Dies Irae – Day of
Wrath; this allusion is further strengthened by the already-mentioned vision of
Cecilia, where in a painting of the Last Judgement the girl sees a ‘real’ flash of the
sword of the Archangel Michael, the one who defeated Satan). The fascists who
kill in cold blood resemble demons. Devilish connotations are most predomi-
nant in the scene with a wounded fascist (dressed all in black) crawling through a
field of cereal. The man is crawling towards a group of terrified ‘good people’ and
frenzily repeats ‘Mussolini, Mussolini’. However, he pronounces the surname in
a particular manner: each time he says it, he extends the ‘s’ more and more, thus,
producing a sound similar to a snake hissing. The next scene seems an illustration
of the devil’s cunning: we see a beautiful boy with a tiny black mole on his cheek
who peers out of the cereal and responds to a partisan’s calling. When he peers out
to warn the child, he is shot dead by a fascist hiding nearby. It turns out the boy
is a supporter of Mussolini. He had taken off his black shirt to deceive the enemy.
Additionally, the scenery where the battle takes place suggests Christian mo-
tifs. Working in the field, grain and harvest are obviously symbols often used in
parables. Hence, the fratricidal fight offers associations with the parable from the
Gospel According to Matthew about rooting out the weeds. The finale of the peo-
ple’s journey also seems significant in the context of Biblical tropes. In the finale
of the story, Cecilia, with other inhabitants of San Martino, arrives at the ‘divine’
town (Sant’ Angelo) where they are informed about the liberation of the region by
the Americans. Thus, the final liberation arrives: the partisans rejoice amidst sun-
shine and pouring rain. This uncommon atmospheric phenomenon adds once
again a miraculous divine dimension to otherwise political information, as if the
Italians after making a (bloody Old Testament) sacrifice and internal transforma-
tion (rejection of fascism) would be starting a new life – establishing ‘a new cov-
enant’. The cleansing character of the sequence is strengthened by the cleansing
rain (from the sins of the past).
There is no political debate or presentation of the arguments of either the

fascists or the partisans in the film. As previously mentioned, the apolitical im-
age of the events and the groups involved in the conflict is a result partly of the
child’s awareness through which the entire story is filtered. Theoretically, one
could image that Cecilia recalls the old arguments of the participants in that
peculiar journey or is a witness to a world-view rant of the proponents of fas-
cism. However, this notion is not present in The Night of the Shooting Stars. I
believe this is significant as it emphasises the irrationality of the political choices
of Italians. As a result, the responsibility for the wrong-doings of the fascists in
the Tavianis’ film and passive submission seem more a result of coincidence or
some type of possession by an evil spirit. This hypothesis seems plausible in view
of the scene when Galvano meets a fascist soldier at the beginning of the film.
Sensing the Nazi’s deceit, the old man asks the youngster (whom he identifies as
his good friend’s son) whether it is worth going to the cathedral. The boy, ini-
tially openly ridiculing Galvano, somewhat for show so that his friends standing
nearby would hear him, then lowers his tone and responds to the old man reveal-
ing that he is at a loss: ‘nowadays it is hard to tell what is good and what is wrong’.
The dilemma of the Italians whether to choose fascism or resistenza and their
social disorientation are emphasised from the very beginning of the film. This
process is best visible in the scene of division of the town population into a group
which decides to flee with Galvano and a group which submits to Nazi orders
and gathers in the church. What is important is that both groups form on the
spur of the moment, intuitively. At the last moment, two women change their
minds and run to join those who decide to observe the invaders’ orders. The
Tavianis don’t explain why people listen to the charismatic Galvano. Metaphori-
cally, this scene could be read as a comment on the attitude of Italian society dur-
ing the war. By emphasising the division of Italy, they also somehow justify the
passivity of Italian society towards fascism. They explain that the choices were a
result of fear and intuition rather than informed decisions.
Politically innocent yet submissive to Nazi orders, they pay the highest price in
the film – they die. As Marcus observes, Christological message of death and resur-
rection finds repeated expressions, both inside and outside the church: ‘Galvano’s
secular, pragmatic bread-breaking has its official, Eucharistic counterpart in the
communion performed by the bishop (…) When one of the women proposes the
substitution of her own bread for the Host, the bishop is quick to accept the expedi-
ent and to make the loaves sacramentally acceptable by blessing them on the spot’
(Marcus 1986: 387). This sequence is significant, particularly because it emphati-
cally demonstrates the cruelty of war which afflicts the defenceless old people and
children, gathered in the church.
The inhabitants of San Martino are thus presented as a sacrifice – their vic-
timisation is further underlined in the film through a long sequence of bringing
out the dead (mainly women, including a pregnant girl and some children) and
aiding the wounded. The martyrdom of Italian civilians is further underlined
by the title of the movie – Lawrence of Rome (Latin: Laurentius) was one of the
seven deacons of ancient Rome that were martyred during the Persecution of
Emperor Valerian in 258. Some Catholics refer to the Perseides – meteor shower
as the ‘tears of St. Lawrence’, since 10 August is the date of that saint’s martyrdom
(though the name itself derives in part from the word Perseides [Περσείδες], a
term found in Greek mythology referring to the sons of Perseus).
Cecilia ends her story at the joyful moment of liberation and hope. According
to the film’s epilogue ‘sometimes even true stories can have a happy ending’. The
contemporary narrative frame does produce, however, a gap in the otherwise op-
timistic tale of love and freedom. We see adult Cecilia and her listener, who turns
out not to be her beloved man, as one might assume, but a sleeping child. It also
seems significant that when Cecilia ends her tale, the child is asleep and does not
hear the entire story even though she asked: ‘wait, don’t fall asleep!’. Therefore,
we can assume that the story of the Second World War, possibly too difficult for
the little one, tired the child so much that it dozed off. Metaphorically this scene
suggests that the new generation of Italians is not interested in the not-so-distant
past. Dormant, the generation does not understand the significance of WWII.
In the final scene of the film Cecilia bends over the child immersed in dreams
and starts to whisper a children’s nursery rhyme – the spell which once protected
herself from being killed by a fascist. The woman’s voice fades out after the screen
goes black. Cecilia repeats the spell and film ends, cutting the rhyme off halfway.
The Tavianis seems to be saying: ‘The story is not over yet’. It is important to
remind people of history and talk about WWII to prevent such horrors from
happening again.
This can, of course, be done in different ways. The dream-like poetics used
by the Taviani brothers, the weaving of the story using different discourse (facts
and tales), or finally endowing a WWII event with features of a mythological
epic poem or Biblical characteristics which emphasise the importance of the
narrative, ensure that the film offers a fresh insight into the matter. They up-
dated the memories of the complicated fate of Italy during WWII by placing the
experience in an entirely new form uncommon for this theme. This procedure
saves the story as it evokes images from the past which could have easily been
standardised and forgotten. The lasting character of the story is mainly a result
of two factors: innovation and strengthening. The variations produced by these
two extremes decide about the resilience of the narrative tradition.
References
Milicent M., 1986, Italian Film in the Light of the Neorealism, Princeton: Princeton
University Presss.
Paolo e Vittorio Taviani: Poetry of the Italian Landscape, 1995, Ferucci R., Turini
P. eds, Roma: Gremese.
Sorlin P., 1995, The Night of the Shooting Stars. Fascism, Resistance and the Libera-
tion of Italy, in: Revisioning History. Film and the Construction of a New Past,
Rosenstone R.A. ed., Princeton: Princeton University Press.
Taviani Brothers, 1983, ‘Wspomnienia o letniej nocy’ (interview), Film 9.
The New Jerusalem Bible, 1985, Jones S. ed., New York: Doubleday.

Karolina Prymlewicz
Narcissus – from Myth to Treatise.

André Gide’s Theory of Symbol
In 1891 André Gide published ‘The Treatise of Narcissus’ (‘Le Traité du Narcisse. Théorie
du symbole’). This piece of poetic prose, dedicated to P. Valery, brings together the myth
of Narcissus and the Biblical story of Adam’s Paradise. Only a short note published along
with the main text is of a theoretical nature, suitable for a treatise. In the note, Gide lays
out ‘the rules of ethics and aesthetics’. Gide’s Narcissus ‘remains a symbol that is grow-
ing ever more powerful’. The protagonist is aware of his role – he performs the function
of a symbol. He is the ‘representative of an Idea’ that he is merely supposed to ‘properly
embody’. What is more, Narcissus appears as an abstract sign, separated from the myth’s
reality. In my text, this belated manifesto of symbolism constitutes the starting point for
reflections on the changeability of meanings and interpretations, but also on the visual
aspect of a motif. I will also discuss the representations of Narcissus in visual arts. Early
illustrators of Ovid’s Metamorphoses as well as modern artists are inspired not by the
metamorphosis itself but also by the problem of a mirror likeness or copy, of illusion and
truth, and eventually, of identity and narcissism.
In 1891 André Gide published ‘The Treatise of Narcissus’ (‘Le Traité du Narcisse.
Théorie du symbole’). This piece of poetic prose, dedicated to P. Valery, brings
together the myth of Narcissus and the Biblical story of Adam’s Paradise. Only a
short note published along with the main text is of a theoretical nature, suitable
for a treatise. In the note, Gide lays out ‘the rules of ethics and aesthetics’ - not
without his characteristic grandiloquence. Nevertheless, the lofty tone is tinged
with irony as the narrator distances himself from the form of a treatise and from
literature and its interpretation in general, since, as he writes, ‘formerly a few
myths would suffice’.
‘All stories have already been told; but since no one listens to them, one must
always begin anew.’ Anew – but does it also mean in a new way? Gide’s Narcissus
‘remains a symbol that is growing ever more powerful’. The protagonist is aware
of his role – he performs the function of a symbol, living in recurring myth in
order to ‘reveal’; he is the ‘representative of an Idea’ that he is merely supposed
to ‘properly embody’.
Narcissus appears as an abstract sign, separated from the myth’s reality: ‘The
edge of the pool and the spring no longer exist; there is no metamorphosis and

252 Karolina Prymlewicz
no reflected flower – only Narcissus remains, a dreamy Narcissus standing out

from the dull grey.’
In my text, this belated manifesto of symbolism constitutes the starting point
for reflections on the changeability of meanings and interpretations, but also on
the visual aspect of a motif. I will also discuss the representations of Narcissus in
visual arts. Early illustrators of Ovid’s Metamorphoses as well as modern artists
are inspired not by the metamorphosis itself but also by the problem of a mirror
likeness or copy, of illusion and truth, and eventually of identity and narcissism.
Symbolism and modes of (self-)expression

The first part of the ‘Treatise’ gives only a short introduction to the myth. It is
evident the author addresses erudite people, besides, ‘all stories have already
been told’.
Gidean Narcissus sees on the water only the transient, imperfect shapes which
pursue their lost, original form. Narcissus dreams of Paradise. According to Gide’s
description in the second part of the text, the Paradise is a kind of laboratory,
where each form evolves into its absolute perfection. That’s why all the things
stand still and there is no need for further improvement. This perfection finds
expression in symmetry, harmony, chords and symphony. It is not accidental that
the central point of Eden is the logarithmic tree – Ygdrasil (a motif taken from
Scandinavian mythology). And here is Adam – an alone and bored observer (like
Narcissus). He breaks the bough of Ygdrasil and as a result of this symbolic act
time is born and perfection fails.
But, as the author says, it is always possible to recreate Paradise. Therefore,
in the third part of the ‘Treatise’, Gide returns to Narcissus and considers the
role of the poet, precisely because the poet is the person who seeks original
forms and who is aware of the inner sense of every visible thing (Gide explains:
‘j’appelle symbole – tout ce qui parait’). He finds archetypes of symbols and
thanks to this perspicacity of vision ‘a work of art is a crystal – partial paradise’
(‘l’œuvre d’art est un cristal – paradis partiel où l’Idée refleurit en sa pureté
supérieure’).
Gide’s reflection on art is close to the content of symbolism’s manifestos.
Moréas in his well-known manifesto ‘Le Symbolisme’, issued in 1886, elucidated
the role of form in symbolic poetry. According to his text, form is a means of
expression and serves the idea:
Ennemie de l’enseignement, la déclamation, la fausse sensibilité, la description objec-
tive, la poésie symbolique cherche à vêtir l’Idée d’une forme sensible qui, néanmoins, ne
serait pas son but à elle-même, mais qui, tout en servant à exprimer l’Idée, demeurerait
Narcissus – From Myth to Treatise 253
sujette. L’Idée, à son tour, ne doit point se laisser voir privée des somptueuses simarres
des analogies extérieures ; car le caractère essentiel de l’art symbolique consiste à ne
jamais aller jusqu’à la concentration de l’Idée en soi. Ainsi, dans cet art, les tableaux de
la nature, les actions des humains, tous les phénomènes concrets ne sauraient se mani-
fester eux-mêmes ; ce sont là des apparences sensibles destinées à représenter leurs af-
finités ésotériques avec des Idées primordiales (Moréas 1886: 150–151).
In turn, Vanor in ‘L’art symboliste’ (1889) states that the title itself is a pleonasm
because in the near future art and symbol will become synonyms for each other.
Vanor also refers to relations occurring between the inner world of ideas, senso-
rial experience and sensorial representations.
L’Art est l’œuvre d’inscrire un dogme dans un symbole humain et de le developper par le
moyen de perpétuelles variations harmoniques. […] L’œuvre du poète symboliste serait
donc de découvrir l’idée à travers sa représentation figurée; de saisir les rapports des
choses visibles, sensibles et tangibles du monde avec l’essence intelligible dont elles par-
ticipent ; de remonter des effets à la cause, des images aux prototypes, des phénomènes
et des apparences aux sens mystérieux; — et réciproquement, de présenter une chose par
ses qualités extérieures de revêtir l’idée d’une signification figurative et d’exprimer des
vérités par des images et des analogies (Vanor 1889: 35; 38).
The echo of medieval idea ‘per visibilia ad invisibilia’ is perceptible in the afore-
mentioned texts. The point is that to Gide symbol influences the structure of the
text. Symbol manifests itself in the composition of the text and, as a result, it is
the ‘raison d’être’ of the work of art. What is more, the Idea provides an internal
coherence of the text. Gide considers this problem in his ‘Journal’ (‘Littérature et
morale’ – undated comments from about 1896–1902):
En étudiant la question de la raison d’être de l’œuvre d’art, on arrive à trouver que cette
raison suffisante, ce symbole de l’œuvre, c’est sa composition.
Une œuvre bien composée est nécessairement symbolique. Autour de quoi viendraient
se grouper les parties ? qui guiderait leur ordonnance ? sinon l’idée de l’œuvre, qui fait
cette ordonnance symbolique.
L’œuvre d’art, c’est une idée qu’on exagère.
Le symbole, c’est autour de quoi se compose un livre.
La phrase est une excroissance de l’idée (Gide 1951: I, 94).
The author continues, emphasizing imperfection and instability of the material

world – interpreted just like the flowing shapes seen by Narcissus:
Les choses sont perpétuellement en inéquilibre ; de là leur écoulement.
L’équilibre, c’est la « santé » parfaite ; […] mais il est irréalisable physiquement à cause
de ce que nous disions ; réalisableseulement dans l’œuvre d’art. L’œuvre est un équilibre
hors du temps, une santé artificielle (Gide 1951, I, 94).

It is significant that creation is associated here with order and balance. Then, it
appears necessary to look at visual aspect of Gide’s ‘Treatise’.
On the one hand the representation of Narcissus – almost an abstract sign – is
closed to symbolist aesthetics. Hofstätter distinguishes a type of convention of rep-
resentation of a man in symbolist painting and sculpture which he defines ‘panto-
mime symbolism’ (Hofstätter 1978: 37). Hofstätter stresses the symbolic meaning
of the theatrical poses and gestures of schematically rendered figures (one such
example is ‘La Fontaine aux agenouilles’, the so-called ‘la fontaine Narcisse’ by
sculptor Minne). In his opinion, also the spatial organization of picture – non-
perspective tendencies in painting – is of great significance (Hofstätter 1978: 113).
In Gide’s ‘Treatise’, grey, monotonous scenery is a neutral background for
Narcissus. This scene is reminiscent of Narcissus painted by Caravaggio. Both
‘images’ are void of details. This formal purity, nearly poster-like depiction,
makes of a figure a legible sign, even if it remains polysemous.
On the other hand all the structure of the Treatise is based on a formal solu-
tion that is typical of heraldry. On applying the technique of ‘mise-en-abyme’
Gide writes in his Journal (the comment dates from 1893):
J’aime assez qu’en une œuvre d’art, on retrouve ainsi transposé, à l’échelle des person-
nages, le sujet même de cette œuvre. Rien ne l’éclaire mieux et n’établit plus sûrement
toutes les proportions de l’ensemble. Ainsi, dans tels tableaux de Memling ou de Quentin
Metzys, un petit miroir convexe et sombre reflète, à son tour l’intérieur de la pièce où
se joue la scène peinte. Ainsi, dans le tableau des Ménines de Velasquez (mais un peu
différemment). Enfin, en littérature, dans Hamlet, la scène de la comédie ; et ailleurs
dans bien d’autres pièces. Dans Wilhelm Meister, les scènes de marionnettes ou de fête
au château. Dans la Chute de la Maison Usher, la lecture que l’on fait à Roderick, etc. Au-
cun de ces exemples n’est absolument juste. Ce qui le serait beaucoup plus, ce qui dirait
mieux ce que j’ai voulu dans mes Cahiers, dans mon Narcisse et dans la Tentative, c’est
la comparaison avec ce procédé du blason qui constiste, dans le premier, à en mettre un
second « en abyme » (Gide, 1951 : I, 41).
The use of motif of Narcissus in Gide’s ‘Treatise’ makes the protagonist of the myth
a kind of model of symbol that should be idiosyncratic. All the modifications and
variations of motif are acceptable in art. The chief principle, the key-role of a sym-
bol and the main duty of Narcissus in the ‘Treatise’, is to ‘reveal’ and ‘properly em-
body’. This is the next level of the reception of a motif, passing through faith, myth
narration, literature/art, and treatise – a work of scientific/educational ambition.
Narcissus – metamorphoses of senses

The combination of myth and biblical story is typical of cultural and religious
syncretism in symbolist art and literature, but Gide’s idea is not a new thing.
Ovid’s Metamorphoses were interpreted through the centuries in the context

of Christian culture. Especially the first book of Metamorphoses was illustrated
similarly to the biblical ‘Genesis’. What is more, the editorial practice of that time
meant that in some books the illustrations published were designed for different
titles. An interesting example is an emblem book by Reusner edited in Frankfurt
in 1581 with illustrations by Virgil Solis. It contained reused images from Meta-
morphoses, Aesop’s Fables, ‘Gospel’, and many others. In Reusner’s Emblemata
quite different worlds meet each other, and this combination is visually striking.
One finds here a representation of Narcissus with the motto: ‘Nosce te ipsum’
(Know yourself) (Bartsch, 49 [25], 578). This lemma is one of two mottos used
in emblem books and connected with the motif of Narcissus (Henkel, Schöne
1967, 1628). The other one, and more often applied, is: ‘Philautia’ (self-love, self-
esteem). As one can see, the motif of Narcissus served to moralize.
On the other hand Narcissus is a mythological character closely connected with
visuality. Alberti in his treatise De Pictura from 1435 mentions Narcissus as a leg-
endary inventor of painting. Land in his article ‘Narcissus Pictor’ renders the idea
that would later inspire Alberti: Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Quintilian’s Istitutio orato-
ria, Imagines of the elder Philostratus, Descriptions by Callistratus, and Ennead by
Plotinus. According to Land, Alberti associates painting and Narcissus not only
because of the beauty of the myth’s protagonist and the beauty that artists seek, but
also because of illusory nature of art:
[…] Alberti required artists to imitate nature so closely that the viewer is deceived.
‘The function of the painter,’ he wrote, ‘is to draw with lines and paint in colours on a
surface any given bodies in such way that, at a fixed distance […] what you see repre-
sented appears to be in relief and just like those bodies.’ (Land 1997: 12)
Land also notices that other renaissance artists take up this subject. For example
Leonardo compares painting with reflection in a mirror. Filarete in his treatise
on architecture and Paolo Pino in Dialogo di Pittura (1548) connect the art of
painting with the figure of Narcissus (Land 1997: 12–13).
Even though the motif is important in art theory, it was not so attractive
for illustrators of ‘Metamorphoses’. In the third book the more ‘dynamic’ plots
are those of Cadmus and Actaeon. Artists usually depict Narcissus while he is
watching a self-reflection. Hardly ever do illustrators place in the scenery other
people. As a result, for the spectator it might be monotonous and boring, looking
at a man looking at himself.
Some illustrations seem a visual index of each book of ‘Metamorphoses’ –a
‘Sammeldarstellung’ type, where motifs/plots are represented simultaneously
(Huber-Rebenich, Lütkemeyer, Hermann 2004). Analysing the two examples of
compositions that illustrate the third book of ‘Metamorphoses’ – the first from
George Sandys’ 1632 edition (London), and the second one from Jacob Tonson’s
1717 edition (London) – one can see a different approach to the distribution of
motifs. On a plate from 1632, in the foreground, there is Cadmus with a dead
dragon on the right, and Diana and Actaeon on the left. Narcissus, kneeling at
the shore, is seen behind them. His figure is smaller, but it is placed in the centre,
on the axis of the composition.
The second illustration has a different arrangement. Here, in the foreground,
Cadmus fights the dragon. Narcissus is barely seen in the background.
Apart from illustrations of the myth (I intentionally pass over the paintings
and sculptures that refer directly to the story of Narcissus) there are variations
of the motif in art and literature. La Fontaine in his fable ‘L’homme et son im-
age’ (‘The Man and His Image’ from ‘Les Fables de la Fontaine’, 1668) tells the
story à rebours. The Protagonist’s role is now reversed. Our Narcissus (‘notre
Narcisse’) is a man who dislikes his mirrored image and accuses mirrors of
deception. He considers himself beautiful. The poor fellow tries to escape from
reflections and goes to a secluded place. Unfortunately he finally finds his re-
flection in a pool.
Un Homme qui s’aimait sans avoir de rivaux
Passait dans son esprit pour le plus beau du monde.
Il accusait toujours les miroirs d’être faux,
Vivant plus que content dans son erreur profonde.
Afin de le guérir, le sort officieux
Présentait partout à ses yeux
Les conseillers muets dont se servent nos dames :
Miroirs dans les logis, miroirs chez les marchands,
Miroirs aux poches des galants,
Miroirs aux ceintures des femmes.
Que fait notre Narcisse? Il se va confiner
Aux lieux les plus cachés qu’il peut s’imaginer,
N’osant plus des miroirs éprouver l’aventure.
Mais un canal formé par une source pure,
Se trouve en ces lieux écartés ;
Il s’y voit, il se fâche ; et ses yeux irrités
Pensent apercevoir une chimère vaine.
Il fait tout ce qu’il peut pour éviter cette eau.
Mais quoi, le canal est si beau
Qu’il ne le quitte qu’avec peine.
On voit bien où je veux venir.
Je parle à tous ; et cette erreur extrême
Est un mal que chacun se plaît d’entretenir.
Notre âme c’est cet homme amoureux de lui-même ;

Tant de miroirs, ce sont les sottises d’autrui,
Miroirs, de nos défauts les peintres légitimes ;
Et quant au canal, c’est celui
Que chacun sait, le livre des Maximes. (La Fontaine 1954: I, 40)
This fable, with its moralizing message, is dedicated to de la Rochefoucauld –

the author of Maximes (1665), aphorisms written with satirical verve, a peculiar
mirror for the French society of the author’s time. In my opinion the most in-
teresting are the illustrations to the text of de la Fontaine. A Print by Chauveau,
from the first edition of the fables (1668), shows a man kneeling on the shore
who does not look at the reflection but turns away. Nearly two centuries later
there is another interesting print by J.J. Grandville from the fables edited in
1855. Grandville’s interpretation of the theme is different. We see at the shore: a
sculpted bust of a man, several mirrors reflecting grotesque faces and an open
book of Maximes – all these reflected in the water. This composition covers a
wide thematic field: an indirect motif of Narcissus, satire on social issues and
physiognomic problems.
There are two other pictures worth mentioning. This time artists put the accent
on Narcissus’ appearance. French caricaturist Daumier shows ‘Le Beau Narcisse’
(‘The Beautiful Narcissus’) (a lithography from the ‘Histoire ancienne’ series, ed-
ited in 1842; also published in ‘La Caricature’ magazine) as a naked man with an
ugly body – rather old and bony, with a flower garland on his head. Narcissist
Narcissus lies at the shore and looks at himself mirrored.
Another one is a caricature ‘A Love-Agony’ by du Maurier, published in
‘Punch’ magazine in 1880. Narcissus is depicted here as a feminized man, reclin-
ing at the shore. It’s a humorous take on decadent aesthetics, emphasizing the
decadent mood of a visibly bored man.
Perhaps impressed by Wilde’s ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’ (1890), in 1892
Gide writes down in his diary some thoughts concerning human image, which is
perceived as a visual representation of curriculum vitae:
La vie d’un homme est son image. A l’heure de mourir, nous nous refléterons dans le
passé, et, penchés sur le miroir de nos actes, nos âmes reconnaîtront ce que nous sommes.
Toute notre vie s’emploie à tracer de nous-mêmes un ineffaçable portrait. Le terrible,
c’est qu’on ne le sait pas ; on ne songe pas à se faire beau. On y songe en parlant de soi ;
on se flatte ; mais notre terrible portrait, plus tard, ne nous flattera pas. On raconte sa vie
et l’on se ment ; mais notre vie ne mentira pas ; elle racintera notre âme, qui se présentera
devant Dieu dans sa posture habituelle.
Close to this issue is the problem of self-representation in art. Self-portraits are

usually interpreted as manifestations of narcissism.
In 1927, Schad, a German painter and draughtsman, painted his self-portrait.

The exhibitionism of this image is noticeable (for example the artist wears a
transparent shirt) and the motif of the flower narcissus appears here. In the same
year Schad also made a composition entitled ‘Narcissus’ showing a street exhibi-
tionist, exposing himself before a passing woman. These two works, juxtaposed,
are an example of the play of meanings in modern art. Narcissus/artist/exhibi-
tionist rather ‘shows’ than ‘looks’, and he needs somebody else to look at him.
I would like to consider one more version of a motif of Narcissus. American
artists Matt Vis and Tony Campbell (the Generic Art Solutions cooperative) in
2008 made a series of photographs inspired by paintings of Caravaggio. Their
‘Narcissus’ – a photographic image after a well-known painting – is not a repro-
duction of a work of art. It is not a copy, since it is rendered in a different medium.
The artists state that their art creates a ‘déjà vu effect’. And this is another level of
the reception of a motif.
Surely many other examples of the reception of the myth of Narcissus could
be recalled. All the works of art and texts mentioned above correspond with
the message of Gide’s ‘Treatise’, that symbol serves as an idea. But it is also clear
that symbol is saturated with meanings by each artist who deals with it and the
meanings accumulate through the ages. Gide concludes ironically that maybe
his treatise ‘is not such a necessary thing, first a few myths would suffice, but the
people wanted to interpret’. Just that need of ‘interpretation’ is creative.
References
Bartsch von A., 1987, German masters of the sixteenth century. Pt. 1, Virgil Solis
intaglio prints and woodcuts, ed. by Peters J.S., New York: Abaris Books.
Henkel A., Schöne A., 1967, Emblemata: Handbuch zur Sinnbildkunst des XVI.
und XVII. Jahrhunderts / hrsg. von Arthur Henkel und Albrecht Schöne im
Auftr. der Göttinger Akademie der Wissenschaften, Stuttgart: Metzlersche
Verlagsbuchhandl.
Huber-Rebenich G., Lütkemeyer, S., Hermann W., 2004, Ikonographisches Rep-
ertorium zu den “Metamorphosen” des Ovid: die textbegleitende Druckgraphik.
Bd. 2. Sammeldarstellungen. Berlin: Gebr. Mann.
Gide A., 1948, Le retour de l’enfant prodigue. Précédé de cinq autres traités : Le
traité du Narcisse. La tentative amoureuse. El Hadj. Philoctète. Bethsabé, Paris:
Éditions Gallimard.
– 1951, Journal 1889–1939, Paris: Éditions Gallimard.
Hofstätter H., 1987, Symbolizm, Warszawa: WAiF.
La Fontaine J. de, 1954, Fables, contess et nouvelles, I, Oeuvres complètes, Paris:

Éditions Gallimard.
Land N., 1997, ‘Narcissus Pictor’, Source vol. 16, no. 2, 10–15.
Moréas J., 1886, ‘Le Symbolisme’, Le Figaro. Supplément littéraire, 18 Septembre,
150–151.
Vanor G., 1889, L’Art Symboliste, Paris: Vanier.

Vassiliki Malatra
The Transmission of the Zodiac Signs

from the Eastern to the Western World:
the Case of the Wall-Paintings in Tavant, France
Man is always fascinated while observing the sky and more particularly the fixed constel-
lations which lie on the yearly orbit of the sun and is called the zodiac circle. The origin of
the description of the stars and zodiac signs goes back to the 12th century BC in Chaldea.
Knowledge of the Chaldeans was firstly transmitted to the Greeks and the Romans and
later to the Jews, Arabs and finally to the Christian World. How have these representa-
tions of the stars been accepted and interpreted by the Western Christianity? Does the
use of the zodiac signs presume many cultural concepts from antiquity? How were they
adopted by other communities in the Middle Ages? Are they imitations of the classical
models? In order to show the transmission of the zodiac signs from the Eastern to the
Western World we are going to give a few typical examples and particularly we will pre-
sent two wall-paintings from the crypt of Saint-Nicolas in Tavant, a small town in France:
a zodiac sign of Sagittarius and, opposite it, a snake-woman. Thus, we are going to show
the evolution of these signs over the centuries and, also, to explain their presence among
the images which are in the above mentioned crypt.
Since very early times the constellations in the sky, those great and unalterable
formations with imaginary figures, have been a source for many artistic inspira-
tions, as well as helping people in their different activities of daily life. In ancient
times, zodiac signs were considered as both mythological and scientific symbols.
Their image has not been changed since then but their initial concept has evolved
continuously. Also, their meanings have been adapted and they have been used
for many material and spiritual needs in the communities. In this paper, we will
briefly present the evolution of the zodiac image from its first appearance until
the Roman period, with a specific example taken from the mural paintings in
Saint-Nicolas of Tavant in France. In particular, an image of Sagittarius, standing
opposite a snake-woman, will give us the possibility to find out how many details
of Christian iconography have ancient origins. Moreover, we shall understand
the spirit of adoption and interpretation of these ancient cultural concepts by the
Western Christianity.
Zodiac signs reached their classical form in Babylon, around 500 BC (Rogers
1998: 86). However, since the 12th century BC, Scorpio, Capricorn, Sagittarius
and Taurus appeared among other stellar symbols on kudurrus (Fig. 1), small
262 Vassiliki Malatra
pieces of stone, which served the monarchs to confirm the donations of land to
their court dignitaries. The zodiac circle is mentioned on the 7th tablet of Enuma
Elish, a Babylonian myth concerning the creation of the universe, which dates
from the same period: ‘He (i.e. Marduk) made the stations for the great gods;
the stars, their images, as the stars of the Zodiac, he fixed’ (King 1902: 78). We
know that Babylonian studies in astronomy and astrology started from the end
of the 9th century BC. It was soon found that Babylonian astronomical ephemeri-
des were ideal sources for much knowledge, which gradually was transmitted to
other civilizations beyond Mesopotamia in the west to Greece and, in the east, to
India (Finkel 2008: 194).
The influence of Chaldean knowledge on the ideas of Greeks and Romans can
certainly be affirmed, although it has not been precisely defined. Neo-Pythagore-
ans, such as Numenius, and the neo-Platonic School, claim to be their successors
but they do not give more details about this succession (Cumont 1929: 115). In the
5th century BC, knowledge of astronomy was passed from the Chaldeans to the
Greeks but no image of the zodiac circle has been found before the Roman era.
The Greeks were the first to attribute a mythological significance to the constella-
tions. By organizing stars in constellations and giving them mythological names,
they felt that they were not just a “representation”. They also tried to teach people
to easily and accurately recognize some stars and, through this knowledge, they
helped them to calculate calendars, aid navigation and choose the optimal time for
planting. Until the Hellenistic period, Greece remained impenetrable to Eastern
religions, and Greeks rejected astrology. The zodiac circle remained a scientific
system, which was used only for education. The celestial sphere, rotating around
its own axis, was used only in astronomy studies. In De Republica of Cicero, it is
reported that Thales of Miletus first made a solid sphere and Eudoxus of Cnidus
was the inventor of a sphere which had depicted on its surface the zodiac signs in
an oblique band (Cicero trad. 1878: l. I, XIV). The oldest known representation of
this celestial sphere is that of Farnese Atlas (National Archaeological Museum of
Naples, Italy). It is a marble sphere made in the 2nd century and it is a copy of an
original sphere dating back to the Augustan ages. On this globe, constellations are
depicted which are visible in the night sky. The 12 signs are among other constel-
lations of the northern and southern hemispheres. The celestial equator, the Arctic
and the Antarctic circles are also represented on it. In 2005, Bradley E. Schaefer1,
after a statistical analysis of the position of constellations, concluded that they had
positions corresponding to the stars which were visible at the time of Hipparchus
1 http://www.phys.lsu.edu/farnese/, consulted 10/11/2012.

The Transmission of the Zodiac Signs 263
of Nicaea, a Greek astronomer who lived in the 2nd century BC. So, on the Farnese
Atlas sphere we can find the stars of a lost catalogue attributed to Hipparchus.
Homer describes that on Achilles’ shield all the stars that govern the sky were
depicted. This shield appears on a fragment of Tabula Iliaca and was intended
for schools. The fragment depicts scenes from Books A to I of the Iliad. Thetis,
Achilles’ mother, brings the shield, which is different from Homer’s description
in that he does not refer to zodiac signs around the shield (Engelman 1892: 3).
The situation changed after the conquest of Asia by the Romans, when Stoicism
assigned a kind of divinity to constellations and Chaldean birth date astrology
began to find followers in Greece. Plutarch indicated that at the beginning of the
3th century BC Demetrius Poliorcetes wore a chlamys and a golden piece of cloth
with representations of ‘the universe and all the celestial phenomena’ (Plutarch
1977: 64 (41.7)). The 12 zodiac signs were also present on this golden cloth.
In Egypt, zodiac signs representations are not found before the Hellenistic
period. The Zodiac of Dendera (Fig. 3), dating from 50 BC, is a mixture of
Greek, Babylonian and Egyptian zodiac signs (Waerden 1953: 216). This bas-
relief was placed on the pronaos ceiling of a small temple dedicated to Osiris,
which was built inside Hathor’s temple at Dendera. The vault of heaven is repre-
sented as a disc which is held up by 4 pillars in the form of women and 4 pairs
of falcon-headed spirits. It is not hard to recognize around the circle the zodiac
symbols of the 12 zodiac constellations which are placed inside the main circle.
Some of them appear exactly the same as in some European medieval astro-
nomical books. Leo is represented by a figure of a lion, Sagittarius is depicted as
a centaur shooting an arrow and Capricorn is portrayed as a fictitious creature
with a fish’s tail and a goat’s head. In the centre, the three well-known northern
constellations of Draco, Ursa Minor and Ursa Major are depicted. This rap-
prochement of zodiac signs and constellations of the celestial sphere appear for
the first time on the relief of Dendera and proves the Egyptian’s astronomical
knowledge (Cauville 1997: 10).
When the Romans arrived in East Iran, in the 1st century AD, they found
an oriental civilization, which influenced Roman political institutions, artistic
interests, ideas and beliefs (Cumont 1929: 129–131). Diocletian easily and accu-
rately recognized Mithras as the protector of the Empire. Adapting the concept
of triumph and astrology from oriental cults, images of oriental origin multiplied
in Italy and the provinces. Zodiac signs appear everywhere: accompanying the
12 months in Rustic Calendars, on bas-reliefs, on mosaics, on coins, on engraved
stones (Cumont 1877/1963: 1051).
Two ivory astrological tablets (Fig. 3) dedicated to Apollo, were discovered
in 1968 at a Gallo-Roman sanctuary in Grand (Vosges, France). They belonged
to a very ancient tradition with origins in the valley of the Nile, dating from
the end of the Ptolemaic period or from the beginning of Roman domination
(Goyon 1993: 63). In the centre of the composition there are the Sun and the
Moon with their characteristics: radial, tufted and crescent hair. The first circle
contains the 12 zodiac signs, on the second 5 Greek letters are depicted corre-
sponding to the signs of 5 planets, on the third the decans with their names in
the outer circle. Inside the corners, figures of the winds show the influence of
Egyptian art.
Many elements of the Grand tablets have been adopted in subsequent ico-
nography. During excavations at Argos (Greece), we find the Moon on a marble
carved votive relief of the Roman moon goddess Selene (2nd to 3rd century): a
female bust to the front in an arched niche, surrounded by a crescent on her head;
seven stars in the field around and the signs of the zodiac in low relief; inscribed
beneath with an unintelligible Gnostic formula (Fig. 4).
Françoise Gury supposes the existence of an archetype, perhaps an illustration
of an Alexandrian hermetic astrology treatise, designed around the 2nd century in
the middle of Graeco-Roman era (Gury 1993: 135–137). If this theory is accepted,
the zodiac circle of the Vatican Library manuscript (ms Vat. gr. 1291, f. 9r) suggests
that it could be the archetype illustration (Fig. 5). The manuscript dates between
829 and 842 AD and is a Byzantine replica of an ancient copy of Ptolemy’s Handy
Tables. In the centre of a circle, the Sun on a chariot is surrounded by 5 bands from
the centre to the peripheral of the circle, representing: hours, 12 numbers in Greek,
which denote the date and the time when the sun enters each zodiac sign, months
of the year, names of months accompanied by a specific date and finally the zodiac
signs.
As we see above, the veneration of the zodiac circle became predominant in
the cult of Mithras. Mithraism was introduced to the Roman Empire as a popu-
lar religion and was favoured by the aristocracy at the end of the 2nd century. At
this time, representations and documents multiplied and reached their highest
level in the 3rd century (Cumont 1899/1985: 80). On the bas-relief which was
found in London (Fig. 6), Mithras with torch-bearers (dadophores) is in the mid-
dle surrounded by the 12 zodiac signs. On the lower corners, busts of the Winds
are depicted and the upper corners depict the Sun on his chariot with 4 horses
and the Moon in a chariot drawn by bulls. According to Cumont, all the compo-
sitions of Mithras specify that the zodiac circle encloses the universe (Cumont
1877/1963: 1056).
Following the example of Mithras, the Sun often appears enclosed by the zo-
diac band. The figure of Sol Invictus driving a chariot and being surrounded by
the zodiac signs is found on a mosaic of a Roman villa in Münster-Sarmsheim
dating from 3rd century (Fig. 7). A later 5th century bathroom mosaic in Talara
(Astypalaia-Greece) shows the zodiac signs during the year (Fig. 8). It is de-
picted in the centre of a circle placed in a square whose 4 corners include the
Seasons.
Representations of the zodiac signs on pavement mosaics in the Middle East
are limited to the Palestine area and in particular synagogue floors from the
4th to the 6th centuries. At Hammat, Na’aram, Beth-Alpha and Zippori the Sun
in a chariot is surrounded by the zodiac band with the 4 Seasons at the corners.
During this period, rabbis showed a great tolerance for such representations on
pavements. The classic models continued to dominate although the symbolism
of the Sun had changed (Guidoni Guidi 1983: 253). Rabbi Gad Erlanger indicates
that, for Jewish people, each star has its own name and function, so that stars
are just decoration figures suspended in the sky. Therefore, Jews found ways to
interpret them according to their tradition (Erlanger 2000: 5). Giuliana Guidoni
Guidi claims that mosaics which depict zodiac signs, seasons and the sun are
astronomical calendars (Guidoni Guidi 1983: 258).
In the 7th century, when Islam dominated the East, Greek philosophy was
accepted by the Arabs and Syrians and many books of Greek philosophers were
translated into Arabic. Arabs, who were learned in Greek philosophy, made
great strides in astronomy and astrology. In the 10th century, Abd Al-Rahman
Al Sufi, a Persian astronomer, published a treatise on astronomy called The Book
of Fixed Stars. In this book he gave the position, the magnitude, the brightness
and the colour of each known star and constellation. It is through the Arabs that
astronomical and astrological knowledge was passed from East to West after
Toledo had been conquered by Alfonso VI of Castile in 1085.
Nevertheless, the Western Christian world had not discovered astronomy
in the 11th century. From the beginning of the Middle Ages culture and all the
sciences had been influenced and impregnated by Hellenism. During the Car-
olingian period, many manuscripts had the model of the Greco-Roman texts
and images. This is proven by a manuscript which nowadays belongs to the
University Library of Leiden (Ms. lat. Q.79 Voss.). The 35 full-page decoration
of the codex is accompanied by the text Aratea written by Germanicus which
contains sections of a poem written by Avinius. Aratea is the Latin translation
of the Greek astronomical poem Phenomena, which is written by Aratus in the
4th century BC. The Leiden manuscript seems to be a copy of another lost manu-
script dating from late antiquity and has been used as a model for many other
manuscripts.
Christians have also adopted Roman and Jewish images and Greek texts in
order to develop their own iconography. In Bible, S. Vaast, Mithras and the Sun
are replaced by Christ in Majesty surrounded by the zodiac signs. On the fabric
of Saint Ewald (St. Kunimbert, Cologne, 9th–12th century) the Sun is replaced by
Annus (Fig. 9). The whole iconography is enriched by many Christian elements
and shows: Annus on a throne surrounded by 4 flaming wheels and holding
Day and Night in the sky. The 4 wheels reveal the prophecy of Ezekiel (1: 16).
In the inner band, the 4 seasons and the 4 elements of nature are depicted; in
the outside band, the 12 signs of the zodiac circle are illustrated; below, is Earth
and Sea; Alpha and Omega under a cross emphasize the Christian aspect of
iconography.
As we have already seen, the transmission of the illustration of the zodiac signs
is neither linear nor general. In monasteries, ancient astronomical manuscripts
had been copied in an educational context, but astronomy had another important
role. From the beginning, the Church had relied on ancient astronomical knowl-
edge to determine the computus for defining the dates of Easter and movable
feasts. During the Carolingian period these works reached a peak. Charlemagne
had invited a number of scholars to his court to develop a computus for defin-
ing the dates of movable feasts and furthermore to construct calendars. Different
Aachen and Salzburg works gave birth to several manuscripts which reproduced
zodiac images more or less the same when compared with the ancient patterns
but always in an astronomical context. Nevertheless, these symbols changed dur-
ing the following centuries and the Tavant wall-paintings are good examples of
this change.
Wall-paintings in the Tavant crypt

The wall-paintings in Tavant (Indre-et-Loire, Centre it’s the name of the re-
gion, France) are first mentioned by Galembert at the Saumur Archaeological
Congress in 1862. The date of the frescoes had caused a big debate among the
scholars2. Taking into account other similar works in western France, the Tavant
wall-paintings were probably done in the middle of the 12th century (Laine-Davy
2002: 14).
The crypt is a three-aisled construction determined by a double row of four
cylindrical columns. The frescoes decorate the groin vault of the central aisle
with two of them located on the east wall. The whole concept of the iconography
has yet to be identified. The presence of a Sagittarius symbol in the crypt has
encouraged us to make more detailed research. Mainly thanks to the discovery
2 For more details: Weber 1925: 92; Michel 1961: 5; Zverina 1947: 692–693; Verrier
1949: 314; Grabar 1958: 98; Demus 1970: 140–141; Laine-Davy 2002: 14.
of manuscripts in southern Italy which leads to a reconsideration of the crypt’s

decorative concept.
The Exultet rolls from southern Italy are parchment scrolls containing
hymns of praise before the paschal candle. They date from the 10th through the
13th centuries and contain magnificent illustrations, often turned upside down
with respect to the text. (Bertaux 1903/1968; Kelly 1996). It is very probable that
these manuscripts were known to the artist of Tavant. Henri Martin draws our
attention to the fact that the dedication of the church in Tavant is to the Bishop
St. Nicolas, who had oriental origins and also mentioned the 1908 Synod in
Bari, an Adriatic port where the Normans had brought the relics of St. Nicolas
in 1087. The Synod of Bari, whose aim was the unification of the two Churches,
was chaired by Pope Urban II. The people in Tavant were probably aware of
what was happening in Italy, because Tavant was under the Benedictine Abbey
of Marmoutier and Pope Urban II visited Marmoutier in 1096 (Martin 2005: 5
and 45–46).
Several elements indicate the relationship between the iconography of the
crypt and the Italian manuscripts. We shall focus on the figures and the texts
of these manuscripts which contribute to the interpretation of the Sagittarius
figure and the snake-woman opposite it. We shall try to find out the ancient
origins of these figures, their Christian conception and, finally, we shall at-
tempt an interpretation of the iconographic cycle of the third bay where they
are placed.
On the vault above the pair of columns at the entrance of the bay Origi-
nal Sin is represented: on one side there is the Tree and the Serpent and on
the other Adam and Eve (Fig. 10, 1). Adam is eating the apple and they both
cover their nakedness since they have already sinned. The Temptation and the
Original Sin are both represented in the same image. A similar image has been
found in the manuscript of Fondi (Italy), which is in the National Library of
France (BnF, Nouv. acq. lat. 710). On the south side of the above mentioned
image the Fall is depicted (Fig. 10, 2): Adam is tilling the ground and Eve is
spinning. On the north side there is a centaur. The inscription SAGITTARIUS
shows him to be the zodiac sign with the same name (Fig. 10, 3; Fig. 11). Op-
posite him a haggard woman is thrusting a spear through her breasts, at which
two serpents are clinging (Fig. 10, 4; Fig. 12). On the south side, another ha-
loed and sad woman stands alone (Fig. 10, 5; Fig. 13). Between the last pair of
columns there are two scenes of the Redemption: the Deposition and the Har-
rowing of Hell (Fig. 10, 6). The decoration of the vaults is completed with the
vision of Christ in Majesty (Fig. 10, 7). The question is: what is the meaning of
this iconography?
The figures of Sagittarius, the snake-woman and the haloed woman might
be compared to the beginning of the Exultet text where the joy of the Powers of
Heaven3, of the Earth4 and of the Church5 are sung. In this case Sagittarius could
present Heaven, the snake-Woman the Earth and the haloed woman the Church.
In the Monte Cassino Exultet Roll, which is in the Vatican (Bibl. Apostolica Vati-
cana, Vat. lat 3784), the Earth nourishes her children: a quadruped and a snake.
A similar iconography is found in another Monte Cassino manuscript (Monte
Cassino monastery library, /*132, Book XII, 1, p. 294). Note that the representa-
tion of Earth’s hair is quite close to that of Tavant but in the above mentioned
Exultet the Earth is in “his shining splendor” while at Tavant the snake-woman
is in trouble and is pierced by a spear. The image of the haloed woman could also
represent the Church as depicted in the Exultet. However, in Italian manuscripts
the Church is represented as adorned and joyful while the woman in Tavant
is modestly dressed and chagrined. Referring to Sagittarius, who is illustrated
with a serpent’s tail, it is impossible that this represents the Divine Heaven. In
the Tavant iconography it is obvious that there is nothing of the euphoria of
the Exultet. So, this iconographic composition would be better explained in a
catechized context: to train young Marmoutier Benedictines who were accom-
modated in the Tavant priory.
The image of the snake-woman has its origin in antiquity. At Knossos in
Crete, a small statue of faience, dating from the 16th century BC, represents
a Snake Goddess with naked breasts (Evans 1921, vol. I: 500). This Goddess
has its origins in Mesopotamia (Saxl 1957: 2–3) and is the predecessor of the
Mother-Goddess, who is also the Mother-Earth. In Greco-Roman iconography,
Mother-Earth is generally represented nourishing children (kourotrophos) and
surrounded by domestic animals; on sarcophagi of the imperial era, she is con-
nected with snakes (C. Robert 1897/1969: t. III, no 379). Later, on Carolingian
ivories, Mother-Earth nurses snakes (Cahier 1851: pl. IV and VI), thus reveal-
ing her chthonic nature. Gradually the negative symbolism of the snake prevails
over the nursing Mother-Earth. Medieval people interpret her as a woman in
torment who incarnates the vice of Lust. In the 11th century we find this concept
at Oô (Haute Garonne, France): a snake comes out of the female sex and reaches
for her breast. In the 12th century, the snake-Woman, as Lust, often appears in
3 Exultet jam. Angelica turba coeloru.

4 Gaudeat se tantis tellus irradiata fulgoribus.
5 Et aeterni regis splendore lustrata totius orbis.
religious buildings such as the church of Notre-Dame-du-Port in Clermont-

Ferrand, Saint-Jouin de Marne, Castelviel in France or the church of Sacra di
San Michele in Italy. At Tavant this image is also interpreted as Lust. The pagan
Mother-Goddess has also appeared in Gnostic sects. Ireneus, Bishop of Lyon
in the 2nd century, refers to the Nicolaitans, a Gnostic sect which worships the
Great Mother. Hippolyte, a theologian of the 3rd century, indicates that the name
of Nazarenes derives from Naas, the Hebrew word for serpent (James 1960:
209–213). Taking this approach, we might be tempted to suppose the snake-
woman in Tavant could symbolize heresies.
Sagittarius is personified by a Centaur-archer. In Greek mythology, the Cen-
taurs are hybrid creatures, who are composed of a human torso and head and
a horse’s body. This representation, continued during the following centuries,
appears in the Protogeometric period (Lefkandi centaur, 10th cent. BC, Archeo-
logical museum of Eretria, Greece). However, some vases from the 6th and 5th
centuries BC depict centaurs in the shape of a human body at the front and
horse rumps at the back; they usually hold branches of trees or bring game
but they are never depicted with bows. The Greco-Roman figure of Sagitta-
rius probably derives from a Babylonian figure which depicts a winged mon-
strous archer half-human and half-horse with a scorpion’s tail. This image had
been adopted by the Egyptians but it had taken a more human shape under
the Greco-Romans. The Tavant artist may have been inspired by the ancient
figure; adding a snake’s tail, he makes a unique iconography, unknown until the
period of Tavant wall-paintings. This peculiarity has caused various interpreta-
tions: it is connected with the locusts of the Apocalypse which have a horse’s
body and a scorpion’s tail (Weber 1925: 86); it has a negative meaning which
is inherent in its monstrous nature, also in regard to its position on the left of
Christ in the apse (Martin 2005: 8); it could refer to the Muslim World which
the Christians battled during the Crusades (Mongis 2005: 15) or it could have
a cosmic connotation (Zverina 1947). The Serpent’s tail approaches Sagittarius
through the snake-woman who embodies the heresies attacking the Church.
In this case, Sagittarius of Tavant might incarnate astrological fatalism which
is however denied by the Christian theologians. Finally, the haloed woman in
despair, as in the Exultet but from another point of view, incarnates the Church
as the Mother-Church for all the people or as the second Eve for whom the
Church is waiting in the future. She is sad because of what is happening within
the confines of the Church (heresies, astrology) but, at the same time, she is
full of hope revealing the two scenes of the Redemption facing Original Sin.
Therefore, it is a lesson of hope of the holiness of the Church and at the same
time it is a warning to Man.
A new entrance had been opened at a later period in the construction of the
crypt leading to the third bay. The young Benedictines, who crossed this open-
ing, entered a place where they could be taught the catechism.
In conclusion, we can see that the images of the zodiac circle are transmitted
from antiquity to the Christian world without profound change. However, these
concepts were transformed in a particular way depending on the beliefs and the
needs of the societies which accepted them. Once again, we see that the Middle
Ages are not a dark period between Ancient times and the Renaissance. On the
contrary, it is a period during which the West became more conscious of its role
as the new centre of civilization.
Fig. 1: Fig. 2:
“Kudurru” of Melishihu II, Zodiac of Dendera, 50 BC, (Louvre museum,
Suse, 12th cent. BC., (Louvre Paris)
museum, Paris)

Fig. 3:
Tablettes of Grand, end 1st cent. (Departmental museum of Vosges , National
Antiquities museum of Saint-Germain-en-Laye, France)
Fig. 4: Fig. 5:
Votive relief of Argos (Greece), 2nd to Vaticanus graecus, Byzance, 829–842,
3rd cent. (British museum, London) (Bibl. Apostol. Vaticana), ms Vat. gr.
1291, f. 9r

Fig. 6: Fig. 7:
Mithra, bas-relief found in London Mosaic of villa in Münster-Sarmsheim,
3th cent. (LandesMuseum Bonn)
Fig. 8: Fig. 9:
Bathroom mosaic in Talara (Astypalaia- The Ewald Cover, St Kunibert,
Greece), 5th century Cologne, 10th–12th century

Fig. 10: Fig. 11:

Crypt of St-Nicolas in Tavant Sagittarius
Fig. 12: Fig. 13:

Snakes-Woman Haloed woman

Fig. 14: Crypt of St-Nicolas in Tavant-Third bay of the navy
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Agnieszka Gralińska-Toborek
An Empty Myth – the Aesthetic Reception of

Antiquity in Contemporary Art
The art of Igor Mitoraj, Anne and Patrick Poirier, Muriel Castanis, and Ian Hamilton
Finley refers to Greek antiquity, particularly to myths. Therefore, we could expect it to
be a good example of myth reception in contemporary art. However, we must ask: is a
myth and its meaning the most important part of their art? Scott Lash, sociologist, dis-
tinguished three types of modernist reflexivity: cognitive, aesthetic, and hermeneutic. We
can try to use his distinction to analyse the art of the aforementioned artists. If we assume
(as S. Lash) that an aesthetic reflexivity is characterized by: deconstruction (as a model of
speech), an allegory (as a model of narrative), mimesis (as a model of access to truth), a
signifier (as a privileged semiotic element), then we can see that the references to myth in
contemporary neo-classicism manifest largely in this type of reflexivity. Classic form is an
indication of prevailing aestheticization. Form without interior is an allegory of our lack
of access to the depth of ancient tradition. It is a post-classical (as well as a post-traditional
and postmodern), aesthetic experience that does not stem from a cognitive or herme-
neutic approach, but from sensory perception.
If an artist refers to antiquity by referring to a myth or by the form of his work,

in all probability he will be called a neo-classical artist. By the end of the 80s,
Charles Jencks labeled a group of American figurative painters who were mod-
ernizing antique myths, as neo-classics (Jencks 1987). The Arcadian theme
shifted to the reality of Central Park, allegorical portraits of the contemporary
artists dressed as Greek gods, and last but not least, homoerotic elements in
the myth of Zeus and Ganymede, are the most common techniques that ac-
cept and keep the presence of myth in culture. It could also be stated that myth
legitimizes certain elements of contemporary culture as rooted in tradition.
Undoubtedly, Katarzyna Marciniak had this way of myth presentation on her
mind when she wrote: ‘[myths] allow artists to generalize individual experience
by inscribing them into timeless categories of emotions and patterns of events’
(Marciniak 2010: 9)
I would like to analyse a few artists working on sculptures and installations
in the second part of 20th century. They all deserve to be called ‘neo-classics’ (or
‘post-classics), however, their myth reception differs from the typical ‘inspiration’
or ‘interpretation’. They all use elements of subversion, quotation, and bricolage.
Their reflection on the past is full of doubts, distrust or nostalgia. By mentioning
278 Agnieszka Gralińska-Toborek
their works I want to pose a question about the type of their reflection and, as a
consequence, about the type of their reception of the ancient past, and the type of
antiquity reception they suggest to the audience.
It may come as a surprise, but I want to use in my reflections the theory of
reflexivity by Scott Lasch. He is a sociologist who, together with Ulrich Beck,
and Anthony Giddens, wrote a book titled Reflexive Modernization. Reflexivity
is understood by all of those authors as a general questioning, criticizing social
norms, as well as traditions, which are ‘called upon to defend themselves’ (Beck,
Giddens, Lash 1994: 8). Ulrich Beck emphasizes that it is not about reflection but
rather about self-confrontation with the effects of (a) a ‘risky’ society or unpre-
dictable life (Beck, Giddens, Lash 1994: 6).
The social and natural worlds today are thoroughly infused with reflexive human knowl-
edge, but this does not lead to a situation in which collectively we are the masters of our
destiny. Rather to the contrary: the future looks less like that the past than ever before
and has in some basic ways become very threatening.1
If the past does not have any links to the present and to the future, is there a
point in referring to it or evoking it in another script? Do artists who refer to
such remote themes as Greek mythology treat it as universal and timeless or,
contrarily, present it as strange and unrecognizable? How do those artists receive
the past and what type of reflection is given to it? Finally, how can the art audi-
ence interpret it?
To answer these questions let us use the differentiations made by Scott Lasch,
describing three types of modern reflexivity: cognitive, aesthetic, and hermeneu-
tic. Aesthetic and hermeneutic reflexivity is easily noticed in art, contrary to the
first type of reflexivity, the cognitive one, which mainly depicts socio-political
issues. Let us analyse selected (according to the criterion of the application in
art) pairs of characteristic features of the two above mentioned types of reflexiv-
ity (Table 1).
1 Beck, Giddens, Lash 1994: 8.

An Empty Myth 279
Table 1. Selected aspects of aesthetic and hermeneutic reflexivity according to Scott Lasch
(cf: tab. 1 IN BOOK: 158–159)
aesthetic type of reflexivity Hermeneutic type of reflexivity

story telling Allegory Symbol
access to truth Mimesis through situated practices
temporality event tradition
difference ontological foundations
ethique esthetique ethic of care
privileged semiotic the signifier the signified (meaning)
element
mode of understanding Deconstruction hermeneutics
power/knowledge disclosive truth
Not elaborating on Lasch theory and its possible criticism here, let us, by using
those characteristic features, discuss certain works of art, thus, test the type of
reflexivity of their authors, as well as their ancient past reception. Certainly, the
order and the selection of the examples are arbitrary. By using them I want to
indicate that they represent a broader phenomenon of balancing between aes-
thetic and hermeneutic reflexivity. It may be difficult to unequivocally attribute
the type of reflexivity to the authors and their works. Rather, we could talk about
the dominance of one type of reflexivity over another. Curiously, contemporary
fine arts, when compared to other types of arts (especially to literature and thea-
tre), touch upon myth issues less frequently, which may probably be explained
by their reluctance for narration.
Ian Hamilton Finlay, a deceased Scottish artist, was the creator of concrete
poetry, installations, and sculptures. Yet he mainly worked as a gardener who
channelled all of his skills and activities into one place. He was a founder of
the park located near Edinburgh, called Little Sparta, where he used most of his
earlier artistic ideas. Little Sparta is a concept of a park that refers not only to
English tradition but also to ancient genius loci. You can encounter strange signs,
words, and objects there whose presence make nature appear as mysterious and
‘habited’ as in Homeric times. However, while for Greeks nature was filled with
signs that could be explained through myth, nature in Finley’s Sparta is full of in-
explicable signs and ambiguous sentences. Therefore, Little Sparta is not a place
of rest and relaxation, as, according to its author: ‘Certain gardens are described
as retreats when they are really attacks’ (Finlay 2012: 179). Idyllic and melan-
cholic elements are inextricably linked with signs of cruelty, Ancient Greece with
The French Revolution and World War II. Even this inscription: The world has
been empty since the Romans, frequently repeated by Finley in many variations,
may suggest a longing for the ancient world, or for irretrievably lost values, if it
wasn’t for the fact that it is a quotation from Louis de Saint-Just. Saint-Just was
a young revolutionary, a Jacobin, who earned the nick name of ‘Angel of Death’.
He stirred up a lot of terror and died, decapitated by guillotine, at the age of 26.
Finlay borrows his vision of a Republic from Saint-Just and his vision of Arcadia
from Poussin. We can find the sentence, engraved in a moss covered rock, just
like Arcadian shepherds found the inscription Et in Arkadia Ego. Just like in
youthful, revolutionary dreams about a republic – about people’s Arcadia - death
was lurking. Death was a weapon of the gods. Gods, immortal themselves, use
death on numerous occasions. Little Sparta has got its own temple – devoted
to the god of art – Apollo. Contrary to what might be believed, for Finley, this
temple is not only an allegorical presentation of art, it is also a sacred place. Ac-
cording to Finley: ‘Piety is almost completely absent from our culture – and I
deplore this situation2. It is also possible that for Finley ‘piety’ meant ‘godliness’.
At the façade of the temple (which is a country house with painted columns, to
be precise), we can find the inscription: To Apollo – His Music – His Missiles– His
Muses. Finlay refers back to Apollo’s mythology, restores his cruelty. It is not only
Apollo Musagetes but also Apollo Hekebolos. The sculpture Apollo Terroriste – a
golden head found in the garden, may be perceived as Saint-Just’s portrait – a
young god of terror. When the local authorities put a tax on the temple, classify-
ing it as an art gallery, (Finley treated it as a place of cult, and as such he was ex-
empted from paying tax on it) the artist waged a symbolic ‘battle for Little Sparta’,
which turned into a famous performance3. He was a battling artist, discovering
conflict and fight in a place of an apparent or illusive order.
What kind of reflexivity does Finley represent? Undoubtedly, he refers to tra-
dition with solemnity, respect, and care. He makes an attempt to decipher tradi-
tion and its signs. The words and images that Finley uses carry meaning. He puts
a lot of attention on trying to place and set up a community4. At the same time,
2 Rashwan, Finlay 2001.

3 This ‘battle’, fought in 1983, was the source for the garden’s name – Little Sparta. Ed-
inburgh, located nearby and seating the local powers, is called ‘Athens of the North’.
Sparta and Athens were enemies.
4 Scott Lasch (Giddens. Lasch 1994: 157) writing about community: ‘Communal
knowledge is instead hermeneutic knowledge and the latter is only possible when the
knower is the same world as and >dwells among< the things and other human beings
whose truth she seeks. Community does not involve chronic problematization of the
signifier, but is instead rooted in shared meanings and routine background practices.
An Empty Myth 281
the artist introduces conflict and hides behind quotations. The large number of
war and revolutionary terror symbols provokes questions and puts the audience
into an unpleasant situation of uncertainty and distrust. It also forces audiences
to reflection upon knowledge and power – and those belong to – ‘hermeneutics
of suspicion’ in the words of Scott Lasch, quoting Ricoeur5.
Anne and Patrick Poirier, a French artistic duo working in sculptures, installa-
tions, and garden projects, also frequently refer to myths. Here it is a humongous
eye of the giant, Ephialtese (3x4 meters) – well targeted by Zeus’ arrow. It evokes
pity, even though it is a triumph of order over blind force and cruelty. For the
authors though, ‘the struggle between giants and gods is not just a history of
sculptures, but also, it is a battle between rational and irrational forces’6. Though
we are still able to decipher this symbolic meaning of gigantomachy, it is the first
part of this statement, apparently the less significant one, which could be vital for
us. A giant’s eye does not present a defeated, disintegrated body but a shattered
statue. It is not the imaginary giant, lying down and defeated but its smashed fig-
ure. Thus, aesthetic reflexivity is manifested – achieving truth through mimesis.
Medusa’s head, decorating a fountain in Berlin, does not scare us with spooky
eyes or a decapitated head. Water washes out its meaning; the story ends, even
though all essential elements are still there: wings, snakes, and Pegasus. Anne
and Patrick Poirier explore not so much the myth itself, but rather our memory,
retrieving from it the remnants of images:
For more than 20 years, at the risk of losing this mental and psychical rambling, pushed
by an immense curiosity, not for the past, as most people believed, but rather for that
essential faculty of which we are constituted, i.e. Memory and which Sigmund Freud,
who also loved archaeological metaphors, compared to ancient Rome7
The Mnemosyne project, which they were working on in the 70s, is not a story
about the goddess of memory and the mother of muses. It is a certain type of
diorama – a model of the ruins of an imaginary, ancient city.
(…) These practices involve an immediate investment of affect in tools – including the
signs – worked with other human beings with whom the practices are shared.’
5 The use of Schwabach font (gothic style) was one of the reasons Finley was suspected
of having Nazis sympathies. He used antiqua font most often, however, in German
inscriptions he used gothic font.
6 Virginie Duval-Wingel, ‘Anne et Patric Poirier’, http://www.ac-nancy-metz.fr/DAAC/
daac09/domaines_cult/epinal09/artistes/Anne%20et%20Patrick%20POIRIER.pdf
[accessed: 10 December 2013]
7 ‘La Giogantomachie 1982 et ensuite’, The Official Site of Anne and Patrick Poirier,
www.anne-patrick-poirier.com/sculp-giganto.html [accessed: 11 November 2013]
The miniature utopian city is laid out according to the cavities and divisions within a
human cranium, following the designs of an imaginary architect, but it still is not a cata-
logue of resemblances and references to other places for to be a catalogue it would have
to articulate itself through indexical order. (Green 2001: 84)
The model of this city was accompanied with pictures and notes, all of them
imitating the documentations from the excavation sites. The artists worked like
Benjamin’s allegorist – attaching a new meaning to the remnants of the past.
Their work is frequently called archaeology, however, it is the archaeology of
our image memory, and its excavations are simulacra. The works by Anne and
Patrick Poirier direct us into aesthetic reflexivity: they use allegory, they refer to
the past by imitating form, and it is harder and harder to interpret the meaning
hidden in their signs8. This type of reflexivity does not mean a deep reflection
aiming at discovering the truth. It is more a reflection of the remnants of the
images preserved in out memory. Let it be a myth, a ruin of a statue, or a piece
of architecture – all of it will evoke the same memories of something that has
passed and cannot be retrieved from our memory.
The next artist who should not be omitted in the context of the reflections
upon contemporary reception of myth is Igor Mitoraj. ‘His figures are eternal
but marred, ancient gods, who have been victimized and isolated by the pas-
sage of time. They have been abandoned by their worshipers, and forced to turn
inward’– writes Donald Kuspit (Kuspit, Testori 1992: 11). This sentence, written
by the famous American critic, is worth deeper analysis. Among many mytho-
logical characters (not necessarily immortal ones), most frequently chosen by
Mitoraj are: Eros, Asclepius, Daedalus, Icarus, and Centaur. However, only the
last two are recognizable, due to their links to iconographic tradition. The frag-
mentation used by Mitoraj evokes a romantic vision of antiquity as a ruin. In
modern times, artists undertaking mythological themes tried to imitate myth,
in other words, to narrate it. Since Romanticism, instead of illustrations of myth
we observe imitation of ancient ruins. The narration is no longer about common
tradition. Rather, it is about the collapse of tradition. What is ruined is not gods
but statues, just like in Gigantomachy by the Poirier duo. It is easily noticeable
in the way Icarus is displayed at the exhibition held in the valley of the temples
8 ‘(…) a neglect of shared meanings, a systematic impossibility of the >we<, is system-

atically integral to allegorical thinking. I am claiming that analysts in the tradition of
allegory (…) presume a radical individualism – surely not a utilitarian but an aesthet-
ic individualism: not an individualism of a controlling ego but the individualism of a
heterogeneous, contingent desire – which itself is hardly conductive to community’
(Beck, Giddens, Lash 1994: 144).
An Empty Myth 283
in Agrigento, Sicily. There is no doubt it is a fragment of a cast itself, a figure

that illustrates Icarus, who fell inertly on the ground, nearby the temple. The al-
legory of ruin refers not so much to the myth of Icarus, but more to the art itself,
which turns into Icarus. There is also in Mitoraj’s works a character of Icaria. It
is a figure of a naked woman with wings, without a head, whose ankle is held by
a strong male hand. There is also a medusa at her bosom. Mitoraj writes about
her: ‘Icaria does not exist as a mythological figure, but maybe Icarus needed
some feminine grace’9. Is this the reason why Icaria did not take off to fly, held
back by a strong hand? Is it possible that if art had charm we would not be
witnesses to its fall? Or would she remain infertile, as her womb would be pro-
tected by Medusa10? Such metaphors, related not so much with ancient myth,
but more to the myth of art, can be multiplied when attempting to describe the
significance of Mitoraj’s works. However, are they legitimate? ‘When I look at an
ancient statue, a truly magnificent ancient statue, I feel like I was floating a few
centimetres above the ground’ – says the artist – ‘however, the statue does not
look at me. And this is indeed a source of torment. It is like unreciprocated love.’
(Mitoraj Constantini 2003: 68) For Mitoraj, similarly to the Poirier duo, the past
is a history of statues more than a history of gods among people. Let us return
to the quotation from Donald Kuspit, who wrote that the abandoned gods are
forced to turn inside themselves. What do they find there? Emptiness – absence.
Our reception, escaping from emptiness, is forced to stay outside, to slide on
the surface. Hermeneutic reflexivity stems from the conviction that there is still
something that links us to the past and that we remain in the community of
meanings. In the case of Mitoraj’s works, the attempts at searching for tradition
end on a formal level. Monika Rydiger wrote: ‘Ambiguity of his art is not sup-
posed to provoke the audience to solve intellectual riddles. Rather, it keeps the
audience tangled in many meanings, unfinished thoughts, with the feeling of in-
solubility’ (Rydiger 2006: 4). The aesthetic reflexivity deconstructs and imitates
everything that can be imitated, revealing at the same time its ethics of ‘different’
and not the ‘same’. Aren’t we supposed to remain after experiencing Mitoraj’s
works aesthetically reflexive? It is still a myth on the outside – but emptiness
inside, significant without being signified. A form, a blown egg – empty inside.
There might be an empty statue of a god, empty inside. Yet, there might be
emptiness even more prevailing – an empty garment without a god or a person.
9 Mitoraj: Kraków, Paryż, Rzym, Krakow, Paris, Rome 2006: 64.

10 The most striking example of the anesthetization of the Medusa Myth is the use of her
head as Versace’s logo.
Muriel Castanis was a creator of such works. She presents, with no illusions, that
nothing has been left, neither the insides nor the shell, no trace of a living myth.
What was left is just the packaging –a draped garment, not original. Mitoraj
still uses a traditional technique – he uses physical strength, he retrieves a form
from travertine, casts in bronze, touches his works – he allows, on numerous
occasions, himself to be photographed while performing those acts. Castanis
preserves, in epoxy resin, a contemporary fabric, draped on a mannequin. Her
husband, describing the creative process, says:
The epoxy hardens after a half hour or 45 minutes, so that’s when most of her creative
work was done. It became stone hard after 24 hours’, her husband said. ‘The mannequin,
around which the epoxy-cloth was draped, is removed in sections after the epoxy hard-
ens, and the figures, which evoke the drapery on classical Greek statuary, are hollow.11
Let us not forget that the word ‘hollow’ also carries the meaning ‘deaf ’. Zbigniew
Herbert, the Polish poet, when asked about his inspirations from antiquity, said:
‘I would like to tap old ideas of humanity to find out which of them resonate
with an empty sound’ (Dedecius 1981: 231–232). The works of contemporary
neo-classics produce only this type of sound, most of the time.
Yet, empty forms provoke and attempt to fill them with something. Even more
scary and mysterious myths can inhabit them. Muriel Castanis’ figures located on
the ledge of the 23rd floor of the building at 580 California Street in San Francisco
are called ‘corporation goddesses’. We might say it is just a joke. We have no infor-
mation about those figures; still, just like ancient gods they may evoke respect or
even ‘fear and terror’.
Lorna Hardwick, a researcher of reception writes: ‘each reception event is also
part of wider processes’ (Hardwick, Stray 2011: 1). Nowadays, researchers con-
sider how: ‘interest has focused on ways in which some aspects were selected
and used (‘appropriated’) in order to give value and status to subsequent cul-
tures and societies’ and how they inspired those actions (Hardwick 2003: 3). The
above mentioned examples show that the artists of the Mediterranean Antiquity
Civilization are especially intrigued by its collapse and the emptiness left after-
wards. Let me cite here two different quotations, presenting two different stand-
points on contemporary times, which are reflected by art. Katarzyna Marciniak,
a classical philologist, in the preface to her Mythology (in which she presents
how mythological motives permeate pop culture) states: ‘Mythology creates our
identity, makes mutual understanding possible, enables the experience of com-
munity and facilitates the awareness of roots – all of those prerequisite to look
11 Amateau 2006.
An Empty Myth 285
into the future’(Marciniak 2010: 6). Scott Lasch, a sociologist who diagnosed
modern times as unable to predict the future, concludes: ‘None of today’s ubiqui-
tous and incessant deconstruction leads to any grasp of the “we” but just to ever
less foundational, ever more Faustian forms of the aesthetic “I” (Beck, Giddens,
Lash 1994: 145).
Translated by Kamila Berry
References
Amateau A., 2006, ‘Muriel Castanis, 80, sculptor with a unique method’, The
Villager 29, http://thevillager.com/villager_189/murielcastanis80.html [ac-
cessed: 11 November 2013].
Beck U., Giddens A., Lash S., 1994, Reflexive Modernization: Politics, Tradi-
tion and Aesthetics in the Modern Social Order, Stanford California: Stanford
University Press.
Costantini C., Mitoraj I., 2003, Blask kamienia, Kraków: Wydawnictwo Liter-
ackie.
Finlay I.H., 2012, Selections, ed. by Alec Finlay, Berkeley California: University
of California Press.
Green Ch, 2001, The Third Hand: Collaboration of Art. From Conceptualism to
Postmodernism, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.
Hardwick L., 2011, Introduction: Making Connections, in: Hardwick L., Stray
Ch., eds, A Companion to Classical Receptions, Oxford, Blackwell Publishing.
Hardwick L., 2003, Reception Studies, Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Jencks Ch., 1987, Post-Modernism. The New Classicism in Art and Architecture,
London: Academy Edition.
Kuspit D., 1992, Classical integrity under the condition of modern loss of integrity,
in: Kuspit D. Testori G., Igor Mitoraj, Milan: Gruppo Editoriale Fabbri.
Mitoraj : Kraków, Paryż, Rzym, Krakow, Paris, Rome, 2006, Cracov: International
Culture Centre.
Rashwan N., Finlay I.H., 2001, ‘The Death of Piety. Ian Hamilton Finlay in con-
versation with Nagy Rashwan’, Jacket Magazine 15 http://jacketmagazine.
com/15/rash-iv-finlay.html.

Philosophy and Anthropology

Joanna Ślósarska
Polish Reception of the Myth of Artemis and

Acteon based on Selected Examples
This article consists of six sub-chapters: 1. An introduction to the oldest version of the
myth of Artemis and the later reception of the figure of Artemis; 2. The subject of the rela-
tionship between the literary trail of metamorphosis and the experience of metanoia. 3. B.
Leśmian, ‘Akteon’ – the myth of Artemis and Actaeon as a prefiguration of the experience
of metanoia; placing the poetic vision between the Greek tradition and the Christian one.
4. A. Lange, ‘Akteon’ – I present the amplifications of the myth of Artemis (the vision of
the Ephesian Artemis) and Actaeon’s transformation. 5. L. Brywczyński, ‘Artemis Hunt-
ing. A Drama in One Act’ – the function of a clash of various aesthetic conventions, lead-
ing to an oscillation between the comedy and the tragedy, the ritualization and profana-
tion of an archaic myth. 6. Conclusions: the analysis of the myth of Artemis (as a guardian
of childbirth) and Actaeon in the perspective of the anthropology of the body.
Artemision
A metonymic expansion of the name of the Temple of Ephesus allows for the
Artemision to be perceived as a collection of the texts of culture centred around
the Aegean goddess. The inductive nature of the myth of Artemis was initiated
with the topos of the killer with a golden bow. In the most ancient tradition,
Artemis and her brother Apollo (the Destroyer and the Killer) constituted to-
gether, as justified by Ignacy Danka, a hypostasis of the primary asexual power
to inflict violent death (Danka 1987). A later tradition (from the 7th century
BC) associates the power of Apollo’s sister with the energy of the Earth and
the Moon, which gave impetus to the formulation of the further, opposing
properties as typical of this character (Danka 1987: 48–53, Wrotkowski 2008:
376–379).
The dyad Artemis/Actaeon is a complex figure of a succession myth, initiated
by the interaction of Gaia and Uranus. The story of Artemis and Actaeon is there-
fore multilaterally linked to many other myths and arcane practices. The main
event of the story is the moment when Actaeon - during his hunt - comes across
Artemis bathing in a river near Orchomenos (or he deliberately approaches her
dressed in a deer’s skin in order to peek at her) and is suddenly transformed into
a deer which is then torn apart by his own dogs.
290 Joanna Ślósarska
The Artemisian myth of metamorphosis is intermingled with the Christian

experience of metanoia in the history of Ephesus. In the sixth century BC, the
temple of Artemis in Ephesus was founded. Here was placed a statue of the
goddess representing a many-breasted woman wearing a dress decorated with
towers. Ephesus is also the city of Heraclitus, Herostrates (the arsonist who set
fire to the temple of Artemis), Mary of Nazareth, John the Evangelist and Paul
of Tarsus. The Christian idea of metanoia is initiated by the episode on Mount
Tabor, where John the Evangelist witnessed ‘the Mystery of Transfiguration’
(‘the Mystery of the Light’).
Between the poetics and rhetoric of metamorphosis and the

experience of metanoia
The meaning of the Greek terms of metamorphosis (change of form) and
metanoia (change of mind) were developed interdependently in art and reli-
gion, and originally mainly in language and ritual. Together with the develop-
ment of Greek philosophy and Christian religion, the two concepts evolved
verging on poetics, rhetoric, philosophy, theology and anthropology. Meta-
morphosis was presented as a rhetorical and poetic trope formed in lexis and
eidolon, referring mainly to the imagination. Metanoia, on the other hand,
became the determinant of the spiritual attitude and style of taking actions. In
the New Testament, metanoia is a conversion in relation to God which means
a complete change of personality and system of values. Paul Evdokimov (1978:
63–70) pronounces metanoia to be a continuous renewal of the archetypal
‘imago Dei’ expressed as an inner integration of the human empirical and psy-
chological personalities. The formation in culture verging on the poetics of
metamorphosis and the experience of metanoia is the result of the develop-
ment of allegorical exegesis for which the hermeneutics of Origen, who called
for a reading of the Bible on literal, historical and spiritual planes, was a de-
cisive factor, as pointed out by Werner Jaeger (1961) and Manlio Simonetti
(1985: 63–107).
In the perspective of the poetics of metamorphosis and the experience of
metanoia, by transforming Actaeon into a stag, Artemis initiates a ritual the pur-
pose of which is to experience the transfiguration of biological life and reveal the
complexity of the world as the hypostasis of a hidden unity. The basic objects-
signs associated with Artemis and Actaeon are a golden bow and attributive ani-
mals. The figure of a stag and Artemis as the ‘Lady of the Deer’ confirms the solar
aspect of Actaeon’s metamorphosis. From the archaic period, and later also in
Christian art and exegesis, the stag sign was identified with light, a triumph over
Polish Reception of the Myth of Artemis and Acteon 291
darkness and evil (Forstner 1991: 267–272). Since Actaeon’s bow was originally
the icon of mortal nature, the stag – as the hypostasis of Artemis herself – as-
sumes power over the archer. Dogs act as guardians of the victim. Being part
of the element of night and death, they attack the body of a stag by their very
nature. However, they are also under Artemis’ power so they are her faithful
servants in the ritual transfiguration of the cosmos.
The epiphany of light is associated with the ritual and mutual violence of
the deity and the hero. This situation is similar to the one described by René
Girard in his analysis of the relationship between the deity and the human be-
ing. Violence is a sign of what is absolutely worth being desired, i.e. divine self-
sufficiency, ‘a beautiful entirety’, which would not seem to be beautiful if it were
no longer impenetrable and inaccessible (Girard 1972: 220–221). The paradoxi-
cal image of this entirety is the transcultural theme of tearing the body apart.
It provides a basis for the initiatory scenario where a ceremonial feast which is
life resulting from the primary victim of the god transforming himself into the
world is presumed (Eliade 1959: 133–145).
‘Hunting down a spirit’. Bolesław Leśmian’s Akteon

In Leśmian’s poem ‘Akteon’ (1975: 254–255), the basic semantic function is
expressed by a repeated phrase containing the verb ‘to watch’ firstly used in
the third person and then in the first. The following phrases are included: Ac-
taeon ‘watched the goddess in the glow’ and ‘God, when I watched you’. The
transition from ‘he’ (Actaeon) to ‘I’ was developed in the transformation of
Actaeon into a stag and the paradoxical transformation of ‘I’ into a human be-
ing: ‘transformed into a human being for the misery of my crime’. Repetition of
the verb ‘(he) watched’ establishes a parallelism of Actaeon and the lyrical ‘I’,
and at the same time introduces dramatic tension between the Greek myth of
metamorphosis, the religious principle of metanoia and the poetic experience
of transfiguration of ‘I’.
A temporary experience of ‘co-personality’ becomes the dominant state of
separation. Another consequence is also the experience of losing one’s own abil-
ity to speak: ‘My voice, be silent! You are not mine! I don’t have mine any more’.
In the Christian tradition, one’s own speech is lógos prophorikos – a manifested
logos, identical with the act of self-expression. However, lógoi as God’s thoughts
are the truths about things which are not contained in the things themselves,
but are their goal (télos) in the form of a call that can be either accepted or
rejected by virtue of its own freedom. Metanoia is initiated by God’s grace; it
is a response of love to love (Evdokimov 1978: 92–94). Existential merging in
mutual communication of what is divine and what is human establishes the ‘I’
as synergósa – a co-worker, an assistant, a co-contractor.
In the Greek cosmos, the gods come across the border, which for them is a
mortal human being, devoid of creative power and one who does not know the
truth. A human being comes across the border which for him/her is constituted
by an omniscient, causal and eternal deity. Therefore, gods participate in human
weakness, a human being under God’s power. In Christian tradition, God is the
one who, having called before himself, promises permanent shelter and spiritual
development.
‘A must-see’. Antoni Lange’s Akteon

Lange’s poem (1979: 183–189) is a re-narration and amplification of a Greek
myth. The poem begins with the image of nature enthroning Artemis during a
moonlit night. The trees make the following announcement: ‘Here comes our
Queen - / There comes the soul of the mysteries of eternal existence’. Originally,
the goddess appears as Selene and Cybele, but later in the poem she is to be
found as a multi-named deity. While creating Actaeon, Lange introduced an
allegoric, transcultural scaffolding representing the category of anthropos. He
used the image of the hunting dogs accompanying Actaeon. The ‘five pointers’
are the senses of vision, hearing, touch, taste and smell. The ‘vicious hounds’
represent Impression, Idea, Concept, Judgment and Conclusion; the ‘obedient
setters’ – Experience, Prudence, Despair, Certainty; other dogs – Weight and
Number – represent ‘nous’ and the order of the cosmos and art at the same time.
The ‘unruly greyhounds’ have the function of imagination, unconsciousness and
superconsciousness - Dream, Apparition, Inspiration, Fantasy and Clairvoyance.
Updating the theophany (the vision of the statue of the Multi-Breasted Arte-
mis of Ephesus), Lange refers to the presentation of Apuleius – ‘Diana Dictynna’,
‘The Lady of Elements’ and ‘The Mother of the Universe’. The goddess is perceived
(‘watched’) for a while as a total deity, the feeder of a million creatures, merciful
and compassionate. She emerges from the fog and changes into a gold-green-
blue mist, is transformed into invisibility (‘everything has been dispersed’). The
symbol of mist means indeterminacy, the phase of transformations when forms
are not yet distinctive or have already been destroyed. Fog is a mixture of air,
water and fire and the passage between life and death, as well as between what is
real and what is fantastic.
Succumbing to the vision of a hyperbolized statue of the Multi-Breasted Arte-
mis (‘A great number of breasts she has on her bosom, torso and hips–/ And mil-
lions of creatures around her breasts sucking her udders’), Actaeon participates in
the mystery of transforming water into milk and blood as a mystery of life; how-
ever, he is not among those millions of creatures sucking milk. He is the one who
only watches. For the hero of the poem, who ‘was the eye in his entirety’, the ten-
sion between fantasmic visual perception, corporeal nature and spiritual insight
becomes intensified in his own disintegration in order to result in the sanctioning
of a new entirety of the ‘I’, which Lange emphasizes in the final, symbolic kiss
Artemis offers to the ‘dead’ Actaeon.
‘Artemis, tell us where you are’

Lech Brywczyński’s Artemida na łowach. Dramat w jednym akcie
[Artemis Hunting. A Drama in One Act]
Lech Brywczyński’s drama, ‘Artemida na łowach’ (2002: 101–108) is a contem-
porary reinterpretation of the ‘broken glance’ between Artemis and the ‘watch-
er’, which contains a cultural diagnosis of the condition of post-modern man.
The author applies a selection, re-composition, substitution and amplification
of individual myths. Moreover, he clashes aesthetic conventions with linguistic
ones. These tricks lead to an oscillation between comedy and tragedy, ritualiza-
tion and profanation of the archaic sacrum, between the signs, symbols and
figures of tradition which are typical of the grotesque. The figurative technique,
which enables the introduction of a certain ironic distance, makes use of col-
loquial language, which is spoken by all characters.
Actaeon appears indirectly in the dialogues between Artemis and the
nymphs. His metamorphosis prefigures and dramatizes the plot. The first scene
of the drama presents the ritual site of the events - a forest glade. Artemis is
dressed in an antique dress, garnished with a tiara, a bow and quiver of arrows.
Scene two of the drama takes place between Phylene and Bellerophon in the
royal palace. Unveiling the mystery of Phylene’s letter, which was one of the rea-
sons for their marriage, awakens Bellerophon’s desire for revenge. He becomes
controlled by Eris, whose mother – the Night – gave also birth to Revenge, Sud-
den Death, Betrayal, Friendship, Old Age, Derision and Fall. Eris herself gave
birth to Suffering, Battle, Discord, Murder, Forgetfulness, Struggle, Deceit and
Manslaughter.
In the third scene, which takes place at dusk in the same glade, as in the open-
ing scene of the drama, arrives Alpheus, looking clumsy and grotesque with a
stuffed travel bag and hymns in honour of Artemis. He plans to meet the goddess
as if on a date, a picnic out in the bosom of nature, and the victuals and alcohol
he has prepared are intended for a shared meal, which is a violation of the ritual
of giving food to Artemis as a religious gift. The fourth scene, which takes place
at dawn, begins with Artemis and the nymphs appearing in the glade. Artemis
‘sits on the trunk, as if on the throne’ and tells her companions the story of the
sword and sudden death of Bellerophon lying next to Actaeon. In further dia-
logues in scene four, Artemis depreciates the figure of Alpheus as a mortal with
‘a hare’s heart’, unworthy of her immediate reaction. Artemis says: ‘You can kill
someone who carries greatness inside themselves, and he could only be crushed
in the same way as is an insect’.
The final parts of the drama are the realization of Artemis’ plan to create
a dancing procession with the nymphs. The essence of this plan is mimicry -
Artemis and the nymphs appear before Alpheus identically dressed and wear-
ing the same makeup. Alpheus runs among them in a tightening circle, trying
to recognize Artemis and asking each of them: ‘Artemis, where are you?’ The
postmodern trick of mirror reflections and personal simulations is a sarcastic
mockery of the hero. Alpheus is not able to perform the disillusion because his
love stops on the verge of the external signs - (women’s costumes and make-up)
and the internal ones - his egocentricity imbued with self-centredness and vain-
glory. He escapes confused, scared and humiliated with Bellerophon’s sword,
with which he was not courageous enough to kill himself. As stressed by Adam
Krokiewicz, if the effort undertaken by Homer’s hero was in vain, then it was
a sign of a pitiful powerlessness either of the heart or the mind and was to be
associated with villainy itself (Krokiewicz 2000: 116).
Conclusions
The principle of transitivity in the Artemision in the context of
presented analysis
The Greek τεμ means ‘cut’, ‘chop’; άρταμέω means ‘I kill’. Artemis is one who ‘cuts’,
‘kills’. But the goddess-murderer is also one who provides patronage to child-
birth. In the anthropological perspective, the images of a sudden transformation
of the beings and phenomena characteristic of the trope of metamorphosis are
rooted in the act of the human birth, in cutting the umbilical cord, when a child
finds himself or herself ‘face to face’ with his or her mother. The quality and all
subsequent projections of this experience are not to be traced only in the cutting
of the umbilical cord, as it still continues to pulsate for another few minutes after
birth. This is the time when the infant is present in both worlds at the same time.
He or she absorbs oxygen from two sources, until a hole in his or her heart is
closed, and the lungs have received the oxygen from outside (Boadella 1987: 45).
In Homer’s tradition the diaphragm and breath are the cradle of intelligence;
the heart and the rhythm of blood circulation are responsible for the passions.
These are the two main centres in the human being regulated by Moira, ‘The
Lady of and Destiny’, and Ananke - the goddess of inevitability, compulsion
and necessity. The Greek concept of the measure is the gods’ idea, their mys-
tery (Hilsbecher 1967: 82–83, 92–93, 101–105). The measure is immeasurable,
yet perfectly measured as Kairos – the moment. The cut performed by Artemis
is in accordance with the measure. As Mircea Eliade stressed, by formulating
the analogy between the biological and the mystery birth, a human being who
wants to be born again must do so in a one-dimensional and non-time distance,
separating the related but opposing forces through which one can only pass ‘as
quickly as a flash’ (Eliade 1959: 91–92).
The grounds for early childhood contact with the mother means breaking up
into pieces, infinitely falling, dying and losing hope for the renewal of contact
(Winnicott 1998: 104–105). The transit space is a primary, postnatal set of phe-
nomena, characterized by both spatiality and temporality. These phenomena do
contain an external or internal reality in their selves, they are a physical, emo-
tional and cognitive experience, moulding the subsequent existence and cultural
activities of a human being. In linguistics the dynamics of the transit space is
expressed in the form of stylistic figures of speech, iconic characters and symbols
(Winnicott 2002: 75, 91–96; see sample analysis the texts of Leśmian, Lange,
Brywczyński).
The act of ‘breaking the glance’ and the religious postponing of the opportu-
nity to commune with God ‘face to face’ means establishing the process of matu-
ration, autonomization of an individual, his or her transformation or destruction
and regression. To be able to see one’s mother’s face, one has to be born; to be
able to see God’s face - one has to die. The inversion in the Artemisian mystery
of such terms as ‘to kill/to revive’, ‘to cut/to unite’, together with the principle of
metamorphosis is a sign of entering into a transitional space, the participants of
which include not only the goddess’s victim, but the whole environment, or – to
put it broadly – logos and cosmos.
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patristica, Roma: Studia Ephemeridis Augustinianum 23.
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Rolewski, FiS UW.

Damian Stocking
Sidney Mitsunaga-Whitten
The “Myth-ing” Link:

The Postmodern Community and Classical
Myth in John Barth’s Menelaiad
This paper, a study of John Barth’s novelette, ‘Menelaiad,’ addresses itself to the seeming
paradox of a postmodern work that seems to possess ‘mythic’ dimensions. Demonstrat-
ing first how Barth’s tale, through its ingenious deployment of frame narrative, embodies
perfectly the Derridean principle of the ‘structurality of structure’, it goes on to consider
the troubling ways in which the story also seems traditionally mythic, in ways completely
at odds with postmodernity’s refusal of grand narratives. This aporia is resolved in two
ways. First, we show how Menelaus, as eternal husband, serves as a suitable figure for
postmodernity’s peculiarly anti-metaphysical and ‘fundamental’ ontology. Second, we
note how Barth’s relentless calling attention to the telling and re-telling of story within the
presentation of the myth of Menelaus makes us re-evaluate myth as a whole, as the site of
its own self-interruption–and therefore as the potential site of an authentically postmod-
ern community of difference.
John Barth’s ‘Menelaiad’ is – to use a term that may at first seem wildly inappro-
priate to the subject matter at hand, but one that we nonetheless hope to justify
over the course of this paper– what one might call a quintessential piece of post-
modern literature. Its more or less simultaneous appearance with the author’s
programmatic essay on ‘The Literature of Exhaustion’ in the mid-1960’s, its pride
of place as the central and most extensive tale of all the collected stories in Lost
in the Funhouse, and most important, its brilliant, teasing, playful stylistic inno-
vations, all combine to make this one story a typifying and indeed foundational
work for the postmodern literary movement in America.
The most pronounced stylistic feature of the work, of course, is its dizzying
employment of the literary device of the frame narrative. The story begins with
the solitary un-contextualized voice of Menelaus of Sparta, addressing himself to
us, the readers of the tale–though only uncertainly so: ‘Menelaus here … Anyone
there? Anyone here?’ (130). In the end, he more or less despairs of anyone listen-
ing to him but himself, and resolves to ‘get hold of himself ’ by telling himself his
own story—which he does by imagining what he might have said to Telemachus
and Pisistratus when they were visiting him and Helen in Sparta (as related in the
nepenthe scene of Book IV of the Odyssey): ‘Got you!’ I cry to myself, imagining
298 Damian Stocking Sidney Mitsunaga-Whitten
Telemachus enthralled by the doctored wine…’ (132). On the face of things, this
imagined Telemachus enjoys Menelaus’ story quite thoroughly: ‘This is gripping,’
I say to myself Telemachus said (133).
While relating to the imaginary Telemachus what transpired while he was bring-
ing Helen back to Sparta, Menelaus reaches the point in the narrative at which he
wishes to re-consummate their marriage on board the returning ship which Helen
frustratingly and hilariously refuses to do until he reveals to her what the sea-god
Proteus revealed to him on Pharos. Thus does the second story en-frame a third:
‘Nothing for it…’ I say to myself I told Telemachus I sighed to Helen’ (140). But in
telling Helen about his struggle to ‘hold on’ to Proteus, he inevitably reaches the
point in the story in which Proteus himself demands to be told how Menelaus
knew how to catch him and so, Menelaus, imagining himself talking to Telema-
chus talking to Helen talking to Proteus about his sea-nymph daughter’s betrayal,
‘rehearses the tale of me and slippery Eidothea’ (144). He reminds Proteus that he
had left Troy with Helen, and had decided too insofar as she continued to ‘hold
fast the door of love’ (147) to spend seven years ‘a-princing and a-pirating’ (147).
Shipwrecked and starving on Pharos, considering suicide even, he sees a female
shape upon the beach, one that somehow reminds him of Helen (even though her
hair was green, and she ‘was finned where the other was toe’d’). Exasperated and
desperate in more ways than one, Menelaus takes hold of the elusive nymph, deter-
mined to get information – or sex, or both – from her, but before he can go on, she
insists first… on learning from him what happened in the final days of Troy. Me-
nelaus despairs at this point in his story – ‘Why do you weep?’ asks Proteus, asks
Helen, asks Telemachus, asks Menelaus of himself – presumably with no one else
listening. But the story of the fall of Troy must be told: “Come on (man), come on
(boy), come on (Helen), come on (god), come on (nymph)’ urges each successive
level of interlocutor, the final one being Proteus’ daughter, the slippery Eidothea
(148, parenthetical identifications added). Menelaus now reaches the part of the
story in which he finds Helen in a burning Troy, apparently on the verge of having
sex with her newest lover, Deiphobus. Menelaus wished to kill the man, but suc-
ceeds only in fighting him to a draw; it is Helen herself who kills Deiphobus. Con-
fronting his thus possibly faithful, but possibly faithless wife, he points a sword at
her breast, and just prior to killing her demands that she answer the question that
has agonized him now for years, namely: ‘Why?’ His wife having observed some-
what blandly that he seems to have lost weight, astounds him with an exasperat-
ingly coy question of her own: ‘Why what?’ Nonplussed to distraction, Menelaus
immediately begins to rehearse the terrible history of all the damage to men and
nations his wife had caused, thereby treating himself to the shared pleasure (and
frustration) of telling Helen in Troy a story told to Eidothea told to Proteus told to
The “Myth-ing” Link 299
Helen on board a homeward bound ship told to Telemachus told to either us or

only himself, of the day he finally got to confront Helen with the one question that
had plagued him from the beginning (with every word now nested in six different
sets of interiorizing quotation marks) – ‘Why’d you wed me?’ (155). Having finally
sputtered that terrible question out, Menelaus manages then to tell all his imag-
ined narratees (including himself) of the baffling yet inevitable one word answer
he least expected to receive, the simple response, ‘Love’. Broken by this, he now
launches into the innermost narrative of the ‘Menelaiad,’ telling one and all of how
he had tried, long before the Trojan War, before Paris had taken his wife away, to
escape Helen, to escape in effect all the self-doubt she bred in him. Yet he relates as
well how finally, ‘done with questions’ (158), he had at long last run home, ready to
love his wife fully now – only, by the time he returned, Helen had already left with
Paris for Troy, and he was left shouting aloud (with his famous war cry) for Helen,
alone ‘in a wifeless hall’ (158). It would have been acceptable, Menelaus surmises,
to give up on Helen then; but as he explains – ascending quickly back up the chain
of interlocutors in the last quarter of the story – he will not simply ‘let her go’
(158). He does not kill his wife; rather, he endures his own doubts, the ones he feels
regarding both her and himself (for Menelaus has come to suspect that at some
point, while holding on to Proteus, the changeable sea god had assumed the shape
of Menelaus holding on to a changeable sea god, and that all these stories were the
invention of Proteus himself, whereas ‘Menelaus was lost on the beach at Pharos’
(167)). Undismayed, the solitary narrator’s voice resolves to continue whistling out
his own story in the dark, made and unmade ceaselessly by the ‘absurd, unending
possibility of love’ (167).
As this somewhat extensive resumé has (we hope) made quite clear, Barth’s
story is therefore a quintessentially postmodern one. For one basic touchstone
of all postmodern art, so we would argue, is its preoccupation with what Derrida
has called ‘the structurality of structure’ (Derrida 1978: 278). That is to say, where
art before the postmodern had simply assumed the existence of certain exterior,
transcendental structuring principles – the existence, that is, of someone called
a narrator, someone called a narratee, a code, a message, and so forth (or, in a
different medium, the frame, the canvas, the paint), all those things within and
by which a painting or a story might inhere–in postmodern art, no such exterior
principles get to exist without getting themselves folded into the story or picture
itself. The frame and the canvas become part of the portrait, the narrator becomes
involved in his own tale, with every attempt to find a further untouched, exterior
and stabilizing frame undergoing the selfsame ‘re-implication’. In postmodern art
and literature, every form is someone else’s content, every content someone else’s
structuring form.
Barth’s story would thus seem, from the perspective of postmodern aesthetics,
entirely comme il faut. What might give certain of his readers pause, however,
is Barth’s decision to ground his dizzying experiment in narrational différance
in – of all possible things – a well-worn series of stories drawn from Greek myth.
For, following Lyotard, we have come to understand the postmodern aesthetic
as a force that disrupts any attempt to ‘form a bridge over the gap separating the
discourses of knowledge, ethics, and politics’ and thereby ‘open a way for the
unity of experience’ (Lyotard 1992: 3). By ‘questioning the rules of painting or
of narrative as they have learned them…as a means to deceive, to seduce, and to
reassure’ (Lyotard 1992: 71), postmodern artists wage a ‘war on totality’ (Lyotard
1992: 16). Myth, on the other hand, as Jean Luc Nancy has observed, is popularly
(or perhaps ‘mythically’) understood to operate in precisely the opposite direc-
tion: listening to myth, ‘those who have gathered together understand everything,
in listening they understand themselves and the world, and they understand why
it was necessary for them to come together’ (Nancy 1991: 44). Postmodernism
disrupts, myth binds – and never the twain shall meet. Except, it seems, in John
Barth’s ‘Menelaiad.’
One might of course claim that the incorporation of myth here is a simple
matter of parody. And without a doubt, traditional mythic material is reduced
throughout the story to hilariously bourgeois dimensions: ‘I showed them
our house, all our African stuff, it really knocked their eyes out’ (134). But we
would contend that in this story myth exceeds any simplistic parodic character.
Strangely, Barth’s ridiculous post-modern hero does in fact assume something
like mythic proportions in this strange tale. The full explication of this effect
would doubtless occupy a whole monograph but one important key to Barth’s
underlying stratagem might be captured in a certain two-word epithet that
Menelaus applies to himself within the first three sentences of the book. Hav-
ing tried to shore up his quickly fading sense of identity and repute with some
standard Homeric epithets (‘the fair haired boy? Of the loud war cry! Leader
of the people. Zeus’ fosterling’), Menelaus settles for an epithet of Barth’s own
invention: ‘Eternal husband’ (130). The word ‘eternal’ is of central importance
here. For Menelaus is not simply one domestically troubled man among oth-
ers. His situation is meant to resonate with us in a more universal way – a
task to which myth (and perhaps myth alone) is particularly well-suited. For
mythos – originating as it did in semantically marked opposition to epos as
effective, ‘performative’ speech, a context-shaped utterance meant to serve as
an informing precedent for its addressee (cf. Martin 1989: 10, 12) – enjoys the
unique status of a ‘plot’, that ambiguous event-sequence that somehow always
manages to ride clear of any actual spoken or written version of itself. Myth by
force of its peculiar nature and history seems to rise above all considerations
of the merely ‘ontic’. Working with mythic material might thus be considered
Barth’s (rather conventional) way of conferring a basic ontological significance
upon his tale.
But once again, we must ask what possible interest could a ‘grand-narrative
phobic’ postmodernist like Barth take in creating a literature with ontological
pretensions? Isn’t this precisely what postmodernity opposes? Is it not the ne-
gation of all talk of essence let alone ‘quintessence’? The answer to this question
lies, we believe, in the suggestive second half of the epithet, ‘eternal husband’.
For all its noisy objections to the contrary notwithstanding, postmodernity
may not be so deeply opposed to ontology as one might at first suppose. What
postmodernity does oppose, it seems to us, is granting any one particular ‘be-
ing’ a privileged ontological status mistaking, as Heidegger would say, a ‘being’
for Being itself. For the condition of any particular being in the world is always
contingent, incomplete, inescapably provisional. Yet that particular vision of
beings in the world is also a kind of ontology, a ‘fundamental ontology’ if you
will and it is one which we think finds perfect expression in Barth’s mythic
elaboration of the figure of the ‘husband’. For as Menelaus all-too-painfully
demonstrates, however strenuously the male asserts his mastery over self and
other, his identity is by definition, always deferred, lent out, suspended: ‘Me-
nelaus excelled in no particular unless the doggedness with which he clung
to the dream of embracing, despite all, Helen’ (153). This is why, more than
Odysseus, more than Achilles, it is Menelaus around whom Barth reorganizes
Greek myth (and our sense of being in the world along with it). Menelaus,
the eternal husband, is the image of self-possessed ‘being’ broken down into a
mere ‘being-with’ (cf. Heidegger ff. 154–155), a self-presence degraded into an
identity perpetually deferred, one who is ‘not-yet for as long as it is’ (Heidegger
1962: 286). Menelaus is, in short (to change idioms ever so slightly), the figure
of ‘phallogocentrism’s’ ownership of its own inevitable failure: ‘Got you have I?
No? Changed your shape? Become waves of the sea? The air? Anyone there?
Anyone here?’ (130).
So we see that in the ‘Menelaiad,’ once again, a chosen myth has been pressed
into the special service of telling us the way ‘it really is’ only now, refracted
through the dubious figure of Menelaus, neither the ‘it’ nor the ‘is’ are exactly
what they used to be. And given this particular thematic focus, it makes all the
sense in the world as to why Barth should select this story as the platform for
his daring experiments in narration and narrative frames. For just as there is no
Menelaus, nor any Proteus even, just as there is no self-present subject whatso-
ever to speak of in this entire tale (‘then I understood further how Proteus thus
also was as such no more, being as possibly Menelaus’ attempt to hold him, a
tale of that vain attempt, the voice that tells it’(167))—so too there can never be
a simple self-given narrative: if the self has, as Barth wittily puts, “turned tale”
(167), it is equally true that the tale itself chases its own ‘tail’ forever (‘Lion to
snake, paws into tail. Snake to leopard, tail into tail, and hindpaws both’ (141)).
But now we can see why it may have been more than the story of Menelaus
alone that led Barth, his post-modernist sensibilities a-burgeoning, to take up
such old and outdated mythic material. For myth exists – as does Menelaus
himself – only in the telling, and the ever-renewed re-telling (‘this isn’t the
voice of Menelaus, this voice is Menelaus, all there is of him’ (130)). Myth,
unlike the written text, has not even the most spurious claim to an ‘independ-
ent existence’. Barth’s story highlights this aspect of myth, this being only in
being-retold, in ways no one had before. His most profound contribution to
the reception of myth may be, therefore, not the re-evaluation of one particular
mythic figure, but a wholesale re-evaluation of the figure of myth as such. In
his insightful essay, ‘Myth Interrupted,’ Jean Luc Nancy once observed that to
the extent that humans communicate (and even exist) only at the limit, only
at the places where certainly crumbles, ‘what takes place on this limit requires
the interruption of myth’ (Nancy 1991: 67). But Barth – who once provoca-
tively declared that he was personally ‘of the temper that chooses to rebel along
traditional lines’ (Barth, ‘Exhaustion’ 65) – seems to show that our conception
of myth as monolithic, pacifying and unifying, was itself a myth. This most
peculiar of mythic receptions reminds us of the groundlessness of myth, and
shows its availability once again as a means of human communication and
community. For it may once have been assumed that the function of myth was
to put an end to the endless play of meaning; but Barth’s image of a voice story-
ing itself uncertainly as story, reminds us that this is all ‘traditional’ myth ever
was, and all it ever will be. Thus it places myth, in entirely new ways, once again
at the center – albeit an empty center – of our most postmodern, yet also our
most impassioned, experiences of community.
References
Barth J., 1968, Lost in the Funhouse, Garden City, NY: Doubleday.
– 1984, The Literature of Exhaustion, in: Friday Book: Essays and Other Non-
Fiction, London: Johns Hopkins University Press.
Heidegger M., 1962, Being and Time, New York: Harper.
Lyotard, J.F., 1992, The Postmodern Explained, Minneapolis: University of Min-
nesota Press.
Martin R., 1989, The Language of Heroes: Speech and Performance in the Iliad,
Ithaca: Cornell UP.
Nancy J.L., 1991, The Inoperative Community, Minneapolis: University of Min-
nesota Press.
Derrida J., 1978, Structure, Sign and Play in the Discourses of the Human Sciences,
in: Writing and Difference, trans. Allan Bass. Chicago: University of Chicago
Press.

Elizavetta Koemets
Grimly Reaping: Melancholy and

the Creative Harvest
This paper establishes the theme of the harvest in classical myth as the crucial link between
creativity and melancholia, which has been noted and examined since Aristotle. The ‘satur-
nine’ melancholic humour and its creative potency is intricately tied to Saturn, the god of
both melancholy and the harvest. While scholars such as Feld and Jackson have explored
the relationships between melancholy and creativity, Saturn’s role in such creativity has
largely been passed over, and even Klibansky, Panofsky, and Saxl’s Saturn und Melancholie
associates creativity with “Dame Mérencolye” rather than Saturn. The following analysis
is based on a broad interpretation of ‘the harvest,’ encompassing agriculture, fertility, and
creation. Stemming from Feld’s cursory allusion to a connection between Saturn and Dio-
nysus, the relation of the Dionysian myth to melancholy is analysed alongside the myth of
Saturn. Another link to the gods of the ancient world is provided through Jackson’s discus-
sion of the medieval understanding of enthusiasm as divine/demonic possession brought
about by melancholy. The arguments herein provide an alternative answer to Aristotle’s
relation between melancholy and creativity by demonstrating the extent to which classical
mythical figures in the creative harvests are attributed to the melancholic humour.
In Book XXX of Problemata, attributed to Aristotle, the question arises: ‘Why is

it that all those who have become eminent in philosophy or politics or poetry or
the arts are clearly of an atrabilious temperament, and some of them to such an
extent as to be affected by diseases caused by black bile […]?’ (1927: 953). This
perception of melancholics remains central to numerous studies, especially in the
representation of melancholia as one of the four temperaments – the saturnine
humour. Classical and medieval lore links melancholy to earth, autumn, and
middle age; however, it is melancholy’s mythological ties that provide the most
thorough foundation for its ties to with creation and creativity; the contradic-
tions inherent in the Saturn mythos parallel the complexities of the melancholic
humour and elucidate its elaborate nexus to creativity by way of the harvest.
In Roman mythology, Saturn is the god of agriculture, corresponding to the
Greek Kronos. Having usurped his father and been usurped by his children, Sat-
urn represents the cyclical nature of time as well as of the harvest. He is father and
creator, but also the devourer his children – his an unsuccessful attempt at defy-
ing the prophecy that they would overthrow him. As such, he is the melancholy,
exiled god, in mourning for the lost Golden Age of his rule. Yet in the lore of
306 Elizavetta Koemets
the humours, Saturn takes on an uncharacteristically fatherly role. Melancholics

were known as ‘the children of Saturn’; wisdom being an acknowledged trait
of melancholia, medieval representations often showed Saturn watching over
meetings of the wise. In Christine de Pisan’s 15th century series Epître d’Othéa,
for instance, Saturn is depicted in the heavens presiding over a council of wise
men: ‘Der Planetengott sitzt auf Wolken in einer Sternenglorie als echter Him-
melsherrscher, und unten auf der Erde leben seine ‹Kinder› […] im Fall Saturns
die Weisen, die zum Rat versammelt sind’ (Klibansky, Panofsky, and Saxl 1992:
305).1 This image marks Saturn as an entirely different god and ‘father’ from that
of Roman myth; the father of the melancholics now oversees the affairs of his
children with wisdom and calm authority.
Saturn is defined through such contradictions. Klibansky, Panofsky, and
Saxl (1992: 212) describe him as ‘der traurige, enthrone und einsame Gott’ later
deemed ‘als Gott des Todes und der Toten’ – but also as ‘der gütige Gott des
Landbaus, dessen Erntefest von Freien und Sklaven gemeinsam gefeiert wird’
and ‘der Erfinder der Agrikultur.’2 The god of death and the god of agriculture
are one, and the Grim Reaper becomes interchangeable with the more unassum-
ing ‘melancholy harvester’. Frequent representations of Saturn with a sickle only
serve to highlight the duality of death and the harvest in a single image. Even the
season associated with melancholy may be understood to allude to both aspects
– the fall in which to reap the harvest, and the fall of man.
The biblical ‘Fall of Man’ also serves to explain earth as the element associ-
ated with melancholy. Juliana Schiesari explains St. Hildegard’s interpretation of
melancholy as ‘a condition that emanates from the fall of Adam’ (Schiesari 1992:
157); the expulsion from paradise entails earthly banishment, and the connection
between earth and melancholy, however ancient, nonetheless pertains acutely to
the dark and sinful aspects given to melancholia in the Middle Ages. Klibansky
et al (1992: 181) point out that Hildegard considered all humors other than the
sanguine to be an aftereffect of the Fall; the melancholic humor, however took
on a ‘besonders düstere, ja geradezu infernale Beleuchtung’3 and as such became
most representative of the Fall.
1 The planet-god sits in the clouds in the glory of the stars as the rightful ruler of the
heavens, and below, on earth, live his ‘children’ – in Saturn’s case, the wise, who are
gathered in council. All translations mine.
2 The deposed and solitary god; the god of death and the dead; the founder of agricul-
ture, a benevolent god whose harvest festival was celebrated by free men and slaves
alike.’
3 ‘Particularly dire, even hellish light.’ (Klibansky et al. 1992: 181).
Grimly Reaping: Melancholy and the Creative Harvest 307
The other ‘fall’, the season of melancholy, undoubtedly strengthens the inter-
pretation of the harvest. The earth in autumn is the earth that yields crops; the
role of Saturn as god of agriculture further solidifies the significance of earth and
autumn to a consideration of the melancholic temperament. These associations,
far from arbitrary, establish a basis for interpreting melancholy as a productive
as well as a destructive force. It is in autumn that the nights become longer, the
weather becomes colder, and the leaves begin to dry after a briefly vibrant dis-
play, and the link of melancholy and autumn with middle age, ‘the autumn of
one’s life’, makes the season all the more appropriate in connection to melan-
choly.4 This stage of life is particularly serious. Hippocrates in Regimen I (Feld
2011: 5) writes: ‘rarest fire-driest water gives a dry and cold nature, unhealthy in
autumn, and when forty.’ An excess of black bile was considered most harmful
at this age, which Feld calls ‘the critical condition of maturity’ (Feld 2011: 2).
Significantly, this view is not confined to the ancient system of the four humours:
Jung (1933: 120) notes that ‘[s]tatistical tables show a rise in the frequency of
cases of mental depression in men about forty.’ Melancholy, though now signify-
ing mood rather than black bile, still proves to be most potent at this age.
For Jung (1933: 115), problems arise from consciousness, which causes one
to ‘have doubts and be at variance with himself.’ The transition from youth to
maturity, the two conscious states (as opposed to childhood and old age, which
for Jung fall closer to the unconscious), is often characterized by depression.
Jung explains the difficulty of such a transition by the change to the mean-
ing of life that occurs between these two stages. Youth is driven by nature,
by ‘the development of the individual, our entrenchment in the outer world,
the propagation of our kind and the care of our children,’ but when this aim
is achieved, continued striving for more of the same extends ‘beyond all rea-
son and sense,’ and these ‘earlier ideals [would be regarded] only as something
faded and worn out’ (Jung 1933: 126–127). In answer to this crisis, Jung pro-
poses that the meaning of life should be appropriately exchanged from natural
to cultural goals. And just as culture would give a sense of purpose in maturity,
so, too, the cultural fruits reaped by melancholics in the arts, philosophy, and
other such endeavours suggest that purpose may be attained in melancholy as
a harvest of the autumnal age.
4 Klibansky, Panofsky, and Saxl note that the age at which the melancholic tempera-
ment was thought to deepen underwent changes and has not been precisely defined;
it has been attributed both to ‘Greisenalter’ (old age) and to “Reifezeit” (maturity), the
latter from forty to sixty years of age. However, old age is more commonly associated
with the phlegmatic temperament. (1992: 48–49).
Mythology, however, presents a different approach to age: among his many

associations, Saturn represents a lost ‘Golden Age’ when men aged differently,
growing younger to return to the earth at the end of their life, thus ‘merging
with the principle of life’ (Feld 2011: 52). This oneness with nature has been
related to Nietzsche’s writings on ‘reconciliation through Dionysian harmo-
nies’ (Feld 2011: 52): for Nietzsche (1992: 40), the primordial unity breaks with
individuation and reveals the essence of nature in ‘oneness’ through the recon-
ciliation of seeming opposites. Feld (2011: 52) goes so far as to say that ‘in this
perspective Saturn, ruler of the Golden Age, would be another name for Dio-
nysus.’ Despite the difficulty in reconciling this bold claim with the Dionysus/
Bacchus and Saturn/Kronos pairing of Greek and Roman gods, the connection
Feld draws is nonetheless important for a thorough exploration of the harvests
of Saturn.
Aristotle’s Problemata is particularly helpful for tracing the link between
melancholia and the god of wine. Aristotle (1927: 953a) gives prominence to
the relation of melancholia to wine via analogy, likening the disparate range of
moods melancholia induces to those induced by wine, ‘which, if taken in large
quantities appears to produce such qualities as we attribute to the atrabilious,
inducing, as it is drunk, many different characteristics, making men for instance
irritable, benevolent, compassionate, or reckless.’ Similarly, he explains the dif-
ferentiation between unnatural melancholia, which is temporary in its effects
and comes about as the onset of a mood or disease, and melancholy as tempera-
ment thus: ‘As, therefore, an individual as he drinks and takes wine in different
quantities changes his character, so there are men who embody each character’
(Aristotle 1927: 953b). He also establishes that both wine and the melancholic
humour contain air – the humour because of the nature of physical maladies
thought to arise from black bile, and wine because it produces froth. Attributing
desire to a ‘presence of breath,’ Aristotle characterizes melancholics as ‘generally
lustful’ and alludes to the aphrodisiac nature of wine and Aphrodite’s affair with
Dionysus (Aristotle 1927: 953b). This opens up a path for further investigation
into the Dionysian characteristics corresponding to melancholy and Saturn, its
patron god.
The god of wine and the grape-harvest, of madness as well as fertility, Dionysus
exhibits surprising similarities to Saturn, god of agriculture and symbol of a tem-
perament that could also take form as madness. Saturn and Dionysus both share
their domain in creation, encompassing literal and symbolic harvests – the latter
could be madness- or melancholia- inspired artistic creations as well as birth.
Saturn’s connection with fertility is more complicated than with the other two
manifestations of harvest. Aristotle’s discourse on wine and desire is not entirely
sufficient for positing a direct link to fertility, and no explicit relation is made to
Saturn as there is to Dionysus. Though Kronos, Saturn’s Greek equivalent, fathers
of Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades, he destroys them for fear that they would over-
throw him as he overthrew his father, Uranus. The only relation that this aspect
of Saturn/Kronos has to the harvest is an aberrant one: he castrates his father
with a sickle, ‘das Werkzeug der Ernte’ (Klibansky, Panofsky, and Saxl 1992: 213)5
and eats his own children – a vague echo of consuming harvested crops as the
fruits of a fertile earth.
This myth points to another important parallel between Saturn and Dionysus
in illustrating their cyclical nature. Saturn overthrows his father and is over-
thrown as a father; as a god of the harvest, he also re-enacts its cyclical recur-
rences: it dies in winter, is sowed, harvested, and dies again. Dionysus’s story, too,
symbolizes the annual regeneration of his harvest. Because he is the son of Zeus
by a mortal, the ever-jealous Hera prevails upon the Titans to kill him, and they
dismember him and eat him; however, his limbs are salvaged and he is resur-
rected. In their Mythology, Roberts, Roberts, and Katz (2003: 69) call attention to
his resurrection, relating that ‘like the grapevine, Dionysus was said to die every
year, only to be reborn again in the spring.’
However, it is in examining Dionysus’ influence on the creative harvest that
the potential validity of his link with Saturn may hold the most weight. Both
madness and melancholy are forces inspiring creativity and enthusiasm. The
‘wine and ecstatic frenzy’ of Dionysian rites ‘liberate and inspire’ (Columbia
Electronic Encyclopedia 2013); melancholia brings about enthusiasm. In fact, the
original definition of the word enthusiasm itself reflects a Dionysian element: in
translation, enthusiasm means ‘divine possession’ (Jackson 1986: 328), connoting
the forfeiture of control which one might expect in the rituals of Dionysus, but
more tellingly, corresponding to his ability to ‘endow [man] directly with divine
creativity’ (Columbia Electronic Encyclopedia 2013).
In the Middle Ages, enthusiasm shifted in its cultural meaning, coming to sig-
nify ‘demonic possession’ (Jackson 1986: 329). Such enthusiasm would refer to
both Saturnian and Dionysian inspiration; Klibansky, Panofsky, and Saxl’s (1992:
498–499) briefly mention Dionysus in their explanation of furor as inspiration by
demons, which include the Muses, Dionysus, Apollo, Venus – and melancholy
itself. Inspiration is thus a diabolical force, the work of ancient gods disturbing
medieval virtues, but more importantly, it is a force originating beyond the control
5 ‘The tool of harvesting.’

of man, beyond his capacities and capabilities; in keeping with the Dionysian ele-
ment, it is intoxication as much as inspiration.
Together with poetry and philosophy, prophecy, too, is the effect of enthusi-
asm (Jackson 1986: 327), and the importance of intoxication in Dionysus’ role
is invariably linked to prophecy. Even in recent years, studies have been con-
ducted investigating what gases caused the Delphic priestesses to enter into a
trance when they gave their prophecies, based on the writings of Plutarch con-
cerning ‘sweet-smelling noxious fumes’ arising from ‘deep fissures beneath the
temple’ (Whipps 2006). Dionysus himself was said to have the gift of prophecy,
and shared a shrine with Apollo at Delphi (Myth Encyclopedia 2013). In his dis-
cussion of melancholy, Aristotle (1927: 954a) posits that the effect of heat on the
melancholic temperament causes ‘diseases of frenzy and possession’, already sug-
gestive of the Dionysian, and thus explains ‘the origins of Sybils and soothsayers
and all inspired persons.’ Here, as well, the Dionysian and Saturnian powers cor-
respond: while ‘enthusiasm’ accounts for the prophecies made by melancholics,
Aristotle’s explanation of the Sybils’ prophecies as effects of melancholia closely
echoes the attribution of oracular prophecies to intoxication.
Nietzsche’s evaluation of Dionysian inspiration encourages a more careful
examination of the link to the inspiration of melancholy. At the beginning of
his discourse on the Dionysian, Nietzsche (1992: 21) asks if ‘the Greeks’ […]
ever stronger craving for beauty, for festivals, pleasures, new cults was rooted
in some deficiency, privation, melancholy, pain.’ This suggestion is his prem-
ise for proposing that the ‘craving for the ugly’ – the pessimistic, frightful,
and destructive – arises from joy. Nietzsche posits the Dionysian madness as
‘that madness out of which tragic and comic art developed,’ thus, as one form
of creative madness. The other madness, melancholy, inspires the craving for
beauty.6
Rather than an interchangeable figure of melancholy – for Dionysus is indubi-
tably a joyous god – Dionysus represents a dialectical counterpart to melancholy,
which nonetheless fulfils a similar function in inspiring artistic creation. Placing
Dionysus in juxtaposition to Saturn in a discussion of melancholy contributes to
identifying their shared traits and various harvests as well as their idiosyncrasies:
the frenzied Dionysian joy from which the ‘craving for the ugly’ arises is thus set
against the admiration of beauty that melancholy enhances, and even, in the case
6 Perhaps the most direct portrayal of melancholy creating the desire for beauty is
shown in Keats’s ‘Ode On Melancholy,’ to be discussed subsequently.
of a wholesome balance in the melancholic humour, quiet contemplation, which

would be inconceivable in the Dionysian.
The link between thought or creativity and melancholia has been established
and re-established throughout the centuries. Aristotle’s preliminary question
has been pondered by a number of thinkers: for instance, De Laurens (Jackson
1986, 327) notes that when the melancholic humour (usually cold and dry) grows
hot, it brings about ‘a kind of divine ravishment, commonly called Enthousiasma,
which stirreth men up to plaie the Philosophers, Poets, and also to prophesie’,
while Jaspers (Feld 2011: 161) puts together a list of melancholics, historical and
fictional, concluding, like others before him, that ‘some hidden correlation often
stood in the background between the fact of illness and the profoundest of human
possibilities, between human folly and wisdom.’
Literature and myth reinforce these ties. In Dante’s Divine Comedy (Alighieri
1995), the poet’s travels take him past the melancholic souls in Hell and Purga-
tory, who are represented in various states of despair, anger, and sloth, to the
Seventh Heaven, ‘The Sphere of Saturn’ (XXI), where the melancholic nature of
the blessed is manifest in their activity as thinkers and philosophers. A spirit tells
Dante: ‘The mind, bright here, on earth is dulled and smoky. / Think: how, below,
can mind see that which hides / even when mind is raised to Heaven’s height?’
(XXI. 100–102) – it is only when raised to the Sphere of Saturn that the mind can
contemplate, if not entirely grasp, what is ‘dulled and smoky’ on earth.
Feld (2011: 46) reminds us that Dante places the Medusa in the lower part of
Hell: the Medusa’s petrifying gaze symbolizes the hopelessness and immobility
that are both symptoms of melancholy. In his notes to The Divine Comedy, Ar-
mour (Alighieri 1995: 564) suggests that she is ‘perhaps a symbol of the ultimate
sin, despair, which would petrify Dante and so trap him in Hell forever’ – and
indeed, Virgil cautions Dante that ‘should / the Gorgon show herself and you
behold her, / never again would you return above’ (IX. 55–57). Yet the Medusa of
myth, when vanquished by Perseus, gives birth to Pegasus, symbolizing ‘a latent
creativity imprisoned in the vortex of melancholic despair’ (Feld 2011: 46), while
in The Divine Comedy, the highest contemplation is a variation of melancholy,
reached in the sphere of Saturn once Dante passes through far graver manifesta-
tions of melancholy in Hell and Purgatory.
Thought and creativity thus entail immersion in melancholia. Jung (1933: 137)
espouses a similar idea, and his regard for the symbolism of ‘all religions’, and spe-
cifically, of Gnosticism, makes his commentary especially pertinent to a discus-
sion of Saturn and melancholy. In The Red Book, Jung’s (2009: 233) conversations
with his soul demonstrate the need for a descent into darkness to come to truth:
‘I am weary, my soul, my wandering has lasted too long, my search for myself
outside of myself… I found you where I least expected you. You climbed out of
a dark shaft… You let me see truths of which I had no previous inkling.’ This is
how melancholy, too, may be described. Weariness, darkness, and perhaps the
beginnings of hopelessness may be traced in Jung’s words: the speaker is by a dark
shaft, which brings out a stark contrast with the revelatory shaft of light; weary
after much fruitless searching, he is not expecting to find his lost soul there. And
yet, it is in darkness that the soul emerges to reveal its truths, in melancholy that
thought and creativity take root.
Keats’s ‘Ode On Melancholy’ (Klibansky, Panofsky, and Saxl 1992: 348–349)
follows a similar trajectory as an injunction to endure and even embrace mel-
ancholy rather than falling into despair and death. ‘[T]he wakeful anguish of
the soul’ (ln. 10) must not be drowned; when melancholy comes, Keats coun-
sels instead to ‘glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, / Or on the rainbow of the
salt sand-wave, / Or on the wealth of globed peonies’ (15–17), and thus exposes
an abundance of natural beauty, a result of the rain stereotypically arising in
April, which is the time of melancholy for Keats. The admiration of Beauty serves
not as a distraction from melancholy but rather as a condition of it; indeed, as
‘Beauty that must die’ (21), Beauty cannot be separated out from melancholy. It
is in ‘the Temple of Delight’ (25) that melancholy resides, ‘seen of none save him
whose strenuous tongue / Can burst Joy’s grape against his palate fine’ (27–28);
melancholy requires keen perception and a certain condition of merit. As Aris-
totle has expressed, remarkable figures are ‘all’ melancholics. What doubts one
may have about his generalization, his observation has been taken seriously in
the many subsequent studies of melancholia. In Keats’s ode, too, one needs a
‘strenuous tongue’ and a ‘palate fine’ – the strength to bear melancholy and par-
take of its fruits.
Klibansky et al (1992: 347) write that the romantic tradition has entirely sub-
verted the treatment of melancholy established throughout the ages. Yet in his
‘Ode On Melancholy’, Keats, though writing as a romantic poet, ‘[hat] die ganze
Konvention mit einem Schlag vernichtet, um die ursprüngliche Bedeutung des
Melancholiegefühls dadurch zu retten.’7 Even Keats’s melancholy April, contrast
as it might with the cold and dry autumnal melancholy of old, results in a harvest
of flora, and allows the melancholic to ‘burst Joy’s grape against his palate fine’
(349, ln. 28) where no other can. Keats may not be speaking specifically about
the creative fruits of melancholy, yet his poem may well be read as situated in the
7 Annihilated the entire convention with a single blow to save the original meaning of
melancholic feeling.
experience of melancholy, and consequently, as a product of it. His observations

arise as from the wisdom of the experience of melancholy, while the ode itself is
manifested as the result of a creative process; melancholy, whether on the part of
the poet or even merely as subject, is in either case the circumstance for artistic
creation. Here, too, Jung’s (2009: 335) writings shed their light: ‘The uncertain
way is the good way. Upon it lie possibilities. Be unwavering and create.’ His
three short sentences provide an elegant summation of Keats’s three stanzas, of-
fering up what is in essence the same advice – not to shy away from uncertainty
and melancholy, for it is from them that creation stems.
The relevance of such sentiments is not exclusive to Keats. Jung’s words offer
an explanation for Aristotle’s immortal question of why it is that remarkable per-
sons should be melancholics: the descent into darkness to which Jung repeatedly
alludes in his works either requires remarkable character or inspires a remark-
able revelation, and the mythos surrounding melancholy is remarkable in itself,
complex and contradictory yet integrating its opposing elements into a harmoni-
ous whole. The sickle of Saturn can have a violent or benevolent use; enthusiasm
entails a surrender of the self for possession by either the divine or the diabolical;
melancholy is contained in beauty and beauty in melancholy. Melancholy’s grim,
destructive aspects present creation in all its fragility while keeping alive the po-
tential for rebirth; to reap its harvest means not to shrink from the dark.
References
Alighieri, D., 1995, The Divine Comedy, trans A. Mandelbaum, Knopf, New York.
Aristotle, 1927, Problemata, in The Works of Aristotle, Vol VII: Problemata, Ross
W.D. ed., trans. Forster E.S., London: Oxford University Press.
Columbia Electronic Encyclopedia 2013, ‘Dionysus,’ 6th ed., History Reference
Center 39002924.
Feld A., 2011, Melancholy and the Otherness of God, Lanham: Lexington Books.
Jackson S., 1986, Melancholia and Depression. New Haven: Yale University
Press.
Jung C.G., 1933, Modern Man in Search of a Soul, Dell W.S. and Baynes C.F., New
York: Harcourt.
– 2009, The Red Book, ed. S. Shamdasani, trans. Kyburz, Peck, and Shamdasani,
New York: Norton.
Klibansky, Panofsky, and Saxl, 1992, Saturn und Melancholie, trans. C Buschen-
dorf, Frankfurt: Suhrkamp.
Myth Encyclopedia 2013, ‘Dionysus,’ Advemeg, Available from: <http://www.

mythencyclopedia.com/Cr-Dr/Dionysus.html> [13 May 2013].
Nietzsche, F. 1992, The Birth of Tragedy, in Basic Writings of Nietzsche, ed. and
trans. Kaufmann W., New York: Modern Library.
Roberts, Roberts, and Katz, 2003. Mythology, New York: Barnes and Noble
Books.
Schiesari J. 1992, The Gendering of Melancholia, Ithaca: Cornell University Press.
Whipps H., 2006, ‘New theory on what got the oracle of Delphi high,’ Live Science
31 October. 31.

Adriana Grzelak-Krzymianowska
The Nine Muses and Their Modern Existence
The purpose of my dissertation is to present the contemporary manifestation of the Muses

in various fields of human life. My studies concentrate mainly on the use of the names of
the Greek Muses, considered as the inseparable group or individual beings, in the works
of different types of artists, in metaphorical as well as non-metaphorical meanings, and
the everyday and ordinary application of the names of deities by mythological-oriented
and non-oriented users. Thus, in my presentation I provide different examples of the very
diverse circumstances in which the Nine Muses appear in the modern world, making
references to literature, painting, theatre, music, science, film, internet but also to some
commercial products to show that a kind of mythological thinking and at least some basic
knowledge of mythical stories is still in a way present also in our times.
The term Muse is currently recognized by professional and non-specialist users

of different languages all over the world1. There is no point in analysing this fact
as far as Antiquity researchers are concerned, but the fact that this appellation
is also often recalled not only by non-classists, but by ordinary people as well
makes this issue worth being taken under consideration as an example of the
reception of Antiquity in modern culture.
At the beginning of this article, to show the multifaceted character of the sub-
ject, I would like, however, to bring up at least a few of the matters the profes-
sional researchers of mythological Muses deal with, such as: names, genealogy,
the number of Muses, mythical stories about these deities, the places of their
cult (so called ‘sacral geography’), their relations with Apollo, Dionysus and the
nymphs, the meaning of female gender in Greek culture observed in the im-
age of the Muses (Murray 2006: 327–355), their role in poetic inspiration, their
presence in chorea and mousike perceived since the 5th century in Greece as a
sort of equivalent of ‘culture’, their connections with education, philosophical
1 The word muse derives from PIE root *men- ‘to think, remember’ (gr. memnemai, lat.
memini, Eng. mind, memory). The word was used in ancient languages (e.g. ancient
gr. Μοῦσαι, lat. Musa,ae) and is still used in modern ones in various forms, to give
some examples: eng. Muse, pol. Muza, fr. Les Muses, sp. Las Musas, it. Le Muse, czech.
Múzy, deutch Die Musen, hung. Múzsák, turk. Müzlar/Musalar, rus. Мýзы. The basic
recognized contemporary meanings of this word: the traditional names of the nine
Muses, daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne, a guiding spirit, a source of inspiration, a
talent, music and inf. music lesson.
316 Adriana Grzelak-Krzymianowska
schools and generally speaking, with intellectual development. Other fields of

classical inquiries include their appearance in the cult of the dead, their im-
ages on sarcophagi and various aspects of their artistic existence (vases, stat-
ues, embossments) and finally the way they influenced the rise and growth of
such institutions as Mouseion in ancient times and their pertinence in modern
continuants, enough to mention museums, academies and universities (Mojsik
2011). To sum up what has been just mentioned, the problematic aspects of the
ancient Muses are discussed in three different research areas: in a literary con-
text, as the goddesses of inspiration, connected with knowledge and memory, in
a religious context, as the object of the cult and in artistic context, as the target
object of different artistic depictions.
The names of the ancient Muses, apart from being the domain of scientific
dissertations, appear often in modern times in various forms and meanings.
Although the notion – Muse - is usually understood in contemporary culture
as a synonym for an inspiring woman, talent, poetry, music and music lesson,
the memory of nine nice mythological heroines is still vivid among modern re-
cipients of culture. Although the contemporary consciousness of Antiquity often
lacks detailed or profound knowledge of the subject, the ‘topos’ of the Muses is
unceasingly associated with artistic areas of human life. But whether the usage
of the Muses’ names is always relevant or at least close to their ancient meaning
seems an interesting subject to discuss. The purpose of this article is to show
a few selected, but evident examples of the various ways the Muses, with their
names and functions, have entered the modern world and have persisted in the
common consciousness of contemporary man as an unchanged idea or a com-
pletely transformed entity.
It must be also clarified here, that the vast thematic range of the presented
issue obliges me to restrict it only to the presentation of subjectively selected
problems concerning the theme. Therefore, in this article I will omit such top-
ics as the usage of the term – Muse – to designate usually real women who
are referred to by different types of artists as an inspiration for their works or
literary invocations. The gendered studies and feminist comprehension of the
Muses, also currently discussed by scientists, are not the matter of my interest
here. In my deliberations I concentrate on the question why and in what forms
this imagery of inspiration has persisted in the consciousness of contemporary
man and why the image and the names of the Muses have remained so central
to the discourse of creativity in the Western tradition and so common in mod-
ern culture. Some argue that the patriarchal culture resulted in their permanent
presence in our world. But, in my opinion, the Muse is, among other things,
which I am going to show in my article, a metaphor for the mysterious aspects
The Nine Muses and Their Modern Existence 317
of creativity, for that alchemical activity of the unconscious which cannot be

summoned to order; as such, in P. Murray’s words, ‘the Muse is neither goddess
nor whore, but genderless, a symbol of the creative drive which incorporates
and transcends both sexes’ (Murray 2006: 341). Another aspect of their persis-
tence shall be associated with their functions described in mythological stories.
The Muses were supposed to ‘bring delight and pleasure to the world of gods,
and to bestow the gifts of poetry and song, the essential prerequisites of civilized
society, on human beings’ (Murray 2006: 345). And, as such, they still remain
the source of reasonable and, to be euphemistic, not-reasonably explainable in-
spiration.
To discuss the presence of the Muses in the modern world, it’s not enough to
talk about the reception of Antiquity, which implies a dynamic and dialogic char-
acter of reading the past. It is also justified to use such terms as tradition, that is, the
process of somehow uncontested transmission, heritage or influence (Martindale
2007: 298). The boundary between these ways of understanding and applying an-
cient ideas in contemporaneity is rather vague and usually does not really affect the
perceptible results of the process itself. I share Charles Martindale’s idea that both
crude presentism (the reading that too peremptorily assimilates a text to contem-
porary concerns) and crude historicism in reception studies must be avoided. We
should bear in mind, however, the fact that ‘Antiquity and modernity, present and
past are always implicated in each-other, always in dialogue – to understand either
one, you need to think in terms of the fleeting contingencies and ephemera of the
modern world’ (Martindale 2006: 5–6).
The presence of the Muses in contemporary reality shall rather be consid-
ered in the terms of two different aspects of reception, such as norm and form
(Mathiesen 1990: 19–24). The, so called, norm in the reception process, which
requires profound knowledge of the subject, is a more subtle way to absorb an-
cient ideas or ideas about Antiquity through various associations created by an
ancient or an antique-inspired product. Whereas the form usually appears more
concrete and more immediate use of the past fashion and often seems a result
of unconscious use of ancient models, frequently incoherently to the function
of the models in the past. These two models of reception are often united - form
plus norm or norm plus form - according to what is considered more important
in the individual examples of reception of Antiquity. In my article I aim to give
an illustration of the presence of either of these elements in modern representa-
tions of the Muses.
The images of the Muses and their names appear in different areas of human
life. They can be classified in various categories according to their function or
the way of transmission to modernity. I would like to offer the most evident and
easiest to follow pattern of reception, which includes the presence of these deities
in fields like: Literature, Art, Music, Dance, Theatre/Cabaret, Film/Television,
Internet, Radio, Institutions, Projects, Events, Rewards, Sciences, Architecture,
Everyday life/Utensils.
As we can see, the issue discussed is quite vast, and my analysis must be reason-
ably limited to some representative examples in each of the suggested categories.
The Muses are a pleasant topic and their names seem to make a permanent
and regular part of Polish and World literature. Their presence may be found in
different literary genres such as: novels, poems, dramas or short stories. They
appear in both fiction and nonfiction books, though they are more commonly
used in science-fiction or fantasy novels or the ones that make at least some
offbeat references to mythology. (It shall be mentioned here that in the USA the
names of the Muses are still in use as first names given to children. For example
in 2012, 142 girls were given their names after Calliope.).
In this article I would like to mention in chronological order just a few exem-
plary titles of the books, in which the names of the muses or the Muses them-
selves appear. The name of the muse of sacred poetry, sacred hymn, dance, and
eloquence Polyhymnia is observed e.g. in the character of Polyhymnia (Polly)
O’Keefe - the protagonist of American young-adult fiction writer Madeleine
L’Engle in her novel A House Like a Lotus (1984). Matt Ruff in his sci-fi novel
Fool of the Hill (1988) introduces a magical woman named Calliope, the last
of the nine Muses and the most beautiful woman in the world, who acts as a
muse for the protagonist of the novel. Though she is never explicitly said to be
the Calliope of Greek mythology, she is just like her; immortal, magical, and
described as enjoying retsina and feta, both Greek dishes. The muse Calliope is
a character in the graphic novel Sandman, by Neil Gaiman (1990). According to
the comic’s canon, Calliope was the youngest Muse as well as a one-time lover
of Dream, by whom she bore Orpheus. In Terry Pratchett’s Discworld novel Soul
Music (1993), characters make frequent reference to a Muse called Cantaloupe
(hesitating because they are unsure whether the name is right). Calliope is also
the name of a character in Middlesex (2002) by Jeffrey Eugenides, a novel con-
taining frequent allusions to Greek mythology. Narrator and protagonist of the
story Cal Stephanides (initially called ‘Callie’) is a hermaphrodite man of Greek
descent with a condition known as 5-alpha-reductase deficiency, which causes
him to have certain feminine traits. The first half of the novel is about his fam-
ily, and describes his grandparents’ migration from Smyrna to the United States
in 1922. The latter half of the novel, set in the late 20th century, focuses on Cal’s
experiences in his hometown and his escape to San Francisco where he comes to
terms with his gender identity.
A different usage of the Muses’ names can be traced in Nick Sagan’s Idlewild
published in 2003. The main character of this story suffers amnesia after a power
surge, referred to as the Calliope Surge. The author also notes in his book that the
Muse Calliope was the daughter of Mnemosyne, the personification of memory.
Calliope is also the name of a character in Francesca Lia Block’s novels Ecstasia
(2004) which is heavily influenced by the myth.
Another Muses’ name, Thalia, is observed in the character of Thalia Grace
in a fantasy novel Percy Jackson and The Olimpians by Rick Riordan. She is a
15 years old girl, immortal demigod and a daughter of Zeus. She appears in three
of the books: The Sea of Monsters (2006), The Titan’s Curse (2007) and The Last
Olympian (2009).
Another book, where we may come across one of the Muses’ names is the
novel Girl at Sea (2009) by Maureen Johnson. This is the story of Clio, a teenage
girl forced to go on a cruise with her father, his girlfriend Julie, Julie’s daughter,
and Julie’s adorable assistant Aidan. She doesn’t know it yet, but she is about to
experience the cruise of her lifetime in Italy, researching an ancient mystery that
has been lost for hundreds of years.
Terpsichore, on the other hand, is not the name of any character, but a name
given to a land on a fictional planet in the novel My Ishmael (1997) by Daniel
Quinn.
Other forms the Muses are present in literature can be observed within po-
etic works. A few recent examples in Polish literature like the poetry collection
of Arnold Samsonowicz titled Modra Kaliope (Cornflower blue Calliope) (2012)
or another poetry book by Ryszard Grajek called Pod okiem Kaliope (Under the
custody of Calliope) (2011) can be found. The Muse Erato also gave her name to
a collection of love poetry by an Italian writer Fabrizio Legger in art Postremo
Vate in 2011 entitled Il canto di Erato.
There are also numerous books that make use of the Muses in their titles
and are often connected with history, literature, art or science. To name a few:
Zdzisław Szczepaniak, Na łasce X muzy (Under the Grace of the Xth Muse)
(2011), Tango łez śpiewajcie muzy. Poetyckie dokumenty Holokaustu, (Muses,
sing the tango of tears. Poetic documents of the Holocaust) (2013), Sławomir
Koper, Alkohol i Muzy. Wódka w życiu polskich artystów, (Alocohol and the
Muses/ Vodka in the Life of Polish Artists) (2013) or finally Eric Havelock, Muza
uczy się pisać, (pl. edition 2006) (The Muse Learns to Write: Reflections on Oral-
ity and Literacy from Antiquity to the Present, 1986).
So, to sum up what was presented, the authors use the word muse, and the
Muses’ names in: the protagonists’ and other characters’ names, in the titles of
books, they also make part of poetry and various poetic invocations.
Apart from literature, there are many other artistic works inspired by the
Muses. I would like to mention just two of them. In my opinion they both
show an interesting form of reception of Antiquity - both inspired by the Greek
Muses, both created by Polish young and rising artists, and both highly praised
by the critics. Their value is founded not only on the artistic techniques applied
by the authors, that’s arguable, but, above all, on the references they made to
Antiquity, what proves the constant, although mutable, presence of antique-
rooted consciousness perceptible even among the representatives of this young
generation of artists. The first set of paintings was created by Martyna Zimoń
(born in 1989, a student of graphics at the Academy of Fine Arts in Wroclaw).
She is the author of the collection of paintings called Nine Muses. The collection
contains nine pictures 100 cm × 70 cm, painted on a Bristol-board with a nice
beige passé-partout (http://centrumpr.pl/zdjecia/zobacz/38758,54098,zdjecie.
html). Another mentioned Polish artist is Anna Wypych (born in 1984), a stu-
dent of the Academy of Fine Arts in Gdansk, who, in 2010, was the winner of
the Grand Prix in the competition ‘Artistic Journey of Hestia’ with her painting
entitled The Muses (http://annawypych.pl/?p=81).
Music is usually the primary artistic field associated with the Muses we en-
counter in the modern world. We cannot argue that it was once believed that
these mythological entities significantly contributed to the emergence of music
among human beings and therefore such a relation seems justified. The popu-
larity of this art-connected area of human life resulted in an almost innumer-
able quantity of works that inherited the Greek Muses’ names. We can come
across antique Muse-inspired pieces of musical art in: the names of choirs (e.g.
Polihymnia Choir in Poznań) or the names of music bands (e.g. Muse - an
English rock band from Teignmouth, Devon, formed in 1994; Erato – a typical
Polish band that plays live music at weddings, proms, New Year’s Eve and other
outdoor events; and yet another music group is a band called Nine Muses. This
is a nine member South Korean girl group that plays typical pop-music. The
presence of such forms of typically western mythological tradition in the Far
East is an issue in itself that requires deeper analysis and study). The names of
the Muses appear also in the names of music artists e.g. Ariadna Thalia Sodi
Miranda, born in 1971, known mononymously as Thalía, is a Mexican singer,
songwriter, published author, actress and businesswoman. And finally the god-
desses of arts appear in the titles of songs by Polish artists e.g. a song ‘Ura-
nia’ by Warsaw rock band Satellite Beaver or ‘Erato’ by Zuzkol (a very young
singer, born in 1997 in Gniezno, who sings about her love for hip-hop music);
as well as by foreign ones e.g. an alternative English rock band The Veils in
its repertoire has a song called ‘Calliope’; Rudi Zygadło (who has Polish roots,
but currently lives in Berlin) composed an electronically supported song called

‘Melpomene’. ‘Melpomene’ is also a title of a song written by Danish rock band
Kashmir; ‘Urania’ then is a track by Finish electronic band Panasonic; while
‘Euterpe’ is a very nice song by a Japanese pop-band, Egoist. And again we have
another example of Greek mythology in Far Eastern culture.
Terpsichore representing a ‘delight in dancing’ was one of the nine Muses rul-
ing over dance and the dramatic chorus. She gives her name to the word ‘terpsi-
chorean’, which means ‘of or relating to dance’. This name appears in the names
of dance groups and different associations that unite people enthusiastic about
various forms of dancing e.g. the modern dance group Terpsychora in Choszc-
zno in N-W Poland.
The theatre and cabaret are a good medium nowadays to transmit various
ancient ideas to modern spectators and to acquaint them with deeply-rooted
mythological personages of the Greek Muses grouped all together or as nine
separate divine personalities. To give an example, in Poland, the Centre of Ar-
tistic Initiatives in Wrocław organized an overview of theatre spectacles inspired
by the names of the Muses and their individual but unpredictable character -
beautiful, loving, sensitive, faithful, caring and virtuous, while at the same time
uncertain, false, inconsistent, quarrelsome, dissolute and complicated. They
became a graceful theme of such performances as: the first spectacle entitled
Polihymnia which was inspired by the biography of medieval writer Hildegarda
from Bingen, the second – Erato – by the famous singer Edith Piaf, the third –
Terpsychora – was dedicated to Isadora Duncan, the fourth – Melpomena – told
the story of divine opera singer Maria Callas – and finally the fifth – Klio – was
inspired by the life of Joanna D’Arc.
As far as cabaret is concerned, the examples of the Muses’ influence are also
obvious. For example the Polish Cabaret ‘Potem’ (existed till 1999) made an ex-
plicit reference to the Muses in their program ‘Crazy Muses’ (1997). Another
Polish Cabaret ‘Hrabi’ (launched in 2002) made a funny sketch titled ‘Muzy do
wynajęcia’ (‘Muses for rent’), in which we see two weird but personalized Muses
which one can hire to ‘find’ inspiration. Various examples of cabaret sketches
concerning the Muses or using their names may be also found on the Internet
(e.g. http://bilbosrandomthoughts.blogspot.com/2012/10/cartoon-saturday_20.
html).
Film and television (the Xth and the XIth Muse) are an indispensable part
of contemporary life. Both are the most popular and recognizable medium of
modern culture. Modern does not necessarily mean in this case exclusively cur-
rently present, but television and cinema has always given an insight into older
traditions and distant times and beliefs. The Muses naturally also have their role
to play here. ‘Cinema and it’s offspring, television, have proven fertile grounds
for reimagining and reinventing classical antiquity’ (Winkler 2005: 385). Just to
give a brief outline of the presence of the Muses on the screen in various forms
such as the titles, names of characters or other closer or distant reminiscences,
I must mention in chronological order such productions as Mød mig på Cassio-
peia (Meet me on Cassiopeia) from 1951–a Danish musical film, in which Poly-
hymnia inspires the protagonist to finish his work. Another production worth
mentioning is Xanadu (1980) – in which the lead character is Clio (also known
as “Kira”). In this film the Greek Muses incarnate themselves on Earth to inspire
men. Erato, Calliope and Euterpe are also present in this movie. Calliope ap-
pears in season four of the Simpsons in the episode Treehouse of Horror III,
(1992), in which a school nerd, Martin Prince, dresses as Calliope during the
Simpsons’ Halloween party. In the episode The Muse, in Star Trek: Deep Space
Nine: Season 4, Episode 20 (1996), a mysterious woman approaches Jake and
tells him about his future as a writer.
Another production, where we can find the Muses is the animation Hercules
by Disney (1997), in which the Muses (Calliope, Clio, Melpomene, Terpsichore
and Thalia) serve as a Greek chorus that collectively makes some comments
about the plot and action. In the anime series (1998) and film (2001) Cowboy
Bebop, two characters take their names from the Muses: Valeria Terpsichore
and her unseen, but alluded to husband Ural Terpsichore. In Xena (1998):
Warrior Princess season 4 episode ‘A Tale of Two Muses’, a town of worship-
pers of Calliope is convinced to overturn their ban on dancing, a dictate they
believe the Muse herself handed down.
A Muse gives her name to another production The Muse by Albert Brooks
(1999). It’s a comedy about a neurotic screenwriter and his modern-day muse.
In 2005 we saw the film Sahara, in which James Sandecker’s yacht is named after
Calliope. In the television series Grey’s Anatomy (2006–2013), a drama cantered
on the personal and professional lives of five surgical interns and their supervi-
sors, Dr. Callie Torres’s real name is Calliope.
And finally The Nine Muses (2012) directed by John Akomfrah, in part a
documentary, and in part a personal essay, this experimental film combines
archive imagery with the striking wintry landscapes of Alaska to tell the story
of immigrants’ experience coming into the UK from 1960 onwards. This movie
won second prize in Dubai International Film Festival in 2010.
Film and television are the media that all researchers of the reception of Antiqui-
ty should consider seriously and investigate carefully. Quo vadis, philologia? – one
might ask here, but the answer is simple – wherever the need is (Winkler 2005: 386).
As proved by the examples above the Muses appear on the small and big screen both
in artistically significant films and in crassly commercial products. But that’s the
character of modern and post-modern reality.
Since 1980 the Internet, in contrast to more traditional communication me-
dia including music, film, and television, has become a global system of inter-
connected computer networks that serves several billion users worldwide. This
network of networks that consists of millions of private, public, academic, busi-
ness, and government networks, of local to global scope, is, obviously to say, an
indisputably valuable source and expression of still productive, though distant
in time, traditions and beliefs. The presence of the Greek Muses on the Internet
may be considered in terms of the two previously mentioned different aspects of
reception, norm and form. Besides the results of academic research, the refer-
ences to these deities’ names are observed in: the names of computer programs
and software (The Muses’ names are found in various sets of machine-readable
instructions that direct a computer’s processor to perform specific operations,
known as computer software such as: Clio Software - the leading practice man-
agement, time & billing and client collaboration platform for small- to mid-sized
law firms, Euterpe -created for monitoring environmental noise or Urania – a
professional Astrological Program for Everyone.
Muzy is the name of a new kind of Photo program, where everybody may use
theirs creative side and make anything and share it with friends on Facebook and
Twitter. (http://muzy.com/app/photobox ). The Muses appear also in the names
of on-line learning tools, e.g. Calliope is the name given to a multilingual online
writing centre with a focus on academic, business and technical communication.
It is a modular platform where students can enhance their professional writing
skills in Dutch, English and French (http://www.calliope.be/). These deities give
their names to numerous private ‘Life’ Blogs, e.g. Blog Muzy Małgorzaty (Marga-
ret’s Muses) (http://sferaem.blogspot.com/).
On the Internet we may come across various pieces of art: concerning the
mythological Muses, but often depicted in a completely modern manner (e.g.
http://www.oekaki.pl/board/contest/68/).
An interesting thing to observe are also internet quizzes. The Internet offers
a huge number of quizzes concerning mythological creatures. If you only agree
to devote some of your precious time to answering a few questions, you will be
lucky enough to find out which Muse you really are! It is enough to visit such
pages as: Which one of the Nine Muses are you?, What Muse Are You?, Which
Muse Are You? (Greek Mythology), Personality Quiz: Which Greek Muse are
you? etc.
Another popular offering on the Internet is undoubtedly games: e.g. God
of war, is a third person action-adventure video game loosely based on Greek
mythology. It is set in ancient Greece with vengeance as its central motif. To

finish this game the players must collect all of the Muse Keys2.
Another medium, in which the Muses appear is radio. There are several radio
programs that refer to the Muses in their titles and content. For instance: Moje
kino - spotkania wokół X muzy (My cinema– meetings with the tenth Muse)
(http://www.rmfclassic.pl/program/Moje-kino-spotkania-wokol-X-muzy,72.
html).
Institutions that deals with culture, or not, also often take their names from
the Muses. The names of the Muses are found in cinemas (e.g. Kino Muza (Muse
Cinema) in Sosnowiec), theatres (e.g. Teatr variete Muza in Koszalin (Variete
Theatre in Koszalin), Teatr Muza w Łodzi (The Muse Theatre in Łódź), cent-
ers of culture and entertainment (e.g. Dom Kultury Muza (Centre of Culture
the Muse) in Lubin, XIII Muz (XIII Muses) in Szczecin, Klub Kaliope (Calliope
Club) in Bielsko Biała, (Frankfurter Literatursalon Euterpe), educational centres
(e.g. the private ballet school Terpsychora in Katowice), sport centers (e.g. foot-
ball club GKS Urania in Ruda Śląska (connected also with uranium), publishing
houses (e.g. publishing house Polihymnia, publishing house Muza (The Muse),
non-governmental organizations (NGOs) (e.g. 11 Muses - Innovations in Cul-
ture is an independent non-governmental organization founded in 2009, which
deals with social innovation, education and non-formal responsibility of indi-
viduals and business.) and various companies and firms. This category seems an
interesting example of the reception of antiquity based only on form. In Poland,
surely also in other countries, we may find such companies as: transport com-
pany ‘Erato’ in Sochaczew, transport company ‘Erato’ in Pabianice, ‘Erato’ – an
underwear wholesaler’s in Poznań, ‘Erato’ - a group of professionals in the field
of working at heights in Pabianice, construction and erection company ‘Erato’
in Łódź, ‘Klio’ company in Wrocław (selling coin-operated machines), Agenzia
immobiliare ‘Erato’ in Udine (real estate agency). As we can see here, Erato is
the most recognizable of the nine Muses in the group of non-professional users.
Another field where the Muses appear, but this time rather in their ancient
meaning, are various projects. I would like to give just three examples of the pro-
jects that make use of ancient Muses’ names which are being currently realized
in Poland: The project ‘Polihymnia - through centuries with European music’ is
carried out in the framework of the ‘Youth in Action’ Action 1.1 Youth Exchange.
The project is implemented by the choir of the youth culture center in Bialystok
2 For more on Antiquity in cyberspace see: Mikołajczak, Dominas 2003; Dominas,

Mikołajczak, Kaźmierczak 2005.
and the vocal group from the Event Hall in Podborze in cooperation with young
people from Lithuania and ‘Terpsichore to schools’ - a project of Dr. Bozena
W. Jakubczak. The project is completely free for participants, and is aimed at
teachers - special education teachers, teachers of kindergartens and integration
classes, people working in institutions of special education, special education
students and methodologists working with disabled children. Another project
was run by the University of the Third Age in Łapy in 2013 called ‘Meetings with
Polihymnia – a music education for seniors’’ under the Government Program for
the Elderly Social Activity for the years 2012–2013 realized in cooperation with
the Ministry of Labour and Social Policy in Poland.
Another important aspect of the presence of the Muses are various events.
The Muses’ names appear in: exhibitions’ names (e.g. ‘Jerzy Kawalerowicz. The
Painter of the Tenth Muse’ in Gdynia – a biographical retrospective exhibition
dedicated to one of the most prominent Polish filmmakers; a series of meetings:
e.g. Muzy (the Muses), i.e. the meetings with artists representing Polish cinema-
tography organized in the Cinema Muza (the Muse) in Poznań, Opera Workshop
with the Muse ‘Gardens of Art’ organized by the Department of Polish Philology
in Białystok – the workshop in poetry and the meetings with writers, The Muses
make a part of various academic conferences – e.g. ‘Bękarty X Muzy. Filmowe
adaptacja materiałów nieliterackich’, Wrocław 2013 or many outdoor events e.g.
Lato Muz Wszelakich (The summer of all Muses) in Zielona Góra,
There are also many festivals and competitions named after the Muses: e.g.
Youth theater festival Melpomena in Środa Wielkopolska, The children’s theatre
festival Small Thalia in Tarnów, Comedy Festival Thalia in Tarnów, ‘Melpomena
at school desk’ in Warsaw - a competition for theater groups in primary schools
and in Culture centers. Mokotowska Euterpe (Euterpe from Mokotów – a dis-
trict in Warsaw) is the series of meetings aiming to demonstrate the achieve-
ments of Polish musicians and singers who present their work in the music scene
at the House of Culture ‘Kadr’ in Warsaw).
Some awards are named after the Muses, too. For example, the award Klio –
the prize awarded since 1995 for outstanding contributions to historical research.
The winner of the ‘Melpomene prize’ may be the actor who created the most
memorable and excellent role. Nominations are given to the actors for playing at
least two roles in the season, their presence at all rehearsals and performances,
and their work for charity. The ‘Urania Award’ (known in Italian as the Premio
Urania) is an annual literary competition run by the Italian magazine Urania for
contemporary Italian science fiction novels. The Czech Actors’ Association has
presented its annual ‘Thalia Award’ (Czech: Ceny Thálie) since 1993 which is
given in the following categories: Play, Opera, Musical, Ballet.
As professional researchers we should not forget about the presence of the

Muses in sciences. First of all in journals, periodicals and magazines: e.g. ‘Klio’
is a Polish journal devoted to Polish and World history, ‘Clio’ is a journal of lit-
erature, history, and the philosophy of history from Indiana University-Purdue
University Fort Wayne, series ‘Clio medica’ studies perspectives in medical hu-
manities at the University of California, San Francisco. ‘Calliope’ is an annual
journal produced by California State University, Bakersfield. It accepts articles
in all areas of literary history and criticism. ‘Melpomene Journal’ is a journal
for women’s health research, ‘Muza’ is a Polish music magazine or ‘Urania’ is the
name of a long-running Italian science fiction magazine and another ‘Urania –
Postępy Astronomii’ (‘Urania - Progress in Astronomy’) is a journal devoted to
the promulgation of astronomical knowledge.
The Muses names appear also in astronomy and give their names to planet-
oids: Calliope (22), Clio (84), Erato (62), Euterpe (27), Melpomene (18), Poly-
hymnia (33), Thalia (23), Terpsichore (81), Urania (30). Urania Muse gives her
name even to a few astronomical observatories e.g. in Antwerp, Berlin, Vienna,
Zurich.
The Muses are found in botany and zoology. Erato is a genus of flowering
plants belonging to tribe Liabeae of the family Asteraceae, found from Costa Rica
to Bolivia, with its main center of diversity in Ecuador. Euterpe is a genus of a
palm tree, containing eight species that are native to Central and South America,
from Belize southward to Brazil, Peru and Argentina. Erato is a genus of small sea
snails, marine gastropod molluscs in the family Triviidae, the trivias. Heliconius
Melpomene Madiera is a beautiful colourful butterfly.
We cannot omit also such elements of our world like the Calliope river in
Queensland in Australia.
Modern architecture makes use of the Muses’ names to name designs of hous-
es. For example, nowadays, we can buy projects of such houses as Erato, Calliope
or Klio. All of them visually nice and attractive.
The Muses, as I mentioned at the beginning, are also present in everyday
life. This group contains numerous examples of the reception of Antiquity and
again rather as form than norm. The names of the Muses this time are used to
describe what follows: towns (Clio in the state of Michigan, Urania in Louisiana)
and streets, names of hotels in various countries, such as Greece, Italy, France,
Croatia, Austria and Lithuania. Then food/drinks/and restaurants such as: choc-
olates - the Muses, Calliope wines from Canada, Kaffe Urania in Vienna, Thalia
Restaurant in NY etc. Different types of shops (e.g. Calliope Italia, Rimini; Tuzy-
Muzy shop with Furniture, Decorative, Lighting, Candle, Jewelry, Flower, Acces-
sories; Clio Shop – cosmetics shop, Euterpe – music shop) and beauty centres
(e.g. Hair Salon Studio Clio in Warsaw, Kaliope Spa in Poznań, Erato Beauty
Centre in Wroclaw, Urania Hair salon in LA, Salon Thalia in Philadelphia, PA)
take their names after the Muses.
The Names of the Muses appear in the means of transport (first of all ships
and famous models of cars – Renault Clio, Renault Thalia). To continue, the
Muses are found in the names of bathroom utensils such as bathtubs, washba-
sins, shower cubicles and accessories. Also some pieces of furniture take their
names after the Muses, to mention a few, sofas, tables, puffs and mattresses and
many other home utensils such as: lamps, cushions, clocks, cups and cutlery.
The Muses appear in the names of various types of clothes and jewellery. The
‘Modern Muse’ also became the name of perfumes by Estee Lauder. Another
interesting category is the toy business. A nice Greek Muses’ collection is offered
e.g. by Lego.
These examples presented above are just a result of my subjective choices in
the studied field of reception. They seem though sufficient proof that ancient
ideas and ideas about Antiquity are still vivid in the modern world. And so
are the Muses. They are a part of the tradition and culture that contemporary
man has inherited from our ancestors, but their names seem also an irrational
source of inspiration for people who maybe lack profound knowledge of the
past, but remain somehow affected by its presence in the modern common
consciousness. We may observe the influence of the Muses in the field of art
and culture which strictly corresponds with the role they had in mythological
stories. On the other hand, however, the form of transmission is not always
evident and intelligible. Over the past few decades the world of ancient Greece
and Rome has started to gain ground in so-called pop-culture. The study of
this impact should be welcomed by anyone interested in ancient and mod-
ern civilization because it is yet another manifestation of tradition’s ongoing
vitality. Such a study is not only legitimate, but also a very important part of
research. Unfortunately the universal acceptance of this fact is still lagging.
The myths themselves even in antiquity were in constant flux and thrived on
retelling, embroidering, and adaptation. The canonization in compendia and
textbooks came about only in late antiquity and did not stop ‘literary adaptors’
in the following centuries from making creative additions. In fact, ‘ignorance’,
to put it nicely, as we can see from the examples of the reception of the names
of the Muses, can be the mother of mythopoeia (Galinsky 2007: 394). Of the
various forms the Muses are present in modern world some may be regarded
reasoned, but still stimulating, and some seem just a silly mess – just like myths
in antiquity – but just like them, they continue the tradition of creative vitality
for better or for worse.
References
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antyku w cyberprzestrzeni. Ku modelowaniu małych światów’, Images nr 5–6,
5–21.
Galinsky K., 2007, Film, in: A Companion to the Classical Tradition, C. W.
Kallendorf ed., Blackwell Publishing, 393–407.
Hardwick L., Stray Chr. eds, 2010, A Companion to Classical Receptions, Wiley-
Blackwell.
Martindale Ch., 2006, Introduction. Thinking Through Reception, in: Martinadale
Ch., Thomas, R.F. eds, Classics and the Uses of Reception, Wiley-Blackwell.
– 2007 Reception, in: A Companion to the Classical Tradition, Kallendorf C.W.
ed., Blackwell Publishing, 297–311.
Mathiesen H.E., 1990, The Reception of Classical Antiquity: Some General Re-
marks, in: The Classical Heritage in Nordic Art and Architecture: Acts of the
Seminar Held at the University of Copenhagen, 1st–3rd November 1988, Marjatta
Nielsen ed., Acta Hyperborea, Danish Studies in Classical Archeology, Copen-
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Mikołajczak A.W., Dominas K., 2003, ‘Antyczny spacer w cyberprzestrzeni’,
Images nr 1–2, 29–42.
Mojsik T., 2011, Antropologia metapoetyki. Muzy w kulturze greckiej od Homera
do końca V w. p.n.e., Warszawa: Wydawnictwo Neriton.
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with Medusa: Classical Myth and Feminist Thought, Oxford: Oxford Univer-
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Artur Gałkowski
Mythonyms as the Key to Mythological

Phraseology: An Interlinguistic Approach
Mythonyms are generally heterogeneous proper names associated with the sphere of
myths including their titles. They represent, in the same way as the literary names do,
all the major categories of onyms or, in some cases, carry their characteristics. Among
mythonyms we can find: the personal names (anthroponyms), the names of gods (theo-
nyms), the place names (toponyms, hydronyms), the personalized names of animals (zo-
onyms) and the individualized names of various creatures and objects, such as dragons,
giants, cups, jewels, weapons, musical instruments, buildings, etc. (quasi anthroponyms
and chrematonyms). One of a very common areas of the mythonyms, outside the realm
of mythological sphere, is the language itself, in which these names function as cultural
recalls get into the everyday or specialized vocabulary and phraseology. The aim of this
paper is to demonstrate the spread of this phenomenon by means of the analysis of the
multilingual corps, with a particular focus on such languages as Polish, Italian, English
and French. Occasionally, other languages, including the classical ones, are taken into
consideration. In fact, the mythological phraseology can be defined in the categories of
internationalized terms. It is an essential and meaningful element of the universal culture
viewed across the language.
Mythology is the basis of the code which constitutes a significant part of a coun-
try’s culture and language. It may be considered that having taken the form
of a specific code the methodology is immersed in the culture and language.
At the same time, culture and language are values that carry the mythological
code (MC). Furthermore, culture and language are the indispensable tools con-
ditioning the creation and the evolution of mythology, i.e. its development in
the specific cultural and linguistic circumstances. The relation between ‘culture/
language’ (C/L) and ‘mythology/mythological code’ (M/MC) is the relation of
a double direction dependence. In this kind of relation, items such as artefacts,
beings, objects, actions and events are relevant, as are their possible linguistic
representations involving the conceptual and formal key in the onomasiological
and semasiological perspective.
In the C/L – M/MC relation it is possible to enumerate a number of permanent
and universal operations and conditions. The most important are: 1) narrative
and descriptive production in the context of the creation of myths in the form
of discursive expression, 2) the mythological discourse is subjected to a process
330 Artur Gałkowski
of immobilization in the linguistic and cultural heritage of a given community,

and even humanity; 3) the discursive world of myths is embedded in the field of
words and phrases unique to that area; 4) as a result, the words and expressions
characteristic of myths constitute a special terminology - mythological terminol-
ogy (MT).
From the theoretical point of view, in the area of the MT it is possible to
distinguish at least four constitutive construct forms: 1) general vocabulary
(generic names, descriptions of actions, features, determinations of the per-
formed operations, etc., that is, the classes of the words functioning as seman-
tic designans), 2) general vocabulary having a function of forming phraseology,
3) proprial lexis (proper names, individual designans for the specific referents);
proprial lexis providing phraseological formants.
General vocabulary used in myths is basically no different to the vocabu-
lary used in other communicative sectors. However, it forms lexical fields (LF),
which are typical (and sometimes also prototypical) of the world of myths, for
example: the LF of the supernatural, fairy tales, magic and similar spheres; the
LF of divinity of deities; the LF of unusual humans and creatures; the LF of
heroic acts, etc. It should be noted that general phraseologims constitute a sig-
nificant part of LF.
Among the examples of general phraseology in the international mythologi-
cal discourse, we can specify1: pol. róg obfitości, lat. cornu copiae, it. cornucopia,
fr. corne d’abondance, en. horn of plenty; pol. jabłko niezgody, lat. malum discor-
diae, it. pomo della discordia, fr. pomme de discorde, en. apple of discord; pol. złote
runo, lat. aurea pelis, it. vello dorato, fr. toison d’or, en. golden fleece; pol. ślepa
sprawiedliwość, it. giustizia cieca, fr. justice aveugle, en. blind justice; pol. kraina
cieni, it. terra di ombre, fr. pays des ombres, en. land of shadows; pol. zbierać laury,
it. raccogliere allori, fr. cueillir des lauriers, en. gather laurels.
Other examples from this range in Polish and English are: pol. siódme niebo,
en. seventh heaven, pol. wrócić z tarczą lub na tarczy, en. back with shield or on the
shield, pol. spocząć na laurach, en. rest on our laurels, pol. święty ogień, en. sacred
fire, pol. nić życia, en. thread of life, pol. królestwo zmarłych, en. kingdom of the
dead, pol. nocna zmora, en. nightmare, pol. mieć uszy polizane przez węża, en.
have one’s ears licks by a snake, pol. ośle uszy, en. donkey ears, pol. naga prawda,
1 Most of the examples of Greek and Roman mythology in this contribution have been
verified in: Grimal 1999, 2008; Jacobi 1854; Kempiński 1993; Moormann, Uitterhoeve
2004.
Mythonyms as the Key to Mythological Phraseology 331
ing. the naked truth, etc. In every language, the culture of which is immersed in
ancient mythology, such kinds of phraseologisms can occur.
In addition to the general vocabulary, the MC also includes proprial lexis,
which is connected in this work with mythonyms, i.e. proper names unique to
the mythological discourse. We start from the thesis that mythonyms and the
proprial lexis, which is created around them in the MC, constitute the key-part
of this code, guaranteeing the existence of the myth in the creative and receptive
discursive space.
Mythological onymy (mythonyms) formulate the range of terms which we call
proprial mythological terminology (PMT). Between onyms (individual names)
which are characteristic of communicative and mythological heritage we can
enumerate: the names of gods, male and female deities (theonyms), the names of
human beings (in most case first names, but also nicknames and aliases): of men,
women, children, youths, old people (anthroponyms), the names of personified
mythological figures, such as fairy-tales characters, humanoids, monsters, hybrid
creatures (anthroponymical forms), the names of animals (zoonyms), the names
of plants (phytonyms) and, finally, the names of places (toponyms). It is also
possible to identify names of objects and events and activities (chrematonyms)
less represented in the MC. We can include in the mythonymy even the titles of
myths (a particular kind of chrematonyms: ideonyms)2.
We present some examples of the names of those ranges in the Italian language
in the following table:
Kind of mythonym Examples in the Italian language

Theonyms Apollo, Poseidon, Zeus; Artemide, Demetra, Afrodite
Anthroponyms e.g. names of heroes: e.g. gli eroi Ulisse, Medea, Edipo, Perseo
Anthroponymic e.g. names of mythological figures: Arpie, Ninfe, Giganti, Titani,
forms Minotauro
Zoonyms Cerbero, Sfinge, Pegaso, Medusa, Ortro, Chimera, Pitone
Phytonyms l’Alloro (in the myth of Apollo and laurel), il Fiordaliso (in the
myth of Chiron and the blue cornflower), il Cipresso (in the myth
of Pluto), l’Olivo (in the myth of Athena and the Olive-tree),
l’Albero del Paradiso di Dio (the tree of the paradise of God)
2 For more about the onomastic terminology used in this work see: Gałkowski 2010.
Kind of mythonym Examples in the Italian language

Toponyms – Names of isles (nezonyms): l’Isola di Antilia (called also the
isle of the Seven Cities), l’Isola di Avalon (in the myth of the
king Arthur), l’Iisola di Ogigia (in the Odyssey of Homer),
l’Iisola di Eea (in the Odyssey of Homer)
– Names of places of the beyond: Ade (the reign of the Greek
and Roman infernal worlds), Inferno, Purgatorio, Paradiso,
Limbo (the place where the dead and not baptised children
stay), Tartaro
– Names of mountains (oronyms): Abila, Nisa, Olimpo, Elicone
– Names of regions, countries, areas, lands (choronyms):
Arcadia, Campi Elisi, Iperborea (the mythological land) names
of cities (urbonyms): Atene, Tebe Antica, Troia names of
rivers, lakes, seas, oceans (hydronyms): Ladone (the ocean),
Acheronte (the river), Stige (the river), Lete (the river)
– Names of other places: Labirinto di Cnosso, Giardino delle
Esperidi, Lupercale (the sanctuary where the god Lupercus was
venerated in Rome), Heroon (the sanctuary erected for a hero)
Chrematonyms Names of mythological objects and things: le Colonne di Ercole,
il Vaso di Pandora, il Pomo della Discordia, Tirso (the stick), il
Vello d’Oro, l’Egida (the shield of Zeus), l’Ambrosia (the drink of
the gods), l’Anello di Gige (the ring which guaranteed invisibility),
Argo (the ship), Omphalos (‘navel ‘, a stone or a religious object),
Palladio (the figure, the statue, the talisman, which was used to
defend the city)
It’s worthwhile noticing that each possible onymic type is represented by the
mythonyms in the MC, which have international features. Some of these types
have an additional articulation. As the above table shows this situation concerns
toponyms, among which we meet the names of objects such as isles, mountains,
lands, cities, rivers, seas, oceans and other places that demonstrate a locational
aspect.
A similar situation applies to chrematonymy, of which the representation
among mythonyms is particularly developed, assuming that the discourse of
chrematonyms also contains elements unique to the mythological histories
themselves, and the method and the scheme of their presentation as well.
Some of the possible representatives of mythological chrematonymy may be
considered on the border between the nomina propria and the nomina appel-
lativa. That’s because they operate at two reference levels, demonstrating a dou-
ble pragmatic role: the ability to function within the mythological code and
the allusions to it in the general language. Such ability is demonstrated for the
names of feasts (herotonyms), their celebrations, games, plays and enjoyment
related to them. Among almost 80 excerpted heortonyms we may indicate e.g.

it. Ippocrazie, lat. Hippocratiae (the equestrian feasts in honour of Poseidon),
it. Lafrie, gr. τὰ Λάϕρια (the feasts in honour of Artemis Lafria), it. Litobolie,
gr. Λιϑοβόλια (the feasts in honour of Damia and Auxesia, the scene of the sim-
ulated battle between women fighting using stones), it. Musee, gr. Μοῦσαι (the
feasts in honour of the Muses), en. Olympic Games (their foundation attributed
to Heracles Dattilo), it. Orgia (this is how the ancient Greeks called the cults of
Demeter and Eleusis; in the same manner the feasts of the Cabiri, of Dionysus
and others were described this way), it. Tonee (the feasts in honour of Athena),
it. Delfinie (the spring feasts in honour of Apollo Delfinio; they were celebrated
in many cities, such as Athens, Miletus, Massilia, Chios, etc.).
The names of the famous journeys, wars and unusual events reported by the
mythological stories have a similar double pragmatic function of the mythonyms
of the chrematonimic types. We shall treat them, then, as the names of the events
(specific eventonyms). Among this kind of chrematonyms we can enumerate:
pol. podróż Ulissesa, it. il viaggio di Ulisse, fr. le voyage d’Ulysse, en. the journey
of Odysseus; pol. podróż Tezeusza, it. il viaggio di Teseo, fr. voyage de Thésée, en.
the journey of Theseus; pol. wojna Gigantów, it. la guerra dei Giganti, fr. la guerre
des Gigants, en. the Giants War; pol. wojna trojańska, it. la guerra di Troia, fr. la
guerre de Troie, en. Trojan War.
We deal with a particular type of chrematonym in the external MC when we
take into consideration the titles of specific myths or their sequences. The titles
treated here as ideonyms are the units which in many cases assume the status of
phraseologisms, especially when they are transformed in the language and serve
as the identifying units used to register and map the myths, depending on the
language areas and the civilization cultures. The most popular area of the crea-
tion of ideonyms functioning as titles of histories and mythological descriptions
is the area of Ancient Greece and Rome, which is also the most frequent point
of reference for all the cultures deriving from the classical ones, particularly
European culture and the languages which represent it. The titles of the Greek
and Roman myths are universal ideonyms, even if their form and information
range changes in varies languages. The common element for them is the same
object; in this case the myth or its part is represented as the possibly most faith-
ful adaptation to the original model.
In fact, the construction of mythological ideonyms varies, because they are con-
ventional labels, but not always identical. The titles of the myths are the result of the
process of interpretation, selection and emphasizing such elements which could
direct the accumulation of their content, for example, by specifying in the form of
the ideonym the name of the hero of the myth (usually the deity), the event or the
place. The form of the title depends on the literary or artistic treatment of the myth,
but it also depends on the author who presents the myth in the given language,
sometimes using different communicative techniques. The structural scheme
which is quite often adopted in such situations is the attributive construction mit/
legenda o … in the Polish langue (‘the myth/the legend about/of…’) juxtaposed to
the instrumental case of the single personal name, such as: pol. mit o Dionizosie,
en. the myth of Dionysus; pol. mit o Tyfonie, en. the myth of Typhon; pol. mit o Ja-
zonie, en. the myth of Jason; pol. mit o Edypie, en. the myth of Oedipus. Often the
names of two characters taking part in the mythological history appear, e.g. in the
coordinated structure such as pol. mit o Demetrze i Korze, en. the myth of Demeter
and Cora; pol. mit o Echo i Narcyzie, en. the myth of Echo and Narcissus; pol. mit o
Dedalu i Ikarze, en. the myth of Daedalus and Icarus; pol. mit o Marsjasie i Apollo,
en. the myth of Marsyas and Apollo; pol. mit o Perseuszu i Andromedzie, en. the
myth of Perseus and Andromeda; pol. mit o Tezeuszu i Minotaurze, en. the myth
of Theseus and the Minotaur, fr. le mythe de Thésée et le minotaure, or the name
of the presented event, e.g. pol. mit o narodzinach Ateny, en. the myth of the birth
of Athens; pol. mit o wojnie trojańskiej, en. the myth of the Trojan War; pol. mit o
początku świata, en. the myth about the beginning of the world. We meet here also
the nominative construction without an identifier, e.g. en. Theseus and the Mino-
taur, it. l’impresa di Teseo contro il Minotauro, en. King Midas and the Golden Touch
or King Midas and the Donkey Ears. Some of the titles can have double versions: 1)
simplified and 2) developed, for example pol. 1) mit o królu Midasie, 2) mit o królu
Midasie i oślich uszach; it. 1) Il mito di Mida, 2) il mito di Mida e le orecchie d’asino.
In the case of this example, the nominative construction is also possible to reflect
the theme of the case, e.g. fr. les oreilles d’âne du roi Midas.
Observing the contents transferred by the ideonym and their possible seman-
tic creations, we note that among the ideonyms, those which most frequently
appear are based on a syntactic relation with some onym (53 out of 64 collected
examples in the examined corpus, which is 83%), e.g. pol. mit o Pigmalionie i
Galatei, pol. mit o Orfeuszu i Eurydyce, pol. mit o Narcyzie, it. la camicia di Nesso,
it. il viaggio di Orfeo, it. la favola di Amore e Psiche, fr. Orphée aux enfers, fr. le
mythe de la destruction de l’Atlantide, en. Birth of Athena, en. The Creation of Man
by Prometheus, en. the Wanderings of Dyonisius. Titles which contain anthropo-
nyms constitute the largest number (45 among 64 analyzed examples). The rest
of them include toponyms.
Summing up the reflections concerning mythological phraseology based on
ideonyms in the construction of mythonyms or without them, we should state
that: 1) in the majority of cases the titles of the myths are seen as phraseologims of
the universal culture, 2) the proper names included in the titles are the referential
vectors of the mythological phraseology, 3) some titles of the myths or their au-
tonomous parts enter into languages as lexically registered expressions, inextrica-
bly linked with the general culture, especially those titles which refer to the myths
of classical culture, 4) others may have an occasional or local character, usually
reserved for the culture of the particular national or regional area, such as the titles
of Slavonic mythology.
The examples for the ultimate range indicating Polish stories and legends or
those adapted to the Polish reality are the following: the legend of Marzanna
(Mara, Marona) – the creature associated with the changes of the nature between
winter and spring; the legend of Baba Jaga – an ugly old woman, ferocious and
bad; the myth of Strzybóg – the god of the winds, of air and of the sky; and the
myth or the legend of Kupała – the deity active during the solstice of winter
(cf. Brückner 1923, Budziszewska 1992).
The translations and adaptations of this kind of mythonym create difficulties
as here we have to deal with endonyms, which rarely have their direct counter-
parts, and in fact must be cited in other languages as unmodified exonyms. It will
also be the same in the case of far and exotic areas which have the mythological
cultures which are equally as rich as those encountered by the ancient Greeks,
Romans, Celts and Slavs.
It’s enough to think about the mythologies of far eastern cultures: Indian,
Chinese, Japanese, or African. It is not always possible to establish chronolog-
ically their origin, because they are often an element of a living culture, not
written but orally transmitted and functioning in an everyday life, in customs,
beliefs, rituals and religion.
They take a subjectively interesting form when used in the languages of western
civilization. They sound exotic and are full of magic and expression, such as the
names of good and evil Hindu spirits or demons: Dapi, Mumiai, Brahmadaitya,
Rudra, Wirika, Pisachi, Bauta, Pei, Rakszasy and so on. The phraseologicalized
names of different parts of hell in the Hindu beliefs are other examples which are
cited in their original forms: Raurawa (‘the place of howling’), Maharaurawa (‘the
place of great howl’), Tamistra (‘the place of darkness’), Nikrintan (‘the place of
shredding to pieces’), Apratiszta (‘no help’), Apisatrawana (‘the forest of the leafed
swords’), Taptakumbha (‘the fiery vats’).
Besides ideonyms, the functioning of fixed phraseologims based on mytho-
nyms is commonly observed in languages. It is a considerable part of the phra-
seological lexis, semantically showing relations with the conceptual contents of
the names. In the description of these kind of structures it is necessary to link the
phraseologism and the current mythonym with the MC unique to a particular
myth, from which the used onym is derived.
On the structural level of these kinds of phraseologisms it is possible to note

the forms whose patterns do not differ from the constructions typical for the
phraseological syntax, such as pro-phrastic structures containing the verb (verb
+ onimic argument). We can distinguish here the following models: 1) meta-
phorical locutions of the type it. ‘verb essere (to be) + onim X’, e.g. it. essere un
Arpagone, it. essere un Cerbero, it. essere un Ganimede, it. essere un’Arpia, 2) meta-
phorical locutions of the type ‘the verb essere/to be + argument + onym X’, e.g.
essere il filo di Arianna, en. to be the thread of Ariadne; it. essere il Tallone di
Achille, en. to be the Achilles heel; it. essere il vaso delle Danaidi, en. to be the vase
of Danaid; it. essere la camicia Nesso, en. to be the shirt of Nessos, 3) comparative
expressions in the construction of ‘essere come/to be like + onym X’, such as it.
essere come Ercole al bivio, en. to be like Hercules at the crossroads; it. essere come
la tela di Penelope, en. to be like the web of Penelope, 4) metaphorical locutions
with different verbs of the type ‘the verb X + argument + onym X’, for example,
it. patire il suplizio di Tantalo, en. to endure the suffering of Tantalus; it. fare il volo
di Icaro, en. make the flight of Icarus; it. fare il Ganimede, en. to behave like Gani-
medes; it. avere una spada sul capo di Damocle, en. have the sword of Damocles
over one’s head.
Onomastic analysis of the various types of phraseologims leads us to identi-
fication of different onymic classes among them. The following table illustrates
this observation.
Type of phraseologism Examples

Construction with pol. bunt prometejski, en. Promethean rebellion; pol.
theonyms objęcia Morfeusza, it. va fra le braccia di Morfeo; pol. koło
fortuny, en. wheel of fortune; pol. dziesiąta muza, fr. la
dixième muse; pol. kompleks Ateny, en. Athena complex;
pol. kompleks Dafne, en. Daphne complex; pol. kompleks
Diany, en. Diana complex; pol. choroby weneryczne, en.
venereal disease; pol. poruszać się z gracją, en. move with
grace; pol. wpaść w furie, en. fall in the furies
Construction with typical pol. piękna Helena, en. beautiful Helen; pol. syzyfowa praca,
anthroponyms it. fare il lavoro di Sisifo; pol. pyrrusowe zwycięstwo, en.
Pyrrhic victory; pol. herkulesowy wysiłek, en. Herculean
effort; pol. midasowe bogactwo, en. Midas’ wealth; pol.
wróżba Tejrezjasza, en. divination of Tiresias
Construction with pol. argusowe oko, it. occhi di Argo; pol. znaleźć się między
the names of the Scyllą a Charybdą, en. find themselves between Scylla
mythological figures of the and Charybdis, pol. syreni śpiew, en. siren song; pol.
anthroponymic type bazyliszkowy wzrok, fr. le regard du basilic; pol. kompleks
Meduzy, en. Medusa complex
Type of phraseologism Examples

Construction with pol. ogród Hesperyd, it. giardino delle Esperidi
collective anthroponyms
Construction with pol. węzeł gordyjski, it. nodo gordiano; pol. koń trojański,
toponyms fr. cheval de Troie; pol. powrót do Itaki, fr. retour à
Ithaque; pol. zejść do Hadesu, en. descend to Hades; pol.
spartańskie wychowanie, en. Spartan upbringing; pol.
arkadyjski nastrój, en. Arcadian mood; pol. przekroczyć
Rubikon, en. cross the Rubicon
Construction with pol. woda latejska, it. acqua di Lete
hydronyms
Construction with pol. róg Almatei, gr. κέρας Ἀμαλθείας; pol. feniks z
zoonyms popiołów, it. una fenice che rinasce dalle proprie ceneri),
pol. dosiąść Pegaza, fr. monter son Pegasus
Construction with pol. pod Egidą, it. mettersi sotto l’egida di
chrematonyms
Moreover, the general language permits us to observe the numerous instances of

mythonyms which had undergone the process of lexicalization, or in the other
words the process of appellativization, i.e. they were subjected to the process
of grammatical category change: the proper name is deproprialized and enters
the language as a deonymic lexeme with a generalized meaning for the objects
included in the same denomination class.
This type of lexeme occurs in numerous languages, although it may belong to
its different registers, sometimes reserved for the specialized varieties and the his-
torical level of the language. Let’s use some illustrative examples in French: m.n.
typhon (a violent wind) < Typhon, primordial and monstrual deity; (avoir una voix
de) m.n. stentor < Stentor, the hero of Iliad, its voice had the force of 50 men; adj.
sibyllin (enigmatic, not clear) < Sibylle, a woman possessing prophetic virtues; m.n.
satyre (sexually obsessed) < Satyre, a mythological figure; adj. protéiforme < Protée,
the god of the sea who had the capacity to change his form whenever he wanted;
f.n. panique < Pan, the non-Olympic god, half-man, half-goat awaking fear.
The demythonimic lexis certainly has an international character. The major-
ity of lexemes created in this way similar to the above discussed phraseologisms
can be treated as classical internationalisms which derive from an identical basis
and do not differ as far as the meaning is concerned. In many cases, here we
are dealing with specific terminology (environmental, professional, ideological,
scientific, etc.).
Here we have other demythonymic items from this range which demonstrate
a phraseological origin: some French internationalisms: m.n. phénix < Phénix,
adj. olympien < Olympe, f.n. odyssée < Odyssée, m.n. océan < Océan, m.n. nypho-
mane < Nymphes, m.n. narcisse < Narcisse, m.n. narcissisme < Narcisse, f.n. muse
< Muse, f.n. morphine < Morphée (cfr. être dans les bras de Morphée), v. méduser
< Méduse, adj. martial < Mars, f.n. léthargie < Léthé, m.n. jacinthe < Huakinthos,
f.n. hypnose, m.n. hypnotisme < Hypnos, f.n. hygiène < Hygia, m.n. hermétisme <
Hermès, m.n. hermaphrodite < Hermès + Aphrodite, m.n. hercule < Hercule, f.n.
harpie < Harpie, m.n../adj. géant < Gigas, m.n. érotisme < Éros, m.n. echo < Echo,
pl.m.n. Champs-Élysées < Champs-Élysées, adj. boréal < Borée, p.m.n. Atlantique
< Atlas, m.n. atlas < Atlas, m.n. aphrodisiaque < Aphrodite, f.n. amazone < Ama-
zones, m.n. adonis < Adonis.
Coming to a conclusion, it should be noted that mythonyms constitute an
important part of the internal mythological code, identifying divine, human,
animal and fantastic beings, places and objects as well as situations unique to
the given myths. All the categories of the proper names are represented in the
mythonyms repertory. The situation is comparable to the realities observed in
literary onomastics.
It refers to the phraseological and appellative level of the language too, which
is enriched in this way gaining new structural and semantic units. In the area
of phraseologisms and the vocabulary linked with mythonyms, it is possible to
indicate the units belonging to the mythological discourse in its pure form (the
titles of the myths and their parts, the concepts, the pictorial representations, the
descriptions), as well as to the discourse referring to the mythological culture
(e.g. in the literature) and in everyday and specialist communication (the expres-
sions in the common language registers and terminologies).
References
Brückner A., 1923, Mitologia slava. Con una prefazione originale dell’autore, tra-
duzione dal polacco e note di Julia Dicksteinowna, Bologna, Nicola Zanichelli.
Budziszewska W., 1992, ‘Teonimy w funkcji nazw osobowych u Słowian’, Ono-
mastica XXXVII, 93–95.
Gałkowski A., 2010, ‘Problemi di terminologia onomastica. Contributi per un
dibattito’, Rivista Italiana di Onomastica RIOn 2, 604–624.
Grimal P., 1999, Dictionnaire mythologie grecque et romaine, Paris: Puf.
– 2008, Słownik mitologii greckiej i rzymskiej, Łanowski J. Ed., Wrocław: Osso-
lineum.
Jacobi E.A., 1854, Dictionnaire mythologique universel ou Biographie mythique
des dieux, des personnages fabuleux de la Grèce, de l’Italie, de l’Égypte, de l’Inde,
de la Chine, du Japon, de la Scandinavie, de la Gaule, de l’Amérique, de la Pol-

ynésie, etc., etc., traduit de l’allemand, refondu et complété par Th. Bernard,
Paris: Firmin Didot frères.
Kempiński A.M., 1993, Słownik mitologii ludów indoeuropejskich, Poznań:
SAWW.
Moormann E.M., Uitterhoeve W., 2004, Miti e personaggi del mondo classico:
dizionario di storia, letteratura, arte, musica, Milano: Bruno Mondadori.

Françoise Lecocq
The Dark Phoenix Rewriting An Ancient Myth

in Today’s Popular Culture1
The classical phoenix is red and gold, positively connoting the heathen sign of the renewal
of times, and the Christian sign of the resurrection. The bird’s symbolism has grown from
the Middle Ages to our century: it can embody different values, but always positive, like
love or femininity. The modern Media have renewed the legend and its iconography in
everyday life, from East to West: commercial advertisements, the press, and in popular
literature: science fiction, thrillers, or fantasy novels, books for children, comic strips,
cartoons, and mangas. The bird often becomes dark and malefic, sometimes in tandem
with another creature of fire: the dragon (usually associated in Chinese mythology with
the feng huang, who has been compared to the phoenix). This misinterpretation - or this
opposite - of the traditional bird is a figure of the re-creation of the myth by the inver-
sion of the original values according to the well-known process of invention. It becomes
the antithesis of what defined it: solar, pure, solitary, harmless. Antiquity contained the
germs of this metamorphosis of the phoenix: the comparison with the predatory eagle,
its imperial character, and the destructive flames of its pyre. So appears for the phoenix
the “dark side of the force”: literally the shadow of itself. Its avatars, fantastic creatures or
characters named Phoenix, are monstrous birds, tyrannical masters, criminal arsonists.
Its new colour is black. Its resurrection leads to destruction, that of the fire of war, or of
the nuclear holocaust. Here are the suggestive titles of some books: The night of the Phoe-
nix, Dragon and Phoenix, The Unchained Phoenix, The Phoenix Guards, Code Phoenix,
Operation Phoenix, The Curse of the Phoenix, The Pack of the Phoenix, the Phoenix Plot
The Crimes of the Phoenix. The phoenix can also be split into two personalities, offering
one positive face, and another negative - such as the heraldic eagle with two heads, or Dr.
Jekyll and Mr. Hyde - like the famous feminine character of the Marvel Comics X-Men :
Jean Grey (whose name is the colour of ashes), heroin of the saga The Dark Phoenix.
The ancient phoenix is a red and gold bird, positively connoted: solar and bright,
pure and solitary, harmless, of good omen ; borrowed from the Egyptian reli-
gion, the imaginary bird in both Greece and Rome is the pagan sign of the happy
1 This new study on the making process and the renewal of the legend of the phoenix in
our time follows upon two of my articles on the same topic: Lecocq 2002, and ‘Invent-
ing the phoenix. A Myth in the making through ancient texts and images’, dir. Patricia
Johnston - Giovanni Casadio - Sofia Papaioannou, conference of Grumento Nova,
5th–7th June 2013, to be published.
342 Françoise Lecocq
renewal of times and the Christian sign of the future resurrection of bodies2.
After Antiquity, its symbolism is considerably widened from the Middle Ages to
our centuries: it can then embody very different, sometimes opposite values, but
always positive, such as love, femininity, poetry, theatre, music.
The modern world again has renewed the legend and the image of this for-
merly rare literary and artistic bird, and made it omnipresent in our everyday
life: the phoenix popularized in the economic, technological and industrial
sphere (for example, the Phoenix Insurances, the washing powder Phoenix or
the beer Phoenix, the building company of Phoenix Houses, the nuclear genera-
tors Phoenix, the software Phoenix, etc.), whereas popular new media: science
fiction, thrillers or fantasy novels, books for children, comic strips, cartoons,
movies, television series, let the bird penetrate into previously unknown cultural
universes, like a real mutant. While the rebirth of the ancient bird was intended
to identically recreate itself in its former state, we are here interested in the ma-
lefic metamorphoses of the phoenix in modern times, going against the ancient
tradition. This misinterpretation, or this opposite of the classic image is one of
the common features in the transforming of a myth, by the inversion of the origi-
nal values; this is why the phoenix differs from all other mythological monsters
we meet in the same corpus today, such as the Chimera or the Hydra, already
harmful by their nature. Our bird has become the antithesis of what it was, an-
other self, its own negative, its shadow3. Antiquity moreover contained the germs
of this transformation in some ambivalent and reversible attributes of the bird :
its resemblance to an eagle (a bird of prey), its imperial character, the destructive
flames of its pyre. So appears the ‘dark side of the force’4 of the phoenix: its resur-
rection can bring an era of destruction.
We shall see first the negative potentialities contained in the ancient myth, then
their use in the contemporary metamorphoses: fantastic monsters or nefarious
heroes named Phoenix, warriors, predators, tyrants, arsonist criminals. They are
characters of fantasy novels, thrillers or science fiction, but also of broadcast se-
ries, embroidering on the topic of the phoenix and creating new images, particu-
larly in comic strips or mangas.
2 The two main studies of the ancient myth of the phoenix are those of Hubaux and
Leroy 1939), and of Van den Broek 1972.
3 On this topic of the other side of the phoenix, see: Le Phénix et son Autre. Poétique
d’un mythe 2013, with an article of mine (note 35).
4 This famous expression is borrowed from the movie Star Wars by George Lucas.
The Dark Phoenix 343
The ancient myth and its negative potentialities

Since Herodotus, the phoenix, a sacred solar bird, is shown as a bird of prey
and compared with the eagle, while its Egyptian model: the ben(n)u, is a heron;
there was likely confusion with the god-hawk Horus, who shared some features
and characteristics with it, as a solar divinity5. This bird of prey is nevertheless
harmless being a vegetarian: at first associated only with the funeral myrrh used
for embalming corpses, the phoenix becomes the bird of aromatics, as material
of its nest and pyre, then as food6. The error of Pliny the Elder assimilating the
phoenix to Herodotus’ and Aristotle’s cinnamon bird stresses this link between
the bird and this plant to the point that cinnamon will dethrone the date palm
(homonymous of the phoenix in Greek) in the textual, if not in the iconographi-
cal representations7. As the eagle is the king of birds, the phoenix takes on the
attributes of a royal figure: majesty, a precious beauty, an escort8. Like the benu
sometimes wore the Egyptian crown, sometimes the solar disk, the phoenix, at
first endowed with a crest or with a plume, is adorned with a halo, at the same
time divine and royal, inspired by the Hellenistic model. This radiant crown ap-
pears for the first time on currency under the Emperor Hadrian, when the bird
is adopted by the Roman imperial power as a symbol of eternity and bliss9. It
also becomes the symbol of the Roman domination of the world, perched on
the globe on other coins10. The flames of the phoenix are also a recent Roman
creation: the funeral custom of the pyre of aromatics, used at first for the corpse
of the old bird, later for the process of revival for the new one, develops from the
5 The Greek historian Herodotus (5th c. B.C.) is the first ancient author to speak about
of the phoenix, in a short notice (Histories, II, 73). See my article: Lecocq 2005.
6 The Latin poet Ovid (1st c. B.C.), is the first to develop the theme of aromatics and
food (Metamorphoses, XV, 392–409).
7 The Roman naturalist Pliny the Elder (1st c. A.D.) mentions the phoenix several times,
but with errors and contradictions (Naturalis Historia, VII, 153; X, 3–5; XI, 121; XII,
85; XIII, 42–43; XXIX, 29). See my article: Lecocq 2011.
8 The first author to mention, and likely to invent these topics, is the hellenistic trage-
dian Ezechiel (2nd c. B.C., in a fragment of his Exagoge); the Latin poet Lactantius will
bring them to their paroxysm in the 4th century A.D. in the longest poem on the bird,
De aue phoenice.
9 For the images of the ancient phoenix, see my article: Lecocq 2009.
10 Tacitus (2nd c. A.C.) is the first historian to make a connexion between the legend of
the phoenix and the life and death of a Roman emperor (Annales, VI, 28). See my
article: Lecocq 2001
1st century A.D11. The rebirth of this unique bird takes on a new meaning with
the annexation of the phoenix by the Christians12. The pagan myth expressed the
happy renewal of the solar cycle and of the world order, whereas the Christian
myth sees it as proof of the resurrection of the bodies for eternity in the afterlife13.
It is also important to notice that, in every case, the phoenix does nothing else
but appear and disappear; it has no action, no influence on the world, no con-
tact with people or other animals. Its cyclic epiphany is enough to indicate the
return of the universe to its regular order. Sometimes escorted by other birds, it
appears only in Heliopolis of Egypt, and is seen only by the priests and possibly
by the inhabitants of the city, but, of course, extremely rare are the men who
can see it from century to century. Certainly, the ancient authors said that the
phoenix was a monster (monstrum in Latin14), but in the sense of “miracle” and
“marvel” (thaumaston in Greek) of the almighty nature, such as the magnet, the
Nile River or the volcano Etna15. The ancient bird was never malevolent. Mostly,
many phoenix of modern times are beneficent creatures: in the literature for
children for example, the bird of the Japanese comic strips Phoenix by Osamu
Tezuka shows a friendly creature looking like a rooster16; the eponymous hero of
Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney, by Kenji Kuroda and Kazuo Maekawa, is of course
11 The phoenix is incinerated in the Latin poems of Martialis (Epigrams, V) and Statius
(Siluae, II, 4), as well as in some Greek novels placing the abode of the bird in India
(Lucian of Samosata, The Passing of Peregrinus, 27; Philostratus, The Life of Apollonius
of Tyana, III, 49).
12 As early as the end of the 1st c. A.D., in a letter of Pope Clement I (Epistulae ad Corin-
thios, I, 25).
13 After Clement I, we find again the example of the phoenix as a natural proof of the
effective resurrection of the corporeal bodies from Origen (Contra Celsum, IV, 98) to
Ambrose (De excessu fratris sui II, 59 and Hexaéméron, V, 23, 78–80) and Eusebius of
Caesarea (Life of Constantin, IV, 72), including the popular anonymous Greek besti-
ary The Physiologus.
14 Tertullian, On the resurrection of the flesh, 13.
15 As in Claudianus’ Carmina minora, which include poems on the phoenix, the crystal,
the magnet, the hedgehog, and the Nile River, or as in Gregorius of Tours’ Cursus stel-
larum, 11.
16 The manga comic strip Phoenix (translation for the Japanese bird Ho-o) and the
corresponding cartoon movie of Osamu Tezuka was published between 1954 and
1989.
a righteous man. Everybody knows Fawkes17, Prof. Dumbledore’s pet, giving its
name to the fifth volume of Harry Potter’s adventures, The Order of the Phoenix
(2003): the bird can lift great weights like the Roc Bird in the tale of Sinbad the
Sailor and its tears have healing properties against the worst poisons, a very nice
invention of J. K. Rowling; incidentally, the Griffyndor House Harry belongs to,
bears the red and gold colours of the ancient phoenix (assimilated to a griffin),
which has also given a feather for Harry’s magical wand as well as for the wand
of Lord Voldemort. More recently, the mockingbird of the series and movies
Hunger games, created by the American writer Suzanne Collins, as the symbol
of the rebel heroin Katnisss Everdeen and as the emblem of her revolution for
liberty is a fire bird, also the figure of the phoenix18.
But the constituent elements of the myth take a negative connotation in the
corpus we chose to study here: the wonder turns into horror.
Dark Phoenixes
In this corpus, the phoenix is similar to other mythological evil creatures, and we
shall meet it in the same contexts, with the same phraseology, as for the Sphinx,
the Chimera, the Hydra, or the Griffin and Medusa19. But it is the only one to
possess a potential ambivalence, and it seems to have crystallized imaginations,
to the point that its name was chosen as a title for the famous Belgian magazine
of imagination founded in the 70s as an international review of comic strips. The
learned reader will appreciate, of course, the resurgences of the Egyptian, Greek
or Roman myth in the modern versions, where the heroes, if not bearing the
17 The bird is named after Guy Fawkes, who planned the failed Gunpowder Plot of 1605,
commemorated each year in England with his effigy burned on a bonfire, accompa-
nied by a firework show.
18 1. The Hunger Games, 2008; 2. Catching Fire, 2009; 3. Mockingjay, 2010, ed. Scholastic;
movies 1. The Hunger Games, 2012; 2. Catching Fire, 2013.
19 Ancient mythology is a never ending source for the imagination, see: L’Antiquité
gréco-latine aux sources de l’imaginaire contemporain : fantasy, fantastique, science-
fiction, Conference of Rouen - Paris, 8th–9th June 2012, dir. Perrine Galand and oth-
ers, to be published. For a recent example, the phantoms Phoenix and Medusa are
two villains in the Japanese series Kamen Rider Wizard (2012–2013), where ghostly
creatures, arisen from a rite held during a solar eclipse, have leaders of these names
(episode 22, ‘The Phoenix’s Rampage’).
name of Phoenix, can be called Bennu20, or Phoebe21, Phaeton22, Felix23, and also
Volcanon24, Ash25 or Grey26, all having a connection with the elements of ancient
legend: Egyptian religion, the sun, fire - authors are sometimes literature teach-
ers27. Some of these heroes die crucified like Christ28, or are associated with pre-
dictions of the end of the world29, as in the Sibylline Oracles30. Even a strangely
green phoenix31 has literary references because Ovid and Statius compared our
bird with the parrot32, who lost its title of “Indian bird” to the phoenix33.
20 In the 1982 science-fiction television series The Phoenix, Judson Scott is a fugitive
astronaut named Bennu (the Egyptian name for the phoenix) using the sun’s rays to
charge a phoenix-emblazoned medallion with special powers he used to save people.
21 The only divinity related to the ancient phoenix is the sun god, Apollo Phoebus ‘the
radiant’; he appears for example in Lactantius’ and Claudian’s poems. In the American
TV series Charmed, Phoebe is the name of one of the three good witch sisters. In the
mythology, Phoebe is Phoebus’ sister and herself the divinity of the moon.
22 See The Phoenix Exultant, 1. Dispossessed in Utopia (2003), 2. The Golden Age (2007)
by John C. Wright, St Martin’s Press (sci fi). In the mythology, Phaeton is the son of
Phoebus, the sun god; Lactantius alludes to him at the beginning of his poem.
23 See the character Felix Phoenix in the Piratica Series by Tanith Lee (young adult fan-
tasy novels, 2004–2007). Felix, “happy” in Latin, is an adjective often associated with
the phoenix bird because of its meaning and its almost homonymity ; it appears on
the very first representation of a phoenix, on a fresco of the so called Euxinus’ tavern
in Pompei (1st c. A.D.).
24 In the Japanese Sega Genesis video game Shining Force II (1994), Volcanon is the god
of the flying creatures, appearing in the form of a large bird, possibly a phoenix itself.
Vulcan is the Greek fire god.
25 See Phoenix : A Black City Novel, Elizabeth Richards, Putnam Juvenile, 2013 (sci fi
romance).
26 See thereafter the case of Jean Grey in the X-Men Phoenix saga. Only the Old English
poem Phoenix, dating from the Middle Ages, describes the aging bird as “grey” (l. 122
and 153).
27 So is the French author of Opération Phénix (3 vol.) Franck Krebs (ed. Gallimard
jeunesse: 2009–2010, spy fiction).
28 See note 25.
29 Le Retour des phénix, 1. L’Origine des flammes, Marion Obry (ed. Sharon Kena: 2012,
fantasy).
30 Sibylline Oracles, VIII, 139.
31 The Latium Trilogy, 2. Green Phoenix, Thomas Burnett Swann (DAW Books: 1972).
32 Ovid, Amores, II, 6, 49–58; Statius, Siluae, II, 4, 33–37. In the animated series Conan
the Adventurer, after the story of Robert E. Howard The Phoenix on the Sword, pub-
lished in a pulp magazine in 1932, a phoenix bird, Conan’s pet, spends most of its
time on Conan’s weapon as a design, or impersonating a parrot in order to not arouse
suspicion when in public.
33 See my article : Lecocq 2011.
But the fantasy literature is, of course, the place of the most unbridled whim:
the imagination turns not only to the classical sources, but also to the cross-
ing or to the transposition of different cultural references, not to mention pure
invention; the authors freely practice anachronism, relocation and mixture of
genres34; the unique masculine bird35 multiplies and feminizes. Our phoenix,
whether it is a bird, a character or even a spaceship36, can be part of a medieval
or futuristic chivalry37, be transported to the pre-Colombian cultures38, enter
the cycle of the Grail39, go alongside Arthur and Merlin40, a Cyclops41, or even
Conan the Barbarian42, fairies43 or pirates44. The phoenix is also often linked with
the feng huang, the cinnabar bird of the Chinese mythology, compared with the
phoenix because it is also a symbol of imperial power, along with a creature of
fire : the dragon45. In this amalgam, cohabit Antiquity, Middle Ages and future
time, East and West, Egyptian wizards and Japanese warriors, clones, extrater-
restrials, battles of empire and apocalypses. This phenomenon is not particular
to the phoenix of course: it is the definition of the genre. These stories are often
long sagas in several volumes and have developed into video games.
For the “Dark Phoenix”, we see that to the re-use of elements from the an-
cient myth is added their reinterpretation in the sense of an inversion: the bird
passes across the other side of the mirror and becomes its malefic, nightly an-
tithesis, sometimes a predator or a tyrant, sometimes a criminal or an arsonist,
in search of an illegitimate immortality, with sometimes a double personality,
34 See: Vion-Dury - Brunel 2003.

35 See my article: Lecocq 2013.
36 See note 22 and, for another example, Perry Rhodan, 237. Le Plan Phénix, Karl Herbert
Scheer - Clark Darlton (ed. Fleuve Noir: 2008, sci fi fantasy).
37 See the character of the Knight Ikki in the manga Saint Seiya by Masami Kurumada
(1986–1990).
38 See thereafter the abstract of the thriller Phoenix Apostles.
39 See the fantasy trilogy Cycle de Phénix by Bernard Simonay: 1. Phénix, 1986, 2. Graal,
1988, 3. La Malédiction de la Licorne (ed. Du Rocher: 1990).
40 See the BBC TV series Merlin, episode ‘The Eye of the Phoenix’, 2010.
41 See thereafter the story of Jean Grey in the X-Men.
42 See reference note 32.
43 See for example Les Fées du Phénix, Isabelle Roy (ed. Hurtebise: 2012).
44 See note 23, and the character of Puzzle in the manga One Piece by Eiichirō Oda
(1997- ongoing).
45 See Diény 1989.
like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde46. The vocabulary of the titles of these works is very
explicit: next to the expected terms such as The Rising47, The Awakening48, The
Time of the Phoenix49, or Phoenix reborn50, The Flames51, The Ashes of the Phoe-
nix52, we find words expressing darkness, secrecy, conspiracy, violence, crime,
suffering, death, disaster, malediction : The Night53, The Shadow54 of the Phoenix,
The Code55, The Conspiracy56, The Network57, The Seal58, The Pack59of the Phoenix,
The Unchained Phoenix60, The Phoenix Blade61, The Phoenix and the Sword62, The
Phoenix Guards63, The Crimes64, The Burn65, The Requiem66, The Grave of the Phoe-
nix67, as well as The Curse of the Phoenix68, and so on. Note that fiction is some-
times based on a reality that can sometimes overtake it: recent military history,
for example, has well-known weapons called “Phoenix missiles”; the Ameri-
can “Phoenix Program” was directed by the CIA during the war in Vietnam
46 Like the hero of Advent Phoenix by Carol Jo Parsons (PublishAmerica: 2006, sci fi), or
Jean Grey, in the X-Men (see thereafter).
47 Phoenix Rising, Ryk E. Spoor (ed. Baen: 2013) (epic fantasy), and List, 2008.
48 See List, 2009.
49 Time of the Phoenix Man, Ricardo L. Garcia, CreateSpace Independent Publishing
Platform, 2013.
50 Phoenix Reborn, vol. 3, Eden Glenn (ed. Rebel Ink Press: 2013, erotic paranormal).
51 For example, Flames of a Phoenix: Tears of the Past, Alex James Egertsen (Xlibris
Corporation: 2011).
52 Numerous titles with, or “without” ashes.
53 La nuit du Phénix, Michel Andréoléty (ed. M. Andréoléty: 2004, fiction).
54 See List, 2013.
55 See List, 2009 and 2010.
56 See List, 2011.
57 See List, 2012.
58 Sous le sceau du phénix by Mickey Friedman (Gallimard: 1986), translated from Paper
Phoenix (thriller).
59 See List, 2013.
60 See List, 2008.
61 Trilogy of D. R. Racey, 1. Conflagration, 2. Lineage, 3. Blood Rites (ebook: 2013–2014,
epic fantasy novel).
62 Le Phénix et le Glaive, Pierre Michel Sanchez (ed. 7 Ecrit: 2013, esoteric thriller).
63 See List, 2008.
64 See List, 2000.
65 The Phoenix Burns, Shannon Muir (ebook: 2013, romance).
66 The Phoenix Requiem, Sarah Ellerton (fantasy webcomic: 2012).
67 See List, 2011.
68 See List, 2013.
to attack and destroy the political infrastructure of the Viet Cong; air force
squadrons were called Fenix in Argentina. For the images of this dark phoenix,
the covers of books do not always show the phoenix of the title; if they do, it
is logically a bird, rarely a real bird (although the American bald eagle, is one
case69), but mostly an imaginary firebird, between eagle, dragon and bat, some-
times even a gargoyle70. In Antiquity, as was said at the beginning, it was a bird
of prey (Herodotus’ eagle or hawk), or a mix of cock, peacock and pheasant in
the literary texts, but mostly a heron in the figurative representations (the benu
on papyri and frescoes in Egypt, and also on Roman currencies and mosaics)71.
Among all these stories of dark phoenix, we chose to present three as repre-
sentative, one taken from a very popular comic strip of science fiction, one from
a TV series and another one from a recent fantasy novel.
The Dark Phoenix Saga is a series of the Marvel comics X-Men, with hundreds
of pages published over 40 years, intended for a young audience from 9 years,
but which has of course many adult fans. The heroine is Jean Grey, a mutant
and telepathic member of the X-Men team. She is red-haired, dressed in a green
and gold skin-tight suit; her husband is Scott Summers, nicknamed Cyclops. All
these names are programmatic: her husband’s name, Summers, is the name of
the sunny season, the summer, and her own name is the colour of ash72. Sun and
ashes are two main components of the ancient myth of the phoenix. Created in
the 60s as the only woman of the group, Jean Grey takes an important role in the
episodes of The Phoenix Saga and The Dark Phoenix Saga73, which makes her a
Phoenix. Later, she reappears in 198674. The story is very long and complicated.
Exposed to and affected by the radiation from a solar storm, she is saved, but
at the same time possessed by a cosmic entity called “Force Phoenix”, which,
in its turn, is possessed by a malefic Mastermind, master of the “Club of the
Hell Fires”, with terrifying powers threatening the universe; Jean is transformed
into a “Dark Phoenix” who her friends have to fight because she is an obstacle
to the heat and light of the sun, necessary for the Earth and for humanity. The
suit of the heroine, from green, becomes red and gold, and her hair is in flames.
69 CSU (Crime Support Unit), 2. Le Phénix, Caroline Terrée (ed. Milan: 2005, thriller).
70 Darkside, Der schwarze Phönix, Tom Becker (Schatzinsel: 2010, fantasy thriller).
71 For the images of the ancient phoenix, see note 9.
72 Even if the heroine is also presented as a descendant of the short-lived Queen of
England Jane Grey, almost her namesake, executed for treason in 1554.
73 1976–1980, by Chris Claremont and John Byrne.
74 To celebrate the 30th anniversary of the Phoenix Saga, the storyline has been reprint-
ed: The X-Men. The Dark Phoenix Saga hardcover 2010
She causes, more or less voluntarily, the destruction of an inhabited planet and
chooses to commit suicide, but does not die of course, her double being main-
tained alive in a cocoon at the bottom of the sea, the element diametrically op-
posite to fire. She will die of a massive electromagnetic discharge thrown by her
opponent Magneto, the Magnet, only to regenerate from the egg of a phoenix in
a distant future where she becomes the “White Phoenix of the Crown,” a kind of
Master of Time. It will be Cyclops’ turn to be possessed and to become the “Dark
Phoenix” - in a never-ending story, sometimes without logic because of edito-
rial changes. The titles of the various episodes are: “Phoenix Rising”, “Cyclops
and Phoenix’s Wedding”, “The song of the Phoenix : End song - War song”. They
inspired a television series and a movie. Scott and Jean’s daughter, Rachel, also
a Phoenix, appears in the comic strip Excalibur, from the same authors in the
90s75. We find the same theme in the American television animated series Avatar:
The Last Airbender (2005–2008) which includes a king phoenix, sovereign of the
nation of fire, megalomaniac, cruel and merciless, trying to destroy the earth and
to reign over the world.
A second example: at the time of the creation of X-men, there was a success-
ful American television series called “Gothic” and entitled “Dark Shadows”
(1966–1971), mixing werewolves, zombies, wizards and parallel universes; a
certain Laura Collins, nicknamed “The Phoenix”, appearing in episodes 132 to
192 and 728 to 761, is burned and reborn from her ashes every 100 years; with
no logic she is reincarnated no less than eight times between the 17th and 18th
century. In her multiple lives, she sometimes wears an orange dress, travels in
Egypt as a worshiper of the ancient Sun god Ra, and settles down in the city
of Phoenix, Arizona! She is an infanticidal mother, trying to sacrifice her own
son in the flames to be reborn herself, being a sort of fire vampire, not a blood
vampire.
A third example: Phoenix Apostles is a book written by Lynn Sholes and Joe
Moore (2011). The first volume of the series is “The Mystery of Seneca Hunt” with
a plot interwoven in contemporary events. The American journalist Seneca Hunt,
“The Huntress”, covers the opening of Montezuma’s grave in Mexico City, but the
remains of the Aztec emperor have disappeared. Seemingly, a terrorist attack kills
all the persons present on the site, among which is Seneca’s fiancé, but not her. Her
investigations bring her to discover that the remains of the most horrible serial
killers from the history of the World, such as the Queen Mary Tudor or Adolph
Hitler, are being stolen from all over the planet by the followers of an old solar
75 See: Valls de Gomis 2005.

worshiping sect, in order to revive them and let them commit new massacres and
pour the rivers of blood necessary for Montezuma’s deification, and this must be
done before the fateful day of December 21st, 2012, a date supposed to be the end
of the world in the Mayan calendar. Montezuma has survived from his time until
then thanks to the Christian relic the Veil of Veronica. We find here multiple com-
ponents of the ancient legend of the phoenix: an apocalyptic prediction, a cosmic
cycle, pyramids like in Egypt, the Sun, an emperor, eternal life, and Christian
references, but they are perverted by a criminal mind for a maleficent purpose.
To conclude, all these popular works, without any claim other than the enter-
tainment of the readers, often a young public, have no great names for authors
and did not produce great masterpieces: we have not met, for now, a Tolkien of
the “Dark Phoenix”. But it is not important: this choice of a cultural reference on
this basis maybe of old school memories, whose metamorphosis, even perverted,
is an integration and an appropriation, testifies to the vitality of the ancient myth
as a permanent source of inspiration76. We can find also some “dark phoenixes”
in fields other than texts and images (like comics, films, video games, etc.): in
another kind of use of the ancient data, the phoenix being the bird of aromat-
ics, a somewhat alchemical and esoteric Californian laboratory proposes a line
of perfumes bearing names such as Ars moriendi (‘The art of dying’), Diabolus
(“The devil”), ‘High Macabre’, ‘Lady Death’, Ars draconis (‘The art of the dragon’);
the name of the lab is ‘Black Phoenix Alchemy’77. We chose to deal here with the
“Dark Phoenix”, with a destructive firebird, but, as we have said, there are many
more modern works where the phoenix is a positive and friendly creature. In any
case, red, green or dark, the rare bird from Antiquity not only on the margins of
the world and humanity, but also on the margins of literature, with few and short
mentions, having been the unique subject of only two works78, has never been
so present and so popular in today’s culture and imagination: about twenty titles
only for the dark phoenix of fantasy or sci-fi novels and thrillers since 2000, pre-
dominantly in France and in the Anglo-Saxon world, as shown in the list below.
76 See more examples at <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Phoenix_in_popular_culture >

[accessed 07 January 2014].
77 See <http://blackphoenixalchemylab.com> [accessed 07 January 2014].
78 The Bird Phoenix, Christian poem of Lactantius and The Phoenix of the poet Claudian,
5th c., see my articles: Lecocq 2011, 2014.
List of the Dark Phoenix Books for the 21st c.

2000 Les Crimes du Phénix, Dino Battaglia, ed. Mosquito (thriller)
2003 Les Six Jours du Phénix, Nadine Najman, ed. Les Deux Encres (thriller)
2005 CSU (Crime Support Unit), 2. Le Phénix, Caroline Terrée, ed. Milan (thriller)
2008 The Phoenix Guards, Steven Brust, ed. Orb Books (epic fantasy)
2008 L’Avènement du Phénix, Hervé Croenne, ed. Les Nouveaux auteurs (thriller)
2008 Les Aventures de Cassandra Jamiston : Le Cercle du Phénix, Carolyn Grey,
ed. Flammarion (fantastic)
2008 Enduring Flame, 1. The Phoenix Unchained, 2. The Phoenix Endangered, 3.
The Phoenix Transformed, Mercedes Lackey, James Mallory, ed. Macmillan
(fantasy)
2009 Le Bastion du Phénix, Frédérique Badoux, ed. Mémogrames (sci fi thriller)
2009 Code Name Phoenix : The Awakening, Scott A. Houghton, Authorhouse
(sci fi)
2010 Code Phénix, John Connor, ed. JC Lattès (thriller)
2010 Le Phénix est mort à Camaret, Jean-Pierre Farines, ed. Bargain (thriller)
2011 Le Tombeau du Phénix, François-Xavier Cerniac, ed. Les Nouveaux auteurs
(thriller)
2011 Phoenix, Alex Richardson and Lu Ann Wells, ebook (thriller)
2011–2013 The Phoenix Conspiracy Series, 1. The Phoenix Conspiracy, 2. The
Phoenix Rising, 3. The Phoenix Crisis, 4. The Phoenix War, Richard Sanders,
ebook (sci fi)
2011 A mystery of Seneca Hunt, 1. The Phoenix Apostles, Lynn Sholes and Joe
Moore, ed. Midnight ink (fantastic thriller)
2012 L’Exécuteur. Le Réseau Phoenix, Don Pendleton, Vauvenargues (thriller)
2012 Phoenix, Steve Byrne, ebook (historic fantasy)
2013 Les Enfants de l’Hyphale d’or, 3. La Malédiction du Phénix, Hélène Louise
and Amandine Labarre, ed. La Chimère (fantastic)
2013 Emanuel Stone and the Phoenix Shadow, Isaac Solomon, Pegasus Elliot
Mackenzie Publishers Ltd (adventure)
2013–2014 The Phoenix Fallacy Trilogy, 1. Janus, 2. Norm, Jon Sourbeer, ebook
(sci-fi)
2013 The Phoenix Pack, 1. Feral Sins, Suzanne Wright, ed. Montlake Romance
(fantasy)
2014 Phoenix (a Dystopian Fantasy), Thea Atkinson, ebook, 2014 (fantasy)

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Authors
Soledad Llano Berini, MA in Italian Language and Literature and a M. Phil.

in Italian Linguistics from the University of Santiago de Compostela (Spain).
Currently she is also preparing her Ph.D. dissertation in History of Italian lan-
guage. From October 2009 to present, she is employed as a Senior Lecturer to
the Romance Philology Chair of the University of Lodz.
Justyna Biernat, PhD student at the Jagiellonian University in Poland. She

graduated Drama Studies and Classics. She is a reviewer for Polish theatre jour-
nals, tutor of classes on modern theatre performances for students and drama
classes instructor for children. She was an editor and co-author of ‘Granice
wolności w starożytnej myśli greckiej’ (‘The Limits of Freedom in Ancient
Greek Thought’ (2013)). Recently, she has been working on her doctoral thesis
‘The Funeral Lament in Ancient Greek Tragedies. The Mourning Monologues
in the circle of Psychoanalysis’. Her interest is not only ancient Greek tragedy
and its theatrical reception, but also modern Hebrew drama.
Antoni Bobrowski, Associate Professor of Classics at the Jagiellonian Univer-

sity, Cracow, Poland. He focuses his research interests on two main fields: the
history of Roman literature, and the reception of ancient cultural heritage in the
Polish and European literary tradition. His publications include several articles
and two comprehensive monographs. Mythology in the Roman Love Elegy and
Lyric of the Augustan Age is the result of his research into how mythological nar-
ratives were employed by the Augustan poets. The Journal of the Trojan War by
Dictys of Crete: A Historical and Literary Study discusses the wide range of liter-
ary problems connected with the ancient pseudepigrapha, whose anonymous
author invented the person of an eyewitness of the Trojan War and composed
the “true” war diary as opposed to the version established in the early Greek epic
by Homer and the poets of the Epic Cycle. His recent research deals with various
aspects of the reception of the Homeric tradition in antiquity, as well as in later
literary periods.
Agata Buda, a graduate of Classical Philology (Jagiellonian University) and

English Philology (University of Silesia). She was awarded her PhD in 2010.
356 Authors
She is interested in the reception of antiquity in English literature, as well as

in the notion of time and space in Victorian prose, narration techniques in the
nineteenth-century English novel. She teaches Latin and English literature at
the Faculty of Philology and Pedagogy, Department of English, Kasimir Pulaski
University of Technology and Humanities, Radom, Poland (www.uniwersytet-
radom.pl).
Małgorzata Budzowska, Assistant Professor at University of Lodz (Poland),

Chair of Classical Philology; classical philologist (PhD) and theatre studies spe-
cialist (MA). Research interests: reception of ancient tragedies in contemporary
theatre, modern and postmodern adaptation of ancient dramas; theory of emo-
tions. Author of the monograph: Phaedra. Ethics of Emotions in the tragedies of
Euripides, Seneca and Racine. Currently involved in the research projects: Recep-
tion of ancient myths of Mediterranean Culture in Polish theatre of XXI century;
Ancient drama and theatre in the works of scholiasts.
Katarzyna Chiżyńska, Assistant professor in University of Lodz (Poland), PhD

in classical literature, MA in classics, MA in cultural sciences (theatre studies).
Her work concerns ancient scholars works, poetics of ancient drama, relations
between ancient and contemporary culture. Current research subject: Ancient
theatre and drama in the scholiasts’ texts.
Jadwiga Czerwińska, Associate Professor at University of Lodz and at Catholic

University in Lublin (Poland); Head of the Chair of Ancient Drama and Thea-
tre at Catholic University in Lublin. Head of the Laboratory of Reception of
Ancient Literature. Research interests: Euripides’ tragedies, Greek philosophy.
Author of the monograph: Anthropeia physis come dramatis persona in Euripide.
Currently involved in the research project: Ancient drama and theatre in the
works of scholiasts.
Artur Gałkowski, professor in Italian and French linguistics. He is primarily

onomastician, and he dedicates his researches especially to chrematonyms, i.e.
proper names of various objects and acts of modern civilization. His scientific
interests are also directed towards text linguistics and analysis of specialized
languages, mostly varieties of Italian in its professional uses. He is a profes-
sor at the University of Lodz, head of the Department of Italianistics in the
Institute of Romance Philology of University of Lodz. He teaches descriptive
grammar of Italian language, general and contrastive linguistics and transla-
tion theories.
Authors 357
Agnieszka Gralińska-Toborek, art historian and aesthetician, PhD, assistant pro-

fessor at the Institute of Philosophy at the University of Lodz. Her research inter-
ests focus on the socio-political contexts of modern art, art in the public space,
the connections between traditional and contemporary art. Recently, she has been
interested in the aesthetic interpretation of antiquity in contemporary culture and
she has devoted several articles to this topic (e.g.: 20th century allergy to classical an-
tiquity and attempts to overcome it, ‘Art. Inquiry’ 2010, Greece – the irrevitably lost
home of art, ‘Art Inquiry’ 2011, Starożytność jako droga ku nowoczesności. Duncan,
Dalcroze, Niżyński u greckiego źródła [Atniquity as a way to modernity. Duncan,
Dalcroze, Nizynsky in the Greek sources], „Kultura Współczesna“ 3/2011)
Adriana Grzelak-Krzymianowska, Assistant Professor of Classical Philology

at the University of Łódź. She received her doctorate in Literature at the Univer-
sity of Łódź in 2012 for her thesis The ethical teaching in the ‘De rerum natura’ of
Lucretius. Her current research interests include Lucretian and epicurean stud-
ies, various reception themes and ancient tourism.
Roberta Franchi, after getting her degree from the University of Florence with
a thesis on Methodius of Olympus in Ancient Christian Literature, she obtained
her Ph.D. in Greek and Latin Philology at the same University and a Master in
Religious Studies at the University “L’Orientale” in Naples. After research pe-
riods in Italy, Vienna, Spain and Denmark, she is actually research assistant at
the Department of Classical Studies and research associate at the Department of
Gender Studies at the University of Waterloo in Canada; from September she will
be a research fellow at the Hungarian Academy of Sciences in Budapest (Section
of History). Her main areas of interest are Greek and Latin Patristics, Christian
philosophy, and gender studies. She is also interested in the religious and literary
aspects of Late Antiquity. She has published a critical edition with introduction
and commentary of the sixth chapter of Nonnus of Panopolis’ Paraphrase, and
several articles on Christian poetry, on women in ancient Christianity, on the
Virgin Mary, and on Methodius of Olympus. She is member of the European
Society of Women in Theological Research.
Dorota Jędraś, in 2012 she graduated from Faculty of Modern Languages and
Literatures of the Adam Mickiewicz University in Poznań. She has a Master degree
in Modern Greek Philology. Since the graduation she works as an assistant in the
Department of Greek Civilization and Language of the Nicolaus Copernicus Uni-
versity in Toruń. She is currently working on her PhD thesis on the mythological
characters in works of Iakovos Kambanellis.
358 Authors
Tomasz Kaczmarek, Associate Professor at the University of Lodz in the Depart-

ment of Romance Philology, Doctor of Humanities of Paris IV (Sorbonne). His
research interests include mainly French and Italian literature of the twentieth
century, especially in the area of drama and avant-garde theater in Europe in the
first half of the twentieth century. He is the author of two monographs on the work
of Henri-René Lenormand and French theater from the perspective of expression-
ist aesthetics. His works have been published in the pages of such magazines as
“Folia Litteraria Romanica”, “Przegląd Humanistyczny”, “Issues of Literary Types”,
“Etudes Romanes de Brno”, “Echos des Etudes Romanes”, “Cahiers Octave Mir-
beau”, “Contributi, Quaderni Italo- Ungheresi”, and in numerous collections of
post-conference proceedings.
Elizavetta Koemets, graduate student at NYU’s Draper Program of Humanities

and Social Thought and an editor of the Anamesa interdisciplinary journal.
Françoise Lecocq, Maître de Conférences in Latin at the University of Caen

- Lower Normandy in France. She studies the myths (mainly the phoenix and
Europa) and the image of Rome. For the myth of the phoenix, she studied its
historic and symbolic evolution in texts and images, since ancient Egypt till the
end of the Roman Empire, in the main authors (Ovid, Pliny the Elder, Lactan-
tius, Claudian), through the various literary genres (the novel), and by themes
(the aromatics, the sex), as well as in the representations. She also inventoried
its various contemporary metamorphoses. She was interested in the myth of
Europa in its iconographic and literary medieval Christian mutation (Ovid
moralized, the Sybil Europa), in its parody (Voltaire) and in modern sculptural
representations. She is passionate by the plaster models of Rome and the image
of the city, from Antiquity to our days, as an abstracted entity (dea Roma) or in
the architectural and symbolic offspring of its monuments (the Pantheon). She
worked also on Erasmus’ Adagia and the book on the fish of the Hortus sanitatis.
Agnieszka Liszka-Drążkiewicz, she received her PhD in Italian Literature

from Jagiellonian University in Krakow in 2013 with dissertation on the notion
of power in Pier Paolo Pasolini’s late works. She obtained her MA in Italian
Literature (2006) and in Political Sciences (2011) at the same University. Pres-
ently she works as a lecturer at Pedagogical University in Krakow, where she
teaches Italian Literature. In her research she focuses on modern Italian litera-
ture, relations between literature and politics and the history of post-war Italy.
Vassiliki Malatra, she worked in the domain of banking IT until 2004. After
retiring in 2004, she restarted her studies in art history at the University of Lille
Authors 359
3 in France. She did an art history degree followed by a master’s degree at the

University of Nanterre-Paris (master 1) and the University François Rabelais of
Tours (master 2) in France. From the beginning of her studies, architecture and
art from Romanesque time have caught her interest. The work of the masters
theses concerned especially architecture. She also wished to study a theme came
from the east and spread to the west. The image of the zodiac is a subject not yet
studied. Her research since three years includes all supports: manuscripts, sculp-
ture, painting, ivories, mosaics, fabrics.
Anna Miller-Klejsa, Assistant Professor at University of Lodz (Department of

Italian Filology). Her research interests include history of Italian cinema and
Polish-Italian film relationships. At present she is carrying out two projects: “Au-
diovisual paradigm in Polish-Italian film relationships” (Ministry of Science and
Higher Education) and “Years of Lead in Italian fiction film” (National Centre of
Scientific Research).
Sidney Mitsunaga-Whitten, she is pursuing a PhD in Comparative Litera-

ture at Yale University. Her interests include aesthetics, genre theory, Classics
and Classical Reception. She has presented her work at numerous conferences
in Europe and the United States. Her most recent presentation, delivered in
Helsinki, Finland, was entitled, “A Matter of Style: Towards a New Theory of
Literary Value.”
Tiziana Ottaviano, a second year PhD student at the Adam Mickiewicz Uni-
versity in Poznań, she is specialising in Italian literature. The subject of her re-
search is the prose of Gabriele D’Annunzio analysed in terms of gender studies.
In march 2013 she participated in the Conference organized by the Ignatianum
Accademy in Cracow entitled “Świat zmysłów”. Her presentation was entitled
“Gabriele D’Annunzio and the victory of senses”. The paper for the conference
obtained a positive review and will be published in 2013. Her main interests are
gender studies in literature, in particular the construction of gender roles in the
Italian prose of the twentieth century and contemporary Italian poetry.
Maria Pavlou, currently a postdoctoral research assistant on the project ‘Eume-

nides’ (eumenides.ouc.ac.cy) at the Open University of Cyprus, and a Harvard
CHS Fellow (Spring Term 2014). Her research lies mainly in archaic lyric poetry,
narratology, the representation of time and space in literature, and the reception of
ancient myth in Modern Greek Poetry. She has published on Bacchylides, Thucy-
dides, Apollonius Rhodius, and especially Pindar.
360 Authors
Damian Pierzak, he earned his MA in Classics from the University of Silesia

in 2010 and is currently a doctoral candidate in the Chair of Classical Philology
working on his PhD thesis on the uses of Greek myth in Cicero’s Speeches.
Karolina Prymlewicz, art historian. She worked in the Museum of Caricature

and Cartoon Art in Warsaw and curated many cartoon exhibitions. Her main
areas of interest are: book illustration and press drawings, historical graphics, the
links between literature and visual arts. A doctoral student at the Institute of Art
of the Polish Academy of Sciences (IS PAN).
Raffaele Ruggiero, Fellow of Italian Literature in the Department of Literatures,

Languages and Arts at the University of Bari, where he teaches Italian Linguistic.
He took a degree in Literature and Philosophy in 1992 (cum laude) with a degree
thesis in Ancient Greek Literature about Homeric poems; he took a second degree
in Jurisprudence in 2001 (cum laude), with a degree thesis in History of Roman
Law about the ius praetorium. In 2008 he became a lawyer. From 1991 to 2012,
he was responsible for the editorial board of the journal ‘Belfagor’ (Florence,
Olschki). He is in the editorial board of the publishers Aragno (Turin), Il Mulino
(Bologna) and Pensa (Lecce). Since 2009 he is responsible of the biennial IDEA
Project about Law and Literature. The Italian experience between XVI and XVIII
century. Since 2013 he is in the editorial board of the Machiavellian Encyclopae-
dia (Rome, Inst. of the Italian Enyclopaedia ‘Treccani’).
Damian Stocking, Associate Professor of Classics at Occidental College. His

research interests include tragedy, comedy, epic, theories of genre, and the inter-
section of Classics with contemporary Continental philosophy. His most recent
publications include ‘To Give Over One’s Heart: Pindar, Bataille, and the Poetics
of Victory’ and ‘Antigone, désoeuvrée: Tragedy, Finitude, and Community’.
Joanna Ślósarska, Professor at the Institute of Contemporary Culture (Chair of

the Theory of Literature), University of Łódź, Head of the Laboratory of Anthro-
pology of Literature. Author of the books titled Reason, Transcendence and Evil
in Literature (1992), Mystical and Archetypical Images of Cosmos (1994), Studies
in Anthropological Poetics (2004), Be Faster than Death. Studies in Culture An-
thropology (2009), Dream Catchers. Postmodern Codes of Cultural Unity (2012).
She conducts research on anthropology of culture and comparative literature
(reception of ancient stories and ancient Hebrew, Indian and Greek myths - the
myths of Narcissus, the myth of Orpheus, the myth of Hermes, biblical stories of
Isaac and Abraham, the myth of Krishna).
Authors 361
Monika Wąsik, lecturer at the Department of Drama and Theatre of University

of Lodz. Author of scholarly articles and critical texts published by Dialog, Teatr,
Księgarnia Akademicka and Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Łódzkiego, scholar
of GFPS (Freie Universität Berlin), DAAD (Ludwig-Maximilians-Universität
München) and OeAD (Universität Wien) programmes. She deals with the con-
temporary theatre with special focus on the German speaking area.
Katarzyna Wojtysiak-Wawrzyniak, MA in Romance philology and in Culture

studies; PhD in Drama Theory at Adam Mickiewicz University in Poznań. She is
interested in Spanish theatre of XIX to XXI century, especially in theatre of Gener-
ation 27 and Federico Garcia Lorca. Her research also focus on cultural anthropol-
ogy, cultural poetics, history of ideas and anthropological imaginative structures.
Maria Judyta Woźniak, Assistant Lecturer at the Chair of Studies in Spanish

Language and Literature, University of Lodz. She deals with Polish and Spanish
poetry of the second half of the 20th century from a comparative perspective.
She is particularly interested in the so-called classicism of contemporary poetry.
Her academic achievements also include publications on translations of Spanish,
French and Polish literature.
Victoria Yefymenko, a postdoctoral student in the English Department at Kyiv

National Taras Shevchenko University, Ukraine. She received her PhD from the
same University. She is currently working on the monograph on fairy tale and
myth transformations in postmodern fiction. Her research interests include cog-
nitive poetics, narratology, postmodern myths and fairy tales, feminist literature
and literary criticism.
Anna Zaorska, she completed her Master in German language and literature in
2008 at University of Lodz (Master’s thesis: Image of women in the drama of Got-
thold Ephraim Lessing). In 2008 she received a DAAD-scholarship at University
of Bielefeld and in 2009–2010 at Free University of Berlin. Currently she is a
PhD student at University of Lodz, Chair of Literature and Culture of Germany,
Austria and Switzerland (PhD thesis: ‘My crimes are born from love’. The Medea
myth in German literature). Her research focus on: myth in the literature, age of
Enlightenment.


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Warsaw Studies in Classical Literature and Culture 3 3 Warsaw Studies in Classical Literature and Culture 3

Ancient Myths in the Making of Culture

Ancient Myths in the

Ancient Myths in the Making of Culture

Malgorzata Budzowska and Jadwiga Czerwinska - 978-3-653-98600-6

WSCL 03_265176_Budzowska_HOF_A5HC PLA research new.indd 1 03.12.14 12:48

Ancient Myths in the Making of Culture

Ancient Myths in the

Ancient Myths in the Making of Culture

Malgorzata Budzowska and Jadwiga Czerwinska - 978-3-653-98600-6

WSCL 03_265176_Budzowska_HOF_A5HC PLA research new.indd 1 03.12.14 12:48

Malgorzata Budzowska and Jadwiga Czerwinska - 978-3-653-98600-6

Malgorzata Budzowska and Jadwiga Czerwinska - 978-3-653-98600-6

Malgorzata Budzowska and Jadwiga Czerwinska - 978-3-653-98600-6

This publication was financially supported by the University of Lodz

Malgorzata Budzowska and Jadwiga Czerwinska - 978-3-653-98600-6

Introduction (Małgorzata Budzowska, Jadwiga Czerwińska).................................9

Soledad Llano Berini

Maria Judyta Woźniak

VISUAL AND PERFORMING ARTS................................................................... 199

PHILOSOPHY AND ANTHROPOLOGY........................................................... 287

Damian Stocking, Sidney Mitsunaga-Whitten

Authors .................................................................................................................... 355

Malgorzata Budzowska and Jadwiga Czerwinska - 978-3-653-98600-6

Reception of Mediterranean Antiquity heritage is one of the dominant research

phenomena with particular emphasis on the contemporary culture. This kind

Malgorzata Budzowska and Jadwiga Czerwinska - 978-3-653-98600-6

Malgorzata Budzowska and Jadwiga Czerwinska - 978-3-653-98600-6

Some Aspects of the Homerkritik in Ancient

flourished, started to voice criticism and objections. As far as can be established

9 Cf. Speyer 1971: 46.

13 The cases in antiquity where Kephalon of Gergis is cited as a prominent historical

29 See Merkle 1989: 250–253, Grossardt 1998: 372.

Thracian Chersonese at the time of writing. A Phoenician sailor is talking to

31 See the discussion about dating in Beschorner 1999: 2ff.

– 1983, ‘Spätantike Troja-Erzählungen – mit einem Ausblick auf die mittelalter-

Malgorzata Budzowska and Jadwiga Czerwinska - 978-3-653-98600-6

Hercules at the Crossroads: Sources, Models,

As is well known, every divine or heroic figure, as well as every mythological

to notice that the Christian allegorical reading assumes a different significance

Hercules’ story continues to evolve in an extraordinary variety of ways, not only

Clement has attempted to revise this traditional account, preferring to empha-

After Clement, in the fourth century special regard is to be paid to Basil on

Basil provides a complete and elaborated version of the famous account. We

half-profile – wearing a just-rescued expression. Despite his foppish appearance,

Galinsky K.G., 1972, The Heracles Theme, Oxford: Basil Blackwell.

The Myth of Helen of Troy and Its

The myth of Helen of Troy is constantly present in Greek literature, begin-

Constant presence of the Myth of Helen in Greek

The variantivity of mythological stores

The Myth of Helen of Troy

Homer’s Picture of Helen

is created, as a woman who stays at home performing her household chores,

Helen and her Myth in the works of Euripides

A negative picture of Helen

It is Hecuba, who opens the procession of characters commenting on Helen’s

The picture of herself in Helen by Euripides

Generally speaking, Euripides’s attitude towards war can be described as paci-

it a completely different meaning than Stesichorus in his pro-Spartan ‘propagan-

Malgorzata Budzowska and Jadwiga Czerwinska - 978-3-653-98600-6

Malgorzata Budzowska and Jadwiga Czerwinska - 978-3-653-98600-6

A Reading of Greek Myth in Cicero’s Speeches.

opportunity to invoke the longest mythological exemplum to be found in any of