The English word matter is from French matière from Latin materia from Latin mater "mother." The Romans worshipped Magna Mater "the Great Mother," just as the Greeks worshipped Demeter "Mother Earth," and the Egyptians worshipped mother Isis "the seat [upon which all rests]."
I might note that our modern materialists worship matter to a far greater degree than those other cults, denying even the existence of all other gods...
I've been pretty down lately: most of this month I've been ill and very weak, and even after that, it's been stressful trying to catch back up with everything that fell by the wayside, and frustrating to strugglingly clear the fog from my mind and get back to being capable of thinking. I had a little space available to me, today, and I thought I might pluck Plotinos off the shelf... little did I know that this essay, which I struggled to make sense of two years ago, was just what I needed today.
Despite being a little lost last time, my summary actually wasn't too bad, but I still wanted to tinker with it, some:
I iv: On Well-Being [Revision of my original summary.]
Let us consider a musician and his lyre. It is the lyre that sings sweetly, but can it be considered to have well-being? No—the lyre might be in tune or in good repair, but it is the musician that can be well; the lyre is a mere instrument of the musician's well-being. But let us suppose that the lyre is out of sorts: does this mean the musician is unwell? Not necessarily: perhaps it fell out of tune in his absence and he is not even aware of it, or perhaps he sings on even without accompaniment, or perhaps he has grown tired of playing and does something else. In whatever case, the musician cares for the instrument, tuning it and fixing it as needed, but only insofar as it contributes to his own well-being.
In the same way, a man's body is the mere instrument of the soul; and while the body might experience pleasure or contentment, this is merely akin to the lyre being in good shape. No, the Good is the highest of all, and so a man's good must come from his higher part: his well-being is of the soul, and being of the soul it is to be found solely within and not subject to the vagaries of without.
Just like how the lyre is not essential to the musician's well being, what does the saintly man—he who is consumed with divinity—care for the body? He will be swayed neither by power and luxury, on the one hand, nor disease and disaster, on the other. Would we not call him a man of tremendous well-being, who could be satisfied even as he is placed on the pyre? But this is just what happens when the practice of the virtues is taken to its end.
In general, in my summaries of Plotinos, I have taken the tack of summarizing his conclusions and more-or-less ignoring his arguments. I think I was upset with my summary the first time since this was the first essay in which doing so was really glaring... it really leaves a lot out. But I think, by the end of summarizing the Enneads, I came to the conclusion that I can't really do justice to the full arguments; really, these summaries exist to A) remind me of the contents of the essays, and B) maybe, hopefully, entice others to read Plotinos—at least, those essays that seem most interesting to them. So if my summary seems abrupt and you want to know what the good man is like and why, then just read the real thing: it's linked above and it's not very long.
I didn't realize this the first time through Plotinos, but this essay is about εὐδαιμονία eudaimonia, the meaning of which was one of my Big Questions™ when I went through On the Gods and the World. The dictionary gives "prosperity, good fortune, wealth;" Murray and Nock translate this word as "happiness;" Taylor translates it "felicity;" MacKenna goes a little further and translates it "true happiness;" and Armstrong is critical of these and translates it as "well-being." I agree with Armstrong that any variation on "happiness" is misleading: the philosophers are not saying that the virtuous feel good, they are saying that they have transcended feeling. But it would be wrong to call such people "stoic" or "impassive," I think: Taoist and Zen masters are well known for their good humor, and angels (as the beings intrinsically possessing the virtues we try to take on) are full of joy. (Indeed, when I think of my own angel, I think of them first and foremost as playful.) Perhaps a very literal translation of eudaimonia might be "well-spirited," which I can sorta see as encompassing all of these notions.
In my summary I mention tossing the good man on a pyre, but Plotinos's actual example was of tossing him in the Bull of Phalaris. I wasn't familiar with it, but good old Diodoros tells us the story in the Library of History IX xviii–xix. Yipes!
Even though Plotinos is following Plato in his arguments, and even though Plato and Diogenes were at odds, it is hard not to see the stray dog as an exemplar of eudaimonia, retaining his well-being even as he was sold into slavery.
ποιμένες ἄγραυλοι, κάκ᾽ ἐλέγχεα, γαστέρες οἶον,
ἴδμεν ψεύδεα πολλὰ λέγειν ἐτύμοισιν ὁμοῖα,
ἴδμεν δ᾽, εὖτ᾽ ἐθέλωμεν, ἀληθέα γηρύσασθαι.
"Boorish shepherds—you disgraceful wretches, nothing but stomachs!—
we know how to say many convincing lies,
but we know also, when we please, how to sing true."
(The Muses of Mount Helikon speaking. Hesiod, Theogony 26–8.)
I have been thinking a lot lately about the spiritual process.
I have studied, and continue to study, a lot—but truth is simplicity itself: ἕν τὸ πᾶν "all is one." The closer one can actualize that notion, the closer to divinity one is. No amount of study can add to that.
And yet the study is not for nothing; one often needs much scaffolding to build a tower, even if it all gets pulled away and torn down thereafter. This was called to mind forcefully today as I began my attempt to reread Hesiod haltingly in Greek and read the above lines. (He's much harder than Homer, since while Homer has an elegance about his speech, Hesiod is coarse and takes, shall we say, tremendous liberties with his grammar to make the verse work. Simonides said that Hesiod was taught by the Muses, while Homer was taught by the Graces, and this seems about right to me.)
Who are Hesiod's Muses? Well, recall our fourfold schemata of consciousness, and note that light is truth. In Air, light is transmitted clearly, so all there is true. In Earth, light is not transmitted and only received, so all there is false. (Indeed, this is why there is no "user manual" for life here in the world of Earth, and why we need to grope about in darkness.) Water is translucent, just as Air is, but unlike Air, the light there can be reflected and refracted: when the Water is calm, the light passes true, but if the Water bends on itself cleverly, it can distort the light in whatever ways it pleases—even seeming true when it is quite false. So the Muses are clearly daimons, beings of Water, shepherding the shepherd—inner-plane initiatrixes, we may say, rather than the guiding angels I am so fond of. (Thus while one may learn from them—and from Hesiod!—great care must be taken, as they can't be trusted to be Good, just as they warn us.)
This identification is very useful, I think, and was effortless to make, but it must be noted that I've studied Empedokles with at least some care for something like six years, ever since I first took up geomancy. It took so much effort and contemplation to finally penetrate the proper simplicity of the model, so that now I can easily use it as a map and identify something from it. Now that I comprehend the model in it's simplicity, a lot of what I studied is now redundant... but it cannot be said to be "wasted," since without the complicated I couldn't have gotten to the simple.
So it is with spirituality. It is perhaps best to just clear the mind and sit in zazen; but without a koan or sutra or some other material for the soul to work on, the leap may never come, just as you may have all the reagent in the world, but without catalyst, the reaction can't occur.
The end may be utter simplicity, but there are long miles of breadcrumbs we must follow that we may appreciate it.
ἀλλ’ ὅτε δὴ διὰ νήσου ἰὼν ἤλυξα ἑταίρους,
χεῖρας νιψάμενος, ὅθ’ ἐπὶ σκέπας ἦν ἀνέμοιο,
ἠρώμην πάντεσσι θεοῖς οἳ Ὄλυμπον ἔχουσιν:
οἱ δ’ ἄρα μοι γλυκὺν ὕπνον ἐπὶ βλεφάροισιν ἔχευαν.
Εὐρύλοχος δ’ ἑτάροισι κακῆς ἐξήρχετο βουλῆς:
κέκλυτέ μευ μύθων κακά περ πάσχοντες ἑταῖροι.
πάντες μὲν στυγεροὶ θάνατοι δειλοῖσι βροτοῖσι,
λιμῷ δ’ οἴκτιστον θανέειν καὶ πότμον ἐπισπεῖν.
But when, traversing the island, I was free of my crew,
I found a place sheltered from the winds, washed my hands,
and prayed to all the gods who hold Olumpos;
at which they poured sweet sleep over my eyelids.
But Eurulokhos brought up a wicked plan to the men:
“I know you're in a bad lot, mateys, but listen to me:
every death a wretch can have sucks,
but the worst is to meet your doom by starving!”
(Odusseus speaking. Homer, Odyssey XII 335-42.)
It must be remembered that starvation is inevitable in the grey wastes of Haides, where the food tastes as dust and nourishes likewise. Impiety, on the other hand, is a choice. Do you like Odusseus and call for help, that a respite might be granted you...
εἰπεῖν· Γῆς παῖς εἰμι καὶ Οὐρανοῦ ἀστερόεντος,
αὐτὰρ ἐμοὶ γένος Οὐράνιον· τόδε δ’ ἴστε καὶ αὐτοί.
δίψηι δ’ εἰμὶ αὔη καὶ ἀπόλλυμαι. ἀλλὰ δότ’ αἶψα
ψυχρὸν ὕδωρ προρέον τῆς Μνημοσύνης ἀπὸ λίμνης.To say: "I am a child of Earth and starry Heaven,
but my race is of Heaven—even you yourselves know this—
and I am parched with thirst and dying; so, quick, please give me
the cool water flowing forth from the pool of Memory."(The Petelia Tablet, ll. 6–9a. Note that "dying," apollumai, is a pun with Apollon.)
The Orphics used to tie little gold leaves inscribed with instructions around the necks of deceased initiates, that they might avoid reincarnation. When the recently deceased came to the guardians of Haides, they would be asked, "Who are you?" and they were to answer, "I am a child of Earth and starry Heaven, but my race is of Heaven." This was called to mind today, and it reminded me, of course, of Horos (see here, item 9)—when brought to judgement (e.g. after death), the gods held him, though born of both fiery Osiris and earthy Isis, to be of the race of his father and thus worthy of his throne.
That the Orphics, who are thought to be Pythagorean, got their doctrines from Egypt is no surprise; but there's something else: that first line from the tablet is taken, nearly word-for-word, from old Hesiod:
χαίρετε τέκνα Διός, δότε δ᾽ ἱμερόεσσαν ἀοιδήν·
κλείετε δ᾽ ἀθανάτων ἱερὸν γένος αἰὲν ἐόντων,
οἳ Γῆς τ᾽ ἐξεγένοντο καὶ Οὐρανοῦ ἀστερόεντος,
Νυκτός τε δνοφερῆς, οὕς θ᾽ ἁλμυρὸς ἔτρεφε Πόντος.Greetings, children of Zeus, and grant me a delightful song:
glorify the sacred race of the immortals who always are,
who were born from Earth and starry Heaven,
and from dark Night, and those who were nourished by salty Sea.(Hesiod, Theogony 104–7, emphasis mine.)
But wait a second, Hesiod lists not only the parents of the immortals, but their nurses, too. But is this not just what Empedokles said?
τέσσαρα γὰρ πάντων ῥιζώματα πρῶτον ἄκουε·
Ζεὺς ἀργὴς Ἥρη τε φερέσβιος ἠδ' Ἀιδωνεύς,
Νῆστις θ' ἣ δακρύοις τέγγει κρούνωμα βρότειον. [...]
ἐκ τῶν πάνθ' ὅσα τ' ἦν ὅσα τ' ἔστι καὶ ἔσται ὀπίσσω,
δέδρεά τ' ὲβλάστησε καὶ ἀνέρες ἠδὲ γυναῖκες,
θῆρές τ' οἰωνοί τε καὶ ὑδατοθρέμμονες ἰχθῦς,
καί τε θεοὶ δολιχαίωνες τιμῇσι φέριστοι.First, hear of the four roots of all things:
shining Zeus and life-giving Hera and Aidoneus
and Nestis, who wets the springs of mortals with her tears. [...]
From these all things were and are and will be:
sprouting trees and men and women,
beasts and birds and water-dwelling fish,
even long-living, most-exalted gods.
That Earth is Isis and Heaven is Osiris is an easy association to make: Ouranos even lost his penis in the sea (ll. 176 ff.), just like Osiris lost his in the Nile. Even though Hesiod associates Night with Watery things later on (like Death and Sleep and Dreams, ll. 211 ff.), I think those might be due to reconciliation of the source teaching—after all, Hesiod was the great systematizer of all the wild panoply of Greek theology (thus probably mixing the pure teachings from several sources), and anyway we are unable to see at Night meanwhile Haides means "unseen" (both references to how Airy beings are without form). And Sea is obviously Watery (like Nestis), here described as a nurse (like Nephthus and Nestis both), and of course the father of the Old Man of the Sea and all other shapeshifters (as Watery beings have fluid form rather than the fixed form of Earthy beings).
I had speculated before that Hesiod's "races of men" came from the same source as Empedokles's "roots;" after seeing this, I now think the case is even stronger that Hesiod's Muses were Egyptian. I even begin to wonder if the laurel staff they gave him was, in fact, a was-scepter, the symbol of authority:
𓌀
ἡδὺ δὲ καὶ τὸ πυθέσθαι, ὅσα θνητοῖσιν ἔνειμαν
ἀθάνατοι, δειλῶν τε καὶ ἐσθλῶν τέμαρ ἐναργές
and it is sweet too to learn the clear distinguishing mark
of bad and good things that the immortals have assigned to mortals
(Hesiod, Melampodia, as quoted by Clement of Alexandria, and as translated by Glenn W. Most.)
I remember reading somewhere, I think in a book discussing past life regression with hypnotism, of a psychologist who was trying to understand why some people turn out virtuous and others don't. He had heard of a pair of twin brothers, one of whom was a respected doctor, the other of whom was in prison, and this intrigued him, since, at least in theory, they should have been raised similarly. So he went to interview them. He first interviewed the brother who was a doctor, and asked him, "How did you become so successful?" The doctor told him, "Well, my father was always in and out of prison, all through my childhood. So with a father like that, how could I have done otherwise?" The psychologist next went to interview the brother who was a criminal, and asked him the same question. The criminal told him, "Well, my father was always in and out of prison, all through my childhood. So with a father like that, how could I have done otherwise?"
So to Hesiod's point, the real sweetness is when one finally learns that the distinguishing mark is on the mortal and not on the circumstances...
τὸν δ’ αὖτε προσέειπε περίφρων Πηνελόπεια:
ξεῖν’, ἦ τοι μὲν ὄνειροι ἀμήχανοι ἀκριτόμυθοι
γίγνοντ’, οὐδέ τι πάντα τελείεται ἀνθρώποισι.
δοιαὶ γάρ τε πύλαι ἀμενηνῶν εἰσὶν ὀνείρων:
αἱ μὲν γὰρ κεράεσσι τετεύχαται, αἱ δ’ ἐλέφαντι:
τῶν οἳ μέν κ’ ἔλθωσι διὰ πριστοῦ ἐλέφαντος,
οἵ ῥ’ ἐλεφαίρονται, ἔπε’ ἀκράαντα φέροντες:
οἱ δὲ διὰ ξεστῶν κεράων ἔλθωσι θύραζε,
οἵ ῥ’ ἔτυμα κραίνουσι, βροτῶν ὅτε κέν τις ἴδηται.
ἀλλ’ ἐμοὶ οὐκ ἐντεῦθεν ὀΐομαι αἰνὸν ὄνειρον
ἐλθέμεν: ἦ κ’ ἀσπαστὸν ἐμοὶ καὶ παιδὶ γένοιτο.
And then prudent Penelopeia said to him,
“Stranger, dreams are wayward and mysterious
things, and they don't all come true,
since they stray through not one gate, but two:
one made of horn and the other of ivory.
Those that come through the carved ivory
are wily and carry false messages,
but those that come out of the polished horn
come true whenever one might see them.
But I doubt my weird dream came from there;
oh, it would've been so welcome to me and my son...”
(Homer, Odyssey XIX 559–69, as translated—hopefully not too badly!—by yours truly. There's some cute alliteration in the original: elephantos “ivory” with elephairontai “wily,” and keraon “horn” with [etuma] krainousi “come [true].”)
Something in the air of late—may your dreams issue through the gate of horn...
More translation practice! I'm getting a little faster: this batch was twenty lines a day! I find, as I read Homer in Greek, that the stories' connection to philosophy and the Mysteries is far more obvious than it is in translation, as so many of the words or phrases carry double meanings...
| 313 315 320 325 330 335 340 345 350 | ὣς ἄρα μιν εἰπόντ’ ἔλασεν μέγα κῦμα κατ’ ἄκρης
δεινὸν ἐπεσσύμενον, περὶ δὲ σχεδίην ἐλέλιξε. τῆλε δ’ ἀπὸ σχεδίης αὐτὸς πέσε, πηδάλιον δὲ ἐκ χειρῶν προέηκε: μέσον δέ οἱ ἱστὸν ἔαξεν δεινὴ μισγομένων ἀνέμων ἐλθοῦσα θύελλα, τηλοῦ δὲ σπεῖρον καὶ ἐπίκριον ἔμπεσε πόντῳ. τὸν δ’ ἄρ’ ὑπόβρυχα θῆκε πολὺν χρόνον, οὐδ’ ἐδυνάσθη αἶψα μάλ’ ἀνσχεθέειν μεγάλου ὑπὸ κύματος ὁρμῆς: εἵματα γάρ ῥ’ ἐβάρυνε, τά οἱ πόρε δῖα Καλυψώ. ὀψὲ δὲ δή ῥ’ ἀνέδυ, στόματος δ’ ἐξέπτυσεν ἅλμην πικρήν, ἥ οἱ πολλὴ ἀπὸ κρατὸς κελάρυζεν. ἀλλ’ οὐδ’ ὣς σχεδίης ἐπελήθετο, τειρόμενός περ, ἀλλὰ μεθορμηθεὶς ἐνὶ κύμασιν ἐλλάβετ’ αὐτῆς, ἐν μέσσῃ δὲ καθῖζε τέλος θανάτου ἀλεείνων. τὴν δ’ ἐφόρει μέγα κῦμα κατὰ ῥόον ἔνθα καὶ ἔνθα. ὡς δ’ ὅτ’ ὀπωρινὸς Βορέης φορέῃσιν ἀκάνθας ἂμ πεδίον, πυκιναὶ δὲ πρὸς ἀλλήλῃσιν ἔχονται, ὣς τὴν ἂμ πέλαγος ἄνεμοι φέρον ἔνθα καὶ ἔνθα: ἄλλοτε μέν τε Νότος Βορέῃ προβάλεσκε φέρεσθαι, ἄλλοτε δ’ αὖτ’ Εὖρος Ζεφύρῳ εἴξασκε διώκειν. τὸν δὲ ἴδεν Κάδμου θυγάτηρ, καλλίσφυρος Ἰνώ, Λευκοθέη, ἣ πρὶν μὲν ἔην βροτὸς αὐδήεσσα, νῦν δ’ ἁλὸς ἐν πελάγεσσι θεῶν ἒξ ἔμμορε τιμῆς. ἥ ῥ’ Ὀδυσῆ’ ἐλέησεν ἀλώμενον, ἄλγε’ ἔχοντα, αἰθυίῃ δ’ ἐικυῖα ποτῇ ἀνεδύσετο λίμνης, ἷζε δ’ ἐπὶ σχεδίης πολυδέσμου εἶπέ τε μῦθον: κάμμορε, τίπτε τοι ὧδε Ποσειδάων ἐνοσίχθων ὠδύσατ’ ἐκπάγλως, ὅτι τοι κακὰ πολλὰ φυτεύει; οὐ μὲν δή σε καταφθίσει μάλα περ μενεαίνων. ἀλλὰ μάλ’ ὧδ’ ἔρξαι, δοκέεις δέ μοι οὐκ ἀπινύσσειν: εἵματα ταῦτ’ ἀποδὺς σχεδίην ἀνέμοισι φέρεσθαι κάλλιπ’, ἀτὰρ χείρεσσι νέων ἐπιμαίεο νόστου γαίης Φαιήκων, ὅθι τοι μοῖρ’ ἐστὶν ἀλύξαι. τῆ δέ, τόδε κρήδεμνον ὑπὸ στέρνοιο τανύσσαι ἄμβροτον: οὐδέ τί τοι παθέειν δέος οὐδ’ ἀπολέσθαι. αὐτὰρ ἐπὴν χείρεσσιν ἐφάψεαι ἠπείροιο, ἂψ ἀπολυσάμενος βαλέειν εἰς οἴνοπα πόντον πολλὸν ἀπ’ ἠπείρου, αὐτὸς δ’ ἀπονόσφι τραπέσθαι. ὣς ἄρα φωνήσασα θεὰ κρήδεμνον ἔδωκεν, αὐτὴ δ’ ἂψ ἐς πόντον ἐδύσετο κυμαίνοντα αἰθυίῃ ἐικυῖα: μέλαν δέ ἑ κῦμα κάλυψεν. | As he was talking to himself, a frightfully great wave drove down
rushing over him, and his raft whirled around. He was thrown far from the raft, the rudder yanked from his hands; and the mast shattered in the middle from a terrible blast of the whirling winds, the yard-arm and sail plunging deep into the sea. A long time he was held under, and he wasn't able to very quickly rise from under the rush of the mighty wave since the clothes which Kalupso gave him weighed him down.* Finally, at length he surfaced, his mouth spitting out bitter brine which ran in many streams from his crown. He didn't forget the raft in spite of his distress, but rushed after it in the waves and held it to himself, and he sat in the middle to hide from a deadly end, as the great wave carried it here and there in the current. Just like how, in late summer, Boreas* carries thistledown along the plain, and clusters cling to each other, in the same way the winds carried the raft here and there in the sea: at once Notos* tossing it to Boreas to carry, and again Euros* giving it up for Zephuros* to chase. And then came the daughter of Kadmos, dainty-footed Ino,* the White* Goddess, who used to be a mortal possessed of voice,* but now, in the sea, receives her share of reverence given to its gods. She pitied Odusseus in his wandering and the suffering he bore, and she rose from the water like a seabird in flight, alighted upon the raft of many fastenings, and said to him: “You poor thing, why is Poseidaon Earth-Shaker so very mad at you, that he causes you so much trouble? Don't worry,* he won't kill you even though he really wants to. But you seem sensible enough to me, so do as I say: take off your clothes and abandon your raft* to be borne by the winds, but, swimming with your hands,* try to get to the land of the Phaiakians, where it is your fate to escape. And here, wrap my immortal veil around your chest, so that you may fear neither suffering nor death; but when you've laid hands on the firm ground, untie it and throw it back into the wine-like sea* far from land, and turn yourself far away* from it.” So speaking, the goddess gave him her veil, and dove back into the surging sea like a bird, and the dark swell covered her. |
(Homer, Odyssey V 313–53, as translated—hopefully not too badly!—by yours truly.)
Notes:
Βασιλεύς. τὸ πάνσοφον νῦν ὄνομα τοῦτό μοι φράσον.
King Pelasgos. Now, tell me his masterly-devised name.
(Aiskhulos, Suppliant Maidens 320, as translated by yours truly.)
ὣς ἄρα οἱ εἰπόντι ἐπέπτατο δεξιὸς ὄρνις,
κίρκος, Ἀπόλλωνος ταχὺς ἄγγελος: ἐν δὲ πόδεσσι
τίλλε πέλειαν ἔχων, κατὰ δὲ πτερὰ χεῦεν ἔραζε
μεσσηγὺς νηός τε καὶ αὐτοῦ Τηλεμάχοιο.
As he was saying so a bird flew towards him on the right,
a falcon, the swift messenger of Apollon; and with its feet
it plucked a pigeon it was holding, and feathers fell to the ground
between Telemakhos and his ship.
(Homer, Odyssey XV 525–8, as translated by yours truly. Emphasis mine, too.)
I can't believe I didn't notice this before now! In Greek, κίρκος kirkos means "falcon" or "hawk," obviously as suited to Apollon as it is to Horos. But this is the same word as Κίρκη Kirke, daughter of the Sun and initiator of Odusseus.
ὤ μοι, τέκνον ἐμόν, περὶ πάντων κάμμορε φωτῶν,
οὔ τί σε Περσεφόνεια Διὸς θυγάτηρ ἀπαφίσκει,
ἀλλ’ αὕτη δίκη ἐστὶ βροτῶν, ὅτε τίς κε θάνῃσιν:
οὐ γὰρ ἔτι σάρκας τε καὶ ὀστέα ἶνες ἔχουσιν,
ἀλλὰ τὰ μέν τε πυρὸς κρατερὸν μένος αἰθομένοιο
δαμνᾷ, ἐπεί κε πρῶτα λίπῃ λεύκ’ ὀστέα θυμός,
ψυχὴ δ’ ἠύτ’ ὄνειρος ἀποπταμένη πεπότηται.
ἀλλὰ φόωσδε τάχιστα λιλαίεο: ταῦτα δὲ πάντα
ἴσθ’, ἵνα καὶ μετόπισθε τεῇ εἴπῃσθα γυναικί.
Oh! my child, unluckiest of all men,
Persephoneia, the daughter of Zeus, isn't deceiving you:
this is just the way it is when a mortal dies,
for sinews no longer hold flesh and bones together,
but the mighty force of blazing fire overcomes them
once spirit first leaves the white bones,
and soul, like a dream, flutters up and away.
But be anxious to hurry to the light; and remember all,
so that you can tell your wife even after.
(Antikleia speaking to Odusseus. Homer, Odyssey XI 216–24.)
μὴ δή μοι θάνατόν γε παραύδα, φαίδιμ’ Ὀδυσσεῦ.
βουλοίμην κ’ ἐπάρουρος ἐὼν θητευέμεν ἄλλῳ,
ἀνδρὶ παρ’ ἀκλήρῳ, ᾧ μὴ βίοτος πολὺς εἴη,
ἢ πᾶσιν νεκύεσσι καταφθιμένοισιν ἀνάσσειν.
Don't talk to me about death, Mr. Smarty-Pants.*
I would rather be a hired laborer slaving for another,
a man with no land and little means,
than to be king of all the wretched dead.
(Akhilleus speaking to Odusseus. Homer, Odyssey XI 488–91.)
Mr. Smarty-Pants: φαίδιμ’ Ὀδυσσεῦ, literally "brilliant Odysseus," but I take this sarcastically, as immediately above (473–6) he says, "if you're so clever, why the hell did you go to Hell?"
If we take Haides to be the material world, it really puts a different spin on Antikleia's and Akhilleus's words, doesn't it?
τὸ δ’ ἐν Σάει τῆς Ἀθηνᾶς [...] ἕδος ἐπιγραφὴν εἶχε τοιαύτην “ἐγώ εἰμι πᾶν τὸ γεγονὸς καὶ ὂν καὶ ἐσόμενον καὶ τὸν ἐμὸν πέπλον οὐδείς πω θνητὸς ἀπεκάλυψεν.”
The statue of Athena [=Neith] at Sais has the following inscription: “I am all that was and is and will be and no mortal has yet uncovered my dress.”
(Ploutarkhos, Isis and Osiris IX, as translated—hopefully not too badly!—by yours truly.)
Ah, but there was a mortal who uncovered Athena's dress (albeit accidentally): the great seer of Thebai, Teiresias. Many conflicting stories are told about him (her?), and I spent a few days trying to sort out his (their?) myth. Here is my best guess at a reconstruction, with a few observations:
Kadmos ("pre-eminent") is led to the spot which would become Thebai by a cow with a moon-shaped spot on it. The nearby spring is guarded by a dragon; Kadmos slays it and, on the advice of Athene, sows its teeth. The teeth grow into a host of warriors, and Kadmos throws stones into the group, which causes them to attack each other until there are only five left, who pledge allegiance to Kadmos. One of these five, Oudaios ("from the ground"), has a son named Euerous ("well-built"). Euerous marries the nymph Khariklo ("famous for her beauty"), who is a favorite attendant of Athena, and they have a son, Teiresias ("prophet"). [Apollodoros, Library III iv, vi.]
Euerous is only said to be "of the line" of Oudaios, but two considerations require Teiresias to be within two generations of him: first, he is blinded some time before Kadmos's grandson, Aktaion, is killed; second, Teiresias becomes seer to Kadmos, and so is at least partially contemporaneous with him.
Teiresias having one parent's line being literally sprung from the earth and the other being divine has the same crucial resonance with other heroes, but perhaps none more than Aineias, who's paternal grandfather was the brother of the founder of Troia (like how Oudaios was the close associate of the founder of Thebai), whose mother was Aphrodite (who, like Khariklo, is a divinity "famous for her beauty"), and who rescued those who could be from the sack of Troia.
One summer day, Athena, Khariklo, and young Teiresias are traveling through Mt. Helikon. Teiresias goes off to explore while Athena and Khariklo bathe in the spring of Hippokrene ("horse spring"). At some point, Teiresias comes back to the spring to get a drink, sees Athena naked, and is blinded for it by the law of Zeus. Athena is upset about this, but cannot override her father; so as to make amends to Khariklo, she gives Teiresias the gifts of prophecy, augury, long life, retaining his wits after death, and a magic staff of cornel-wood which would "guide his feet." [Kallimakhos on the Bath of Pallas; Apollodoros, Library III vi.]
The Hippokrene is also where the Muses bathed before giving Hesiod the gifts of an inspired voice and a staff of laurel-wood. [Hesiod, Theogony 1–35.] Both seem to me reminiscent of how initiates of Osiris were purified and given heather stalks, or initiates of Dionusos were purified and given thursoi.
The Bath of Pallas, which gives wisdom even as it inflicts punishment, is, of course, life in the material world, which is almost always treated as a purification or cleansing of the soul. (Indeed, Empedocles's famous poem on the topic, which I have used as the basis of my interpretation of the hero-myths, is called Purifications.)
Teiresias's blindness and gifts, of course, are exactly the point of spirituality: one loses the ability to engage in the material world but gains the ability to engage in the spiritual world both now and after they die.
Kallimakhos explicitly links this story to that of Aktaion. Both beheld their patron deity naked (Athena for Teiresias, Artemis for Aktaion), but Teiresias made good of evil, while Aktaion did not. I wonder if seeing one's patron naked is the point of no return in spirituality: after that, one must either cease to be mortal or cease to be—there is no longer a middle ground, and this is why Neith's statue says that no mortal has uncovered her dress.
There is an alternate version of the story (made famous by Ovid) where Teiresias was blinded when he settled a bet between Zeus and Hera, saying that sex is ten times better for women than men. I dismiss this one out of hand, because it is of a popular nature and because spiritual teachings are unitive rather than divisive.
While traveling through Mt. Kullene, Teiresias comes upon two serpents entwined in sex and crushes them with his staff. This so incenses Hera that she changes Teiresias into a woman. Teiresias becomes a priestess of Hera, marries, and has a daughter named Manto ("prophecy"). At some point, Apollo tells Teiresias that if she comes upon a pair of serpents, to repeat her prior action, which happens in the eighth year after the first time, and she is changed back into a man. [Phlegon, Book of Wonders; Apollodoros, Library III vi.]
Mt. Kullene is the birthplace of Hermes, and his symbol, the kerukeion, is two serpents entwined around a staff. Even today we call androgynous people mercurial. Teiresias being initiated by Hermes (if only figuratively) and Athena is shared by other hero myths, like Perseus and Odusseus.
Surviving sources disagree about which serpent or serpents are crushed in each event. Most sources are either ambiguous or say both each time (and this is what I've followed), though others say that the female was crushed each time, or the female the first time and the male the second time. Whatever the case, the sex-change is an obvious reference to reincarnation; the killing of the serpents inadvertently is a symbol of dying without purpose, but the killing of the serpents intentionally is a symbol of dying with purpose. This is the same as the myth of Perseus, where the Gorgons ("grim things") represent death; but while Stheno ("forceful") and Euruale ("far-ranging") are immortal, indicating that death cannot be overpowered or outrun, Medousa ("she rules") is mortal, indicating that death doesn't need to control us (and, indeed, can be put to good use—as Plotinos says, why should death trouble an immortal?). Therefore, Manto represents the realization of one's true self, the soul which animates the body, which only comes through experience.
The serpentine symbolism is also present in the Kadmos myth, where he kills the serpent of Ares, serves Ares for eight years, marries Ares's daughter Harmonia, and finally is transformed with his wife into a pair of serpents.
Archbishop Eustathios of Thessalonike, following an elegiac poet named Sostratos, tells an alternate version of the story in which Teiresias was born female and changed sexes six times before finally being turned into mouse (and presumably eaten by a weasel). I also dismiss this out of hand, because it is of a popular nature and is impossible to reconcile with both of the only reliable fixed points of the Teiresias's life: his rescue of Thebai and the necromantic ritual of Odusseus.
When the Seven attack Thebai, the Thebaians ask Teiresias how they should be victorious, and he advises that if Menoikeus ("strength of the house"), son of Kreon, willingly sacrifices himself to Ares, that the Thebaians would be victorious, which he does and they are. Ten years later, when the Epigone attack Thebai and king Laodamas ("tamer of the people") is killed by Alkmaion (general of the Argives), Teiresias advises the people to send a herald to negotiate with the enemy and secretly flee meanwhile, which they do. Apollo shoots him with an arrow as he drinks from the spring of Tilphoussa and he dies there, but the people continue on to found Haliartos (about fifteen miles from Thebai). Manto, however, is captured by the Argives and, since they had promised "the most beautiful of the spoils" to Apollo, send her to Delphi. She becomes a priestess of the god and he sends her to Colophon to found an oracle. There, she marries Rhakios ("rag"), and has a son by him, Mopsos, who is also a celebrated seer and the rival of Kalkhos in the Nostoi. [Pausanias, Descriptions of Greece VII iii, IX xviii, IX xxxiii; Apollodoros, Library III vi–vii, Epitome vi.]
Tilphoussa is the spring where Apollo first tried to institute his oracle, but the water nymph dissuaded him; after taking over the oracle at Delphi, he later returned and cursed the spring. [Homeric Hymn to Apollo 239–76, 375–87.]
I have a theory that the myth of the house of Kadmos represents the mysteries, just like the myth of the house of Atreus or the myth of the house of Atum. If that is so, then the reason why Teiresias participated in the seven generations of Thebai up to the epigone (Kadmos→Poludoros→Labdakos→Laios/Kreon→Oidipous→Polunikes/Eteokles/Ismene/Antigone→Laodamas/Thersandros) is because he participated in the mysteries and, having mastering these, he was able to, on the one hand, save the women and children of Thebai, and on the other, guide future heroes (e.g. Odusseus) on the way home.
Tilphoussa is on Mt. Tilphosium, which is right next to Mt. Helikon (which is where the Hippokrene was). There is something very Wizard of Oz about Teiresias's life ending where it "began."
That Teiresias ("prophet") dies but Manto ("prophecy") lives on to serve others is, of course, a common motif in spirituality and reminds me more of Plotinos than anyone.
Manto marrying Rhakios ("rag") certainly shows how the mystery teachings are valued in the world: that is to say, not at all, and I wonder to what degree we possess the likes of Plato today because of his homosexual pedophilia, or Plotinos because nobody knew what to make of him, or Apollodoros because the mysteries were hidden in silly stories that nobody took seriously. Mopsos became celebrated precisely because he recognized the hidden value of those rags, though.
While lost at sea, Odusseus travels to Haides and summons Teiresias, receiving advice on how to safely return home. [Homer, Odyssey X–XI.]
Happy Ares-day!
Since so many of you asked, and I’ve never tried my hand at translating a lengthy section, I figured I’d go ahead and give it the old college try... but yipes! this took forever, and, anticipating that, I went rather more quickly than usual (managing a dozen lines a day); so it’s probably a lot less precise than I usually strive for. Consider it a first draft!
| 103 105 110 161 176 180 185 190 195 200 256 260 265 270 275 280 285 290 295 300 305 309 310 313 315 320 325 330 335 340 345 350 | τὸν δ’ αὖτε προσέειπεν ἄναξ Διὸς υἱὸς Ἀπόλλων:
ἥρως ἀλλ’ ἄγε καὶ σὺ θεοῖς αἰειγενέτῃσιν εὔχεο: καὶ δὲ σέ φασι Διὸς κούρης Ἀφροδίτης ἐκγεγάμεν, κεῖνος δὲ χερείονος ἐκ θεοῦ ἐστίν: ἣ μὲν γὰρ Διός ἐσθ’, ἣ δ’ ἐξ ἁλίοιο γέροντος. ἀλλ’ ἰθὺς φέρε χαλκὸν ἀτειρέα, μηδέ σε πάμπαν λευγαλέοις ἐπέεσσιν ἀποτρεπέτω καὶ ἀρειῇ. ὣς εἰπὼν ἔμπνευσε μένος μέγα ποιμένι λαῶν, βῆ δὲ διὰ προμάχων κεκορυθμένος αἴθοπι χαλκῷ. [...] Αἰνείας δὲ πρῶτος ἀπειλήσας ἐβεβήκει νευστάζων κόρυθι βριαρῇ: ἀτὰρ ἀσπίδα θοῦριν πρόσθεν ἔχε στέρνοιο, τίνασσε δὲ χάλκεον ἔγχος. Πηλεΐδης δ’ ἑτέρωθεν ἐναντίον ὦρτο λέων ὣς [...] οἳ δ’ ὅτε δὴ σχεδὸν ἦσαν ἐπ’ ἀλλήλοισιν ἰόντες, τὸν πρότερος προσέειπε ποδάρκης δῖος Ἀχιλλεύς: Αἰνεία τί σὺ τόσσον ὁμίλου πολλὸν ἐπελθὼν ἔστης; ἦ σέ γε θυμὸς ἐμοὶ μαχέσασθαι ἀνώγει ἐλπόμενον Τρώεσσιν ἀνάξειν ἱπποδάμοισι τιμῆς τῆς Πριάμου; ἀτὰρ εἴ κεν ἔμ’ ἐξεναρίξῃς, οὔ τοι τοὔνεκά γε Πρίαμος γέρας ἐν χερὶ θήσει: εἰσὶν γάρ οἱ παῖδες, ὃ δ’ ἔμπεδος οὐδ’ ἀεσίφρων. ἦ νύ τί τοι Τρῶες τέμενος τάμον ἔξοχον ἄλλων καλὸν φυταλιῆς καὶ ἀρούρης, ὄφρα νέμηαι αἴ κεν ἐμὲ κτείνῃς; χαλεπῶς δέ σ’ ἔολπα τὸ ῥέξειν. ἤδη μὲν σέ γέ φημι καὶ ἄλλοτε δουρὶ φοβῆσαι. ἦ οὐ μέμνῃ ὅτε πέρ σε βοῶν ἄπο μοῦνον ἐόντα σεῦα κατ’ Ἰδαίων ὀρέων ταχέεσσι πόδεσσι καρπαλίμως; τότε δ’ οὔ τι μετατροπαλίζεο φεύγων. ἔνθεν δ’ ἐς Λυρνησσὸν ὑπέκφυγες: αὐτὰρ ἐγὼ τὴν πέρσα μεθορμηθεὶς σὺν Ἀθήνῃ καὶ Διὶ πατρί, ληϊάδας δὲ γυναῖκας ἐλεύθερον ἦμαρ ἀπούρας ἦγον: ἀτὰρ σὲ Ζεὺς ἐρρύσατο καὶ θεοὶ ἄλλοι. ἀλλ’ οὐ νῦν ἐρύεσθαι ὀΐομαι, ὡς ἐνὶ θυμῷ βάλλεαι: ἀλλά σ’ ἔγωγ’ ἀναχωρήσαντα κελεύω ἐς πληθὺν ἰέναι, μηδ’ ἀντίος ἵστασ’ ἐμεῖο, πρίν τι κακὸν παθέειν: ῥεχθὲν δέ τε νήπιος ἔγνω. τὸν δ’ αὖτ’ Αἰνείας ἀπαμείβετο φώνησέν τε: Πηλεΐδη μὴ δὴ ἐπέεσσί με νηπύτιον ὣς ἔλπεο δειδίξεσθαι, ἐπεὶ σάφα οἶδα καὶ αὐτὸς ἠμὲν κερτομίας ἠδ’ αἴσυλα μυθήσασθαι. [...] ἀλκῆς δ’ οὔ μ’ ἐπέεσσιν ἀποτρέψεις μεμαῶτα πρὶν χαλκῷ μαχέσασθαι ἐναντίον: ἀλλ’ ἄγε θᾶσσον γευσόμεθ’ ἀλλήλων χαλκήρεσιν ἐγχείῃσιν. ἦ ῥα καὶ ἐν δεινῷ σάκει ἤλασεν ὄβριμον ἔγχος σμερδαλέῳ: μέγα δ’ ἀμφὶ σάκος μύκε δουρὸς ἀκωκῇ. Πηλεΐδης δὲ σάκος μὲν ἀπὸ ἕο χειρὶ παχείῃ ἔσχετο ταρβήσας: φάτο γὰρ δολιχόσκιον ἔγχος ῥέα διελεύσεσθαι μεγαλήτορος Αἰνείαο νήπιος, οὐδ’ ἐνόησε κατὰ φρένα καὶ κατὰ θυμὸν ὡς οὐ ῥηΐδι’ ἐστὶ θεῶν ἐρικυδέα δῶρα ἀνδράσι γε θνητοῖσι δαμήμεναι οὐδ’ ὑποείκειν. οὐδὲ τότ’ Αἰνείαο δαΐφρονος ὄβριμον ἔγχος ῥῆξε σάκος: χρυσὸς γὰρ ἐρύκακε, δῶρα θεοῖο: ἀλλὰ δύω μὲν ἔλασσε διὰ πτύχας, αἳ δ’ ἄρ’ ἔτι τρεῖς ἦσαν, ἐπεὶ πέντε πτύχας ἤλασε κυλλοποδίων, τὰς δύο χαλκείας, δύο δ’ ἔνδοθι κασσιτέροιο, τὴν δὲ μίαν χρυσῆν, τῇ ῥ’ ἔσχετο μείλινον ἔγχος. δεύτερος αὖτ’ Ἀχιλεὺς προΐει δολιχόσκιον ἔγχος, καὶ βάλεν Αἰνείαο κατ’ ἀσπίδα πάντοσ’ ἐΐσην ἄντυγ’ ὕπο πρώτην, ᾗ λεπτότατος θέε χαλκός, λεπτοτάτη δ’ ἐπέην ῥινὸς βοός: ἣ δὲ διὰ πρὸ Πηλιὰς ἤϊξεν μελίη, λάκε δ’ ἀσπὶς ὑπ’ αὐτῆς. Αἰνείας δ’ ἐάλη καὶ ἀπὸ ἕθεν ἀσπίδ’ ἀνέσχε δείσας: ἐγχείη δ’ ἄρ’ ὑπὲρ νώτου ἐνὶ γαίῃ ἔστη ἱεμένη, διὰ δ’ ἀμφοτέρους ἕλε κύκλους ἀσπίδος ἀμφιβρότης: ὃ δ’ ἀλευάμενος δόρυ μακρὸν ἔστη, κὰδ δ’ ἄχος οἱ χύτο μυρίον ὀφθαλμοῖσι, ταρβήσας ὅ οἱ ἄγχι πάγη βέλος. αὐτὰρ Ἀχιλλεὺς ἐμμεμαὼς ἐπόρουσεν ἐρυσσάμενος ξίφος ὀξὺ σμερδαλέα ἰάχων: ὃ δὲ χερμάδιον λάβε χειρὶ Αἰνείας, μέγα ἔργον, ὃ οὐ δύο γ’ ἄνδρε φέροιεν, οἷοι νῦν βροτοί εἰσ’: ὃ δέ μιν ῥέα πάλλε καὶ οἶος. ἔνθά κεν Αἰνείας μὲν ἐπεσσύμενον βάλε πέτρῳ ἢ κόρυθ’ ἠὲ σάκος, τό οἱ ἤρκεσε λυγρὸν ὄλεθρον, τὸν δέ κε Πηλεΐδης σχεδὸν ἄορι θυμὸν ἀπηύρα, εἰ μὴ ἄρ’ ὀξὺ νόησε Ποσειδάων ἐνοσίχθων: αὐτίκα δ’ ἀθανάτοισι θεοῖς μετὰ μῦθον ἔειπεν: ὢ πόποι ἦ μοι ἄχος μεγαλήτορος Αἰνείαο, ὃς τάχα Πηλεΐωνι δαμεὶς Ἄϊδος δὲ κάτεισι πειθόμενος μύθοισιν Ἀπόλλωνος ἑκάτοιο νήπιος, οὐδέ τί οἱ χραισμήσει λυγρὸν ὄλεθρον. ἀλλὰ τί ἢ νῦν οὗτος ἀναίτιος ἄλγεα πάσχει μὰψ ἕνεκ’ ἀλλοτρίων ἀχέων, κεχαρισμένα δ’ αἰεὶ δῶρα θεοῖσι δίδωσι τοὶ οὐρανὸν εὐρὺν ἔχουσιν; ἀλλ’ ἄγεθ’ ἡμεῖς πέρ μιν ὑπὲκ θανάτου ἀγάγωμεν, μή πως καὶ Κρονίδης κεχολώσεται, αἴ κεν Ἀχιλλεὺς τόνδε κατακτείνῃ: μόριμον δέ οἵ ἐστ’ ἀλέασθαι, ὄφρα μὴ ἄσπερμος γενεὴ καὶ ἄφαντος ὄληται Δαρδάνου, ὃν Κρονίδης περὶ πάντων φίλατο παίδων οἳ ἕθεν ἐξεγένοντο γυναικῶν τε θνητάων. [...] τὸν δ’ ἠμείβετ’ ἔπειτα βοῶπις πότνια Ἥρη: ἐννοσίγαι’, αὐτὸς σὺ μετὰ φρεσὶ σῇσι νόησον [...]. ἤτοι μὲν γὰρ νῶϊ πολέας ὠμόσσαμεν ὅρκους πᾶσι μετ’ ἀθανάτοισιν ἐγὼ καὶ Παλλὰς Ἀθήνη μή ποτ’ ἐπὶ Τρώεσσιν ἀλεξήσειν κακὸν ἦμαρ, μηδ’ ὁπότ’ ἂν Τροίη μαλερῷ πυρὶ πᾶσα δάηται καιομένη, καίωσι δ’ ἀρήϊοι υἷες Ἀχαιῶν. αὐτὰρ ἐπεὶ τό γ’ ἄκουσε Ποσειδάων ἐνοσίχθων, βῆ ῥ’ ἴμεν ἄν τε μάχην καὶ ἀνὰ κλόνον ἐγχειάων, ἷξε δ’ ὅθ’ Αἰνείας ἠδ’ ὃ κλυτὸς ἦεν Ἀχιλλεύς. αὐτίκα τῷ μὲν ἔπειτα κατ’ ὀφθαλμῶν χέεν ἀχλὺν Πηλεΐδῃ Ἀχιλῆϊ: ὃ δὲ μελίην εὔχαλκον ἀσπίδος ἐξέρυσεν μεγαλήτορος Αἰνείαο: καὶ τὴν μὲν προπάροιθε ποδῶν Ἀχιλῆος ἔθηκεν, Αἰνείαν δ’ ἔσσευεν ἀπὸ χθονὸς ὑψόσ’ ἀείρας. πολλὰς δὲ στίχας ἡρώων, πολλὰς δὲ καὶ ἵππων Αἰνείας ὑπερᾶλτο θεοῦ ἀπὸ χειρὸς ὀρούσας, ἷξε δ’ ἐπ’ ἐσχατιὴν πολυάϊκος πολέμοιο, ἔνθά τε Καύκωνες πόλεμον μέτα θωρήσσοντο. τῷ δὲ μάλ’ ἐγγύθεν ἦλθε Ποσειδάων ἐνοσίχθων, καί μιν φωνήσας ἔπεα πτερόεντα προσηύδα: Αἰνεία, τίς σ’ ὧδε θεῶν ἀτέοντα κελεύει ἀντία Πηλεΐωνος ὑπερθύμοιο μάχεσθαι, ὃς σεῦ ἅμα κρείσσων καὶ φίλτερος ἀθανάτοισιν; ἀλλ’ ἀναχωρῆσαι ὅτε κεν συμβλήσεαι αὐτῷ, μὴ καὶ ὑπὲρ μοῖραν δόμον Ἄϊδος εἰσαφίκηαι. αὐτὰρ ἐπεί κ’ Ἀχιλεὺς θάνατον καὶ πότμον ἐπίσπῃ, θαρσήσας δὴ ἔπειτα μετὰ πρώτοισι μάχεσθαι: οὐ μὲν γάρ τίς σ’ ἄλλος Ἀχαιῶν ἐξεναρίξει. ὣς εἰπὼν λίπεν αὐτόθ’, ἐπεὶ διεπέφραδε πάντα. αἶψα δ’ ἔπειτ’ Ἀχιλῆος ἀπ’ ὀφθαλμῶν σκέδασ’ ἀχλὺν θεσπεσίην: ὃ δ’ ἔπειτα μέγ’ ἔξιδεν ὀφθαλμοῖσιν, ὀχθήσας δ’ ἄρα εἶπε πρὸς ὃν μεγαλήτορα θυμόν: ὢ πόποι ἦ μέγα θαῦμα τόδ’ ὀφθαλμοῖσιν ὁρῶμαι: ἔγχος μὲν τόδε κεῖται ἐπὶ χθονός, οὐδέ τι φῶτα λεύσσω, τῷ ἐφέηκα κατακτάμεναι μενεαίνων. ἦ ῥα καὶ Αἰνείας φίλος ἀθανάτοισι θεοῖσιν ἦεν: ἀτάρ μιν ἔφην μὰψ αὔτως εὐχετάασθαι. ἐρρέτω: οὔ οἱ θυμὸς ἐμεῦ ἔτι πειρηθῆναι ἔσσεται, ὃς καὶ νῦν φύγεν ἄσμενος ἐκ θανάτοιο. ἀλλ’ ἄγε δὴ Δαναοῖσι φιλοπτολέμοισι κελεύσας τῶν ἄλλων Τρώων πειρήσομαι ἀντίος ἐλθών. | But then Lord Apollon, the son of Zeus, said to [Aineias]:
“Pray, then, to the immortal gods—yes, even you, hero!*— since they say that Aphrodite, the daughter of Zeus, is your mother. That [Akhilleus] is of a lower degree of god, for your mother is of Zeus, but his, merely the Old Man of the Sea. Now, pick up your unwearying bronze, and don't you let him weary you* with curses or threats.” Then he breathed great spirit into the prince,* who went beyond the flashing bronze helmets of the vanguard. [...] And Aineias stood menacingly out in front: lowering his heavy helmet, holding his eager shield in front of him, and brandishing his bronze spear. Across the field, the son of Peleus prowled forth like a lion, [...] and when they had drawn close to each other, swift-footed, noble Akhilleus spoke first: “Aineias!? Out of such a huge crowd, why did you come out to make a stand? Were you itching to fight me* in the hopes of being lord of the horse-taming Troians, the pride of Priam? Even if you kill me, it’s not like Priam would put the crown in your hands, not while his sons are of sound body and mind. Or maybe the Troians set aside some choice parcel of good orchards and fields* for you to manage if you kill me? I don’t think you’ll find it easy— I seem to remember having already set you running scared of my spear! Or had you forgotten that time you were separated from your cows and I chased you down Mount Ida as fast as your feet could carry you? You never even looked back as you ran! You escaped to Lurnessos, but I set it to the torch, having tracked you with Athene and father Zeus, and I took away her women’s day of freedom* and led them away.* Zeus and the other gods saved you then, but I don’t think they’ll save you now, like you think they will;* I urge you to go back into the crowd instead of facing me man-to-man— you might get hurt! ‘Only an idiot makes the same mistake twice.*’” Then Aineias spoke in answer to him: “Son of Peleus! You can’t hope to frighten me like a baby with your words, since I, too, know how to bitch and moan. [...]* You will not turn me from the battle I desire before we meet bronze-to-bronze. Come on, then— let’s taste each other’s spears!*” And with that he hurled his heavy, fearsome spear into that marvelous shield,* and the great shield rang out from the impact. With his strong hand the son of Peleus pushed the shield away from him in alarm, since he foolishly thought the long spear of heroic Aineias would pass right through it— he didn’t realize, deep in his heart and mind, that the glorious gifts of the gods are not easily broken or turned aside by mortal men! So the heavy spear of skillful Aineias did not pierce that god-given shield, since the gold held; even so, he drove it through two plates, but three remained, since the Clubfoot* had forged it of five: two of bronze, two of tin within those, and [the middle] one of gold,* which held the ashwood spear. Next, Akhilleus hurled his long-handled spear and struck the circular shield of Aineias on its edge, where the bronze and leather run thinnest, and the the son of Pelias’s ashwood shot through and the shield crashed under it. Aineias shrank and flung his shield up in fear, and the spear deflected over his back and stuck in the earth, having sundered the two parts of the circle of the massive shield.* Having dodged the hefty shaft, he stood still, eyes wide in shock, frightened that the missile grazed so near, while Akhilleus quickly drew his double-edged sidearm* and pounced at him with a fearsome roar, but Aineias seized a boulder in his hand— a mighty deed! two men couldn’t have lifted it, such as men are now, but he wielded it easily by himself— then Aineias would have charged and thrown the rock at helmet or shield, which would have kept [Akhilleus] from certain death, and the son of Peleus would have closed and taken away his life with his sword, had not Poseidaon Earth-Shaker seen it quickly and immediately spoke his mind to the immortal gods: “Damn, I ache for great-hearted Aineias,* soon to be broken by the son of Peleus and descend to the house of Haides, having let himself be persuaded by the words of Sniper Apollo— foolishly, since [the god] won’t save him from a grim fate. But why should this innocent pointlessly suffer for others’ mischief, when he always gives such nice gifts to the gods who hold the wide heavens? How about we snatch him away from death? The son of Kronos might also be angry if Akhilleus cuts him down, since he is destined to escape [Troia], lest the bloodline of Dardanos be destroyed or forgotten, since he was the favorite of all the sons of Zeus that were born to him of mortal women. [...]” Then the cow-eyed queen Here answered him, saying: “You do you,* Earth-Shaker, [...] but as for us, we have sworn many oaths before the immortals, little Athene* and I, never to prevent a bad day for the Troians— not even should all Troia be set alight and consumed by fire, so long as the martial* sons of the Akhaians kindle it.*” But when Poseidaon Earth-Shaker had heard this,* he went on over the fighting and clash of weapons and came to where Aineias and glorious Akhilleus were, and he immediately poured a mist down over the eyes of Akhilleus, son of Peleus, and drew the bronze-tipped ashwood from the shield of greathearted Aineias and set it at the feet of Akhilleus; but Aineieas he spirited away, lifting him high above the earth. And many ranks of heroes and horses both were quickly passed over by Aineias in the hand of the god, until he landed at the furthest of the many battle fronts, where the Kaukonians were arming up for war. Then Poseidaon Earth-Shaker came up beside him and admonished him, piercing with words fletched as arrows:* “Aineias! Who the hell ordered you to recklessly face that madman son of Peleus’s in battle? He’s both stronger and dearer to the immortals than you are!* He ever comes near you, you run— or else you’re going to the house of Haides no matter what your destiny is. But when Akhilleus is dead and gone to his fate, then take courage and fight at the forefront, since he’s the only Akhaian that can beat you.” He left Aineias there after saying all this and dispersed the heaven-sent mist from Akhilleus’s eyes so that he goggled and ranted to himself: “What the fuck kind of magic is this!? Here’s my spear lying on the ground, but I can’t see the man I meant to kill with it. So Aineias really is dear to the immortal gods! I thought he was just bullshitting me. Eh, fuck it: he won’t have the guts to face me again, happy to have cheated death once. Come on, I’ll rally the bloodthirsty Danaans to go and try some other Troian face-to-face.” |
(Homer, Iliad XX 103–352, as translated—hopefully not too badly!—by yours truly.)
Notes:
Some follow-on notes to my realization that Helene/Europe/Persephone/etc. are Osiris rather than Horos:
You remember how I (following, I think, Pythagoras and Empedocles) likened Osiris to Fire? Helene (Ἑλένη) is from ἑλένη "torch." Similarly, Ploutarkhos derives Phersephone (Φερσεφόνη) from φαεσφόρος "light-bringing" (On the Man in the Moon XXVII).
You remember how Osiris's name in Egyptian is a little throne next to a little eye (𓊨𓁹), meaning "the seat of the eye" (that is, the root of our consciousness, god-consciousness)? Europe (Εὐρώπη) is from εὐρύς "wide, broad" and some form of ὁρᾶν "to see," indicating something very similar (that god-consciousness sees all at once).
Κασσάνδρα. ὀτοτοτοῖ πόποι δᾶ. Ὦπολλον Ὦπολλον. [...] Ἄπολλον Ἄπολλον ἀγυιᾶτ᾽, ἀπόλλων ἐμός. ἀπώλεσας γὰρ οὐ μόλις τὸ δεύτερον.
Kassandra. [incoherent screaming] O Ruin! O Ruin... [sobbing] Ruin, Guiding Ruin, my ruining! Twice now you have utterly ruined me... [sobbing]
(Aiskhulos, Agamemnon 1072-82.)
I'm not much of a theater person, but Aiskhulos's Kassandra is harrowing. I've checked something like five translations and, while I'm no expert, nobody seems to translate her well. And honestly I just don't think she can translate well: she's incoherent, rambling, and everything she says seems to have a double or triple meaning. Here, Aiskhulos explicitly connects Ἄπολλον "Apollon" (the god) with the virtually identical ἀπόλλων "destroying utterly" (the action), referring to how Apollon despoils the material world in favor of the spiritual (cf. Horos beheading Isis; Perseus from πέρσευς "pillager [of cities];" etc.) as he has also despoiled Kassandra. Ἄπολλον ἀγυιᾶτα "Apollon of the Roads" refers how Apollon guides initiates on the upward ways but also how he has guided Kassandra to her undoing. One gets the impression of a failed initiate, who saw but was unable to digest what she had seen and was broken by it.
By the Hellenistic era, Apollo was a joyful singer of songs; but to Homer, Apollon was a harsh warrior. I wonder if his golden lyre was only for his heroes; his golden arrows were for everyone else...
Akhilles returns to the killing-fields of Troia. Apollon encourages prince Aineias to step up and fight him but Akhilles's armor, newly-forged by Hephaistos himself, is impervious to his blows. Akhilles is just about to kill Aineias when Poseidon spirits him away from battle. Akhilles raves (Iliad XX 344–352):
ὢ πόποι ἦ μέγα θαῦμα τόδ’ ὀφθαλμοῖσιν ὁρῶμαι:
ἔγχος μὲν τόδε κεῖται ἐπὶ χθονός, οὐδέ τι φῶτα
λεύσσω, τῷ ἐφέηκα κατακτάμεναι μενεαίνων.
ἦ ῥα καὶ Αἰνείας φίλος ἀθανάτοισι θεοῖσιν
ἦεν: ἀτάρ μιν ἔφην μὰψ αὔτως εὐχετάασθαι.
ἐρρέτω: οὔ οἱ θυμὸς ἐμεῦ ἔτι πειρηθῆναι
ἔσσεται, ὃς καὶ νῦν φύγεν ἄσμενος ἐκ θανάτοιο.
ἀλλ’ ἄγε δὴ Δαναοῖσι φιλοπτολέμοισι κελεύσας
τῶν ἄλλων Τρώων πειρήσομαι ἀντίος ἐλθών.
Here is how Samuel Butler translates it:
Alas! what marvel am I now beholding? Here is my spear upon the ground, but I see not him whom I meant to kill when I hurled it. Of a truth Aeneas also must be under heaven's protection, although I had thought his boasting was idle. Let him go hang; he will be in no mood to fight me further, seeing how narrowly he has missed being killed. I will now give my orders to the Danaans and attack some other of the Trojans.
This is hot garbage. It's slow, it's flat, and it conveys none of Akhilles's fury or personality. (His own best friend, Patroklos, called him "a dreadful man, who would be quick to blame even the innocent!") My favorite, W. H. D. Rouse's, is a little better but still not very good:
Confound it all, here's a miracle done before my eyes! There lies my spear on the ground, and not a trace can I see of the fellow I meant to kill! Aineias must have some friends in heaven. And I thought his boasting was all stuff and nonsense! Let him go to the devil. He won't have a mind to try me again after this happy escape from death! All right, I will round up our people and have a try for some other Trojans.
Rouse argued vehemently, and I agree, that Homer wasn't trying to be high literature: the Iliad was meant to be a rousing story told over beer. Sure, it contains dignified history and theology, but it was not, itself, meant to be dignified—it was meant to be exciting enough to buy the bard another day's meal and lodging. But I think Rouse dropped the ball, here.
Here's how I'd translate it:
What the fuck kind of magic is this!?
Here's my spear lying on the ground, but I can't
see the man I meant to kill with it.
So Aineias really is dear to the immortal gods!
I thought he was just bullshitting me.
Eh, fuck it: he won't have the guts to face me
again, happy to have cheated death once.
Come on, I'll rally the bloodthirsty Danaans
to go and try some other Troian face-to-face.
Compared to the others, it may look like I'm taking liberties, but it's nearly word-for-word...
(If you don't like his language, let me remind you we're talking about Akhilles and not, say, Diomedes or Hektor!)
I have often seen it said in both occult texts and descriptions of NDEs that souls, when born into a body, are given not a single death-date, but two, which they may choose between during their mortal life. I've always wondered where the doctrine came from.
It occurs to me just now that maybe it comes from the mysteries, after all:
μήτηρ γάρ τέ μέ φησι θεὰ Θέτις ἀργυρόπεζα
διχθαδίας κῆρας φερέμεν θανάτοιο τέλος δέ.
εἰ μέν κ’ αὖθι μένων Τρώων πόλιν ἀμφιμάχωμαι,
ὤλετο μέν μοι νόστος, ἀτὰρ κλέος ἄφθιτον ἔσται:
εἰ δέ κεν οἴκαδ’ ἵκωμι φίλην ἐς πατρίδα γαῖαν,
ὤλετό μοι κλέος ἐσθλόν, ἐπὶ δηρὸν δέ μοι αἰὼν
ἔσσεται, οὐδέ κέ μ’ ὦκα τέλος θανάτοιο κιχείη.For my mother, the goddess Thetis of the silver feet, says
that I bear twin angels of death with me to my fate:
if I stay here and besiege the city of the Troians,
then my return is lost, but my name will live forever;
but if I go home to the beloved land of my fathers,
then my noble name is lost, but my life will long
endure, and my fated death will not soon reach me.(Akhilles speaking. Homer, Iliad IX 410–416, as translated—hopefully not too badly!—by yours truly.)
Personally, I would take this to describe how an initiate must decide whether to spend their efforts on material accomplishments or spiritual accomplishments, since the two are mutually exclusive, but I can see how one might take it otherwise.
τόσσον ἔνερθ᾽ ὑπὸ γῆς, ὅσον οὐρανός ἐστ᾽ ἀπὸ γαίης:
τόσσον γάρ τ᾽ ἀπὸ γῆς ἐς Τάρταρον ἠερόεντα.
ἐννέα γὰρ νύκτας τε καὶ ἤματα χάλκεος ἄκμων
οὐρανόθεν κατιὼν δεκάτῃ κ᾽ ἐς γαῖαν ἵκοιτο:
ἐννέα δ᾽ αὖ νύκτας τε καὶ ἤματα χάλκεος ἄκμων
ἐκ γαίης κατιὼν δεκάτῃ κ᾽ ἐς Τάρταρον ἵκοι.
τὸν πέρι χάλκεον ἕρκος ἐλήλαται: ἀμφὶ δέ μιν νὺξ
τριστοιχεὶ κέχυται περὶ δειρήν: αὐτὰρ ὕπερθεν
γῆς ῥίζαι πεφύασι καὶ ἀτρυγέτοιο θαλάσσης.
as far beneath the earth as heaven is above it,
that is how far it is from earth to Tartaros:
since a bronze anvil falling from heaven to earth
for nine days and nights would land on the tenth,
and a bronze anvil falling from earth to Tartaros
for nine days and nights would land on the tenth.
Around it runs a bronze fence, beyond which night
pours in three rows like a collar, while above it
grow the roots of earth and the barren sea.
(Hesiod, Theogony 720–8, as translated—hopefully not too badly!—by yours truly. Note that the translation is, alas, not line-for-line due to word order considerations.)
ἤ μιν ἑλὼν ῥίψω ἐς Τάρταρον ἠερόεντα
τῆλε μάλ’, ἧχι βάθιστον ὑπὸ χθονός ἐστι βέρεθρον,
ἔνθα σιδήρειαί τε πύλαι καὶ χάλκεος οὐδός,
τόσσον ἔνερθ’ Ἀΐδεω ὅσον οὐρανός ἐστ’ ἀπὸ γαίης:
or I will pick him up and throw him into murky Tartaros
very far away, where the deepest abyss lies under the earth,
surrounded by iron gates and a border of bronze,
as far beneath Hades as heaven is above the earth;
(Zeus speaking. Iliad VIII 13–16, as translated—hopefully not too badly!—by yours truly.)
Ἔστι μὲν οὖν ἡ πορεία διττὴ πᾶσιν ἢ ἀναβαίνουσιν ἢ ἄνω ἐλθοῦσιν· ἡ μὲν γὰρ προτέρα ἀπὸ τῶν κάτω, ἡ δέ γε δευτέρα, οἷς ἤδη ἐν τῷ νοητῶ γενομένοις καὶ οἷον ἴχνος θεῖσιν ἐκεῖ πορεύεσθαι ἀνάγκη, ἕως ἂν εἰς τὸ ἐσχατον τοῦ τόπου ἀφίκωνται, ὃ δὴ τέλος τῆς πορείας ὂν τυγχάνει, ὅταν τις ἐπ' ἄκρῳ γένηται τῷ νοητῷ.
There are two stages of the journey for all, one when they are going up and one when they have arrived above. The first leads from the regions below, the second is for those who are already in the intelligible realm and have gained their footing There, but must still travel till they reach the furthest point of the region; that is the "end of the journey," when you reach the top of the intelligible.
(Plotinus, Enneads I iii "On Dialectic" §1, as translated by A. H. Armstrong.)
The poets describe three worlds: heaven, earth, and Tartaros. We see three worlds in the mysteries, too; heroes always descend twice and reascend twice:
Therefore I think the poets' "heaven" is the Intellect; "earth" is the world of Soul, the abode of angels and purified souls; and "Tartaros" is our material world, the haunt of daimons and men and beasts, a dark prison surrounded by walls of bronze and gates of iron. Indeed, Homer's shades are insensate because most of us, the inhabitants of Hades, are passive, sheep-like. Teiresias alone among them has his wits because, by the gift of Persephone (that is to say, having mastered the mysteries), he is awake to his seven lives (his reincarnations) and has learned from them, becoming a purified soul, a saint, a hero; he sits in Hades merely waiting for his sentence to be commuted.
So, the heroes' two falls are the emanation from the Intellect and the fall into matter; their two returns are their waking up from the material world (which is relatively brief, if one makes the effort, but very unpleasant) and their efforts to master of the spiritual world (which takes long ages of time but is nicer).
But this also explains another thing that's always bothered me. After Zeus deposes Kronos, he and his brothers share power amongst themselves: Zeus became king of heaven; Poseidon, king of the sea; and Hades, king of the underworld. Since I've mostly followed the four-fold Empedoclean model, the three divisions confused me. The poets' model, however, fits it nicely: Zeus ruling (and being) the Intellect, Poseidon ruling the spiritual world (being Soul), and Hades ruling the material world (being Nature). This explains their traditional attributes, with Zeus being the strongest (because the Intellect has power over all existence), Poseidon being a shapeshifter (because spiritual things are without form), and Hades being wealthy (containing all material things); further, the gifts of the Circle-Eyes are the representation of an individual each at each level: Zeus's lightning-bolts represent the ideas held within the Intellect (hence is a symbol of intuition), Poseidon's trident represents the souls held within Soul (hence is a symbol of reason—a trident grabs a fish much better than a spear, just like reason helps us hold onto intuitive insights—and is, perhaps, why Plato insisted on a tripartite soul), and Hades's dogskin represents the bodies held within Nature (hence is a symbol of sensation and is why Apollodoros says that "it allows one to see while not being seen," a riddling way of describing how a body grants sense-perception while also hiding the soul). This last amuses me: what is a body, after all, but a beast skin wrapped around the soul?
Δαναός. ἁγνόν τ᾽ Ἀπόλλω, φυγάδ᾽ ἀπ᾽ οὐρανοῦ θεόν.
Χορός. εἰδὼς ἂν αἶσαν τήνδε συγγνοίη βροτοῖς.
Δαναός. συγγνοῖτο δῆτα καὶ παρασταίη πρόφρων.
Danaos. Pray also to holy Apollo, a god exiled from heaven.
Daughters. Knowing our lot, he may well pity us mortals.
Danaos. May he indeed pity us and so be kindly disposed to us.
(Aiskhulos, The Suppliants 214–6, as translated—hopefully not too badly!—by yours truly. "Danaos" means "ancient," by the way, a fitting name for the Perseus myth's equivalent of Atum.)
ἠδ᾽ Ἔρος, ὃς κάλλιστος ἐν ἀθανάτοισι θεοῖσι,
λυσιμελής, πάντων δὲ θεῶν πάντων τ᾽ ἀνθρώπων
δάμναται ἐν στήθεσσι νόον καὶ ἐπίφρονα βουλήν.
and Love, who is the most beautiful of the deathless gods,
who relaxes the limbs; of every gods' and mortals'
hearts, minds, and careful plans, he conquers.
(Hesiod, Theogony 120–2, as translated—hopefully not too badly!—by yours truly.)
κάλλιστος is a tricky word, here; it is generally translated "most beautiful," but my dictionary seems to give the sense of "most good" in general—most good in form (hence "most beautiful"), most good in disposition ("kindliest"), most good in worthiness ("noblest"), etc. I'm not really sure in which sense it is meant, if indeed those of Hesiod's day would have distinguished them at all. Plotinus, at least, considered all superlatives (beauty, truth, etc.) to coincide in the Intellect.
I fear making sense of this is beyond my present capacities, but that doesn't make it any less worthy of a topic for meditation. Similarly, it is worth considering why Hesiod and Empedocles place Love at the top of their hierarchies, above even kingly Zeus.
Ἑρμείας ἀκάκητα κατ’ εὐρώεντα κέλευθα.
πὰρ δ’ ἴσαν Ὠκεανοῦ τε ῥοὰς καὶ λευκάδα πέτρην,
ἠδὲ παρ’ Ἠελίοιο Πύλας καὶ δῆμον ὀνείρων
ἤϊσαν: αἶψα δ’ ἵκοντο κατ’ ἀσφοδελὸν λειμῶνα,
ἔνθα τε ναίουσι ψυχαί, εἴδωλα καμόντων.
Beneficent Hermeias [led the souls of the suitors] down the moldy ways:
they went past the currents of Okeanos and the white rock,
past the Gates of the Sun and the land of dreams,
and soon they came to a meadow of asphodel,
where souls live, the reflections of worn-out men.
(Homer, Iliad XXIV 10–4, as translated—hopefully not too badly!—by yours truly.)
I much prefer the Hesiodic map of the end of the world, but Homer's seems to me to be no less valid:
Okeanos is the night sky and the white rock is the Moon, demarcating the end of the material (e.g. "sublunary") world.
(Translators don't usually seem to know what to do with λευκάδα πέτρην: I've seen "white rock," "rock of Leukas," and "Lefkada," this last being an island in the Ionian sea, and the birthplace and namesake of Lafcadio Hearn. But the last is silly, since Lefkada isn't even in Okeanos, and anyway we're speaking here of εὐρώεντα κέλευθα "the moldy ways," which are beyond earthly sight.)
The Gates of the Sun are 𓈌 akhet (cf. Hesiodic Akheron), that place immediately beyond the eastern and western horizon where the Sun comes from at dawn and goes to at dusk, the threshold between Earth and Haides (cf. Egyptian 𓇽 duat).
Haides itself consists of three locations: the land of dreams is closest and refers to that part of the world of Water which is densest (e.g. the lower part of the astral world, between the Moon and Saturn) and which mortals go to when they sleep; the meadows of asphodel is moderate and refers to that part of the world of Water which is least dense (e.g. the upper part of the astral world, between Saturn and the sphere of fixed stars) and which mortals go to when they die; and finally, the Elusion fields is distant and refers to the world of Air which mortals go to when they apotheosize (whether by love, cf. Menelaos; by virtue, cf. Rhadamanthus; or by deed, cf. Herakles).
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