Character, Narrator, and Simile in the Iliad

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CHARACTER, NARRATOR, AND SIMILE IN THE ILIAD Jonathan L. Ready offers the first comprehensive examination of Homer’s similes in the Iliad as arenas of heroic competition. This study concentrates primarily on similes spoken by Homeric characters. The first to offer a sustained exploration of such similes, Ready shows how characters are made to contest through and over simile not only with one another but also with the narrator. Ready investigates the narrator’s similes as well. He demonstrates that Homer amplifies the feat of a successful warrior by providing a competitive orientation to sequences of similes used to describe battle. He also offers a new interpretation of Homer’s extended similes as a means for the poet to imagine his characters as competitors for his attention. Throughout this study, Ready makes innovative use of approaches from both Homeric studies and narratology that have not yet been applied to the analysis of Homer’s similes. Jonathan L. Ready is an assistant professor in the Department of Classical Studies at Indiana University. He is the author of a chapter in The Cambridge Companion to Archaic Greece (2007) and of a number of articles that have appeared in classics journals, including Transactions of the American Philological Association and the American Journal of Philology.

CHARACTER, NARRATOR, AND SIMILE IN THE ILIAD Jonathan L. Ready Indiana University

cambridge university press Cambridge, New York, Melbourne, Madrid, Cape Town, Singapore, São Paulo, Delhi, Tokyo, Mexico City Cambridge University Press 32 Avenue of the Americas, New York, ny 10013-2473, usa www.cambridge.org Information on this title: www.cambridge.org/9780521190640 © Jonathan L. Ready 2011 This publication is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to the provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Cambridge University Press. First published 2011 Printed in the United States of America A catalog record for this publication is available from the British Library. Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication data Ready, Jonathan L., 1976– Character, narrator, and simile in the Iliad / Jonathan L. Ready. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. isbn 978-0-521-19064-0 (hardback) 1. Homer. Iliad. 2. Simile. I. Title. pa4037.r373 2011 883⬘.01–dc22 2010050210 isbn 978-0-521-19064-0 Hardback Cambridge University Press has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of urls for external or third-party Internet Web sites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Web sites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

Contents

Acknowledgments Introduction 1 The Simile and the Homeric Comparative Spectrum 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

Figures and the Comparative Spectrum The Range of Homeric Similes The Range of Homeric Comparisons The Comparative Spectrum Again Conclusion

2 Similes and Likenesses in the Character-Text 1. Similes, Linguistic Competence, and Status 2. Seven Similes Spoken by Characters 2.1. Similar to the Immortals 2.2. Like Some Dishonored Migrant 2.3. Like a Black Whirlwind 2.4. Like Smoke 2.5. Like Women 2.6. Like a Woman … Like Lovers 2.7. Like Lions and Men, Wolves and Sheep 3. The Likeness 3.1. Words That Introduce Similes and Comparisons 3.2. Nine Likenesses 4. Conclusion

page ix 1 11 14 16 19 25 26 27 28 31 32 34 39 42 48 55 61 69 70 74 85

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Contents

3 A Preparation for Reading Sequences of Similes 1. Connections 2. Similes in Verbal Dueling 3. Conclusion 4 Sequences of Similes in the Character-Text 1. Similes in the Teikhoskopia 2. Dueling Spoken Similes 2.1. Paris and Diomedes 2.2. Odysseus and Nestor 2.3. Achilleus and Phoinix 3. Conclusion 5 Narrator, Character, and Simile 1. Paired Similes 1.1. The Lesser Aias on Athena 1.2. Patroklos on Kebriones 1.3. Achilleus on Patroklos 2. Series of Similes 2.1. Sarpedon on the Trojans 2.2. Asios on the Lapithai 2.3. Achilleus on the Skamandros 3. Similes and Flyting 3.1. Menelaos on Euphorbos 3.2. Paris on Hektor 4. Conclusion 6 Similes in the Narrator-Text 1. Two Sequences of Similes 1.1. Hektor and Achilleus 1.2. Hektor at the Achaian Wall 2. Extended Similes 2.1. The Characters as Competitors for the Spotlight 2.2. Similes and the Characters as Competitors for the Spotlight 3. Conclusion

87 89 101 107 108 108 120 120 126 139 149 150 157 157 160 165 183 183 187 192 197 198 201 209 211 211 213 215 220 222 239 258

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Conclusion: The Odyssey Compared

261

Abbreviations Bibliography Index Locorum Index of Names, Subjects, and Greek Words

273 275 297 318

Acknowledgments

My dissertation committee at UC Berkeley, consisting of Mark Griffith (chair), Leslie Kurke, Richard Martin, and Joseph Duggan, expertly guided me through an initial examination of the competitive dynamics of the Homeric simile. I thank each of them, especially Mark, for helping me put together a piece that I could (and wanted to) continue to work on. Audiences at the 2004 meeting of the American Philological Association, at The University of Iowa, and at Indiana University provided useful feedback on some early attempts at important parts of this study. Erwin Cook read the penultimate version of the book manuscript and offered invaluable suggestions about matters large and small on nearly every page, an act of intellectual generosity that I shall find hard to repay. The incisive critiques provided by Cambridge’s two anonymous readers made the book better. Beatrice Rehl and her whole team at the Press skillfully brought the project to fruition. This book is for Meg.

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Introduction

EVERYONE APPRECIATES A GOOD SIMILE. THEY ABOUND IN

American rap. Mr. Funke of Lords of the Underground declares, “I hurdle over rappers just like Jackie Joyner-Kersee” (“Funky Child,” 1993). Talib Kweli warns, “I’m like shot clocks, blood clots and interstate cops / My point is, your flow can stop!” (“Hater Players,” 1998).1 In oratory competitions on St. Vincent in the West Indies, a speaker can turn to simile as he closes his presentation in the hope of impressing the judges one last time: No, I will not, for if I continue these beautiful young ladies will fall on me just like the Falls of Niagara. No, I will not for there is someone else behind me whose head’s hot, whose heart swelling, just as a rosebud swell and burst in the month of May listening for the voice of his sweetheart.2

A singer of an episode from the Egyptian oral epic Sîrat Banî Hilâl declares: A slave inhabits the diwans, an angel of death, within the DWELLINGS

His audience’s reactions show that they have taken note: he compares him to the angel of death a simile [laughter]3 1

2 3

See Perry 2004: 64–65, Cobb 2007: 98–99 (who cites the verses from Talib Kweli), and Bradley 2009: 94–96. Abrahams 1972: 24 and 26, respectively. Slyomovics 1987: 92–93. 1

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Character, Narrator, and Simile in the Iliad

Homer’s similes, too, have always caught the eye of readers. We are taken with his detailed vignettes set far from the battlefield: Aias fells the Trojan Simoeisios as if he were a chariotmaker cutting down a tree; Achilleus enters the battle like a proud lion willing to confront a whole town; the Trojans and Achaians fight like men quarrelling over a boundary stone between their fields. We admire the poet’s ability to detect the likeness in apparently unlike terms: Paris compares Hektor’s indomitable spirit to an ax; the blood flowing from Menelaos’ wound resembles the dye used to color a cheek piece for a horse; the Trojans and Achaians tug at the corpse of Patroklos like men stretching out an animal hide. One of the most striking and memorable features of Homeric epic, the simile continues to receive critical attention.4 After all, the careful study of Homer’s similes has far-reaching consequences. It makes us better readers of Homeric poetry given how important similes are to the telling of the tales and to the tales’ themes. It enables us to explore the reception of Homer’s similes by later poets. And it allows us to evaluate one of the earliest considerations of a politically potent equation: when you say, “A is like B,” you define and shape perceptions of A. This book argues that Homeric similes can function as mechanisms and sites of competition.5 The third portion of Chapter 2 and the Conclusion discuss passages from the Odyssey, but the bulk of the book investigates the Iliad’s similes. Chapter 6 looks at similes in the narrator-text, but Chapters 2, 4, and 5 provide the first sustained critical examination of similes spoken by Homeric characters.6 Throughout,

4

5

6

See, most recently, Scott 2009. Hadas (2008: 185) observes that whereas “simile is often treated in poetry texts like metaphor’s slightly dumb or naïve younger sister,” “Homer gets a free pass”: readers look forward to his similes. On competition and cooperation in the society rendered in the Homeric poems, see, for example, Cairns 1993: 83, Zanker 1996: esp. Chapter 1, Thalmann 1998: 130–31, and Wilson 2002a: 36. There is need for such an investigation if for no other reason than scholarship’s blind spots when it comes to similes spoken by characters. On the one hand, that there are far more similes in the narrator-text than in the character-text seems to compel interpreters routinely to imply or assert that there are no similes in the character-text. Austin (1975: 118) claims that omens “are like similes, but similes that are the property of the characters in the poem rather than of the poet.” The suggestion is that characters do not use similes. Cf.

Introduction

3

I deploy some of the analytical models in both Homeric studies and narratology that have developed in recent decades but have not yet been applied to similes. In at least three ways, the Iliad poet reveals his interest in crafting his characters as competitors: (1) the heroes compete with one another in physical endeavors, namely war and athletics;7 (2) the heroes compete as speakers. First, they compete among themselves. Richard Martin (1989) reveals the markedly agonistic orientation that Homeric speakers exhibit toward one another. Second, they compete against the narrator. The research of Robert Rabel (1997) and Egbert Bakker (2009) points to the verbal competitions that the poet fashions between the characters and the narrator; and (3) the poet constructs his characters as competitors for narrative attention. Taking these three points together, we see how important the theme of competition is to the Iliad poet. He does not just fill the lives of Homeric warriors with contests. He also makes them compete in their capacity as characters in a poem: hence their contests with the narrator and their portrayal as competitors for narrative attention. My central goal is to demonstrate that the Iliad poet implicates similes in the competitive dynamics of the three spheres delineated here.8 I concentrate primarily on the character-text and the interactions

7

8

Hardie (2004: 88) on “the narrator’s art of simile” (cf. Pellicia 2002: 199). Bakker (2005: 132) writes, “In contradistinction to similes, such statements [i.e., general statements and aphorisms] are not confined to the discourse of the narrator,” and Tsagalis (2008: 272) contends, “[S]imiles never appear in speeches.” On the other hand, if critics do look at similes spoken by characters, they regularly privilege those of Achilleus: see, for example, Benardete 2005: 61n1, Clarke 1995: 145–46, and Gaca 2008: 160. See, for example, Finley 2002: 120 and 122 and Wilson 2002a: for example, 36–37 on the “fluid ranking system.” I deploy an intentionalist rhetoric throughout this book both for the sake of simplicity and in keeping with the reemergence of various species of intentionalism in the work of some literary critics and theorists: see Kindt and Müller 2006: 168–80. For a classicist defending an intentionalist orientation, see Clay 2003: 9. For an interpreter of Homeric similes making use of such language, note Scott’s experiment: “I will propose a possible program of thoughts that might have occurred to the poet as he composed three tree similes” (2009: 176).

4

Character, Narrator, and Simile in the Iliad

between the narrator-text and the character-text to argue that the poet uses similes in his depiction of the characters as competitors when it comes to speaking (see [2], earlier). First and most fundamentally, the characters contest with one another through (in the sense of by way of) simile: characters introduce similes into their performances as verbal artists as one means of competing against other characters in the linguistic field. Second, the poet also makes his characters contest both with one another and with the narrator not just through but at the same time over simile. A simile spoken by a character will seek to top the previous simile(s) of another character or of the narrator. I end with two points about similes in the narrator-text. First, the poet introduces competitive dynamics into the similes that describe the physical contests in which the heroes engage (see [1], earlier). The poet fashions pairs and series of similes in the narrator-text in which that or those which follow(s) aim(s) to better that or those which precede(s): this move redounds to the credit of the character who is the referent of the capping simile. Second, the poet constructs similes in the narrator-text such that they contribute to his rendition of his characters as competitors for narrative attention (see [3], earlier). A more detailed summary of these arguments follows. Chapter 1, “The Simile and the Homeric Comparative Spectrum,” defines a simile by exploring what it means to say “A (is) like B” in the Homeric poems. (As for what to call the “A” and the “B,” I will use I. A. Richards’s terminology: in the statement, “Diomedes is like a lion that kills a calf,” “Diomedes” is the tenor, and “lion” is the vehicle.9 I designate the part, “a lion that kills a calf,” as the “vehicle portion” of the figure.10) We can distinguish between the figures of simile 9 10

See Richards 1936: 96–101. Scholarly practice in this matter needs refining. It makes little sense to use the word “simile” both for the whole statement “Diomedes is like a lion that kills a calf” and for only a part of the whole statement, in this case the “a lion that kills a calf” part. Beyond the fact that such imprecision is confusing, it is manifestly not the case that “a lion that kills a calf” is a simile: there is no comparison in that statement. Only the whole assertion, “Diomedes is like a lion that kills a calf,” is a simile. Having registered that complaint, I shall nonetheless for the most part use the term “simile” in the traditionally

Introduction

5

and comparison. The defining feature of a simile is the dissimilarity between tenor and vehicle, and in such cases one can speak of the distance between tenor and vehicle. For example, the narrator describes the Trojan Adamas gasping in death “as when a bull [gasps], which in the mountains herdsmen bind with ropes although it is unwilling and drag it off by force” (Il. 13.571–72).11 By contrast, the defining feature of a comparison is the similarity between the tenor and vehicle, and in such cases one can speak of the proximity of tenor and vehicle. For instance, Themis questions Hera: “Why have you come? You are similar to one terrified” (Il. 15.90). The simile evinces a relatively larger gap between tenor and vehicle, and the comparison a smaller gap. Within each category of simile and comparison, however, differences exist. Some similes either exhibit or assert a greater degree of similarity between tenor and vehicle than other similes, and some comparisons present a greater degree of similarity between tenor and vehicle than other comparisons. A comparative spectrum emerges, bounded on one end by the notion of lesser similarity and on the other end by the notion of greater similarity. Where a figure falls on the spectrum depends on the perceived or actual gap between its tenor and vehicle. Chapter 2, “Similes and Likenesses in the Character-Text,” begins presenting the argument that similes are mechanisms of verbal competition for the heroes. Comparative material shows that the use of figurative language enables a performer of verbal art in a competitive arena to exhibit his distinctive degree of linguistic competence. Just so, Homeric heroes perform as verbal artists in a competitive environment, and simile provides a way for them to distinguish themselves. Characters pursue this goal by assigning similes integral parts in their presentations and arguments. For example, in constructing himself as a model for Patroklos and Achilleus, Nestor talks of how he once fought like “a black whirlwind.” In rebuking Achilleus, Hektor deploys two similes that interrogate and exploit the erotic dimension of supplication.

11

imprecise manner, but on occasion, when the need for specificity becomes paramount, I shall use the phrase “vehicle portion.” I use the Oxford Classical Texts of the Iliad (Monro and Allen 1920) and Odyssey (Allen 1917 and 1919). All translations from those poems are my own. They aim to be precise, not elegant.

6

Character, Narrator, and Simile in the Iliad

The chapter ends with an excursus on another statement that characters use in the shape “A (is) like B.” I posit a third category of figure, the likeness, to account for moments in which there is a purposeful ambiguity as to the gap between a figure’s tenor and vehicle, that is, for moments in which characters play around with the meaning of “like.” This model enables interpretation of, for instance, Odysseus’ description of the suitor Antinoos as a king, Menelaos’ reminiscence of Helen’s mimicking the voices of the wives of the Achaian warriors, and Nestor’s suggestion that Patroklos don Achilleus’ armor. The likeness can be counted along with the simile as a way in which characters generate distinguishing utterances in the shape “A (is) like B” and thereby seek to stand out in the linguistic arena. Chapter 2 investigates figures that do not interact with the simile(s) of another character or of the narrator. Chapter 3, “A Preparation for Reading Sequences of Similes,” lays the groundwork for investigating the competitive dynamics of pairs and series of similes in the Iliad. The first section shows how previous scholarship helps to define what precisely that project entails. First, the most oft-cited examinations of pairs and series of similes over the course of an episode or of the poem as a whole tend to concentrate on similes with the same vehicle. We can join other critics, however, in exploring as well pairs and series of similes that do not use the same vehicle. This latter enterprise makes sense not least because similes constitute a subgenre: they have distinct formal and thematic features that make them stand out from the surrounding narrative. Second, when reading pairs and series of similes, we should follow the guidelines articulated most clearly by Stephen Nimis (1987): bearing in mind that Homeric poetry was orally composed in performance in real time, the interpreter should pay attention to the sequential arrangement of pairs and series of similes, that is, how one follows upon another. Such a charge is in keeping with present-day Homeric scholarship’s concern with the intersection between sequence and meaning. Leonard Muellner (1996), for one, argues for a “metonymic” sequencing of and within episodes in archaic Greek epic: a character seeks to “top” (e.g., 87) his predecessor’s move by “incorporating the previous one and going one step beyond it” (155). Muellner’s research also helps us with a third point of preparation. We can adapt his model in order to delineate the competitive dynamics of some sequences of similes. To demonstrate two ways in which the poet can make a simile top a previous

Introduction

7

one, I propose to redirect two common scholarly procedures for connecting similes: the poet reuses material and/or recharacterizes the actors in the scene from one simile to the next. The second section of the chapter shows that an additional perspective guides the critic toward the competitive dynamics of sequences of similes involving character-text. From Catullus’ carmen 62 to the song duels of Turkish minstrels to tantalisin sessions in Guyana, a speaker regularly attempts to best the previous figure of his interlocutor with one of his own: the pair contest over simile. We might fairly expect the Homeric poet, as he depicts his characters contending verbally, to have them contest over similes. Chapter 4, “Sequences of Similes in the Character-Text,” begins by analyzing the implicit figurative confrontations in a conversation that has often piqued the interest of critics. In the scene in Iliad 3 known as the teikhoskopia, in which the Trojans look down from the walls of Troy at the Greek army, all the characters present at least one simile. Helen, for instance, likens Idomeneus to a god to assert her standing in the male circle of Priam and the Trojan elders. In other scenes, the poet makes a character explicitly attempt to incorporate, resist, or better the previous figurative effort of his interlocutor. I explore how, by deploying a simile about a woman or child, Diomedes rejects Paris’ self-representation as a shepherd who alone can defend the Trojans and how Nestor appropriates Odysseus’ figuration of the Achaians as children and widows. I then discuss how, in his image of Peleus as a father handing down property to his son, Phoinix reuses and reframes the notion of perpetuating the household central to a simile spoken by Achilleus: in the preceding speech the angry warrior had likened himself to a mother bird struggling to feed her young. Chapter 5, “Narrator, Character, and Simile,” starts from the work of Irene de Jong (esp. 2004a [1987]), Robert Rabel (1997), and Egbert Bakker (2009): they chart the interactions and confrontations between what the Homeric narrator says and what the characters say. Just as the poet has a character respond to another character, so can he make a character contest with the narrator. The narrator is treated as another speaker with whom the characters can engage in verbal disputation. Competition over simile plays a role here as well. I investigate pairs and series of similes in the Iliad in which the poet has the last one, which is spoken by a character, respond to the narrator’s previous figuration(s)

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Character, Narrator, and Simile in the Iliad

through, for the most part, processes of reuse and recharacterization. More specifically, the audience is invited to observe three types of interaction. First, a character is made to respond to the previous simile of the narrator with a simile of his own. For example, whereas the narrator uses a simile to stress the role of skill in Odysseus’ victory in the footrace in the games in honor of Patroklos, the Lesser Aias uses a simile to point to Athena’s help as the reason Odysseus won. Second, a character is made to respond to the previous similes of the narrator with a simile of his own. For example, Asios uses a simile to complain about the unexpected resistance offered by the Lapithai’s defense of the Achaian wall. His simile redeploys elements of the narrator’s similes describing the Lapithai’s martial prowess. Third, a character is made to respond by way of simile both to his opponent’s argument in a flyting contest and to the narrator’s use of a simile or similes right before the contest began. For example, after the narrator (through two similes) and Hektor depict Paris as a man best suited to cultural endeavors who should not venture out into the wilds of combat, Paris’ simile about Hektor challenges the separation of nature and culture. Chapter 6, “Similes in the Narrator-Text,” queries the agonistic orientation of the narrator-text’s images. I begin with an application of the same model used in Chapters 4 and 5 to a pair and a series of similes in the narrator-text. In the final duel in Iliad 22 between Achilleus and Hektor, the description of Achilleus’ spear as a star aims to best the previous figuration of Hektor as an eagle. As Hektor momentarily gains the upper hand in the battle in Iliad 15, the narrator describes the combat with a series of similes in which those that follow cap those that precede. The arrangement of these similes makes for a contest in the figurative arena, the outcome of which replicates and amplifies the success of a fighter on the battlefield. To explain the competitive dynamics evident in individual extended similes in the Iliad’s narrator-text, I introduce a different model. The poet can concentrate on a character’s actions (the character is in focus) and/or perspective (the character is the focalizer). Whether he is in focus or is the focalizer, a character is receiving the poet’s attention and can be said to be in the spotlight. Previous scholarship has recognized that especially in an oral poem the more time a character spends in the spotlight, the greater is his narrative importance or narrative status. Now,

Introduction

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by shifting the spotlight between his characters and by expanding it to embrace more than one person, the poet portrays his characters as competitors for the valuable spotlight. The poet furthers that vision when he trains the spotlight on one character: he fashions the character as an entity that keeps others either entirely or to a great degree out of the spotlight, that keeps others from increasing their narrative status. The poet buttresses this portrayal of what it means to be a character in his poem by assigning to the characters the notion that the spotlight in future tales told by others is something over which they compete. Extended similes in the narrator-text offer an additional forum in which the poet can portray his characters as competitors in this regard. The poet uses similes with a multiplicity of actors in the vehicle portion but only one tenor/vehicle pairing to lengthen a character’s time in the spotlight and, therefore, the time that he keeps others out of the spotlight. Furthermore, by presenting a plurality in the vehicle portion, the poet points to the existence of other competitors for the spotlight. The poet can use multiple-correspondence similes (those with more than one discrete tenor/vehicle pairing) for a similar purpose. In some similes of this type, one tenor or tenor/vehicle pairing obscures another. The poet thereby portrays one character as the cause behind his curtailing the time another has or others have in the spotlight. Conversely, the poet can construct multiple-correspondence similes in which one tenor/vehicle pairing is made to keep another from sole possession of the spotlight. The vehicle portion of a simile can attend equally to two tenor/vehicle pairings, but it is more interesting to trace the following: the spotlight in the vehicle portion of a multiple-correspondence simile can expand such that one tenor’s vehicle intrudes upon the space initially controlled by another tenor’s vehicle and denies that tenor/ vehicle pairing the entirety of the spotlight. For example, in a simile describing one warrior killing another, the spotlight can shine first on the vehicle that represents the victim but then widen to include the vehicle that represents his slayer. In “Conclusion: The Odyssey Compared,” I observe that generally speaking similes in the Odyssey do not evince the same competitive dynamics as those in the Iliad. The construction of similes may be one way in which Odysseus competes with the narrator, but the Odyssey’s characters do not respond to the narrator’s images as the Iliad’s

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Character, Narrator, and Simile in the Iliad

characters do. For their part, many extended similes in the Odyssey’s narrator-text rehearse the interconnectedness of the poem’s actors. It makes sense that they do not reveal a competition for the spotlight. After all, true competition for the spotlight is not something with which the epic concerns itself: Odysseus is the poem’s one protagonist. Finally, we do not find competitively oriented sequences of similes either in the character-text or the narrator-text, an absence consistent with one of the poem’s broader points. Whereas there are real rivalries among characters in the Iliad, scholarship has long noted that Odysseus has no human competitors in the Odyssey: he is far and away the best in both word and deed. The absence both of moments in the charactertext in which a character contests over simile with another character and of moments in the narrator-text in which one simile seeks to cap a previous one mirrors this portrayal of a world in which competition between mortals never rises to the same fevered pitch as it does in the Iliad. All told, the Odyssey’s use of similes throws into relief the Iliad’s more frequent construction of its similes as mechanisms and sites of competition.

1 The Simile and the Homeric Comparative Spectrum

A STUDY OF THE HOMERIC SIMILE CAN BEGIN BY DEFINING ITS

terms. I propose to accomplish this preliminary task by looking at the larger question of statements in the shape “A (is) like B” in the Homeric poems. Glaukos’ famous contention that men resemble leaves is a good place to start: οἵη περ φύλλων γενεή, τοίη δὲ καὶ ἀνδρῶν. φύλλα τὰ μέν τ’ ἄνεμος χαμάδις χέει, ἄλλα δέ θ’ ὕλη τηλεθόωσα φύει, ἔαρος δ’ ἐπιγίγνεται ὥρη· ὣς ἀνδρῶν γενεὴ ἡ μὲν φύει ἡ δ’ ἀπολήγει. As is the generation of leaves, so that also of men. Some leaves the wind pours out on the ground, but others the wood flourishing produces, and the season of spring returns: so the generation of men, one grows, the other dies. (Il. 6.146–49)

Hayden Pelliccia suggests that Glaukos’ figure strongly asserts the similarity between tenor (i.e., “the generation of men”) and vehicle (i.e., “the generation of leaves”), whereas the purpose behind a simile comparing, for example, Achilleus to a leaping lion “does not seem to be to assert what Achilles is like, but to bring his leaping more vividly to the eye” (2002: 199). The idea that different Homeric statements in the shape “A is like B” reveal different degrees of similarity between tenor and vehicle appears elsewhere. Critics have long felt that some similes, especially those describing the movements of gods, are practically assertions of identity: “When Homer’s gods descend like the night or rise like the mist, they are for the moment almost equated with 11

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The Simile and the Homeric Comparative Spectrum

night or mist and have such a look and movement. In such comparisons a real element of identity is presupposed, and to this the poet draws attention.”1 Hartmut Erbse explicitly contrasts a god’s disguising himor herself “like” a mortal with other comparisons: The god resembles the person, in whose form he presents himself, but he resembles him not as a brave fighter resembles a lion or a coward resembles a deer, even if the same expressions may be used and may create such an impression for the casual observer.2 … The lion- or deer-like fighter does not tempt anyone to assume that the tenor is a lion or a deer. (1980: 261; emphasis in original, my translation)

Analogously, Richard Buxton juxtaposes moments in which there is a great “distance between main narrative and simile” with moments in which the following statement obtains: “the more closely a simile approximates the main action … the more the world of the simile and that of the action threaten to collapse into one another” (2004: 153). It is not surprising that Homerists have found differing degrees of similarity between tenor and vehicle in different figures. Since antiquity, interpreters have pondered this feature of comparative statements. In his Rhetoric, Aristotle distinguishes metaphor (“A is B”) from simile (“A is like B”): ἔστιν γὰρ ἡ εἰκών, καθάπερ εἴρηται πρότερον, μεταφορὰ διαφέρουσα προθέσει· διὸ ἧττον ἡδύ, ὅτι μακροτέρως· καὶ οὐ λέγει ὡς τοῦτο ἐκεῖνο· οὐκοῦν οὐδὲ ζητεῖ τοῦτο ἡ ψυχή. The simile, as has been said before, is a metaphor, differing from it only in the way it is put; and just because it is longer it is less attractive. Besides (kai), it does not say outright that “this” is “that,” and therefore the hearer is less interested in the idea. (1410b17–20)3

Marsh McCall understands the disparaging of simile based on its length as follows: that which is longer is less attractive; that which is less 1

2

3

Bowra 1952: 267. See also Bushnell (1982: 9) and Buxton (2009: 29–37 and 46) on the debates over gods’ metamorphoses. At this point, Erbse contrasts the use of eiokôs to describe Poseidon’s disguise as “an old man” (Il. 14.136) with its use in a simile comparing Antilochos to a thêr “wild beast” (Il. 15.586); see also Smith 1988: 161. Trans. McCall 1969: 40 (with his note 46); emphasis in original.

The Simile and the Homeric Comparative Spectrum

13

attractive “instructs less readily” (1969: 41). The sentence beginning with kai offers another criticism.4 A distinction between metaphor and simile appears that is grounded in the degree of asserted similarity between tenor and vehicle. The metaphor prompts the hearer to forge a closer connection between the two and is thus more instructive.5 Whereas Aristotle found that the rhetorical efficacy of different comparative statements is determined in part by the degree of similarity between tenor and vehicle, the fourth-century ce grammarian Donatus applied this principle to the task of categorization. A comparison of the appearance of two entities of the same genus, for example, of a horse to a horse, is to be classed as an imago. The defining characteristic is the similarity of tenor and vehicle. A comparison of two entities that do not belong to the same genus, for example, of a man to a bull, is to be classed as a similitudo.6 The defining characteristic is the dissimilarity between tenor and vehicle. The project of distinguishing among comparative statements based on the gap between tenor and vehicle is an old one, then, and should be undertaken with respect to the Homeric poems in a more thorough and systematic way than has been attempted heretofore. Our focus will be on statements in the shape “A (is) like B.”7 4

5

6

7

On the difficulties of the last sentence (“and therefore the hearer is less interested in the idea”), see Kirby 1997: 545. See McCall 1969: 41–42 and Innes 2003: 13–14. In his Poetics, Aristotle connects the notion of mimesis, exemplified by the phrase οὗτος ἐκεῖνος, with instruction (1448b15–17); see Lucas 1968: 72–73 and Nagy 1996a: 48n25. I here borrow from McGavin (2000: 35–43), who traces the differences in how rhetoricians and grammarians used these terms. Metaphorical statements in the shape “A is B” do not occur in the Homeric epics with sufficient regularity as to be subject to investigation. Penelope voices one of the few examples: “quick-going ships, … which are (gignontai) horses of the sea for men” (Od. 4.708–9); see also Od. 23.272. Metaphors of a word or a phrase (as opposed to in the shape “A is B”) regularly appear in Homeric epic: horses “fly” over the plain (e.g., Il. 23.372); Hektor threatens Paris with “a tunic of stones” (Il. 3.57) (on which see Chapter 5 [subsection 3.2]); see Janko (1992: ad 14.454–7) on Poulydamas’ boast over Prothoenor. Since antiquity scholars have been especially impressed by moments in which a simile expands on a previous metaphor: see Silk 1974: 18, Kirby 1997: 521–22, and Innes 2003: 9 (but note Chiappe, Kennedy, and Chiappe’s observation that in literary

14

The Simile and the Homeric Comparative Spectrum

1. FIGURES AND THE COMPARATIVE SPECTRUM

A recent attempt to distinguish among Homeric statements in the shape “A (is) like B” investigates syntactical features.8 I think it best to follow Aristotle and Donatus: we can distinguish among them by looking to the degree of similarity between tenor and vehicle. I offer the following definitions for four terms, figure, simile, comparison, and likeness, that are intended primarily as heuristic conveniences. Figure serves as an overarching term to cover any statement in the shape “A (is) like B,” be it a simile, comparison, or likeness. I am not using figure to mean “figurative language” in the usual sense. That latter term embraces metaphor and simile, but not the sort of statements that I class under comparison. The defining feature of a simile is dissimilarity.9 There is an unbridgeable gap between tenor and vehicle, as when, for instance, a man is said to resemble an animal or a plant or a spinning top. The tenor and vehicle of a simile are similar in certain particulars, but they are dissimilar in respect to components that are not those points of intersection. When a man is likened to a man, as when, for instance, a warrior is compared to a shepherd, the previous sentence does not obtain. Nonetheless, in

8 9

works “once a simile is used it can set the stage for a second comparison [involving the same or similar terms] to be offered as a metaphor, even if on its own it might be best presented as a simile” [2003: 66]). On metaphor in Homeric poetry more broadly, see Keith 1914, Stanford 1972: 118–43, Moulton 1979, Edwards 1987: 111–13, and Kirby 1997: 521–23. See Larsen 2007. See Minchin 2001: 134–35 and 147. Primavesi (2004) and Taplin (2007: 178–79; cf. Taplin 1980: 15) consider simile’s dissimilarity from a thematic perspective while Nannini (2003: 49–91) views it as a cognitive matter. Wofford (1992) explores how the fact of dissimilarity unmasks the ideological work behind simile’s assertions of similarity (see Chapter 3 [section 1]). I see no need to distinguish between long and short similes in light of Muellner’s (1990) and Minchin’s (2001: 144) demonstrations that the distinction is unfounded from a compositional point of view. Nünlist (2009: 282n3; cf. 286) contends that “from a Greek point of view” long similes that have an expressed Wie-Stück (e.g., “as a lion … ”) and So-Stück (e.g., “so Diomedes … ”) do not share “a common denominator” with similes that have only a Wie-Stück. This statement is acceptable if limited to the scholiasts who are Nünlist’s concern.

Figures and the Comparative Spectrum

15

such cases, there is an unbridgeable gap between the contexts in which the tenor and vehicle find themselves. Regarding a simile, then, one can speak of the distance between tenor and vehicle. As an example of a simile, I cite the narrator’s description of Imbrios, falling in death “like an ash tree, which on the peak of a mountain seen from far off is cut by bronze and scatters its delicate leaves on the earth” (Il. 13.178–80). One can imagine various points of contact between the tenor and vehicle (e.g., the act of falling, the conspicuousness of the act), whereas the features of each that are not relevant to the assertion of similarity are fundamentally dissimilar (e.g., one has two arms and two legs; the other does not). The defining feature of a comparison is the similarity between the compared terms as revealed above all by the fact that the tenor and vehicle belong to the same category (e.g., a man is like a man). The tenor and vehicle of a comparison resemble one another in regard not only to certain points of intersection but also to additional features that are not relevant to the assertion of similarity. In such cases, one can speak of the proximity of tenor and vehicle. As an example of a comparison, I cite the narrator’s description of Andromache: “So speaking she rushed from the hall like a madwoman” (Il. 22.460). The point of intersection is the mental state of both tenor and vehicle. The two terms can also be understood to intersect in other particulars (e.g., both have two arms and two legs) to which the speaker is not seeking to draw attention. Finally, when a character generates an “A (is) like B” statement that is ambiguous as to the size of the gap between tenor and vehicle, I speak of a likeness. As an example of a likeness, I cite Odysseus’ words to Philoitios: “because you are similar neither to an evil nor a senseless man” (Od. 20.227). I will return to this type of figure in Chapter 2 (see section 3). Although the project of assigning a particular Homeric figure to the category of simile or comparison is worthwhile, ultimately it is insufficiently ambitious. A more precise picture of Homeric figure emerges if we think in terms not only of discrete categories but also of a comparative spectrum. In the first place, what makes a simile a simile and what makes a comparison a comparison become especially clear when the figures are contrasted with one another. Similes exhibit a greater distance between tenor and vehicle than comparisons do; comparisons exhibit a greater proximity between tenor and vehicle than

16

The Simile and the Homeric Comparative Spectrum Table 1.1. The Homeric Comparative Spectrum of Degree of Similarity between Tenor and Vehicle Lesser similarity Simile

Greater similarity Comparison

similes do. Homeric figures, that is, fall at different places on a spectrum of degree of similarity between tenor and vehicle. Table 1.1 schematizes this relationship to the comparative spectrum. At the same time, one can ask of Homeric similes and comparisons the same questions Michael Silk does about the “‘modifyings’ of the separateness of tenor and vehicle” in lyric poetry and Greek tragedy (1974: 19; cf. 23). More extensive consideration of Homeric statements in the shape “A (is) like B” reveals that some similes either exhibit or assert a greater degree of similarity between tenor and vehicle than others, and some comparisons exhibit a greater degree of similarity between tenor and vehicle than others. Analysis of the range of both figures allows us to fill out the spectrum of degree of similarity between tenor and vehicle.

2. THE RANGE OF HOMERIC SIMILES

The poet can construct similes that either exhibit or assert a greater degree of similarity than other similes.10 Steven Lonsdale details how an animal in a simile can exhibit human emotions (1990).11 Menelaos resembles a hungry lion that, kept off from the cows by the 10

11

I am here encouraged above all by Addison’s essay on the simile: “a simile, though it cannot actually express identity or opposites, can express any among an infinity of degrees of likeness and unlikeness” (1993: 404); “similes do not all express a uniform, absolute likeness between their two elements” (406). This approach also supplements the usual taxonomies according to which Homeric similes are categorized by subject matter or function or are linked with other similes of like placement in scenes of the same type. See Lee 1964: 65–73, Scott 1974, Edwards 1991: 34–39, Redfield 1994: 188–89, Stoevesandt 2004: 235–73, and Buxton 2004: 144–46. See Chapter 3 (section 1). See esp. the summary in his Appendix B at 133–35.

The Range of Homeric Similes

17

herdsmen, “goes away at dawn with a sorrowful heart (τετιηότι θυμῷ)” (Il. 17.657–66); note, for instance, how Hekabe is said to have “a sorrowful heart” (τετιηότι θυμῷ) (Il. 24.283). Hektor resembles a snake that “dread anger (kholos) enters” (Il. 22.93–96); note, for instance, how Nestor urges Achilleus to let go of his kholos (Il. 1.283). One observes the absence of such features in the simile describing Diomedes as he kills Echemmon and Chromios: ὡς δὲ λέων ἐν βουσὶ θορὼν ἐξ αὐχένα ἄξῃ πόρτιος ἠὲ βοός, ξύλοχον κάτα βοσκομενάων, ὣς τοὺς ἀμφοτέρους ἐξ ἵππων υδέος υἱὸς βῆσε κακῶς ἀέκοντας, ἔπειτα δὲ τεύχε’ ἐσύλα· And as a lion leaps among the cows and breaks the neck of a calf or a cow as they graze in the wood, so both of them from their horses did the son of Tydeus bring down in a bad way, although they were unwilling, and then he stripped off their armor; (Il. 5.161–64)

By assigning the animal human emotions, the poet constructs a simile with a greater degree of similarity between the tenor and the vehicle than is evident in similes in which he does not do so. The poet deploys two other strategies to make it seem as if a given simile exhibits a greater degree of similarity than other similes. First, Lonsdale notes that a word (or words) from the vehicle portion of the simile can reappear in the resumptive clause that returns us to the narrative proper (the “so” clause) (1990: e.g., 50). In one iteration of this phenomenon, the tenor and vehicle perform the same exact actions. For instance, the Achaians flee Aineias and Hektor: ὥς τε ψαρῶν νέφος ἔρχεται ἠὲ κολοιῶν, οὖλον κεκλήγοντες, ὅτε προΐδωσιν ἰόντα κίρκον, ὅ τε σμικρῇσι φόνον φέρει ὀρνίθεσσιν, ὣς ἄρ’ ὑπ’ Αἰνείᾳ τε καὶ ῞Εκτορι κοῦροι Ἀχαιῶν οὖλον κεκλήγοντες ἴσαν, λήθοντο δὲ χάρμης. as a cloud of starlings or jackdaws goes shouting terribly whenever they see a hawk coming, which brings death to small birds,

18

The Simile and the Homeric Comparative Spectrum so then because of Aineias and Hektor, the youths of the Achaians shouting terribly went, and they were forgetful of their war spirit. (Il. 17.755–59)

Note the absence of such repetition in the simile that describes Poseidon as he departs from the battlefield after emboldening the Aiantes: αὐτὸς δ’ ὥς τ’ ἴρηξ ὠκύπτερος ὦρτο πέτεσθαι, ὅς ῥά τ’ ἀπ’ αἰγίλιπος πέτρης περιμήκεος ἀρθεὶς ὁρμήσῃ πεδίοιο διώκειν ὄρνεον ἄλλο, ὣς ἀπὸ τῶν ἤϊξε Пοσειδάων ἐνοσίχθων. And he himself as a swift-winged hawk rouses itself to fly, which from a steep, lofty rock rising hastens along the plain to pursue another bird, so from them leapt the earth-girder Poseidon. (Il. 13.62–65)

The repetition in Il. 17.755–59 asserts a greater degree of similarity between the figure’s compared terms.12 Second, the poet can introduce similes with “qualifiers” equivalent to our saying, “exactly like.”13 When the Trojans lament Hektor, the narrator compares the scene to the fall of Troy itself: “And it was most similar to that (τῷ δὲ μάλιστ’ ἄρ’ ἔην ἐναλίγκιον), as if all beetling Troy smoldered with fire from its peak” (Il. 22.410–11).14 The sleep into which Odysseus falls as the Phaiakians escort him back to Ithaka is “most similar to death” (θανάτῳ ἄγχιστα ἐοικώς) (Od. 13.80).15 Penelope reproaches Antinoos: “but Antinoos is especially similar to black death” (Ἀντίνοος δὲ μάλιστα μελαίνῃ κηρὶ ἔοικε) (Od. 17.500).

12

13 14

15

See also Il. 2.87–93 (with Edwards 1987: 108) and 17.281–85 and cf. Silk 1974: 16. On qualifiers, see Glucksberg and Keysar 1993: 408. Taplin (1992: 250) speaks of the “emphasized similarity.” De Jong (2004a: 134) calls the passage “simile-like.” The closeness posited between tenor and vehicle makes sense given that Sleep and Death are twin brothers (see, e.g., Il. 14.231 and 16.672). Yet, that closeness is asserted at Od. 13.80 not only because of that familiar equation but because of the Phaiakians’ connections to the afterlife as “the ferrymen of Elysium” (see Cook 1992: esp. 245–46 and 264–65).

The Range of Homeric Comparisons

19

The effect of the qualification is to assert that the tenor and vehicle are more similar than in instances in which such an introduction is lacking. I have purposefully tried to distinguish between similes that exhibit a greater degree of similarity between tenor and vehicle, as in the first category discussed earlier, and those that assert a greater degree, as in the latter two categories. As I understand it, there actually is a greater degree of similarity in similes that impute human emotions to the animal vehicle than in similes that do not. By contrast, using the same words and phrases to describe the actions of the tenor and vehicle or claiming that the terms are really alike does not actually lessen the gap between them. Nonetheless, in all cases, the poet is working with the concept of a spectrum of degree of similarity. 3. THE RANGE OF HOMERIC COMPARISONS

The poet also constructs a diversity of comparisons. Because we tend not to talk about comparisons as often as we talk about similes, I shall first present what I take to be the various sorts of comparisons and then suggest that these different types fall at different points on the comparative spectrum. Comparisons can be assigned to one of four categories: identifying another character’s mental or physical condition, positing another character’s name and/or identity, disguises, and literal similarity claims. A character can try to identify another’s mental or physical condition. When Hera returns to Olympus from Mount Ida, Themis comments on her appearance and demeanor: ῞Ηρη, τίπτε βέβηκας; ἀτυζομένῃ δὲ ἔοικας. Hera, why have you come? You are similar to one terrified:

(Il. 15.90)

The narrator describes the distraught Andromache when she learns of Hektor’s death: Ὣς φαμένη μεγάροιο διέσσυτο μαινάδι ἴση, So speaking she rushed from the hall like a madwoman,

(Il. 22.460)

20

The Simile and the Homeric Comparative Spectrum

Odysseus catches sight of Herakles equipped with his bow and arrows in the underworld: δεινὸν παπταίνων, αἰεὶ βαλέοντι ἐοικώς. looking about fearsomely, similar to one always about to shoot. (Od. 11.608)16

A character can posit another’s name and/or identity. Pandaros guesses that Diomedes is approaching: υδεΐδῃ μιν ἔγωγε δαΐφρονι πάντα ἐΐσκω, ἀσπίδι γιγνώσκων αὐλώπιδί τε τρυφαλείῃ, ἵππους τ’ εἰσορόων· σάφα δ’ οὐκ οἶδ’ εἰ θεός ἐστιν. I liken him in all respects to the skilled son of Tydeus as I look at his shield and helmet with eye-holes and looking at his horses; but I do not know clearly if he is a god. (Il. 5.181–83)

Penelope dreams that Odysseus was sleeping next to her: αὐτὰρ ἐμοὶ καὶ ὀνείρατ’ ἐπέσσευεν κακὰ δαίμων. τῇδε γὰρ αὖ μοι νυκτὶ παρέδραθεν εἴκελος αὐτῷ, τοῖος ἐὼν οἷος ᾖεν ἅμα στρατῷ· αὐτὰρ ἐμὸν κῆρ χαῖρ’, ἐπεὶ οὐκ ἐφάμην ὄναρ ἔμμεναι, ἀλλ’ ὕπαρ ἤδη. but a daimon sent me bad dreams. For again during this night someone slept next to me similar to him, and he was just as he was with his army, but my heart rejoiced because I did not think that it was a dream but a reality. (Od. 20.87–90)17

Moments in which one character claims that another is a god or a king work toward the same end. Telemachos marvels at Odysseus’ transformation: νῦν δὲ θεοῖσιν ἔοικας, οἳ οὐρανὸν εὐρὺν ἔχουσι. 16

17

See also Il. 6.388–89, 11.466–68, and 23.429–30 and Od. 10.378 and 17.511. Cf. Od. 19.383–85. See also Il. 14.472–74 and 23.105–7 and Od. 4.141–44, 4.148, and 19.380–81 and cf. Od. 3.124–25.

The Range of Homeric Comparisons

21

but now you are similar to immortals, who hold wide heaven. (Od. 16.200)18

Priam asks Helen about Agamemnon: βασιλῆϊ γὰρ ἀνδρὶ ἔοικε. for he is similar to a lordly king.

(Il. 3.170)19

When a character takes on a disguise, he or she is said to be “similar to” a person or type of person. Gods regularly take on the appearance of a mortal: ἡ δ’ ἀνδρὶ ἰκέλη ρώων κατεδύσεθ’ ὅμιλον, Λαοδόκῳ Ἀντηνορίδῃ, κρατερῷ αἰχμητῇ, But she [Athena] similar to a man went among the mass of Trojans, to Laodokos, son of Antenor, a strong spearman, (Il. 4.86–87)20

Mortals, too, are capable of disguising themselves. Helen recounts how Odysseus disguised himself as a beggar and snuck into Troy: αὐτόν μιν πληγῇσιν ἀεικελίῃσι δαμάσσας, σπεῖρα κάκ’ ἀμφ’ ὤμοισι βαλών, οἰκῆϊ ἐοικώς, 18

19

20

Telemachos attempts to identify Odysseus here: he “now repeats in essentially the same language as before [i.e., at 16.181–85] his conviction that the beggar must be a god trying to cause him even more misery (194–200)” (Beck 2005a: 71). Yet, Telemachos’ use of eoikas in this second speech as opposed to essi (16.183) in his first speech a moment earlier may rather reflect a softening of his previous contention that Odysseus is a god. In this second speech, after all, he does shift from his initial assertion that Odysseus is a god to the possibility that some god has transformed Odysseus. This passage differs from the following. Once Odysseus bathes and is beautified by Athena, Nausikaa constructs a simile for him: “but now he is similar (eoike) to the gods, who hold wide heaven” (Od. 6.243). This figure is a simile because Nausikaa knows that Odysseus is not a god (Od. 6.240–41 and 244–45). See also Philoitios’ inquiry into the status of the beggar (Odysseus) at the front door: “Who is this man…? … in truth he is similar in form to a lordly king. But the gods plunge into misery men who wander much when even for kings they spin woe” (Od. 20.191 and 194–96). The fact that Philoitios goes on to moralize about the vagaries of kingship suggests that his leaving open the possibility that the tenor is a king is a genuine question. See also Il. 3.386–88 and 17.582–83 and Od. 13.312–13.

22

The Simile and the Homeric Comparative Spectrum ἀνδρῶν δυσμενέων κατέδυ πόλιν εὐρυάγυιαν· ἄλλῳ δ’ αὐτὸν φωτὶ κατακρύπτων ἤϊσκε δέκτῃ, ὃς οὐδὲν τοῖος ἔην ἐπὶ νηυσὶν Ἀχαιῶν. τῷ ἴκελος κατέδυ ρώων πόλιν, But beating himself with unseemly blows, throwing worn clothes over his shoulders, similar to a house servant, he went into the wide-wayed city of hostile men; disguising himself, he made himself similar to another man, to a beggar, he who was not at all of this sort by the ships of the Achaians. Similar to him, he went into the city of the Trojans, (Od. 4.244–49)21

A final set of comparisons can be aligned with what linguists call literal-similarity claims. A comparison such as “Horses are like zebras” or “Cherries are like olives” is made up of two terms the most important defining features of which are in each case similar and, what is more, are the bases of the comparison. For instance, a speaker would most likely say, “Cherries are like olives,” to draw attention not to the fact that they both make good projectiles but to the fact that they are both small, round fruits with pits.22 Odysseus’ comparison of the Laistrygonians to Giants functions in this manner: φοίτων ἴφθιμοι Λαιστρυγόνες ἄλλοθεν ἄλλος, μυρίοι, οὐκ ἄνδρεσσιν ἐοικότες, ἀλλὰ Γίγασιν.

21 22

See also Od. 16.272–73. Ortony suggests the following definition: “I shall refer to similarity statements in which the matching attributes are of comparably high salience … as literal similarity statements.… This seems to accord with common sense. It could be taken as axiomatic that if two things share some characteristics that are important to both, then those things will be perceived as literally similar” (1979: 164; emphasis in original). He offers the example “Billboards are like placards” at 164. See also his 171 and 172, as well as 175–76 on literal analogies, for further explication. Gentner (1989: 206–7) contrasts literal similarity claims with other types of comparisons.

The Range of Homeric Comparisons

23

stout Laistrygonians started coming from all different directions, in vast number, not similar to men but to Giants. (Od. 10.119–20)

The comparable defining attribute that prompts the comparison is non-human size: the Laistrygonian queen is “as big as the peak of a mountain” (Od. 10.113), and the Giants are “huge” (megalous) from birth (Hesiod Theogony 185).23 The following figures are not precisely literal similarity claims as defined by Andrew Ortony (see note 22). They compare entities that belong to the same specific category as opposed to entities that are members not of the same specific category but of a broader superordinate category. At the same time, they are analogous to literal similarity claims because the comparison is based on highsalience attributes. Two entities depicted on Achilleus’ shield resemble actual examples of those entities. In the scene of plowing: ἡ δὲ μελαίνετ’ ὄπισθεν, ἀρηρομένῃ δὲ ἐῴκει, And it [the plowed earth] was black behind and it was similar to earth that has been plowed, (Il. 18.548)

In the scene of dancing: ᾽Εν δὲ χορὸν ποίκιλλε περικλυτὸς ἀμφιγυήεις, τῷ ἴκελον οἷόν ποτ’ ἐνὶ Κνωσῷ εὐρείῃ Δαίδαλος ἤσκησεν καλλιπλοκάμῳ Ἀριάδνῃ. And the famous lame one wrought a dancing place on it, similar to the one that once in wide Knossos Daidalos worked on for lovely-locked Ariadne. (Il. 18.590–92)

23

Gantz (1993: 446) suggests that the point of the comparison pertains not to size but to “their [the Laistrygonians’] uncivilized behaviour.” If that were the case, Odysseus’ assertion that they do not resemble men would become irrelevant, if not nonsensical. There are plenty of men who are “uncivilized,” hence Odysseus’ repeated refrain: “I will make trial of these men (andrôn) to see who they are, whether they are violent and savage and not just or are respectful of strangers and possess a god-fearing mind” (Od. 9.174–76) (see also Od. 6.119–21 and 13.200–2). The comparison has to be based on an attribute that men cannot exhibit.

24

The Simile and the Homeric Comparative Spectrum

In both cases, we are to understand that defining features of the tenor and vehicle render them similar. The adjective homoios introduces comparisons of one person’s ability in a given activity to another person’s or other people’s abilities in said activity.24 Automedon converses with Alkimedon: Ἀλκίμεδον, τίς γάρ τοι Ἀχαιῶν ἄλλος ὁμοῖος ἵππων ἀθανάτων ἐχέμεν δμῆσίν τε μένος τε, εἰ μὴ Пάτροκλος, θεόφιν μήστωρ ἀτάλαντος, ζωὸς ἐών; Alkimedon, for which other of the Achaians is similar to you at controlling the handling and strength of the immortal horses, except Patroklos, a counselor who was a match for the gods, while he was alive? (Il. 17.475–78)

Antinoos praises Penelope: τάων αἳ πάρος ἦσαν ἐϋπλοκαμῖδες Ἀχαιαί, υρώ τ’ Ἀλκμήνη τε ἐϋστέφανός τε Μυκήνη· τάων οὔ τις ὁμοῖα νοήματα Пηνελοπείῃ ᾔδη· of those who before were fair-tressed Achaian women, Tyro and Alkmene and fair-crowned Mykene: of these not one knew similar thoughts to Penelope;

(Od. 2.119–22)

The connection between statements with homoios and literal similarity claims becomes clearer if these examples are rewritten. The notional sentences “Patroklos is similar to Alkimedon at controlling horses” or “Alkmene is as smart as Penelope” would in each case be based on a comparison of high salience attributes.25 As it stands, however, no Achaian possesses the requisite knowledge of Achilleus’ horses as to be literally

24 25

Cf. Heiden 2007: 156. On Alkmene’s unrivalled noos, see the Hesiodic Aspis 5–6. For her part, Tyro, “dear to the blessed gods,” alone survives the destruction of her people because she criticized her father, Salmoneus, for attempting to imitate Zeus (Hesiod frag. 30 Merkelbach-West).

The Comparative Spectrum Again

25

similar to Alkimedon, nor did any heroine of old exhibit sufficient noos as to be literally similar to Penelope. With comparisons of the sort detailed here, the poet is working with different degrees of similarity between tenor and vehicle. In fact, my presentation has unfolded in decreasing order of degree of similarity. Comparisons concerned with identifying another character’s mental or physical condition attempt to eclipse any difference between tenor and vehicle. Comparisons concerned with positing another character’s name and/or identity also propose a near equating of tenor and vehicle but one less strong than that offered by the first class of comparisons because the possibility of a misidentification is at least implicitly acknowledged. Still less of a degree of similarity between compared elements is felt in the comparisons concerned with disguises. For even if these comparisons signal a difference between tenor and vehicle imperceptible to the poems’ other mortal characters, the audience knows that the comparisons are of unlike terms. Nonetheless, that ambiguity urges seeing a greater degree of similarity in these comparisons than in the comparisons akin to literal similarity claims. The comparisons of this fourth category offer the relatively largest gap between tenor and vehicle in the category of comparison because the two terms are explicitly marked as distinct entities.26

4. THE COMPARATIVE SPECTRUM AGAIN

We can now flesh out Table 1.1. On a spectrum of degree of similarity between tenor and vehicle, similes can be placed toward one end, and comparisons can be placed toward the other. Similes offer a lesser degree of similarity; comparisons offer a greater degree. Furthermore, within each category of simile and comparison, there are a range of possibilities. A simile can either exhibit or assert a greater degree of similarity between tenor and vehicle than another simile, and a comparison can exhibit a greater degree of proximity between tenor and vehicle than another comparison.

26

See Addison 1993: 413.

26

The Simile and the Homeric Comparative Spectrum

Table 1.2. The Homeric Comparative Spectrum of Degree of Similarity between Tenor and Vehicle (S = simile; C = comparison) Lesser Similarity Diomedes like a lion Il. 5.161–64 (S) Menelaos like a lion with a “sorrowful heart” Il. 17.657–66 (S) (animal given human emotions) Poseidon like a hawk Il. 13.62–65 (S) Achaians “shouting terribly went” as “a cloud [of birds] goes shouting terribly” Il. 17.755–59 (S) (tenor and vehicle perform same actions) Lament of Trojans “most similar” to sack of Troy Il. 22.410–11 (S) (qualifier in introduction)

Greater Similarity Hera like one terrified Il. 15.90 (C) (identifying another’s mental or physical condition) Approaching man like Diomedes Il. 5.181–83 (C) (positing another’s name and/or identity) Athena like Laodokos Il. 4.86–87 (C) (disguise) Alkimedon like Patroklos Il. 17.475–78 (C) (cf. literal similarity claims)

The realm of Homeric figure is marked above all by its diversity. Table 1.2 illustrates where one might place on the comparative spectrum some of the examples and categories discussed in this chapter. (Placement on a particular row has no significance.)

5. CONCLUSION

Homeric statements in the shape “A (is) like B” fall at various points on a spectrum of degree of similarity between tenor and vehicle. Discerning the comparative spectrum provides us with a better sense of what a Homeric simile actually is (a matter of distance between tenor and vehicle) and what it is capable of (actual or apparent variance in the degree of similarity between tenor and vehicle). The comparative spectrum will also come in handy in the next chapter’s section 3.

2 Similes and Likenesses in the Character-Text

SCHOLARS HAVE OBSERVED HOW CHARACTERS IN THE ODYSSEY

can rely on similes.1 Helene Foley notes that Odysseus’ figuring of Penelope as a prosperous ruler (Od. 19.108–14) “poses a question to Penelope” (1978: 11): is she working to preserve Odysseus’ kingship? Emily Anhalt examines the thematic richness of Penelope’s simile in which she describes herself as a nightingale (Od. 19.518–24) (2001–2). Following in the footsteps of these critics, I begin to explore in this chapter what the Iliad poet has his characters do with similes. Subsequent chapters examine the interactions between similes in successive speeches and between similes in pairs and series in which the last one is spoken by a character. As a starting point, I focus here on similes in the character-text that do not interact with the simile(s) of another character or of the narrator. This chapter has three sections. The first and briefest part charts how, through the production of meaningful metaphors and similes, a performer can distinguish himself in a competitive linguistic arena. Because Homer’s heroes operate as performers in just such an environment, we should look to the similes they speak. The second portion of the chapter traces how the Iliad ’s characters use similes in their arguments or make arguments with them.2 Their production of meaningful similes emerges as a mechanism of verbal competition. The third section of the chapter argues that the characters’ use of simile should not 1

2

Critics readily see the similes in the Odyssey’s narrator-text, too, contributing to the thematic operations of the poem: see Moulton 1977: 126–53, Foley 1978, Rood 2006, and Bergren 2008: 58–78. Cf. de Jong (2001: xii) on the “‘argument’ function” of an “embedded story.” 27

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be viewed in isolation. Characters in both epics also deploy likenesses, another distinguishing utterance like simile in the form “A (is) like B,” in the hopes of standing out in the linguistic field. 1. SIMILES, LINGUISTIC COMPETENCE, AND STATUS

Richard Martin (1989) shows that Homeric characters are performers of verbal art who seek routinely to demonstrate their distinctive linguistic competence; that they perform before audiences whose members are capable of judging and responding to them in kind (that is, they perform in a competitive linguistic arena); and, finally, that through these displays, the characters aim to affirm or enhance their status. A Homeric speaker’s use of simile gains point in light of this characterization. The work of two ethnographers, Joel Sherzer and Andrew Strathern, throws into relief the importance of figurative language to competitive performers for whom exhibitions of verbal artistry are essential to the acquisition and assertion of social rank. Sherzer studies the San Blas Kuna in Panama, whose chiefs present elaborate metaphors in public, and so necessarily competitive, assemblies.3 The metaphors are deemed sufficiently intricate as to require explanation by an interpreter, and the chief’s ability to deploy the metaphors appropriately makes a definitive contribution to his reputation and standing: In this sense his power is a power of words. His popularity and success reside in his ability to develop moral positions, argue for modes of behavior, and espouse particular points of view through creative, innovative, and often indirect language. … He performs in an esoteric language, phonologically, syntactically, semantically, and lexically distinct from colloquial Kuna. And he personally exploits and develops this language in the form of creative metaphors. … The more eloquent the ‘chief,’ the more developed and obscure his metaphors, the harder the task of the ‘spokesman.’ In exceptional cases, two ‘spokesmen’ are needed to explain the chant of a single ‘chief.’ (1983: 90)4 3

4

The performer operates in a competitive arena even if he is the only one speaking on a given occasion because he performs before an audience of evaluators who necessarily compare his presentation to those they have heard before. See also Howe 1977 and 1986: esp. 48–49, 83, 102, 169–70, and 175 (and 71–72 for clarification on when chiefs speak in such a fashion). Martin has introduced Sherzer’s work to the classicist: see 1989: 226, 1993b: 119, and 2006.

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Similarly, among Melpa speakers in the Western Highlands of Papua New Guinea, the use in public meetings of what Strathern (1975) terms “veiled speech” aids a big man in revealing his linguistic ability and strengthening his position. Metaphors and the occasional simile are essential ingredients in this manner of talking: “we can identify the use of figurative speech as a means of focusing attention on the speaker and the point he wishes to make, of embellishing his presentation and showing his skill in speech-making and thus enhancing his general status” (1975: 193). In each case, the performer generates content-rich metaphors and/or similes that go a long way toward distinguishing him as a speaker. In turn, that demonstration of a superior linguistic competence brings political capital.5 The symposium of the Classical era provides the most salient example of a similar phenomenon from the ancient world: a performer distinguishes himself before an audience by deploying the device of figurative language to say something interesting and thereby garners status. In the competitive space of the symposium, participants converted displays of linguistic ability into social and political capital. Symposiasts were judged on their performance in a variety of genres and in a range of verbal games.6 The successful performer not only provided entertainment but also reified his membership in the assembled elite: “For symposiastic participants in particular, they ‘win’ only in the sense that participation in the gaming reaffirms their aristocratic social affiliation.”7 We note with interest, then, the popularity in the symposium of detailing the resemblance between one’s fellow symposiasts and some unlikely, perhaps humorous, entity. Alkibiades, for example, likens (homoiotaton … eoikenai) Socrates first to statues of Silenos and

5

6 7

For another discussion of the general proposition that the ability to speak well brings status, see Edwards (1979: 37) on the benefits that accrue to the effective verbal dueler in “tantalisin” sessions in Guyana: “It seems clear that verbal fluency and wit are important to the working-class adolescent. A very good tantaliser has a very valuable reputation. His company is sought after by his peers and he enjoys social privileges because of his talent.” See also Brenneis 1978, Edwards and Sienkewicz 1991: 99, and Schwebel 1997: 340. See Bowie 1993: esp. 365–66 and 369. Collins 2004: 67.

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then to the satyr Marsyas (Plato Symposium 215a6–b4).8 That Xenophon has Philippos express great concern over being denied the opportunity to declare what another guest resembles demonstrates just how important this act of figuration was to an exhibition of one’s verbal competence and how important such an exhibition was to one’s status: “But if I keep silent I do not know how I will do things worthy of the dinner” (Symposium 6.10). Philippos sees speaking figuratively as a most effective way to show that he belongs to and in the group. It is not hard to determine why the use of figurative language serves to demonstrate linguistic excellence. One can find already in Aristotle’s Rhetoric the principle that the use of metaphor (and so simile [1406b20–26]) by the prose writer or public speaker allows him to introduce a much-needed “foreign” (xenos) element into his presentation (see, e.g., 1405a8–9).9 Figurative language, that is, is a relative rarity in everyday talk.10 In turn, Pierre Bourdieu (1991) shows that the deployment of the rare or, to use his preferred term, the deviant is an absolute necessity for a demonstration of a distinctive linguistic competence.11 Cf. Kritoboulos’ claim that the crab has the best eyesight (Xenophon Symposium 5.5): he implies that Socrates’ eyes are like those of a crab. 9 Freese (1926: 351) settles on this translation (“foreign”) for the concept of that which is xenos in relation to style, but, not quite satisfied with such a rendering, he specifies that the word refers to “that which is opposed to ‘home-like’ – out of the way, as if from ‘abroad’” (350 noted). On the value of “calculated deviation from the everyday” for Aristotle, see Cole 1991: 13–14. 10 Aristotle’s observation of the relative rarity of metaphor and simile in day-today conversation brings to mind Bauman’s discussion of figurative language as one “key to performance” (1977). Along with six other keys, such as parallelism and special formulae, figurative language can signal a shift to a performance register (1977: esp. 17–18; see also Foley 1995: 85). It is figurative language’s relative absence from other registers that both allows it to contribute to marking off an arena in which a performance of verbal art occurs and explains why it is one of the elements found in a performance in that arena. 11 On Bourdieu’s model, see Snook 1990: 169–72, Thompson 1991, Jenkins 1992: 152–62, and Moore 2008. Bourdieu’s study of efficacious speaking has been criticized for downplaying the substance of an utterance: see Thompson 1984: 64–66. Wilson (2002a: 19–20) offers a productive application of Bourdieu’s theory of symbolic capital to status-competition in Homeric society although she does not apply it directly to verbal competition. 8

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In brief, generating a content-rich use of the rare device of figurative language can help one in a competitive linguistic arena to exhibit one’s ability as a performer and to legitimate or increase thereby one’s standing and authority. This model helps us think about similes in Homeric poetry’s character-text. As noted at the start of this section, Homeric characters are competitively oriented performers. In the next section, I show that they use similes to make arguments; that is, they fashion content-rich similes. The only preliminary question that remains is, Do they do so when performing? Yes. In the first place, the question is tautological. As Richard Bauman has demonstrated (see note 10), figurative language is a key to performance. When Homeric characters generate similes, they signal their entrance into a performance arena. Still, for the majority of passages I discuss in this and subsequent chapters, there is additional evidence that the character speaking a simile is performing. Martin discerns three genres in which the heroes perform: commands, recollections of past events, and boasts and insults or rebukes (i.e., flyting).12 Subsequent research has expanded our knowledge of when Homeric characters function as performers: I have in mind especially André Lardinois’s (1997) exploration of characters’ use of gnomic statements and Alex Gottesman’s (2008) discussion of kertomia.13 For most of the passages I examine, I shall point to these elements in the character’s speech as designating it as a performance. Let us attend, then, to the thought-provoking similes that become one of the characters’ tools for showing off their verbal dexterity and contesting in the linguistic arena with a view to reifying or augmenting their status.

2. SEVEN SIMILES SPOKEN BY CHARACTERS

This section traces how the poet has his characters give similes an important place in their performances and, therefore, deploys similes in his 12

13

There is often a dictional cue that the character is about to perform or has just performed in one of these three genres (e.g., muthos, muthoi, epea, epea pteroenta, neikos, neikeô), but there need not be: the context and the content of the speech can alert us to its status as a performance (see Martin 1989: 68 and 101). Cf. Minchin 2007: 27–28. Cf. Martin 1989: 102–4 and 42n95, respectively.

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construction of the characters as verbal competitors. I consider in the order of their appearance in the Iliad three similes spoken by Achilleus as well as images offered by Nestor, Agamemnon, Aineias, and Hektor. In each case, even when dealing with a quite short image,14 we can look to the work it does for its speaker. 2.1. Similar to the Immortals Used with reference to a variety of characters, the simile “similar to the immortals” (epieikelos/n athanatoisi(n)) occurs three times in the Iliad and three times in the Odyssey, always filling the second half of the verse after the B1 caesura.15 In each instance, the first half of the verse is taken up by a proper noun and a further defining element. Five times the proper noun is modified by a patronymic; one time êitheon “young” is in apposition to the proper name Akamas (Il. 11.60). That the simile is a formulaic and generic epithet does not allow us to dismiss its significance.16 It performs an important function in all of its uses in both epics and especially in the character-text.17 In seeking to end the quarrel between Achilleus and Agamemnon that inaugurates the poem, Nestor presents as part of a recollection a brief catalogue of the warriors of a previous generation whom he advised.18 The traditional list concludes with Theseus, “son of Aegeus, 14 15 16

17

18

See Anhalt 1997: 15; cf. Scott 2009: 17. See Parry 1973: 219. On the thematic and argumentative functions of the related epithet theois epieikel’ (used six times solely of Achilleus by other characters and always in the second half of the line), see Richardson 1993: ad 23.80–1 and 24.486. See also Il. 9.485 and 494 (Phoinix speaking), 22.279 (Hektor speaking), and Od. 24.36 (Agamemnon speaking). For a good example of its purposive use in the narrator-text, see its application to Iphitos at Od. 21.14 and 21.37. Iphitos, the son of the famed archer Eurytos (see Od. 8.224–25), gave Odysseus a bow when the two met in Messene. This is the bow with which Odysseus will reclaim his role as paramount basileus (see Ready 2010). The simile is one of several elements that stress this important weapon’s illustrious pedigree (see de Jong 2001: 507). On Nestor’s recollection here, see Martin 1989: 80 and 106. Minchin (2007: 29–33) studies Nestor’s speech as a rebuke.

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similar to the immortals” (epieikelon athanatoisin) (Il. 1.265).19 With the epithet, Nestor intends not only to stress the quality of the men who heeded him and thereby urge the current disputants to listen to him.20 The phrase also notifies Achilleus in particular that Nestor has dealt with men comparable to the gods before. Nestor goes on to base his proposed settlement in part on his understanding of the interactions and intersections between gods and mortals. First, Zeus gives Agamemnon glory and a greater portion of honor (1.278–79). Second, Achilleus should not think his being stronger necessarily translates into power; he is only endowed with this physical might because his mother is a goddess, and that quality does not render him superior to Agamemnon who rules over more men (1.280–81). Agamemnon makes purposive use of the figure as well, but in a rebuke.21 He attempts to rouse Diomedes for the impending battle by claiming that Diomedes is far worse than his father, Tydeus. Tydeus was ambushed by Kadmeians led by Μαίων Αἱμονίδης, ἐπιείκελος ἀθανάτοισιν, υἱός τ’ Αὐτοφόνοιο, μενεπτόλεμος Пολυφόντης. υδεὺς μὲν καὶ τοῖσιν ἀεικέα πότμον ἐφῆκε· πάντας ἔπεφν’, ἕνα δ’ οἶον ἵει οἶκόνδε νέεσθαι· Μαίον’ ἄρα προέηκε, θεῶν τεράεσσι πιθήσας. Maion son of Haimon, similar to the immortals, and the son of Autophonos, strong in war Polyphontes. Tydeus even upon these men sent unseemly death; he killed all the men, but he let one alone return home: Maion then he let go, obeying the signs of the gods. 19

20

21

(Il. 4.394–98)

The entire list appears in the Hesiodic Aspis 178–82. Editors disagree as to the authenticity of Il. 1.265: the OCT keeps it; van Thiel (1996) brackets it; West (1998) only prints it in his critical apparatus. Theseus appears twice in the Odyssey: 11.322 and 631. See Nagy (1996a: 107–52 and 2004: 36–38) and Dué (2001) for a reappraisal of the concept of variants. Both Austin (1966: 301–2) and Scodel (2004: 7–8) discuss Nestor’s selfauthorizing based on his advising previous generations. On Agamemnon’s performance of rebukes in Iliad 4, see Martin 1989: 69–72.

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The epithet stresses the abilities of Tydeus’ opponent Maion as does the use of the word phonos in Polyphontes’ and his father’s (Autophonos) names: Polyphontes comes from “murderous” stock and is such a man himself.22 Agamemnon concludes by implying that Diomedes would not have the heart to take on such men as his father did: “But he sired a son worse than he in battle” (4.399–400). He hopes that Diomedes will prove him wrong.23 2.2. Like Some Dishonored Migrant As the emissaries’ visit draws to a close in Iliad 9, Aias’ appeal to philotês (see 9.630 and 642) seems to prompt Achilleus to back down from his earlier decision to leave Troy, but it cannot get Achilleus to give over his wrath entirely. Achilleus maintains that he still gets angry at Agamemnon whenever he remembers ὥς μ’ ἀσύφηλον ἐν Ἀργείοισιν ἔρεξεν Ἀτρεΐδης, ὡς εἴ τιν’ ἀτίμητον μετανάστην. how he did a foolish thing to me in front of the Argives, the son of Atreus, as if I were some dishonored migrant. (Il. 9.647–48)

Similarly, although Patroklos’ charge several books later that he wrongly nurses an insatiable anger (see esp. Il. 16.30) compels Achilleus to alter his plan a bit (see 16.60–63), Achilleus cannot forget his mistreatment at Agamemnon’s hands: κούρην ἣν ἄρα μοι γέρας ἔξελον υἷες Ἀχαιῶν, δουρὶ δ’ ἐμῷ κτεάτισσα, πόλιν εὐτείχεα πέρσας, τὴν ἂψ ἐκ χειρῶν ἕλετο κρείων Ἀγαμέμνων Ἀτρεΐδης ὡς εἴ τιν’ ἀτίμητον μετανάστην.

22

23

Kirk (1985: ad loc.) comments that the “φόνος element in their names is too conspicuous for them to be named accidentally.” Cf. Scodel 2002a: 134. The appearance of the simile in the Odyssey provides a final bit of evidence that, like the narrator, characters use the epithet purposively. Eumaios names his father: “my father ruled as king, Ktesios, son of Ormenos, similar to the immortals” (15.413–14). The epithet aids Eumaios in contrasting his family’s past glories with his present humble state as a swineherd.

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The girl whom the sons of the Achaians chose as a war prize for me and whom I acquired with my spear, after I sacked the well-walled city, powerful Agamemnon took her back again from my hands, the son of Atreus, as if I were some dishonored migrant. (Il. 16.56–59)

Achilleus constructs the simile with care: atimêtos and metanastês only occur in these two instances in the poem. Moreover, he places the image at the end of a three- and four-verse sentence, respectively, and, in both cases, it rounds off the introductory segment of a larger proposal: see the strong adversative alla immediately following at 9.649 and 16.60. As in the construction of many rebukes, the punchline is saved for last.24 Achilleus refers in these passages to Agamemnon’s seizure of Briseis in Iliad 1, not to Agamemnon’s offer of gifts in Iliad 9 if Achilleus returns to the fight.25 We can piece together from his comments elsewhere in the poem (esp. Il. 1.161–68 and 9.321–45) why Agamemnon’s action so enrages Achilleus: Achilleus risks his life fighting in the front ranks in exchange for prizes in the form of war booty that increase his prestige wealth and so status; Agamemnon, however, has taken Achilleus’ valued property and in essence kept Achilleus from getting spoils.26 Now, in the two passages we are studying, Achilleus makes plain that he 24

25

26

For example, in the African American verbal game of sounding, a good sound is one in which “the action which makes the insult is last” (Labov 1972: 315). On Achilles’ rebuke through recollection in these instances, see Martin 1989: 142. Contra Mackie 1996: 146 and 148 and Wilson 2002a: 93. I also question Hammer’s attempt to expand the referent of the simile to Agamemnon’s regularly taking a larger share of the spoils even though Achilleus does most of the fighting (2002: 95–96). Nonetheless, my discussion in other particulars clarifies and expands upon these interpreters’ comments on this simile, especially one of Hammer’s: “Deprived of his war prize, Achilles sees himself treated not as a warrior, in which his heroic deeds are reciprocated by the receipt of tangible, social rewards, but as something like an outsider” (2002: 95). In addition, I note that I follow Hammer (2002: 94) in translating metanastês as “migrant.” On Achilleus’ view that Agamemnon “disabled” this system of exchange, see Wilson 2002a: for example, 55 and 59. For Achilleus’ interest in amassing prestige wealth, see, for example, (in addition to Il. 1.163 and 167–68) 1.213 (Athena tells him that he will one day receive “three times as many splendid gifts” if he does not kill Agamemnon; Achilleus heeds her) and 24.594

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considers Agamemnon’s actions wrong but does not explicitly say why. Rather, he uses the simile to refer to the objection that he spells out elsewhere. The dishonored metanastês is a suitable symbol for Achilleus’ self-representation as one excluded from the acquisition of spoils. Metanastês need not be a pejorative word. Pausanias reports that Archander, one of the original settlers in Achaia, named his son Metanastes to commemorate his travels (7.1.6). More generally, Martin (1992) argues that the Hesiodic persona was that of an “‘exterior insider’ … a metanastês, one who has moved into a new community” (14), who was capable, by virtue of his being an outsider, of freely criticizing the community’s natives. Yet, Aristotle rightly perceived that Achilleus uses the term as an insult (Rhetoric 1378b32–35).27 If we search for the downsides of being a metanastês, we find that he can be thought of as one who is excluded and is poor. In his Politics, Aristotle returns to Achilleus’ simile in equating a metanastês with a metic, the contemporary technical term for resident alien: λέγεται μάλιστα πολίτης ὁ μετέχων τῶν τιμῶν, ὥσπερ καὶ Ὅμηρος ἐποίησεν “ὡς εἴ τιν’ ἀτίμητον μετανάστην”· ὥσπερ μέτοικος γάρ ἐστιν ὁ τῶν τιμῶν μὴ μετέχων. a citizen is said especially to be the one having a share of civic honors, just as even Homer composed “as if some dishonored migrant”; because just like a metic is whoever does not have a share of civic honors (1278a35–38)

For Aristotle, words such as atimos and atimia could refer specifically to a lack of civic rights and privileges.28 Achilleus’ adjective presumably led Aristotle to collapse any distinctions between metanastês and metoikos, a

27

28

(Achilleus claims that Priam gave him a “not unseemly ransom” in exchange for Hektor’s body). For the term “prestige wealth,” see Wilson 2002a: 18. Herodotus has an Athenian messenger employ the word in a negative sense when speaking to Gelon, the king of Syracuse: it would be shameful for the Athenians, “being alone of the Greeks not migrants (metanastai),” to yield leadership of the fleet to the Syracusans (7.161.3). Herodotus tells of how among the Lykians the children of a native male and a foreign woman have no civic standing (atima) (1.173.5). For atimia, see, for example, Demosthenes 9.44.

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person by definition excluded from citizenship. Later sources make the same connection. Eustathius writes of Achilleus’ simile, “He says dishonored metanastês to mean a dishonored (atimon) metic because metics for the most part did not have civic privileges (ouk entimôn), as spurious (nothôn) citizens” (781.18).29 It is likely that Achilleus, although not saying that he was treated like a second-class member of a Classical-era polis, turns to the figure of the metanastês in so far as he is an emblem of exclusion.30 A metanastês can also be in a precarious economic position. Hesiod describes his father’s decision to leave Kume: lacking “a noble livelihood” and beset by “evil poverty,” he sailed to Askra (Works and Days 634–40). A scholion comments, “Hesiod said that his father was a metanastês who came from Kume – from which Ephoros was, too – being in need of a livelihood” (Pertusi 1955: ad loc.). In cataloguing the tribes of Germany, Strabo asserts: It is a common characteristic that migrations (metanastaseis) are easy for all the peoples in this part of the world, because of the meagerness of their livelihood and because they do not till the soil or even store up food, but live in small huts that are merely temporary structures. (7.1.3)31

Speaking of the peoples of Carthage, Strabo writes: In this way it came to pass that they kept leading a wandering and migratory life (planêta kai metanastên bion), no less so than peoples who are driven by poverty and by wretched soil or climate to resort to this kind of life; … Such people of necessity must lead a frugal life, being more often root-eaters than meat-eaters, and using milk and cheese for food. (17.3.15)32

29

30

31 32

A bT scholion, in reference to the simile’s appearance at Il. 16.59, comments, “Metics (metoikoi) seemed to be rather dishonored (atimoteroi) because they left their own lands due to the wickedness of their ways” (Erbse 1975, 4: ad 16.59b). Arieti (1986: 24) suggests that Achilleus figures himself as excluded from the Greek army, which he thinks of as a polis. Mackie (1996: 145) sees Achilleus representing himself (and being represented as) “one who does not rightfully belong to the group.” Cf. “more central is the lack of standing of the metanastês within the community” (Hammer 2002: 95). See also Gill 1996: 199. Trans. Jones 1924: 157 (adapted). Trans. Jones 1949: 189.

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In these three passages, two of the defining features of a metanastês are an absence of wealth and a degree of desperation on account of one’s poverty. This notion persists in later papyrus fragments. In P.Oxy. (Oxyrhynchus Papyri) 487, dated to 156 ce, a certain Nikias asks to be excused from the guardianship of the two adult children from a destitute family. He has several fines to pay and will not be able to do so if he has to care for them. Nikias concludes by asking that the magistrate to whom he writes not “make me leave as a migrant from my own property and land” (μὴ μεταναστής⟨ῃς⟩ με τῶν ἰδιῶν τῆς ἰδίας) (line 18). In P.Oxy. 3393, dated June 8, 365 ce, the authors, Dorotheus and Papnuthis, lament that they cannot get back the money they claim is owed to them by a certain Eulogius. The two are poor to begin with and describe themselves as “having nothing on account of our great poverty” (ἀπὸ τῆς πολλῆς πενίας μηδὲν κεκτημένοι) (line 13). If they are unable to pay their creditors, they will be forced to become “metanastai from our own land” (line 26).33 These statements are perhaps hyperbolic, but we nonetheless get the point: the migrant is poor. Although the term metanastês does not appear in them, other discussions link migration and poverty. In Euripides’ Medea, for instance, Jason claims that his marrying Kreon’s daughter stems from his desire as an exile (phugas) (554) to connect with the royal family “in order that we might not be in want (spanizoimestha), recognizing that nearly everyone flees from a poor man (penêta), even one who is a friend” (560–61) (cf. 461–63). These texts suggest that poverty could be another characteristic of the migrant in Achilleus’ simile.34 When Achilleus labels the metanastês as atimêtos, he provides a gloss as to the result of being excluded and poor: one is of low status. In general, to be atimêtos in the Homeric world will mean to lack standing. In particular, of the various components of timê, prestige wealth is a

33

34

See Chambers et al. (1981: 85–87) for discussion of this text. The phrase in line 26 is formulaic: see P.Tebt. (Tebtunis Papyri) 439, P.Oxy. 899 line 14, and BGU (Berliner griechische Urkunden) 2460 lines 9–10. Cf. Mackie 1996: 146. A bit differently, Hammer: “Lattimore translates the term as ‘vagabond,’ though that language has some contemporary connotations of impoverishment that may not fit Achilles’ circumstance” (2002: 94); but he then says that “[Achilleus] is treated like one who must labor without protection or, in Achilles’ more exaggerated state, one who must beg” (96).

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prominent one, and to be atimêtos will in part mean to lack that wealth and the status it brings.35 These pieces can be put together. When responding to Aias and Patroklos, Achilleus refers to a figure of exclusion and poverty – the metanastês – who as a result of these attributes lacks standing – atimêtos – to specify the insult in Agamemnon’s taking Briseis. In so doing, Achilleus declares by way of the simile, Agamemnon for all intents and purposes excluded Achilleus from receiving the spoils that augment one’s hoard of material goods and thereby bolster one’s standing in the community. 2.3. Like a Black Whirlwind Nestor recalls for Patroklos his exploits against the Epeians: fighting “like a black whirlwind” (κελαινῇ λαίλαπι ἶσος) (Il. 11.747), he killed one hundred men.36 When the Pylians returned to Pylos, they attributed their victory (eukhetoônto) to Nestor right along with Zeus (11.761). Conversely, Achilleus will never share with others the benefits his own strength could bring (11.762–63). He ought to be fighting now, as Peleus urged (11.784), or failing that, Patroklos should request to enter the battle in Achilleus’ armor (11.794–803). Nestor contrasts his warlike actions of old with Achilleus’ present withdrawal and Patroklos’ tacit approval of his friend’s actions.37 He offers himself as an alternative model: “Beneath Nestor’s vaunts on his own exploits he is giving an oblique diatribe on honor, how to achieve it and how to enjoy it.”38 The simile aids Nestor in fashioning himself as an example for the two warriors: it offers a pithy summation and sterling proof of just how well he fought. 35 36

37

38

On timê, see Wilson 2002a: 18–19 and Scodel 2008b (passim). For Nestor’s performance through recollection here, see Martin 1989: 106–7 and cf. 61 and 81. Cf. Taplin 1992: 175. Alden (2000: 98–99) and Martin (2000: 54–55) show that Nestor’s speech is aimed at Patroklos as much as it is at Achilleus. Rabel (1997: 104, 146–48, 155, and 162) argues that although Nestor intends to communicate a message to Achilleus, Patroklos is so taken by Nestor’s speech that he tries himself to emulate Nestor. Austin 1966: 303.

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This combination of adjective and noun does not occur elsewhere in the epics,39 but the phrases ἐρεμνῇ λαίλαπι ἶσος or ἶσοι do (Il. 20.51 and 12.375, respectively). In its manifestation in the singular, this phrase is metrically equivalent to Nestor’s. Beyond avoiding hiatus, what does the poet achieve at 11.746 by substituting kelainos for eremnos? In its three other occurrences in both epics, eremnos seems to mean nothing much more than “dark.” It is used as an epithet for Zeus’ aegis (Il. 4.167), the night (Od. 11.606), and the earth (Od. 24.106). Kelainos possesses a more concise inherent meaning. The most common use of the simple adjective kelainos is to describe blood spilt in combat: Nestor reports that “sharp Ares scattered around the well-flowing Skamandros the black blood” of the many Achaians who have fallen by its banks (Il. 7.328–30); Eurypylos urges Patroklos to “cut the arrow from my thigh, and wash the black blood from it” (Il. 11.829–30).40 This adjective also appears as part of the following formulaic set, consisting of an adjective that modifies “night” in the phrase “night enveloped [him/her]”:41 κελαίνη νὺξ ἐκάλυψε(ν) (used in the second half of the verse after the B2 caesura: see below) ἐρεβεννὴ νὺξ ἐκάλυψε(ν) (used in the second half of the verse after the B1 caesura: Il. 5.659, 13.580, and 22.466) νὺξ ἐκάλυψε μέλαινα (used at the start of a verse: Il. 14.439)

The first phrase describes Aineias’ brush with death after he is struck with a rock by Diomedes (Il. 5.310) and is also used of Hektor, who has momentarily withdrawn from the battle after being hit by Diomedes’ spear (Il. 11.356). In this context, one also notes that the participle akrokelainioôn “cresting with a black wave” in its one appearance in the poem describes 39

40

41

The following phrase does appear in a simile: “the whole black earth is oppressed under a whirlwind” (ὑπὸ λαίλαπι πᾶσα κελαινὴ βέβριθε χθὼν) (Il. 16.384). See also Il. 1.303 and 11.845 and Od. 16.441 and 19.457. Blood can be described with the epithet “black-clouded” (kelainephes): see Il. 4.140, 5.798, 14.437, 16.667, and 21.167. Whitman (1958: 123) mentions the prevalence of this formulaic set to describe death; cf. Morrison 1999: 136. See also Loraux (1995: 86) on darkness and death.

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the Skamandros as it rushes at Achilleus intent upon killing him (Il. 21.249). The adjective kelainos, then, is to be associated with blood that flows as a result of a wound and with near-death experiences. This is the darkness of agony and dread, not a mere description of color.42 The adjective itself contributes to Nestor’s self-representation. His success in battle was marked by the slaughter he wreaked. For its part, a lailaps is a powerful force of nature, not a brief downpour, but something to take cover from. The narrator compares the dust kicked up by the advance of the Aiantes and their men to a cloud that brings a whirlwind (lailapa) along with it and prompts a shepherd to retreat to a cave (Il. 4.277–79). A wind accompanied by a great whirlwind (lailapi) uproots a tree in an orchard: thus does Euphorbos die (Il. 17.53–60). On his return home, Odysseus repeatedly finds himself beset by these storms. Only when the wind stops “blowing with a whirlwind (lailapi)” (Od. 12.400) is he able to set sail from Helios’ island. But no sooner has he pushed off than “the West Wind shrieking and blowing with a great whirlwind (lailapi)” (12.407) destroys his ship.43 Such a fearsome entity will surely be used as the vehicle in Homeric similes, and indeed the narrator directly compares fighters to a whirlwind two other times: the Lykians are so marked as they rush the Achaian wall (ἐρεμνῇ λαίλαπι ἶσοι) (Il. 12.375); Ares is so described (ἐρεμνῇ λαίλαπι ἶσος) as he opposes Athena on the battlefield and “sharply gave orders to the Trojans from the top of the citadel” to attack the Achaians (Il. 20.51–52). In general, the simile is used of warriors on the offensive. More specifically, Muellner connects the whirlwind image with a common set of formulae expressing the idea “equal to a god,” the most prevalent form of which is daimoni isos. Such phrases point to a ritual antagonism between a warrior and Ares and describe a fighter who is reaching his mortal limits (1996: 12 and 12n19).44 In its totality, then, Nestor’s simile depicts the Pylian as a destructive force on the battlefield. Nestor urges Achilleus and Patroklos to do what he did. The simile deftly 42 43 44

For a related discussion of melas “black” in the epics, see Heiden 2008a: 150. See also Od. 9.68, 12.313, and 12.425. See also Nagy (1999: 143–44 and 293–94) on daimoni isos. The locus classicus on ritual antagonism between god and hero remains Nagy 1999: 142–50.

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sums up what he did and, therefore, helps him provide himself as a model. 2.4. Like Smoke At the start of Iliad 18, Achilleus laments the death of Patroklos and prepares to return to battle after his long absence in order to seek revenge against Hektor.45 In conversation with Thetis, he curses strife (eris) and anger (kholos), which he blames for setting Agamemnon and himself at odds and ultimately leading to the disastrous subsequent events. He says of kholos that πολὺ γλυκίων μέλιτος καταλειβομένοιο ἀνδρῶν ἐν στήθεσσιν ἀέξεται ἠΰτε καπνός· ὡς ἐμὲ νῦν ἐχόλωσεν ἄναξ ἀνδρῶν Ἀγαμέμνων. far sweeter than dripping honey it grows in the breast of men like smoke: as now the lord of men Agamemnon angered me.

(18.109–11)

With the aid of historical linguistics, Thomas Walsh has gone a long way toward systematically explicating the nexus of kholos, honey, and smoke presented in these lines (2005: 219–25). I defer to his explanation of the connection between honey and anger and focus here on the second of the quoted verses. The simile reveals Achilleus’ understanding of the workings of anger and at the same time allows him to register the degree of anger that he feels toward Agamemnon. In keeping with several of its other occurrences, Achilleus connects kholos with the body.46 Thersites tells Agamemnon that Achilleus must have no anger in his mind (phresin) (Il. 2.241); Hera is unable to check the anger in her breast (stêthos) (Il. 4.23); Hektor chastises Paris for “putting this anger in his heart (thumos)” (Il. 6.326); the narrator tells us that Achilleus fears lest Priam not check the anger in his heart (kradiê ) (Il. 24.584). This conception of the physiology of anger is quite literal. 45

46

For lament “as a specific form of memory discourse,” that is, of performance through recollection, see Martin 1989: 144. For kholos’s association with the body, see Clarke 1999: 92–97 and Walsh 2005: 22–23, 196, 207–12, 230n54, and 242–43.

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Ruth Padel shows that kholos is to be associated with bile (1992: 23–24).47 Achilleus’ linking of kholos with the body, in this case with the breast (stêthessin), is typical. At the same time, Achilleus does not make reference to one of the usual stages in the career of kholos. As Walsh observes (see 2005: e.g., 137), a character quickly manifests kholos, or nurtures it for some time, or quickly is rid of it. Anger will swiftly fall upon someone: Achilleus reports to Thetis that “anger took Agamemnon” (Il. 1.387). Anger can be nursed for a period of time: Meleagros “nourished his heart-rending anger” (Il. 9.565). The cessation of anger is referred to frequently: Odysseus tells Achilleus of the gifts that Agamemnon will give him, if Achilleus ceases from his anger (metallêxanti kholoio) (Il. 9.261).48 Finally, a character can experience a sudden increase in kholos in response to a preceding speech. Walsh discusses the relevant formula found five times in the narrator-text: (ἐ)χολώσατο κηρόθι μᾶλλον (s/he grew all the more angry in her/his heart) (2005: 150–58). One other time, Achilleus experiences this phenomenon of a rapid increase in kholos: as he sees the armor made by Hephaistos “kholos entered him all the more” (μιν μᾶλλον ἔδυ χόλος) (Il. 19.16). Although at Il. 18.110 Achilleus obviously does not talk of the cessation of kholos, neither does his statement properly belong in any of these other categories. Elsewhere Achilleus and Phoinix offer a different perspective on the progress of kholos.49 Phoinix speaks of the epizaphelos kholos “swelling anger” that used to take heroes of old (Il. 9.525) and then of the anger that took Meleagros, kholos that “swells the mind in the breast” (οἰδάνει ἐν στήθεσσι νόον) (9.554). Achilleus echoes this notion in his response to Aias: “my heart is swollen with anger (οἰδάνεται κραδίη χόλῳ) when I remember those things” (Il. 9.646–47).50 With their metaphor of 47 48

49

50

Cf. Clarke 1999: 93 and Walsh 2005: 219–23. For the theme of the beginning of kholos, see Walsh 2005: 127–39 with Appendix Two, pp. 251–52; for the theme of the “continuation” of kholos, see his 133 and 134 with Appendix Two, p. 250; for the theme of stopping or ceasing from kholos, see his 112–26 with Appendix Two, esp. pp. 249–50. Cf. Heath (2005: 144) for an example of how Achilleus and Phoinix are the only ones to construct speeches with “the combination of parable, mythological paradigm, and personal narrative.” See also Walsh (2005: 193) on the intersections between Phoinix’s history with kholos and Achilleus’. Arieti (1986: 21) observes that oidanô only appears in these two instances, as does Clarke (1999: 94) (cf. Gill 1996: 197). Walsh (2005: 196) also connects

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“swelling,” these passages do not focus on the way in which kholos continues at the same rate or suddenly arises or suddenly increases. They describe rather how anger gains momentum and are, therefore, somewhat closer to Achilleus’ comment on kholos in book 18. In his simile, Achilleus uses the form aexetai “grows/increases” of kholos. In the extant passage most akin to Achilleus’ formulation, Hesiod relates how Zeus strengthens the One Hundred Handers by feeding them nectar and ambrosia: “and the bold spirit in the breast of all of them was growing” (πάντων τ’ ἐν στήθεσσιν ἀέξετο θυμὸς ἀγήνωρ) (Theogony 641). In the Iliad, Menelaos defends the corpse of Patroklos “increasing the great sadness in his breast” (μέγα πένθος ἐνὶ στήθεσσιν ἀέξων) (17.139) (cf. Od. 17.489). In both cases, the growth is relatively quick. Other passages that do not conform so precisely to Achilleus’ statement but do use the verb aexô in the middle voice also refer to a relatively rapid growth.51 Still, the image of dripping (kataleibomenoio) honey in Il. 18.109 points us toward the rather different notion of a slower accumulation. After all, the designation “sweeter than honey” is applied elsewhere only to Nestor’s lengthy speeches (Il. 1.249)! Other passages allow for this meaning of aexô. In a passage similar to Achilleus’ statement in verse 110 (in so far as it situates an emotion in a part of the body), Odysseus’ mother, Antikleia, reports on Laertes: “there he lies vexed and he increases the great sadness in his mind” (ἔνθ’ ὅ γε κεῖτ’ ἀχέων, μέγα δὲ φρεσὶ πένθος ἀέξει) (Od. 11.195). An ever-growing sadness that amasses over time marks Laertes’ wretched state (cf. Od. 24.230–33). Similarly, numerous other occurrences of the verb aexô in the middle voice denote a gradual and steady, even predictable, growth: Telemachos claims that his courage (thumos) is growing now that he is older (Od. 2.315);52 Eurykleia says that Telemachos has only recently started growing up

51

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the two passages, commenting, “Achilles took Phoenix’s exemplum to heart” (204n36), and asserting that they show that kholos can “increase” (210). Odysseus describes the Laistrygonians’ placid harbor: “for never does a wave swell in it” (Od. 10.93). When Aphrodite lands on Cyprus, grass shoots up under her feet (Hesiod Theogony 195). Hesiod frag. 317 (Merkelbach-West) (“for of this one the thumos was increasing in his own breast”) (τοῦ{δε} γὰρ ἀέξετο θυμὸς ἐνὶ στήθεσσι φίλοισι) may parallel this passage or Theogony 641.

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(Od. 22.426);53 Eumaios’ farm holdings grow (Od. 14.66); the verb can refer to the passing of the day (Il. 8.66, 11.84, and Od. 9.56). Hesiod suggests that it is best to have one son: “thus does wealth grow in the house” (Works and Days 377); crops grow in season (394); the month passes (772–73); Prometheus’ liver grows each night (Theogony 524). In short, whereas other passages point to the continuation of kholos, its sudden emergence, or its sudden increase, Achilleus describes its gradual growth. We can build on an A scholion: “the poet has used smoke in reference to the idea of increase (pros tên auxêsin)” (Erbse 1971, 2: ad 18.110a).54 Presumably, Achilleus’ likening of anger to smoke is intended to bring out what he considers to be the real nature of kholos. Can Homeric smoke gradually increase? Walsh argues that Achilleus contrasts the downward movement of honey with the upward movement of smoke (2005: 223), and, indeed, much Homeric smoke rises (e.g., iôn and hikêtai at Il. 18.207) and leaps (e.g., apothrôiskonta at Od. 1.58 and aissonta at 10.99) into the sky. It is easy to imagine vertically directed smoke gradually increasing in size as it rises.55 Although in its only other appearance as a vehicle in a simile smoke describes the immateriality of Patroklos’ psukhê (Il. 23.100),56 it is a suitable vehicle to describe anger in its capacity to grow gradually. Achilleus’ simile vehicle helps him describe his understanding of the emotion that brought him to this point. There is another reason why Achilleus chooses the vehicle of smoke and why he does so at this moment.57 In Iliad 9, the poet uses kholos of 53

54

55 56

57

See Fernández-Galiano (1992: ad loc.), who points to the verb’s use in the same fashion in the Homeric Hymns. Porphyry contends that the poet understood anger (orgê, which he uses as a synonym for kholos) “not only as a swelling up (eparsin) and a desire but also as a seething. He therefore likens the swelling (eparsin) to smoke.…” (Quaestionum Homericarum Liber 1 p. 71.18–20 [Sodano 1970]; trans. Schlunk 1993: 55). See Euripides Hekabe 1215. Cf. Empedocles frag. 8/2 line 5 (Inwood): “they soar and fly off like smoke (kapnoio), swift to their dooms” (Inwood 2001: 212–13). Edwards (1991: ad loc.) suggests, “Here the idea seems to be that of a swelling, blinding smoke (as Ate blinds her victims)” (emphasis in original). Apart from a possible exception in Hektor’s plan at Il. 8.182–83, I see little emphasis in Homeric poetry on the blinding properties of smoke.

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Achilleus’ anger nine times; it is Achilleus’ word.58 Moreover, kholos is a generic flag for the type of story in which the hero finds himself: “This word, khólos, is the technical term in the oral poet’s vocabulary for the story of the withdrawn hero, who refuses to fight, seeks refuge with a companion, and returns only too late.”59 When Achilleus curses kholos, he attacks the emotion, anger, that defines him and his particular epic narrative: “he wishes death for the wrath of Achilles.”60 This self-examination continues in the likening of kholos to smoke. It should be noted that Achilleus shifts from talking about kholos in general. Above all, the hôs of verse 111 (in the manner of a typical resumptive clause) turns the simile into a description of the anger that Agamemnon provoked in Achilleus by taking Briseis and makes clear that it was that incident which Achilleus has in mind all along. Having observed that slippage, I note Walsh’s demonstration of the degrees of kholos (2005: 151, 174, and 188) and suggest that through his simile Achilleus acknowledges the degree of his kholos toward Agamemnon. When he sees the armor made by Hephaistos, “anger (kholos) came upon him, and his eyes shown terribly under his lids as if a flash of fire (selas)” (Il. 19.16–17).61 This kholos could be the same anger as that described by Zeus: “for the sake of whom [Patroklos] in anger (kholôsamenos) brilliant Achilleus will kill Hektor” (Il. 15.68).62 According to this reading, in the simile at 19.16–17, Achilleus’ kholos at Hektor is linked with fire. David Konstan, however, thinks that the kholos referred 58 59 60

61

62

See Walsh 2005: 188. Walsh 2005: 192 and see 195–201. Walsh 2005: 219. Gill (1996: 202) rightly qualifies this line of thinking: Achilleus does not renounce his anger “in the sense of saying that it was unreasonable of him to become angry and to maintain his anger in the way that he did.” Rather, Achilleus mourns having been subject and still to a certain degree being subject (see Il. 18.112) to the emotion. For fire imagery used to articulate Achilleus’ wrath in battle, see Whitman 1958: Chapter 7, especially 132–39, and Nagy 1999: 321–22 and 338–39. For other passages that connect fire and kholos, see Walsh 2005: 213–17 (esp. 214: “Given such stark examples of the importance of fire to the thematics of aggression in the Iliad, khólos, as the most frequent word for heroic wrath, often comes into play with notions of fire”) and 228n36 for a list of the five similes that connect fire with anger in the Homeric poems. See Walsh 2005: 164–65 and 183n8.

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to in 19.16 is not directed specifically at Hektor but is “something like raw battle fury” (2006: 52). In either case, the kholos associated with fire is of the highest degree. Where there is fire, there is smoke. Hektor asserts that after he throws fire (puri) on the ships he will kill the Achaians “stunned by the smoke (kapnos)” (Il. 8.182–83), a tactic that Odysseus reports to Achilleus (Il. 9.243).63 Given the tight connection between fire and smoke, the kholos compared to smoke should be the same in its degree to the kholos that the narrator associates with fire. Achilleus’ likening of kholos to smoke suggests that his kholos toward Agamemnon is substantial. A second passage strengthens the proposition that Achilleus here discloses how angry he was at Agamemnon. A simile describes Achilleus’ slaughter of the Trojans: ὡς δ’ ὅτε καπνὸς ἰὼν εἰς οὐρανὸν εὐρὺν ἵκηται ἄστεος αἰθομένοιο, θεῶν δέ ἑ μῆνις ἀνῆκε, πᾶσι δ’ ἔθηκε πόνον, πολλοῖσι δὲ κήδε’ ἐφῆκεν, ὣς Ἀχιλεὺς ρώεσσι πόνον καὶ κήδε’ ἔθηκεν. And as when smoke rises and climbs into the wide sky from a burning city, and the wrath of the gods makes it rise, and it puts toil upon all and sends pains upon many, so Achilleus put toil and pains upon the Trojans. (Il. 21.522–25)

There is some debate as to the subject of verse 524. Muellner takes it to be mênis (1996: 48). Simonetta Nannini thinks it is kapnos (2003: 98–99).64 Ignoring this ambiguity for a moment and concentrating on the second half of verse 523, “and the wrath (mênis) of the gods makes it rise,” we observe that the smoke manifests the gods’ wrath. Given that smoke can reveal the necessarily great rage of the gods, Achilleus’ comparison of a related type of anger to smoke can be taken to signal that that anger is of a high degree.65 If we follow Nannini’s idea that kapnos is the subject of verse 524, the smoke becomes itself an agent of destruction that is thought a suitable parallel to the destructive Achilleus. In accordance 63 64 65

See also Od. 16.288–90 and Il. 18.204–14 (with Fränkel 1921: 52). Cf. Richardson 1993: ad loc. For the pairing of kholos and mênis, see, for example, Il. 15.122, Homeric Hymn to Demeter 350, and the bibliography noted in Walsh 2005: 126n29.

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with this reading, Achilleus’ comparison of his kholos toward Agamemnon to smoke suggests the magnitude of his anger because smoke can be thought of as a force so devastating as to render aptly a “berserker,” such as Achilleus.66 Thus does Achilleus define and acknowledge the strength of his rage at Agamemnon. Nonetheless, although he remains angry,67 he will now return to the fight, so great is his desire to kill Hektor. 2.5. Like Women Achilleus begins the flyting contest with Aineias in Iliad 20. Does Aineias not remember how Achilleus easily bested him in a previous encounter on Mount Ida? Aineias should not expect that this fight will turn out any differently but should take this opportunity to retreat into the mass of Trojans (Il. 20.178–98). For his part, Aineias savors his turn in this battle of words.68 As is often the case with verbal duelers, he seeks, on the one hand, to display his own verbal dexterity and, on the other hand, to forestall a response from his opponent. He strives to achieve both goals at the same time by using simile to denigrate not just speaking but speaking abusively. Aineias declares that when Achilleus challenges him verbally, he mistakenly treats Aineias like a child: Achilleus should not “hope to frighten me with words as if I were a child (νηπύτιον ὣς)” (Il. 20.200–1).69 Words may suffice as a weapon against a child, but not a man. He continues in this vein: “I do not think that making a judgment in this fashion, with childish words at any rate (ἐπέεσσί γε νηπυτίοισιν), we will depart from the fray” (20.211–12). Toward the end of his speech Aineias makes a different point with the same language: “But come, no longer let us talk over these things as children (νηπύτιοι ὥς)” (20.244). If he and Achilleus continue to talk, Aineias argues, they will not be showing 66

67 68

69

For the term “berserker,” see Shay 1994: for example, 77. Van Wees (2004: 164–65) urges caution when applying the term to the Homeric warrior. See esp., again, akhnumenoi per at Il. 18.112. On this speech, see Nagy 1999: 270–74, Martin 1989: 86, Parks 1990: 120–25, Mackie 1996: 71–74, Cramer 2000, and Hesk 2006. Other examples of this simile appear at Il. 7.235–36, 13.292, and 20.431. On Aineias’ references to children, see Edmunds 1990: 77–80, Mackie 1996: 64–65, Heath 2005: 128, and Hesk 2006: 16–17.

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themselves true warriors who, after all, are supposed to act when on the battlefield.70 And if they fail to act as warriors, one can rightly describe them as children, who, as Nestor says, “have no concern for warlike deeds” (Il. 2.338).71 Aineias concludes with a lengthier simile that in part makes the same argument: ἀλλὰ τίη ἔριδας καὶ νείκεα νῶϊν ἀνάγκη νεικεῖν ἀλλήλοισιν ἐναντίον, ὥς τε γυναῖκας, αἵ τε χολωσάμεναι ἔριδος πέρι θυμοβόροιο νεικεῦσ’ ἀλλήλῃσι μέσην ἐς ἄγυιαν ἰοῦσαι, πόλλ’ ἐτεά τε καὶ οὐκί· χόλος δέ τε καὶ τὰ κελεύει. But why are we compelled to quarrel strifes and quarrels against one another, like women, who angered in heart-devouring strife quarrel with one another coming out into the middle of the road, saying many true and many false things; and anger urges even these [false things]. (Il. 20.251–55)72

In this case, Aineias contends that if spending their time talking they fail to act as warriors, that is, as men, one can rightly describe them as women. Yet, Aineias uses this final image to reject not just talking but issuing blame, that is, engaging in neikos. In the verses with which Aineias fleshes out the simile’s vehicle portion, he offers three reasons why Achilleus and he should keep away from verbal neikos.73 70

71 72

73

See, for example, Patroklos’ rebuke of Meriones at Il. 16.626–31, but note Martin’s discussion of the rhetorical flourishes in Patroklos’ speech (1989: 77). On Nestor’s phrase, see Chapter 4 (subsection 2.2). As Edwards notes (1991: ad 20.251–5), Aristarchus wanted to remove this simile because “the things said are unworthy of the characters: in fact, it is among barbarians that the women come outside and abuse one another, as among the Egyptians” (see Erbse 1977, 5: ad 20.251–5a1). Edwards (1991: ad 20.244–58) is properly skeptical of modern-day attempts to revise the last portion of Aineias’ speech. Cf. “Aineias’ speech makes a distinction between two forms of speech: epic poetry and insult. Warriors are the subject of the first kind of speech, but by indulging in the second kind they disconnect themselves from the first. Quarreling is an inappropriate use of speech” (Edmunds 1990: 81).

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We can look again at the fact that the speakers in Aineias’ simile are female. As Martin demonstrates (1989: 68–76), neikos is one of the discrete genres of performance in which Homeric heroes strive to be proficient. Elizabeth Minchin points out that in the Iliad speakers of rebuke are for the most part male (2007: 150–63). Yet, there are several rebukes issued by females in the Odyssey,74 and Aineias positions this type of speech act as one in which women engage in a markedly female space. In its other appearances in the Iliad, the word aguia is associated with the city as a female space.75 Tlepolemos asserts that Herakles “destroyed the city of Ilium and widowed (khêrôse) the streets (aguias)” (Il. 5.642). In this metaphor, the streets are not only depicted as female but also made to stand for the women of Troy. Unable to find Andromache and told by a maid that she is at the wall, Hektor leaves his house and goes through the streets (aguias) of the city on his way out to the plain (Il. 6.390–93). The home and the interior of the city are here marked off as places in which women are found in contrast to the battlefield, which is “inhabited solely by men.”76 By linking neikos with women in a distinctly nonmartial and nonmale context, Aineias aims to deny that it is a genre of discourse suitable for warriors.77 Indeed, it is not just women who engage in neikos in Aineias’ simile but women acting improperly: they are most likely unaccompanied when they go outside into the middle of the street. I save for later a rehearsal of Michael Nagler’s discussion of the attendance motif: proper women do not go out alone in public.78 Aineias also denigrates neikos by associating it with women who exhibit kholos. Female kholos is by no means inherently problematic (see, e.g., Il. 6.205 and Od. 22.224).79 Perceived affronts to customs or 74

75

76 77

78

79

Eleven of the twenty-five rebukes in the Odyssey are spoken by females; of the eleven, seven are spoken by mortals (see Minchin 2007: 167n59). See Arthur (1981) for the observation that “Troy in Book VI is a world inhabited by women alone” (27) and Scully (1990: 33–34 and 64–68), wherein he argues for the city as “female in form” (64). Cf. Redfield 1994: 121–22. Redfield 1994: 119. Cf. “Aeneas makes the additional suggestion that flyting is an unmanly activity” (Hesk 2006: 22; emphasis in original). See the discussion of Iliad 3’s teikhoskopia in Chapter 4 (section 1). Kassandra would seem to be the rule-proving exception: having climbed Pergamos, she is the first to see Priam returning to Troy with Hektor’s corpse (Il. 24.700). Cf. Konstan (2006: 56–65) on representations of female anger in Greek tragedy.

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fundamental principles may prompt it. Telemachos says that Penelope is right to be angry (kekholôsthai) at the mistreatment of the beggar (Od. 18.227). When he claims that he is a better singer than even the Muses, the mortal Thamyris disparages the notion that gods are superior to men and angers the goddesses (kholôsamenai) (Il. 2.594–600). Nonetheless, female kholos can be portrayed as a destructive force. Impelled by kholos, Demeter moves not only to decimate mankind by causing a famine but also to diminish the place and significance of the gods, who will no longer receive sacrifices: “she plans a terrible deed, to destroy the feeble race of earthborn men by hiding the seeds under the earth and to lessen the honors (timas) of the gods” (Homeric Hymn to Demeter 351–54; cf. 310–13).80 Female kholos can even threaten to undo the proper relationships among and between men and gods. Female kholos can be associated with the violation of a norm essential to the workings of human society.81 Zeus declares that Hera could only sate her anger (kholos) at the Trojans if she were to eat them raw (ômon bebrôthois) (Il. 4.34–36). Hekabe claims that the only proper way to avenge Hektor’s death would be to eat Achilleus’ liver: “If only I might be able to eat the middle of his liver, biting into it: then there would be deeds of vengeance (τότ’ ἄντιτα ἔργα) for my son” (Il. 24.212–14).82 80

81

82

Cf. Clay 2006: 246–51. In Hesiod’s Works and Days 137–39, contrast the inversion of the themes found in the Demeter passage. In anger (kholoumenos), Zeus replaces the silver race of men with the bronze because the former was “not giving honors (timas) to the blessed gods.” Zeus’ anger motivates him to defend sacrifice. O’Brien (1993: 85) observes that the angry Hera’s “willingness to bargain away her Argive cities [see Il. 4.51–56] to assure Troy’s destruction leaves the retrospective impression that she was responsible for the disappearance of the palace civilization in the Argolid as well as Troy.” On female lamentations reminding listeners of the need for vengeance and thereby perpetuating blood feuds, see Walsh 2005: 102. On how later Greeks thought of female rage as threatening the social order, see Harris 2001: 264–82, esp. 273–76. I follow van Thiel (1996) and West (1998) in reading antita erga; see Richardson 1993: ad 24.213. The following passages show that kholos provides a motive for one who seeks tisis, defined by Wilson as “payment exacted in harm” (2002a: 25). (1) When Zeus speaks of Hera’s desire to calm her anger (kholos) only by eating the Trojans raw (Il. 4.34–36), he alludes to the theme of tisis (see Wilson 2002a: 32). In his conversation with the emissaries in Iliad 9, Achilleus claims that he will not save the Achaians and thereby pursues a strategy of tisis (see Wilson 2002a: 92);

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A female’s kholos may lead to the transgression of the taboo against omophagous cannabalism, the implications of which transgression are discernable in some famous lines of Hesiod: “For this was the rule for men that Kronos’ son laid down: whereas fish and beasts and flying birds would eat one another because Right (dikê) is not among them, to men he gave Right, which is much the best in practice” (Works and Days 276–80). When one violates this taboo, one reveals one’s alienation from justice, the implementation of which is vital to the preservation of human communities.83 In addition, female kholos can threaten (a) the correct hierarchy among the gods, above all the supremacy of Zeus, and (b) the correct relationship between men and gods. In reference to (a): according to the Homeric Hymn to Apollo, kholos (307) impels Hera to beget Typhaon, who challenges the rule of Zeus.84 Jenny Strauss Clay finds that Demeter’s

83

84

he points to his kholos at Agamemnon (Il. 9.646) as that which compels him to remain inactive. (2) In his rage after Patroklos’ death (see, e.g., kholôsamenos at Il. 15.68 and kholos at Il. 19.16), Achilleus wishes to exact vengeance (tisete) from all the Trojans (Il. 21.133–34). (Konstan [2006: 48–54, esp. 52] is skeptical that kholos motivates Achilleus’ pursuit of revenge against Hektor.) (3) The concept of lôbê provides another link between tisis and kholos. Agamemnon declares that the sons of Antimachos “will pay for the unseemly outrage (teisete lôbên) committed by your father” (Il. 11.142). Achilleus wishes to eat only after “we have made them [the Trojans] pay for this outrage [the death of Patroklos]” (teisaimetha lôbên) (Il. 19.208). (See also Od. 20.169, and on the connection between lôbê and tisis, see Wilson 2002a: 24, 61, 92, 120, 169, and 201n69 and Marks 2008: 70.) I note that Thersites relies on the principle that lôbê produces kholos in chastisizing Agamemnon: “But Achilleus does not have kholos in his mind, but he is slow to action; otherwise you would have committed your last act of outrage (lôbêsaio)” (Il. 2.241–42) (see also Il. 1.224 and 232). The following equation emerges: lôbê demands tisis and also generates kholos; presumably the one who, after suffering lôbê, seeks tisis is motivated at least in part by kholos. On Hera and Hekabe’s wish as expressing “a negation of culture,” see Wilson 2002a: 32–33. For his part, Achilleus “looking darkly” (Il. 22.344) expresses the wish that his “rage (menos) and spirit would compel me in some way myself to eat [you = Hektor] cutting away the raw meat (ὤμ’ ἀποταμνόμενον κρέα ἔδμεναι)” (22.346–47). He thereby “is assimilated into a pattern of inverting culture, otherwise reserved for females” (Wilson 2002a: 123 and see also 139–40; cf. O’Brien 1993: 85 and 89). See Clay 2006: 65–71. O’Brien (1993: 96–103) argues that the Iliad knows about Hera’s birth of Typhaon.

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attempt to make Demophoon immortal in the Homeric Hymn to Demeter “parallels the plan of Hera in the Hymn to Apollo” (2006: 226). Demeter, that is, acts as one who wishes to overthrow Zeus. According to Helios, kholos motivates Demeter’s scheme: he attributes kholos to Demeter (83) immediately before she goes to Eleusis and begins to raise Demophoon.85 In reference to (b): female anger can prompt a goddess to disregard sacrifice by humans, and sacrifice is an essential mechanism in the maintenance of the proper relationship between men and gods. For through sacrifice, men not only acknowledge the superiority of the gods but also construct a quid pro quo (or do ut des) relationship with the gods. As the Iliad draws to a close, an angry Hera (kholôsamenê ) rejects Apollo’s demand that the gods engineer the return of Hektor’s corpse. Pointing to the fact that Achilleus is the son of a goddess whereas Hektor is not, she explicitly cites the principle that gods are superior to men (Il. 24.55–63). In response, Zeus represents Hera as in fact willing to disregard the necessary and established do ut des relationship between men and gods: Hera would do away with the practice of reciprocity in accordance with which men sacrifice to the gods and the gods look out for those who are pious (24.64–70).86 What may distinguish the female kholos that is destructive and destabilizing from that which is not is that the former reaches a fevered pitch. Demeter and Hera are demonstrably implacable in their rage.87 Aineias’ use of the phrase “in heart-devouring strife” (ἔριδος πέρι θυμοβόροιο) encourages us to impute such a degree of kholos to Aineias’ two women. The collocation of the adjective thumoboros and the noun eris appears three times as a description of war (Il. 7.210, 7.301, and 16.476), but most relevant for our purposes is its fourth and final occurrence: Achilleus labels his disastrous dispute with Agamemnon a “heartdevouring eris” (Il. 19.58), a dispute characterized not only by Achilleus’ seemingly unquenchable anger but by Agamemnon’s great wrath as well (see esp. emênie at Il. 1.247). 85

86

87

Appropriately, when she fails to do so because the uncomprehending Metaneira stops her, Demeter is again wrathful (kholôsamenê ) (251). Zeus picks up on Apollo’s point from Il. 24.33–34; see Richardson 1993: ad 24.33–4. On Demeter, see Clay 2006: 249; on Hera, see O’Brien 1993: 82–83 and Clay 2006: 69 and 71.

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When heroes engage in neikos, it can be depicted as a productive endeavor. Agamemnon, for instance, attempts to rouse his troops by chastisizing them (neikeieske) (Il. 4.241). In Aineias’ simile, neikos is portrayed not as constructive male discourse, but is aligned with extremes of female rage, a rage capable of undermining the customary and proper relationships between men, between gods, and between men and gods. Finally, Aineias focuses on a variant of neikos that elsewhere draws criticism. The women are described as “saying many true and many false things; and anger urges even these [false things].” Archaic Greek epic does not as a rule look down upon liars. Protagonists such as Odysseus in the Odyssey and Hermes in the Homeric Hymn to Hermes tell lies with abandon, and tall tale telling is an integral part of their heroic personas.88 At the same time, liars are roundly criticized in the Iliad by Achilleus (9.312) and in the Odyssey by Alkinoos (11.363–69), Eumaios (14.378–89), Penelope (23.215–17), and even the lying Odysseus himself (14.156–57). It is doubtful that Aineias seeks to praise the women in the simile as crafty liars; he surely taps into the negative representations of those who do not tell the truth. What is more, elsewhere in Homeric epic rebuking and lying rarely intersect. In the vast majority of cases, rebukes are not sites of falsehoods, and characters willingly accede to rebukes.89 By contrast, Odysseus objects to rebukes he considers unwarranted (Il. 4.349–55 and Od. 8.165–85), and, more significant for our purposes, Sthenelos (Il. 4.403–10) and Hektor (Il. 17.169–82) object to those they consider false. The proper rebuke, then, does not contain lies.90 Yet, in Aineias’ simile the women engage in a neikos in which they tell not only truths but also lies about one another. Continuing his assault on neikos-speech, Aineias depicts that genre of discourse in a form in which it is liable to be criticized. In sum, Aineias’ final simile makes a threefold argument that when they engage in neikos, Aineias and Achilleus participate in an activity inappropriate for upstanding male warriors. 88 89

90

See Pratt 1993: Chapter 2. See, for example, Il. 3.59, 5.493, and 6.333 and Od. 1.360–61, 10.475, and 18.226. Just so, for Pindar “blame is legitimate if directed at the blameworthy,” but not when it is directed at the praiseworthy, that is, when it contains lies (Pratt 1993: 122; cf. 128).

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2.6. Like a Woman … Like Lovers In their final encounter, Hektor considers stripping off his armor and supplicating the approaching Achilleus.91 He will offer to return Helen and give the Achaians the treasures of Troy. But the Trojan quickly rejects this option: μή μιν ἐγὼ μὲν ἵκωμαι ἰών, ὁ δέ μ’ οὐκ ἐλεήσει οὐδέ τί μ’ αἰδέσεται, κτενέει δέ με γυμνὸν ἐόντα αὔτως ὥς τε γυναῖκα, ἐπεί κ’ ἀπὸ τεύχεα δύω. οὐ μέν πως νῦν ἐστιν ἀπὸ δρυὸς οὐδ’ ἀπὸ πέτρης92 τῷ ὀαριζέμεναι, ἅ τε παρθένος ἠΐθεός τε, παρθένος ἠΐθεός τ’ ὀαρίζετον ἀλλήλοιιν. I will not approach him going to him, and he will not pity nor reverence me, rather he will kill me when I am naked just as I am like a woman when I strip off my armor. In fact not now in some way is it from a tree or from a rock to talk flirtatiously with him about the kinds of things that a maiden and an unmarried young man, a maiden and an unmarried young man talk flirtatiously about with one another. (Il. 22.123–28)

In the two similes in these verses,93 Hektor figures supplication as an erotic encounter with the ultimate aim of rebuking Achilleus.94 91 92

93 94

This subsection reviews and revises some material presented in Ready 2005. I follow van Thiel (1996) and West (1998) in not accenting estin. Nagy (1990a: 198–200) and Ruiz (2002) attempt to divine what Hektor means in this verse. Perhaps Hektor is expressing the idea of impossibility: there is no difference between talking to Achilleus in this way and talking with a rock or a tree. Note the use of apo to mean “away from” in the sense of “different from” at Il. 10.324 and Od. 11.344 (cf. Thucydides 1.76.2) and note that the second hemistich of Od. 11.344 has the same shape as that of Il. 22.126. As an example of a sentence made up of the verb “to be” followed by a predicate composed entirely of a prepositional phrase, I cite Il. 9.116–17: “Having the value of many men is the man whom Zeus loves in his heart” (ἀντί νυ πολλῶν / λαῶν ἐστιν ἀνὴρ ὅν τε Ζεὺς κῆρι φιλήσῃ); see also, for example, Il. 18.419 and 20.106. I follow Edwards (1991: 29) in taking verses 127–28 as a simile. Other elements also clue us into the performative nature of Hektor’s soliloquy. Martin (1989: 136) observes Hektor’s distinctive use of “the discourse

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An A scholion contends that Hektor’s vocabulary activates the theme of supplication: “(The critical sign is) because of hikômai instead of hiketeusô. Therefore iôn is appended because we approach those to whom we offer supplication” (Erbse 1977, 5: ad 22.123b). Yet, two thorough treatments of Homeric supplication, those of John Gould and Maureen Alden, do not associate Hektor’s verses with the theme.95 Alden adheres to Gould’s strict definition of the supplication theme: in order for a scene to qualify as one of supplication, the gestures (or reference to the gestures) consistently associated with the act of supplication must be present and/or the noun hiketês or the verb hiketeuô must be deployed (2000: 196–98).96 Supplication is thus to be distinguished formally from “[u]ndifferentiated requests and entreaties.”97 Presumably, the fact that Hektor does not speak of the requisite gestures or use the requisite vocabulary prompted Gould and Alden to determine that Hektor is not envisioning himself supplicating Achilleus.98 Although sympathetic to Alden’s insistence on the distinctions among various sorts of scenes, I prefer to follow the scholiast’s lead here. Manuela Giordano points to

95

96

97 98

of recollection.” Hektor projects onto future speakers the recollection of his successes or failures and does so in his soliloquy in Iliad 22 in verse 107 (137–38). Martin also finds that the speech reveals Hektor’s habitual “concern with style” in the epanalepsis at 22.127–28 (138). For previous discussion of verses 123–28, see Suzuki 1989: 48, Crotty 1994: 85, Loraux 1995: 80–81, Mackie 1996: 44–45, Rabel 1997: 190, Thornton 1997: 154, and Van Nortwick 2001: 221. For supplication as a coherent and recognizable social practice in the Homeric poems, having its own specific patterns of gesture, physical interaction, and language, see Crotty 1994: 16. Pedrick (1982: 129) compares supplication to type scenes, such as arming. Cf. Gould 1973: 75–77 and Pedrick 1982: 126–28. Naiden (2006: 9–11) discusses the importance of gesture to Gould’s model. Alden 2000: 185n18. Naiden, who catalogues supplication scenes in Greek, Roman, and some ancient Near Eastern literature (2006: Appendices; see esp. 321), does not list Hektor’s verses, but not, I believe, for the same reasons as Gould and Alden. Naiden criticizes previous scholarship’s overemphasis on gestures (especially the need to make contact) (see 18, 20, 25, and 78; his take at 43, 62, and 64), and he includes in his lists of Homeric supplications not only those in which the verb hikneomai appears with the verb pheugô (see 44) in lieu of the sort of gestures about which Gould speaks but also a scene in which no gesture is referred to (Il. 23.85–90, Patroklos supplicates Peleus), stating, “Unless

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other passages that reaffirm the scholiast’s comment: suppliants themselves speak of approaching the supplicandus with the verb hikneomai (see Il. 14.260, 22.417, and Od. 6.176) (1999: 208–10).99 In addition, the form that Hektor’s language of pity and reverence takes (Il. 22.123–24) is that used elsewhere only by or in reference to suppliants.100 For instance, Lykaon supplicates Achilleus: “But you reverence me and pity me” (σὺ δέ μ’ αἴδεο καί μ’ ἐλέησον) (Il. 21.74). Hekabe supplicates Hektor: “reverence these and pity me” (τάδε τ’ αἴδεο καί μ’ ἐλέησον) (Il. 22.83). Priam supplicates Achilleus: “But reverence the gods, Achilleus, and pity me myself” (ἀλλ’ αἰδεῖο θεούς, Ἀχιλεῦ, αὐτόν τ’ ἐλέησον) (Il. 24.503). Leodes supplicates Odysseus: “But you reverence and pity me” (σὺ δέ μ’ αἴδεο καί μ’ ἐλέησον) (Od. 22.312).101 This language is that of the Homeric suppliant.102 Finally, one may also speculate that Hektor’s proposal to set down his weapons (Il. 22.111–12) replaces the more common gestures of supplication demanded by Gould and Alden. Giordano astutely draws attention to one of Odysseus’ Cretan tales in which he describes disarming before supplicating the pharaoh of Egypt (Od. 14.276–80) (1999: 208).103

99 100 101

102 103

Homer says otherwise, I have assumed that all fugitive murderers use a gesture” (64n194). Therefore, I attribute the absence of a reference to Hektor’s verses in Naiden’s catalogue to the fact that they constitute a “planned” supplication, a sort excluded categorically from his lists (19); cf. the absence of Il. 22.418. Cf. Tsagalis 2008: 220n48. Supplicandus is Naiden’s term (2006: 3). See Richardson 1993: ad 22.123–5 and Giordano 1999: 208n38. See also Il. 22.419, 24.207, and Od. 22.344, and cf. Od. 14.388–89 (with 14.511). The connection between the language of reverence and pity and supplication appears as well in Telemachos’ request for the truth about Odysseus from Nestor and Menelaos: “Do not reverencing (aidomenos) or pitying (eleairôn) me be gentle, but properly lay out for me how you came upon sight of him. I beg you (lissomai), if ever to you my father,…” (Od. 3.96–98 and 4.326–28, respectively). Lissomai is a standard verb for the act of the suppliant. Note that Telemachos has come as a (figurative [see Naiden 2006: 35 and 322]) suppliant to Nestor and Menelaos (see Od. 3.92 and 4.322, respectively). See Naiden (2006: 97–100) on appeals to pity in ancient supplications. But note that Odysseus then says that he took the knees of the Egyptian basileus (Od. 14.279). Cf. Naiden on Helen’s undressing in some versions of her encounter with Menelaos after the sack of Troy (2006: 101) and on, conversely, the donning of mourning clothes as a gesture of supplication in Rome and Israel (58–61).

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Hektor envisions supplicating Achilleus, but he relies on a specific understanding of the act. To supplement the work done by others on the abasement of the suppliant,104 I have elsewhere outlined the various sexual dynamics that can come into play in a scene of supplication.105 Beyond the explicit or implicit erotic dimension found in, for instance, Thetis’ supplication of Zeus (Il. 1.500–16), Kleopatra’s supplication of Meleagros (Il. 9.590–91), Odysseus’ supplication of Nausikaa (Od. 6.157–63), Phoinix’s mother’s supplication of her son (Il. 9.451–52), and Circe’s supplication of Odysseus (Od. 10.333–35), one can also note that scenes of supplication involving an offer of ransom replicate or invert point-for-point the motifs associated with negotiating a successful marriage.106 Furthermore, scenes of supplication in the Homeric poems can cast the supplicated as sexually dominant, and the very gestures of the suppliant can reify that unequal power dynamic. Acknowledging the erotic undercurrents of the supplication theme aids us greatly in interpreting Hektor’s lines in book 22.107 Hektor first says that when he is naked (gumnon eonta), that is, unarmed, he will be “like a woman” (ὥς τε γυναῖκα).108 It is clear that “when I am naked” has an inherent sexual connotation,109 and we should understand 104

105 106

107

108

109

See esp. Gould 1973: 94, Pedrick 1982: 125 and 128, Thornton 1984: 117–18, and Crotty 1994: 19–20 and 22; cf. Naiden 2006: 59 and 69. Crotty speaks of the suppliant as adopting “the small stature and the importunate gestures of a child” (97). But Crotty also rightly avoids lumping all the supplication scenes together in this regard (cf. Naiden 2006: 79). Chryses’ supplication of Agamemnon is far more dignified than, for example, the sons’ of Antimachos supplication of Agamemnon (21–23). See Ready 2005: 147–56. Cf. “Since wives, captives, prizes and gifts of recompense are constantly compared and evaluated against one another, the epics seem to play with the idea that their value was, though not the same, at least comparable” (von Reden 1995: 51). Naiden (2006: 62–63) discusses erotic elements in some supplication scenes. Those who study tragedy speak about the erotics of supplication. Zeitlin (1992: 207–13) discusses the connections between suppliants and virgins in her essay on the Danaid trilogy; see also Gödde 2000: 217–18. I understand Hektor’s simile to apply to his being naked (see, e.g., Crotty 1994: 85 and Mackie 1996: 84–85). I do not think he is saying, “When I am naked, Achilleus will kill me as if I were a woman.” Odysseus has no choice but “with the girls … to mingle, although he was naked” (κούρῃσιν … / μίξεσθαι, γυμνός περ ἐών) (Od. 6.135–36). The

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the simile in that vein as well. On the one hand, “naked” warriors are subject to penetration by a weapon.110 From that perspective, Hektor’s comparison of a naked warrior to a woman makes sense. On the other hand, I suggest that with this simile Hektor figures his notional supplication of Achilleus as an erotic encounter in which Hektor plays the role of a woman. He claims that Achilleus, who he imagines will not honor his supplication, will not be swayed by an appeal with an erotic cast to it. In his next simile, Hektor expands on both these points. He ponders what type of erotic encounter the supplication would have to be like in order for it to succeed and denies that an interaction of that sort is possible with Achilles: οὐ μέν πως νῦν ἐστιν ἀπὸ δρυὸς οὐδ’ ἀπὸ πέτρης τῷ ὀαριζέμεναι, ἅ τε παρθένος ἠΐθεός τε, παρθένος ἠΐθεός τ’ ὀαρίζετον ἀλλήλοιιν. In fact not now in some way is it from a tree or from a rock to talk flirtatiously with him about the kinds of things that a maiden and an unmarried young man, a maiden and an unmarried young man talk flirtatiously about with one another.

The epanalepsis, the repetition of “maiden, young man, maiden, young man,” emphasizes the subjects of the relative clause, young people on the threshold of a recognized sexuality and hence marriage.111 These two words are coupled elsewhere in reference to male and female choruses,112 which performed important functions related to the transition from youth to adulthood.113 The young lovers talk (oarizeton) like lovers do. Hektor

110 111

112 113

use of the ambiguous verb meignumi (“to mingle with” but also “to have sex with”; see LSJ s.v. μείγνυμι B4) suggests that γυμνός περ ἐών is also chosen for its sexual connotations. As for Hektor’s use of the phrase, Janko (1992: ad 13.290–1) sees it as “clearly a sexual idea.” On the erotic tone of the passage as a whole, see Gouldner 1965: 60, Rabel 1989, and Crotty 1994: 85–86. See Il. 12.389, 12.428, 16.312, 16.400 and 21.50 with 117–18. Richardson (1993: ad loc.) points to the emphasis provided by the repetition: “One might compare it to a momentary ‘still’ in the middle of a film: our minds rest, with Hektor’s, on this scene of the lovers.” Cressey (1982: 23) speaks of “the sexual juxtaposition of παρθένος ἠΐθεός τε in the same line which is underscored by epanalepsis in the next.” See Il. 18.593–94 and Herodotus 3.48.3. See Calame 1997.

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talks flirtatiously to Andromache (oarize gunaiki) (Il. 6.516); Hermes sings of how Zeus and Maia “before talked flirtatiously in amorous affection” (†ὃν πάρος ὠρίζεσκον† ἑταιρείῃ φιλότητι) (Homeric Hymn to Hermes 58); Zeus “talks flirtatiously in flirtatious conversations” (oarous oarizei) with Themis in another Homeric Hymn (23.3): she is his second wife, according to Theogony 901–6.114 That the maiden and young man engage in a mutually interested dialogue is mirrored in the syntax. Both male and female are in the nominative case (παρθένος ἠΐθεός τε), and the use of the dual number makes for an even more intimate moment.115 If Achilleus could understand supplication as an erotic dialogue, Hektor might be spared. But because Achilleus will not, Hektor cannot hope to approach him: “Better, then,” the Trojan concludes, “to engage head on in strife with him as quickly as possible” (Il. 22.129). For Hektor, the impossibility of engaging in such a dialogue with Achilleus reflects not only Achilleus’ unwillingness to talk but also his inability to function in the environment described in the simile. The scene focuses on a marked site of a community’s continuity. Hektor and Andromache best represent this fundamental interaction in the poem: Paris encounters them immediately after they have finished their flirtatious talk (Il. 6.516; quoted earlier). Hektor contends that Achilleus has no access to this realm of reciprocal sexual and affective relationships so integral to, in general, perpetuating a community and to, in particular, defining Hektor.116 Achilleus’ dedication 114

115 116

As Moulton (1977: 82n55) notes, the phrase oaristus parphasis appears as one of Aphrodite’s charms at Il. 14.216–17 (for which Cunliffe offers “winning dalliance” as a translation, and Aristarchus suggested “seductive conversation” [Erbse 1974, 3: ad 14.216–7a; see Janko 1992: ad loc.]). Loraux (1995: 81) briefly discusses the importance of the verb oarizô to Hektor’s simile and, commenting on the whole family of words, observes, “The erotic connotation of these words is primary” (282n31). See also Redfield 1982: 197, Morris 1992: 177, and Van Nortwick 2001: 222. See Crotty 1994: 86. Van Nortwick (2001) uses Iliad 6 to examine “the deeply-felt set of bonds that help to make him [Hektor] who he is” (234), as well as his struggle to individuate himself as a hero. Most (2003: 65) argues that one of the purposes of the scene between Hektor and Andromache in book 6 is “to suggest by contrast the possibilities for rich and humane personal interchange which, at this moment, are denied to Achilles by his obsessive selfabsorption but are still available to his Trojan counterpart.”

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to destruction leaves no place for lovers’ interactions: he brings death, not life.117 Therein lies the challenge, as Hektor excludes Achilleus from his world and that of the audience.118 Hektor’s simile not only explains his decision to fight but also constitutes an ethical attack on Achilleus and what he represents.119 Achilleus is elsewhere cast as a passionate lover.120 But in this final Homeric confrontation between the two leading men of the epic, Hektor assesses and condemns what he presents as Achilleus’ inability to engage in a mature and reciprocal sexual relationship. 2.7. Like Lions and Men, Wolves and Sheep Before the climactic duel of the poem, Achilleus “looking darkly” (hupodra idôn) rebukes Hektor for his suggestion that the winner respect the body of the loser:121 ὡς οὐκ ἔστι λέουσι καὶ ἀνδράσιν ὅρκια πιστά, οὐδὲ λύκοι τε καὶ ἄρνες ὁμόφρονα θυμὸν ἔχουσιν, ἀλλὰ κακὰ φρονέουσι διαμπερὲς ἀλλήλοισιν, 117 118

119

120

121

Cf. Redfield 1982: 197–98. Redfield (1994: 28) alludes to the connection between Hektor and the audience. Van Nortwick (2001) chronicles the author’s evolving relationship with the character of Hektor. Contra Redfield 1982: 199n17, who envisions Hektor as experiencing “a moment of intimacy with his enemy.” Proclus reports that in the Cypria Achilleus married Deidameia, the daughter of the king of Skyros, (arg. 39–40) and notes that in the Aithiopis Achilleus kills Penthesilea, whom Thersites contended Achilleus loved (arg. 6–8). The same compiler tells us that in the Cypria Aphrodite and Thetis arrange a meeting between Achilleus and Helen (arg. 59–60); on this episode, see Tsagalis 2008: 93–111. Aeschylus in frags. 135 and 136 (Radt) casts Achilleus and Patroklos as lovers. Apollonius’ Hera contends that it is fated for Achilleus to marry Medea when he goes to the Elysian fields (Argonautica 4.811–15). According to a scholion on this passage, first Ibycus and then Simonides performed this bit of mythic matchmaking (Wendel 1935: ad 4.814–15a). Hyginus in Fabula 110 speaks of Achilleus’ desire for Polyxena: when he was about to meet her, Paris and Deiphobos killed him. Lykophron tells of Achilleus’ love for and murder of Troilos (Alexandra 307–13) (cf. Servius ad Aeneid 1.474). The phrase “looking darkly” is regularly used in the verse serving to introduce a rebuke (see Minchin 2007: 27): see, for example, Il. 2.245 and

62

Similes and Likenesses in the Character-Text ὣς οὐκ ἔστ’ ἐμὲ καὶ σὲ φιλήμεναι, οὐδέ τι νῶϊν ὅρκια ἔσσονται, as between lions and men there are no trustworthy agreements, and wolves and sheep are not of like mind, but constantly they ponder evils for one another, so it is not possible for you and me to strike a deal, nor at all will we make agreements, (Il. 22.262–66)

On the face of it, the equation Achilleus offers is transparent. In order to cast as absurd Hektor’s request that Achilleus join him in an agreement and seal it with an oath, Achilleus situates Hektor and himself in a context in which these practices do not occur.122 Previously happy to fashion agreements and swear oaths,123 Achilleus now claims that they are irrelevant in the present situation. We need to ponder, however, the effect of the doubled vehicle portion of the simile. The simplest explanation for the expansion is that whereas lions and men are relatively equal antagonists,124 wolves and sheep are not. Achilleus means to cast Hektor in the victim’s role by adding the second set: Hektor is a sheep before Achilleus, the ravenous wolf.125 As Achilleus makes a broader point about his interactions with Hektor,

122

123 124

125

17.141. Holoka (1983) examines the phrase; see also Lateiner 1995: 77. For the speech as a “highly eristic” turn in a flyting contest, see Parks 1990: 102. Martin (1989: 84) explores how Achilleus’ speech demonstrates one aspect of “the flyting hero’s use of memory.” Cf. Rabel 1997: 194–95. Heath (2005: 134–41) discusses this simile in the context of Achilleus’ turn toward the bestial when he reenters the battle. As will become clear, Heath’s suggestion that Achilleus “repudiates human language completely” (141) misses the point. Hammer (2002: 227–29) examines this simile in the context of promises that Achilleus makes and that are made to him elsewhere in the poem. See Il. 1.85–91 and 1.233–44 and Kitts 2002: 33. At Il. 5.136–42, the lion scares away the shepherd and kills some sheep, but at Il. 11.548–55, the shepherd and dogs ward off the intruder. At Il. 5.554–58, men manage to kill two lions but only after the lions have completed at least one successful raid. Men also hunt lions, which they presumably would not do if they did not think they would succeed: see Il. 8.338–40, 11.292–93, 12.41–48, 20.164–73 and Od. 4.791–92. See Scott 2009: 85 and 180. Moulton (1977: 113) thinks that it is not immediately clear that Achilleus is the lion and Hektor is the man. Clarke (1995: 144) argues for the immediate

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he throws an insult in along the way. But a much more intriguing possibility arises. Achilleus’ words here are usually thought of as a particularly self-conscious simile. A T scholion comments, “Summarily, he runs through comparisons (eikonas) which are well known” (Erbse 1977, 5: ad 22.263a). Clarke agrees: “Achilles equates his implacable hostility towards Hector with two paradigms of enmity that immediately recall beast-similes of the kind seen throughout the Iliad” (1995: 143). We should look as well to the realm of fable. Of course, the idea that men and lions cannot fashion agreements would seem a natural conclusion to draw from their behavior toward one another in any number of similes: an enraged lion sets out to find the hunter who stole his cubs (Il. 18.318–22); a whole group of men gather to track down and kill a lion (Il. 20.164–73). Further, when it can be translated “trustworthy agreements,” the phrase horkia pista only appears in the character-text (eleven other times).126 It is a concept necessarily linked with a secondary focalizer, and its appearance in Il. 22.262 suggests that we are to view the scenario from the perspective of the men and lions. If verse 265 applies not only to wolves and sheep but also to men and lions, it presents a phrase, kaka phroneousin, that is also intended to cast the lions as focalizers as well as to anthropomorphize them; note how Patroklos attacks “pondering evils (kaka phroneôn) for the Trojans” (Il. 16.373). Helpfully, in other similes the lion is regularly cast as a focalizer and consistently anthropomorphized.127 We even find the exact phrase kaka phroneôn used of a marauding lion (Il. 10.486). To the extent

126

127

identification; cf. King 1987: 26, Suzuki 1989: 50, Heath 2005: 141, and Scott 2009: 73. In any case, the simile turns into an insult when Achilleus introduces the second set of animals. Lowenstam (1993: 118–19) also perceives that the image falls into two distinct parts. The phrase appears only two other times and in each case denotes the animals sacrificed during the fashioning of an agreement (Il. 3.245 and 3.269). On horkia, see Karavites 1992: 59–73. Focalizer: a lion delights (ekharê ) in discovering a deer’s corpse (Il. 3.23); a lion comes upon (heurêisi) shepherds (Il. 12.302); a lion and a boar both want (ethelousi) to drink from a spring (Il. 16.825). Anthropomorphized: a lion eagerly (emmemaôs) leaps out of the fold after killing sheep (Il. 5.142); a lion is disappointed (tetiêoti thumôi) at being kept out of the fold (Il. 11.555); a lion’s daring spirit (thumos agênor) urges him to attack flocks (Il. 12.300). See Lonsdale 1990: Appendix B. Heath (2005: 42–50) observes that the animals of similes are aligned with humans in their behavior. Such an interpretation

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that Il. 22.262 not only cites the usual antipathy between lions and men but also takes us into the lion’s head, it would seem to adhere to the structural and thematic patterns of other Homeric lion similes. Yet, Achilleus’ verse is not entirely reliant upon that one source. A T scholion points us in the right direction: “from here Aesop composes the story concerning lions and men” (Erbse 1977, 5: ad 22.262). Fables thoroughly consider the proposition that men and lions do not forge trustworthy agreements. Aesopica 140 (Perry), for instance, involves the violation of a contract: a farmer will give his daughter to an enamored lion if the lion is defanged and declawed; the lion agrees, and the farmer chases off the now enfeebled animal.128 The Chorus’s fable of the lion-cub in Aeschylus’ Agamemnon (717–36) also comes to mind: once grown the lion pays back the human family that reared it (χάριν / γὰρ τροφεῦσιν ἀμείβων) by slaughtering the household’s sheep.129 That the violation of another sort of agreement, friendship, is the topic of other fables, albeit involving different actors, strengthens the suggestion that Achilleus here points to fable. Thus Archilochus uses a fable to criticize Lycambes who “abandoned a great oath” (ὅρκον δ’ ἐνοσφίσθης μέγαν) (frag. 173 West): an eagle and a fox become friends, but the eagle transgresses their covenant by eating the fox’s children (frags. 174–81 West). An Attic drinking song (Poetae Melici Graeci 892) tells of a crab who punishes a snake for devising “crooked things” (skolia). Previously the crab had considered the snake his companion (hetairon).130 Achilleus’ initial set of vehicles, then, evokes not only other similes but fable as well.131 This referencing of fable becomes even more pronounced when Achilleus moves on to wolves and sheep. The idea that wolves and sheep are not like-minded but “consistently ponder evils for one another” is not

128 129 130 131

modifies that of King (1987: 19–24) who asserts that except in the case of Achilleus “the lion normally is not anthropomorphized but is kept firmly within the bounds of his distinct realm of nature” (19). See also Aesopica 340. See van Dijk 1997: 171–76. See van Dijk 1997: 151 and Collins 2004: 128. Cf. “This parable, in the form of a simile, is comparable to the αἶνος of the hawk and nightingale which Hesiod (Erga 202ff.) uses to instruct Perses about the law of the stronger” (Lonsdale 1990: 100).

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easily deduced from Homeric similes. Wolves and sheep meet but once in the epics: “wolves fall upon lambs (arnessin) or kids (eriphoisi)” (Il. 16.352). Other factors also give pause. Wolves can function as focalizers: they intend to drink (lapsontes) from a stream (Il. 16.161); they attack upon seeing (idontes) that the shepherd has let his flocks scatter (Il. 16.354). That second passage shows us that Homeric wolves are not stupid; they realize the best time to attack.132 Nonetheless, we are not prepared for the idea that wolves behave like humans who demonstrate homophrosunê (e.g., Od. 6.181) and ponder evils (e.g., kaka phroneontes at Od. 18.232). For wolves are not anthropomorphized like lions are. Of the two extended similes involving wolves, one describes their mental apparatus: “the strength in their minds is measureless” (τοῖσίν τε περὶ φρεσὶν ἄσπετος ἀλκή) (Il. 16.157); “the heart in their breasts is fearless” (ἐν δέ τε θυμὸς / στήθεσιν ἄτρομός ἐστι) (16.162–63). Humans exhibit alkê and have a thumos, but the adjectives used here set the wolves apart. Humans may repeatedly demonstrate their thouridos alkês (see, e.g., Il. 4.418), but never aspetos alkê; they may have menos atromon (Il. 5.125–26 and 17.156–57), but never a thumos atromos. Furthermore, Achilleus’ imagined scenario focuses just as much on the lambs, and it is here that we really depart from the portrayal of animals in Homeric similes. Three related points should be made. First, sheep are given human traits only once in another simile: they are said to have “a cowardly spirit” (analkida thumon) (Il. 16.355) (see Hektor at Il. 16.656). Second, I find but one instance of sheep functioning as focalizers: “they hear (akouousai) the voices of their lambs” (Il. 4.435).133 Third and most important, sheep are always hapless victims, never active ponderers of evil. The phrase kaka phroneô can connote a virulent antipathy toward others (e.g., Il. 16.373). It is also used of one who actively works against (e.g., Il. 7.70 and 12.67) or plots against (e.g., Od. 17.596 and 20.5) or even tries to trick another (e.g., Od. 10.317). Homer’s sheep are never rendered in such a fashion so as to prepare us for their characterization here as bearers of enmity or conniving plotters. 132

133

Schnapp-Gourbeillon (1981: 50–51) (followed by Hofmeister 1995: 298) pushes too far in taking this simile to represent the wolves as engaged in some sort of cunning ruse. Pace Janko 1992: ad 15.323–5, who claims that the action of a simile in which two lions attack a “herd of cows or a great flock of sheep” (15.323) “is seen from their [the victims’] angle.”

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Again, I suggest that with his reference to anthropomorphized, cogitating, scheming wolves and sheep Achilleus alludes to the genre of fable, wherein wolves and sheep make a proverbially antagonistic pair.134 In the Life of Aesop (Vita W Perry), Aesop tells of how the sheep are persuaded (epeisthêsan) by the wolves to break off their alliance with the dogs (97).135 Among the discrete fables in Ben Perry’s Aesopica, a sheep expresses the wish, “May all you evil wolves perish badly because although you suffered nothing at our hands you conduct an evil war against us” (κακοὶ κακῶς ἀπόλοισθε πάντες οἱ λύκοι, ὅτι μηδὲν παθόντες ὑφ’ ἡμῶν κακὸν πολεμεῖτε ἡμᾶς) (159). A sheep refuses to help a wounded wolf drink

from a stream, saying, “If I get a drink for you, you will eat me” (160). A wolf tries to trick a lamb into leaving the safety of a temple by claiming that the priest will sacrifice it; the lamb responds: “It is better to be a sacrifice to the god than to be eaten by you” (261). If we adhere to the Homeric notion that lambs and kids are interchangeable (see again Il. 16.352), we can also cite the following fable: a cornered kid asks a wolf to play the aulos ostensibly so that the kid can get in one last dance; the music draws the attention of the guard dogs who chase the wolf away (97). Finally, I note one of Perry’s Latin fables (572): a wolf tries to take on the voice of a she-goat, but the kid discerns his trick. It is in fables that these animals are depicted as engaging in a contest of wits. In short, better understood from the perspective of fable than from the perspective offered by other similes, Achilleus’ verses should be seen to call upon the genre of fable. An ancient audience, or at the very least one of the Classical era, might not have thought it odd to hear a reference of this sort from Achilleus: in Aeschylus’ Myrmidons, Achilleus may have cited a fable about an eagle hit by an arrow.136 Two reasons emerge for this citation of fable. First, Achilleus marks his speech more explicitly as a criticism of Hektor’s naivety by turning to a genre routinely deployed as a mechanism of blame. Fables often end with “a reproach made by one character to another because of the latter’s behavior”137 and are often deployed by speakers, such as Aesop and 134 135 136 137

See Aesopica 334. Cf. Aesopica 153. See van Dijk 1997: 170–71. Holzberg 2002: 87.

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Archilochus, in seeking to blame their addressee(s).138 Second, a thought that requires a bit more exposition. As commentators have pointed out, Achilleus should agree to Hektor’s request for a pact. His refusal reveals his displacement from and rejection of the norms of Homeric warrior society.139 Now, Achilleus is not aware of being a character in a heroic epic. Yet, as one who himself sings the “glorious deeds of men” (Il. 9.189) (epic in other words140), he is well acquainted with the genre. Moreover, Homeric characters, including Achilleus, are well aware of the paradigmatic nature of heroic epic, namely that such poems provide positive and negative exempla and thereby model proper beliefs and practices for the audience members. Agamemnon points to the paradigmatic nature of epic song. He declares that “because of her virtue,” Penelope’s kleos will be assured in a “pleasing” song, but we can also understand him to mean that the subject of the song will be her virtue (Od. 24.196–98). Klytaimestra will be the subject of a “grievous” song that will condemn not only her but all women (24.199–202). Phoinix as well takes epic song as paradigmatic: So, too, we learn about the glorious deeds of men (klea andrôn) of old,141 heroes, whenever swelling anger came upon someone: 138

139

140 141

On Aesop as a speaker of blame, see Nagy 1999: 281–83. On Archilochus blaming Lycambes, see van Dijk 1997: 142–44; on Archilochus using the fable of the ape and fox (frags. 185–87 West) to criticize “the aspirations of a member of the Parian aristocracy,” see 147. On Hesiod’s fable of the hawk and nightingale (Works and Days 202–12) as a rather complicated and oblique criticism of the kings’ behavior, see 130–34. On Timocreon insulting Themistocles through fable, see 162–64. On ancient theories of fable’s moral and didactic functions, see 74–75; on “the use of fable as a veiled expression of opinion for those ((former) slaves like Phaedrus and Aesop) who dare not speak outright,” see 76 (emphasis in original) with G14 on 44: fable can be used as a subtle form of reproach. On a fable acquiring a blaming function only in context, see Nagy 1999: 281–82. See Moulton 1977: 113, Lonsdale 1990: 100, Richardson 1993: ad 22.260–72, Hammer 2002: 107 and 113, and Wilson 2002b: 241. On Achilleus’ transgressions and isolation during his aristeia, see Neal 2006: 30–33. Cf. Beck 2005a: 172. See Kahane 2005: 190. On the phrase klea andrôn referring to epic song, see Nagy 1999: 16–18 and Mackie 1997: 79n6.

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Phoinix casts his tale of Meleagros as a retelling of one such epic,142 and he relies on its paradigmatic value being transparent: Achilleus should acquiesce to the supplication of his friends, rejoin the fight, and, importantly, take the gifts Agamemnon is offering.143 For his part, Achilleus acknowledges the paradigmatic force of such tales when he decides to follow Meleagros’ example by not returning to battle until the Achaian ships are burning (Il. 9.650–53).144 To return to the passage in Iliad 22: I suggest that, in his reply to Hektor, Achilleus emphasizes his current disdain for the conventions of his society by distancing himself from heroic epic, a prominent mechanism for the reaffirmation of that society’s values. For in voicing his judgment Achilleus references a genre markedly distinct from heroic epic, that of fable.145 Gert-Jan van Dijk notes the minimal interaction between the two genres: “Fables occur only in didactic, not in heroic epic” (1997: 137).146 Fable was foreign to “high” heroic epic because, as Leslie Kurke puts it with reference to Aesop, “the humble fables of Aesop stand very low in the hierarchy of 142

143

144 145

146

It is irrelevant whether or not this passage refers to another actual epic poem or poetic tradition (see Alden 2000: 238n148). What matters for my purposes is that Phoinix makes as if he is outlining the story of a well-known poem. On the point of the story told by Phoinix, see Nagy 1999: 103, Alden 2000: 235–36, and Wilson 2002a: 101. See Wilson 2002a: 107. My point deploys a similar logic as that of interpreters who have suggested that Achilleus’ deviations from the way other speakers talk in the epics parallel his challenges to heroic norms. For older examples of this sort of argument, see Martin’s survey of attempts prior to his own to address Achilleus’ language (1989: 148–59). A more recent analysis of this kind is that of Beck (2005a: 219–20), who looks at word choice and localization to argue that Achilleus’ being “alienated from the very conventions of speech in the Homeric epics” in Iliad 1 mirrors both his “removing himself from the social structures that govern the Greeks as a group” and, more broadly, his “alienation from his fellow Greeks.” Yet, some ancient theoreticians considered Homer to be the originator of fables (van Dijk 1997: 124 and 137). One also notes scholarship’s evaluation of the similarities and differences between fable and simile: see van Dijk 1997: 78 and 125.

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genres” (1999: 223).147 Indeed, it is a matter of some debate, but two “low” epics can be linked with fables. A fragment, “A fox knows many things, a hedgehog knows one big thing” (5 West), from the comic epic Margites attributed to Homer suggests to some that the author either presented or alluded to a fable. The mock-heroic epic Batrachomyomachia may have been based on a fable involving frogs and mice.148 By alluding to fable Achilleus purposefully turns away from heroic epic. Given that for the Homeric characters themselves the genre reifies the values of their society, Achilleus’ turning away from epic reinforces his disparaging of oath-making, a notionally routine act in his society. Let the above seven passages stand for the ways in which the Iliad’s characters can make simile an important component in a performance by making an argument with a simile. In doing so, speakers move to increase their standing in the linguistic arena. In the next section, I turn to a type of figure briefly mentioned in Chapter 1 that has not been noted previously. With a likeness, a Homeric speaker exploits the comparative spectrum by generating a figure that is ambiguous as to where it might be placed on the spectrum. The existence of the likeness suggests that the characters’ interest in statements in the shape “A (is) like B” extends beyond the simile. 3. THE LIKENESS

Exploration of the likeness should begin with a brief consideration of the words that introduce similes and comparisons.149 The words that 147

148

149

See also Kurke 2006: 8–9. Cf. “The absence of fables in Homer might be explained by the non-heroic ethos of the fable (e.g. in favour of conformity and submission to the will of the stronger)” (Zafiropoulos 2001: 13n43). See Holzberg 2002: 13 and 18, respectively. Van Dijk (1997: 125–26) is skeptical that the Margites cites or deploys a fable and argues that the Batrachomyomachia may be based on but does not allude to a fable. For definitions of (and the differences between) simile and comparison, see Chapter 1 (section 1). For previous studies of introductory words to Homeric figures, see Lee 1964: 17–21 with List B at 62–64, Pelliccia 2002: 222n60 (on hoios and toios), Heiden 2007: 156–64 (on homoios), Larsen 2007 (for detailed tallies), and Nieto Hernández 9–14 (for an initial survey) and passim (on the position of such words in the hexameter verse, complete with detailed charts). I thank Professor Nieto Hernández for allowing me to cite from her unpublished article, which is part of a book-length project on the

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can introduce both similes and comparisons will be the ones to introduce figures that play with the gap between tenor and vehicle. 3.1. Words That Introduce Similes and Comparisons A variety of words and phrases can introduce a Homeric simile: ἀτάλαντος (e.g., Il. 13.795–801);150 ἠΰτε151 (e.g., Il. 2.87–93); οἷος (e.g., Il. 7.63–66); ὅσ(σ)ος (e.g., Od. 12.86 and Il. 5.770–72); ὡς (e.g., Il. 5.161–64); ὡς ὅτε152 (e.g., Il. 11.292–95).

Other words introduce not only similes but also comparisons. I divide them into two separate lists. (1) ἐναλίγκιος;153 ἶσος; ὁμοῖος. (2) Forms of the verb *εἴκω and etymologically related words:154 *εἴκω; εἴκελος;155 ἐΐσκω; ἴκελος. The following survey provides examples of each of these words being used first in a simile and then in a comparison.156

150

151 152

153

154 155

156

Homeric simile. The following words have been excluded from this analysis: demas “in the manner of” introduces four times the brief simile: “So they fought on in the manner of raging fire” (Il. 11.596, 13.673, 17.366 and 18.1); φή “like” introduces two similes (Il. 2.144 and 14.499). This selection is the only extended simile introduced by atalantos. In a brief simile, Hektor is said to be “similar (atalantos) to swift night in his face” (Il. 12.463). Otherwise the adjective is used to introduce brief similes comparing a warrior to Ares (e.g., Il. 2.627 and 14 other times in the Iliad) or in the epithets “equal in council to Zeus” (e.g., Il. 2.169 and 5 other times in the Iliad) and “a counselor equal to the gods” (e.g., Il. 7.366 and 2 other times in the Iliad and 2 other times in the Odyssey). εὖτε introduces two similes (Il. 3.10–14 and 19.386). See Lee (1964: 62–63) for other introductory phrases with ὡς, such as ὡς εἰ or ὡς ὅταν. ἀλίγκιος occurs twice: Astyanax is “similar to a beautiful star” (Il. 6.401); Odysseus says that a man might be “similar to immortals in form” but a bad speaker nonetheless (Od. 8.174–75). See Chantraine 1999 s.v. ἔοικα. ἐπιείκελος introduces an adjectival phrase comparing a character to a god: epieikelos/n athanatoisi(n) (Il. 1.265, 4.394, and 11.60; Od. 15.414, 21.14, and 21.37) and θεοῖς ἐπιείκελ’ Ἀχιλλεῦ (Il. 9.485, 9.494, 22.279, 23.80, 24.486, and Od. 24.36). Compare the use of eisato (from the verb eidô) to introduce a simile assigned to Panyassis’ Heraklea (frag. 33 Bernabé) with its more common use to introduce comparisons (see LSJ AII3 s.v. eidô).

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Athena causes a fire to blaze from Diomedes’ helmet and shield that resembles (enaligkion) Sirius (Il. 5.4–7), but one would not confuse the fire with the actual star. By contrast, Hektor cannot detect that Apollo has disguised himself as Phainops (enaligkios) (Il. 17.582–83). Hektor is similar to (isos) but not to be confused with the wind (Il. 11.297–98). By contrast, when Circe compares (isos) Odysseus to “one without speech (anaudôi)” (Od. 10.378), she intends to make as close a connection as possible between Odysseus and one who is actually unable to speak. Although Athena might make Odysseus’ hair “similar (homoias) to the hyacinth flower” (Od. 6.231), no one thinks he is wreathed in flowers.157 By contrast, if anyone were as smart as Penelope, she would be quite literally as smart (see homoia at Od. 2.121–22). Although Aias is like (eikelos) a boar, he could not be mistaken for one (Il. 17.281–85). By contrast, Penelope cannot distinguish between a dream and waking reality when an image of Odysseus, so similar (eikelos) to the real man himself, appears to her in her sleep (Od. 20.87–90). Iris is to be thought similar (ikelê) to a lead sinker, not identified with it (Il. 24.80–82). By contrast, when Athena disguises herself as Laodokos she is so similar (ikelê) to him as to be mistaken for him (Il. 4.86–87). One would not think that the Trojan counselors are cicadas even if they sound like (eoikotes) them (Il. 3.151–53). By contrast, Andromache’s maid means that Hektor’s wife has all but gone mad when she compares her (eikuia) to a mad woman (Il. 6.388–89). Just so, Themis might contend instead that Hera simply looks terrified when she compares her (eoikas) to a distraught woman (Il. 15.90). Indeed, she goes to say that Zeus scared ( phobêse) Hera (15.91). And Helen suggests that Odysseus could have been mistaken for a house servant or a beggar when she crafts her comparisons (with eoikôs and ἤϊσκε, respectively) (Od. 4.244–49). Finally, Priam finds Odysseus similar (eiskô) to a ram (Il. 3.197–98), whereas Aias guesses that he has just killed a relation of Antenor (eiskô) (Il. 14.472–74). Table 2.1 summarizes the examples given in this paragraph. Again, the introductory words listed in Table 2.1 can introduce both similes and comparisons. The question arises whether in figures that use these introductory words there can be a purposeful ambiguity as to the 157

Cf. Heiden 2007: 158.

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Table 2.1. Introductory Words Used in Both Similes and Comparisons Introductory Word

Simile

Comparison

ἐναλίγκιος ἶσος ὁμοῖος εἴκελος ἴκελος *εἴκω

Il. 5.4–7 Il. 11.297–98 Od. 6.231 Il. 17.281–85 Il. 24.80–82 Il. 3.151–53

ἐΐσκω

Il. 3.197–98

Il. 17.582–83 Od. 10.378 Od. 2.121–22 Od. 20.87–90 Il. 4.86–87 Il. 6.388–89, Il. 15.90, Od. 4.244–49 Il. 14.472–74

degree of similarity between tenor and vehicle.158 Although a simile or comparison may suggest a greater or lesser degree of similarity between tenor and vehicle when viewed in relation to another figure, in itself a simile or comparison usually offers an unproblematic assertion of a particular degree of similarity. Consider again, for example, the simile describing the Achaians’ flight from Aineias and Hektor: as a cloud of starlings or jackdaws goes shouting terribly whenever they see a hawk coming, which brings death to small birds, so then because of Aineias and Hektor, the youths of the Achaians shouting terribly went, and they were forgetful of their war spirit. (Il. 17.755–59)

The Achaians are similar in some respects to birds (especially as regards shouting) and dissimilar in others. We are not to get caught up in 158

Cf. McGavin (2000: 89–93) on medieval romance writers’ “employing for strategic purposes the ambiguity in the phraseology [e.g., “as”] common to apposition and figuration” (89). By “apposition,” he means statements in the shape “A as B” with “minimal dissimilarity” between the terms; by “figuration,” he means statements in the shape “A as B” that are instances of “similitudinous naming, in which dissimilar things were brought together with figurative effect” (89). As an example, McGavin traces how the statement “As ded man” (1444) in The Romance of Guy of Warwick moves from being an instance of “appositional naming” to “figuratively comparative naming” (89–90).

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wondering just how similar the compared terms are.159 If there are indeed figures in which there is a real question about the size of the gap between tenor and vehicle, we would do well not to refer to them as similes or comparisons. It would be better to envision a separate category: hence, the likeness. In order to prove, therefore, that a figure is a likeness, we need to show that there is an ambiguity in the matter of the gap between tenor and vehicle and that the ambiguity does some work for the speaker. In several cases, our logic will be circular. The proof of ambiguity will simply be that to detect an ambiguity enriches the figure, that is, the statement becomes more efficacious if we see in it a question as to the degree of similarity between tenor and vehicle. In other cases, we can use the larger context in which the figure appears to argue that the character’s figure relies on an ambiguity.160 At the same time as we are performing that analytical work, the following should also be kept in view. By raising a question about the precise meaning of “like,” a Homeric speaker generates a statement in the shape “A (is) like B” that is content-rich and infrequently heard. Speakers integrate these likenesses into their performances. We have just seen how performing characters utter content-rich similes, that is, rare statements in the shape “A (is) like B,” as one way to distinguish themselves in the competitive arena of Homeric speaking. It stands to reason that the production of likenesses aims at the same goal. In turn, the characters’ use of simile turns out to be part of a broader strategy involving the creation of distinguishing statements based on the template “A (is) like B.” In what follows, I discuss eight passages (seven from the Odyssey, one from the Iliad) in which characters generate figures (all introduced by forms of the verb *εἴκω and etymologically related words) that are ambiguous as to their placement on the comparative spectrum. 159

160

Nonetheless, see Buxton’s suggestion regarding the long-standing debate over whether gods actually change into birds when they travel or are just similar to birds. The poet perhaps intends us to be confused: “since one of the attributes of a Greek divinity can be mystery, why should a poet not register that mystery by means of a textual ambiguity?” (2004: 143). In Ready 2008, I offer a more expansive view of the likeness. I present here what I take to be the choicest examples.

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3.2. Nine Likenesses We can get a good sense for the working of the likeness and for how we can go about detecting a likeness by looking at a statement elsewhere used as a comparison. I noted earlier that Priam asks Helen about Agamemnon: βασιλῆϊ γὰρ ἀνδρὶ ἔοικε (for he is similar to a lordly king) (Il. 3.170). Priam’s figure is a comparison that seeks to identify Agamemnon. On other occasions, however, a speaker introduces into the figure a question as to the gap between its tenor and vehicle. Because it functions in this ambiguous fashion and thereby contributes to the speaker’s larger goal(s), the figure can be categorized as a likeness. Before the suitors, the disguised Odysseus begins the performance of a lengthy recollection about an ill-fated expedition to Egypt by asking Antinoos to give him some food:161 δός, φίλος· οὐ μέν μοι δοκέεις ὁ κάκιστος Ἀχαιῶν ἔμμεναι, ἀλλ’ ὤριστος, ἐπεὶ βασιλῆϊ ἔοικας. Give, friend: you do not seem to me to be the worst of the Achaians but the best because you are similar to a king. (Od. 17.415–16)

Let us imagine an ambiguity in the meaning of “similar” here. Antinoos would probably take the likeness as praise offering a close connection between tenor and vehicle. But Odysseus can also be understood by both internal and external hearers to be leaving open with the aid of eoikas the possibility of a lesser degree of similarity between tenor and vehicle. He calls attention to the fact that Antinoos, the haughty suitor, is not actually a king, although he aspires to be.162 This figure inaugurates the disguised Odysseus’ initial directly reported speech to the suitors. The 161 162

See muthos at Od. 17.414. The word basileus contains an additional ambiguity. Kings can be good. Himself a good king (e.g., Od. 2.46–47 and 4.687–95), Odysseus describes such a ruler as one who upholds the exercise of justice and whose people prosper (Od. 19.109–14). Kings can be bad. Hesiod rebukes the “gift-devouring kings” who let Perses plunder Hesiod’s estate (Works and Days 37–39). (For more on good and bad kings, see Works and Days 225–47.) Odysseus does not specify which sort of king he has in mind.

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ambiguity of the likeness heralds the ambiguity that will pervade so much of Odysseus’ speech (and action) before the suitors. Odysseus uses a nearly identical figure when addressing Laertes for the first time: οὐ μὲν ἀεργίης γε ἄναξ ἕνεκ’ οὔ σε κομίζει, οὐδέ τί τοι δούλειον ἐπιπρέπει εἰσοράασθαι εἶδος καὶ μέγεθος· βασιλῆι γὰρ ἀνδρὶ ἔοικας. τοιούτῳ δὲ ἔοικας, ἐπεὶ λούσαιτο φάγοι τε, εὑδέμεναι μαλακῶς· It’s not because of laziness that your master doesn’t tend to you, and you do not have any visible attribute of a slave as regards your form or size: for you are similar to a kingly man. And you resemble one who, after he has bathed and eaten, sleeps in a comfortable bed: (Od. 24.251–55)

In this case, the surrounding context suggests a purposeful ambiguity in the figures in verses 253 and 255. On the one hand, his statement that Laertes does not at all look like a slave suggests that there is a small gap in each case between the figure’s tenor and vehicle. Odysseus may be alluding to the motif of the leader fallen from riches to rags, one that he himself makes use of when he is disguised as a beggar.163 On the other hand, Odysseus insists on a larger gap between the compared terms. In spite of Laertes’ regal appearance and in keeping with the first line of the quoted passage, Odysseus goes on to declare that Laertes is a slave (dmôs) (24.257). Odysseus’ speaking in this ambiguous manner is consistent with his broader goal in his speech to his father. The narrator reports that Odysseus sought “to make trial of him with mocking words (kertomiois epeessin)” (Od. 24.240). Scholarship has shown that this brand of performance (kertomia) is marked above all by indirectness and doublespeak.164 A speaker can use a likeness in testing or insulting another. In the following four passages, our proof that we are dealing with a likeness will be that used in the discussion of Odysseus’ likeness directed at Antinoos: positing an ambiguity allows us to detect the purpose behind a figure. 163 164

See, for example, Od. 14.229–359 and 17.419–44. See Lloyd 2004 and Gottesman 2008.

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The disguised Odysseus performs before the cowherd Philoitios what is ostensibly an oath but is, for narratees in the know, a boast: Odysseus will soon return and kill the suitors (Od. 20.232–34). As a prelude to this assertion, Odysseus uses a likeness that signals that this oath/boast is a test: ἐπεὶ οὔτε κακῷ οὔτ’ ἄφρονι φωτὶ ἔοικας “because you are similar to neither an evil nor a senseless man” (Od. 20.227). Will Philoitios’ reaction to Odysseus’ claim prove him to be in fact a good and prudent man or will the statement turn out to have anticipated an unbridgeable gap between tenor and vehicle? The introductory word eoikas neatly enables the question. The cowherd passes the test in offering a prayer for Odysseus’ homecoming (Od. 20.235–37).165 The narrator declares Odysseus’ supplication of Nausikaa a “soothing and cunning speech (muthon)” (Od. 6.148). Spread out over two speeches, Nausikaa’s response in which she agrees to help Odysseus is itself a noteworthy performance. The second through fourth verses of her first speech, addressed to Odysseus, offer two gnomai: first, Zeus allots prosperity in whichever way he pleases (6.188–89); second, one must bear whatever fate the gods impose (6.190).166 Her second speech, the performance of a command (keleuse [6.198]) to her maids, concludes with two more gnomai: “for under the protection of Zeus are all strangers and beggars, and the gift is small but welcome” (6.207–8).167 With the knowledge that she is aiming here in part to show her linguistic competence, one can note that she begins her response to Odysseus with the same likeness that Odysseus laters directs toward Philoitios: ξεῖν’, ἐπεὶ οὔτε κακῷ οὔτ’ ἄφρονι φωτὶ ἔοικας, Ζεὺς δ’ αὐτὸς νέμει ὄλβον Ὀλύμπιος ἀνθρώποισιν, Friend, because you are similar to neither an evil nor a senseless man, well then, Olympian Zeus himself allots wealth to men, (Od. 6.187–88)

On the one hand, Nausikaa’s initial figure provides the rationale for her following comments. She will treat Odysseus as a good guest 165 166 167

On Odysseus’ testing of others, see Minchin 2007: 128–30. On this second gnome, see Chapter 5 (subsection 3.2). On Nausikaa’s proverbs, see Garvie 1994: ad locc.

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deserves because on the face of it, as one who seems similar to neither an evil nor senseless man, he seems worthy of such treatment. On the other hand, the figure with its introductory word eoikas also allows Nausikaa to hint strongly that it is up to Odysseus to prove that her statement is not composed of dissimilar terms by, for instance, revealing a corresponding understanding of the proper behavior of a guest. In this context, one notes the application of the adjective aphrôn to those who break contracts or contravene customs. A senseless (aphroni) Pandaros violates the truce originally fashioned between the Trojans and Achaians in Iliad 3 (Il. 4.104). Hera describes Ares as “this senseless (aphrona) one, who does not have any understanding of customary right (themista)” (Il. 5.761). Zeus assures Priam that Achilleus will not be so senseless (aphrôn) as to reject his status as a suppliant (Il. 24.157 and 186). Odysseus asserts that only a senseless (aphrôn) man starts trouble in his host’s house (Od. 8.208–11). To link a challenge to behave well as a guest to the word aphrôn makes sense. In Odysseus’ encounter with Nausikaa, his curious refusal to be bathed by her handmaidens a moment after the passages considered here might be intended to demonstrate his sense of propriety (Od. 6.218–22).168 That Nausikaa’s maids report back to Nausikaa the fact that Odysseus refused their ministrations (Od. 6.223) suggests that he acted properly in doing so and has thus successfully answered her challenge. Aided by words that introduce both similes and comparisons, a likeness can enhance the impact of an insult. Euryalos challenges (neikese [Od. 8.158]) Odysseus after he shies away from participating in games with the Phaiakians:169 οὐ γάρ σ’ οὐδέ, ξεῖνε, δαήμονι φωτὶ ἐΐσκω ἄθλων, οἷά τε πολλὰ μετ’ ἀνθρώποισι πέλονται, ἀλλὰ τῷ ὅς θ’ ἅμα νηῒ πολυκληῗδι θαμίζων, ἀρχὸς ναυτάων οἵ τε πρηκτῆρες ἔασι, φόρτου τε μνήμων καὶ ἐπίσκοπος ᾖσιν ὁδαίων κερδέων θ’ ἁρπαλέων· οὐδ’ ἀθλητῆρι ἔοικας. For I do not liken you at all, stranger, to a man experienced in contests such as are often held among men 168 169

See Hainsworth (1988: ad loc.) on the oddity of Odysseus’ demurral. On Euryalos’ flying contest with Odysseus, see Parks 1990: 74.

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Similes and Likenesses in the Character-Text but to one who going about in a many-oared ship, as the leader of sailors who are traders, is mindful of his cargo and oversees his merchandise and greedily seized profits: you do not resemble an athlete. (Od. 8.159–64)

In contrast to aristocrats who are praised for passing their time in wars, feasts, and athletic competitions wherein they acquire and negotiate timê and kleos, merchants who, like the one envisioned by Euryalos, pursue short-term transactions are looked down upon.170 With the help of eiskô and eoikas, Euryalos raises a question about the size of the gap between tenor and vehicle: is Odysseus like a trader or is he to be identified as one? Where on the comparative spectrum does the figure go? Both its content and form render Euryalos’ insult effective. He not only claims that Odysseus resembles a merchant but also encourages those who overhear to ponder carefully the degree of Odysseus’ similarity to a merchant.171 Showing by way of his stare (hupodra idôn [Od. 8.165]) that he is attuned to Euryalos’ slight,172 Odysseus turns the young Phaiakian’s own verbal artistry against him: ξεῖν’, οὐ καλὸν ἔειπες· ἀτασθάλῳ ἀνδρὶ ἔοικας. Stranger, you did not speak well: you are similar to a reckless man. (Od. 8.166)

Odysseus’ insult also gains force from its formulation as a likeness: to what degree is Euryalos like a “reckless man”?173

170

171

172 173

See Hainsworth 1988: ad loc. For more on the representation of traders in the epics, see Chapter 5 (subsection 1.2). Whereas Pelliccia (2002: 216) finds that Euryalos seeks “not to draw a real comparison (to, e.g., an animal or plant), but to make a surmise,” I suggest that Euryalos is purposefully ambiguous as to the degree of similarity between the tenor and vehicle. See Holoka 1983: 11n24. Having fired back at Euryalos with his own comparative structure (cf. Pelliccia 2002: 216 and Walsh 2005: 184n23), Odysseus further repudiates Euryalos’ judgment by questioning his decision to equate appearance and reality: Euryalos exemplifies the handsome but intellectually feeble man (Od. 8.174–77) (see Thalmann 1998: 149–50).

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Finally, I consider two likenesses that raise the specter of multiple responses to the gap between tenor and vehicle. In each case, the context suggests that the speaker plays around with the meaning of “like.” Menelaos reminds Helen that as the Achaians sat in the wooden horse she mimicked the voices of their wives: ἐκ δ’ ὀνομακλήδην Δαναῶν ὀνόμαζες ἀρίστους, πάντων Ἀργείων φωνὴν ἴσκουσ’ ἀλόχοισιν. and you named the best of the Danaans by name, making your voice similar to [those of] the wives of all the Argives. (Od. 4.278–79)

Odysseus was the only one who kept first Menelaos and Diomedes and then Antiklos from answering Helen and disclosing the ambush (4.282–89). Menelaos intends to chastise Helen for her divided loyalties, but first and foremost he is seeking to praise Odysseus by highlighting his endurance: see the distinctive epithet talasiphronos and the verb etlê at 4.270 and 271, respectively. Odysseus, alone of the Achaians, was able to resist this temptation, but it is unclear what the temptation was exactly and therefore which component of this episode demonstrates Odysseus’ steadfastness. Perhaps the warriors actually believe that their wives are outside the horse. Or perhaps they know that it is Helen but succumb willingly to the fantasy that their wives are calling them. A parallel for this second scenario is the reaction that the Delian Maidens of the Homeric Hymn to Apollo provoke in their audience.174 They so convincingly imitate the voices of men and bewitch (thelgousi) their audience that “each man himself would declare that he was speaking” (161–64). Although “each man” knows it is the Delian Maidens who are speaking, he cannot help but think that he is speaking. However the scene at Troy unfolded, Odysseus alone resists the urge to respond. Menelaos portrays Helen as a duplicitious Siren, and as in that later episode (Od. 12.165–200) Odysseus alone manages to listen but not be diverted from the task at hand.175 174

175

See Worman 2002: 62. Martin (2003: 120–22) notes the differences between the scene in the hymn and that in Odyssey 4. On Helen and the Sirens, see Suzuki 1989: 69, Doherty 1995b: 86–88, and Martin 2003: 128. On the ways in which the Sirens episode characterizes Odysseus, see Segal 1994: 102 and Cook 1995: 59, 64, and 90. Boyd (1998: 9) sees a different parallel: “just as Odysseus can resist Circe, so he can resist Helen.”

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One take on the first scenario mentioned – that the warriors believe their wives to be outside the horse – supports the idea that Menelaos constructs a likeness with the verb (ἐ)ΐσκω. Nancy Worman suggests that Odysseus is the only one to see through Helen’s ruse. His recognizing her would neatly parallel her being the only one to recognize him when he disguised himself and snuck into Troy – the anecdote immediately preceding Menelaos’ tale (see esp. Od. 4.250) (2001: 34). If Menelaos is in fact suggesting that Odysseus immediately determined Helen to be the source of the voices, the contrast with other scenes of mimicry in the Iliad becomes important. Those scenes only involve gods,176 and when gods take on a person’s voice in pretending to be that mortal, their deception always succeeds. “Similar to Deiphobos in form and un-wearying voice (ateirea phônên)” (Il. 22.227), Athena urges Hektor to face Achilleus. Hektor only too late realizes the trick the goddess has played on him (see also Poseidon at Il. 13.45, Athena at Il. 17.555, and Apollo at Il. 20.81). Only Odysseus is capable of seeing through the disguise when someone takes on the voice of another (cf. Od. 22.205–10 and 24.502–4).177 To flesh out Menelaos’ 176

177

Edmunds (2007) critiques previous discussions of Helen’s divine origins and questions whether she was worshipped as a goddess (cf. Boyd 1998: 15n30). Nonetheless, interpreters have noted the divine attributes assigned to Helen, especially in Odyssey 4; see Suzuki 1989: 67 and 69, Austin 1994: 73, 75, 78, and 89, and Worman 2001: 30 and 32–33. It is appropriate that her mimicry, a feat elsewhere in Homeric poetry endeavored only by gods, is referred to in book 4. Note that when Telemachos “heard the voice of the goddess” (Od. 2.297) and “followed in the footsteps of the goddess” (Od. 2.401) – the goddess is Athena disguised as Mentor in form and voice (audên) – we are not meant to think that he recognizes her. These are examples of paralepsis: “the narrator intrudes into Telemachus’ focalization” so that the narratee does not get confused (see de Jong 2001: 21 ad 1.118). (Cf. Od. 3.337 and Il. 2.807 with Turkeltaub 2007: 61n31.) More typical are scenes in which voice is not made an explicit part of the god’s disguise, and again Odysseus breaks the established pattern. The fact that Athena gives Diomedes the power to see “who is a god and who is a man” (Il. 5.127–28) on a battlefield in which some gods appear in disguise (e.g., 5.604) while others do not (e.g., 5.290 and 5.312–15) suggests that normally mortals cannot recognize a god regardless of whether or not he or she is in disguise. Priam’s encounter with Hermes exemplifies mortals’ usual obliviousness

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likeness, one can say that Odysseus detected a larger gap between the tenor (Helen’s voice) and the vehicle (the voices of the Achaians’ wives), whereas his companions thought the tenor and vehicle were the same. (ἐ)ΐσκω is the right verb to capture this juxtaposition. Under this reading, the point of the story shifts from Odysseus’ endurance to his cunning, but Odysseus’ cunning is one component of what enables him to endure.178

178

when encountering a disguised immortal. When the messenger god, taking on the appearance of a young man (Il. 24.347–48), meets Priam on his way to Achilleus’ tent, the king does not realize who he is (24.375–77 and 387–88) even though Iris explicitly told him that Hermes would escort him (24.182–83). Some mortals, however, recognize that they are encountering a god when the god is undisguised (see, e.g., Hektor in the presence of Apollo, Il. 15.243–47; Menelaos in the presence of Eidothea, Od. 4.370–76; cf. Anchises in the presence of Aphrodite, Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite 91–99) or imperfectly disguised (Oilean Aias recognizes that “someone of the gods” has been speaking to the Aiantes after the god, Poseidon, flies away and leaves behind giant footprints, Il. 13.68–72; on which see Turkeltaub 2007: 57). Some can even identify the particular divinity when s/he is undisguised (e.g., Achilleus recognizes Athena, Il. 1.199–200) or imperfectly disguised (Helen recognizes Aphrodite, Il. 3.386–98). On the thematic importance of these and other distinctions related to mortals recognizing gods, see Turkeltaub 2007. (At 65n47, he provides previous bibliography on the question of a mortal’s seeing through a god’s disguise.) By contrast, Odysseus claims (Od. 13.322–23) to have recognized Athena when he encountered her disguised as a girl on Scheria and addressed her as tekos (Od. 7.22–26; Minchin [2007: 216] notes the disjunction); when a disguised Athena comes to Eumaios’ hut, Odysseus immediately recognizes her (Od. 16.155–66). At least in the case of Athena, Odysseus has a special ability to see through immortals’ disguises. (Fittingly, Murnaghan contends that Odysseus’ own propensity for concealment aligns him with the gods because “disguise is typically not a human but a divine strategy” [1987: 11–14; quotation on 11].) One does note the contradictory signals sent when Aineias encounters a disguised Apollo: the narrator says that Aineias “recognized the far-shooter Apollo” (Il. 17.333–34), but Aineias himself only claims that he saw “someone of the gods” (17.338); see Turkeltaub 2007: 65n48. Just so, Odysseus can endure being cunning: “He is able to endure a period of disguise during which his achievement in reaching home at last goes unrecognized” (Murnaghan 1987: 4).

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I end with an example from the Iliad. In performing a command,179 Nestor comes up with a way to help the beleaguered Achaians that revolves around the Trojans having one of two reactions to Patroklos. Nestor presents this essential component of his plan in a single statement that raises the possibility of different takes on the gap between tenor and vehicle. Patroklos, Nestor declares, should don Achilleus’ armor: καί τοι τεύχεα καλὰ δότω πόλεμόνδε φέρεσθαι, αἴ κέ σε τῷ εἴσκοντες180 ἀπόσχωνται πολέμοιο ρῶες, and let him give his beautiful armor to you to wear into battle, to see if likening you to him they retreat from war, the Trojans, (Il. 11.798–800)

On the one hand, Nestor hopes the Trojans will think Achilleus has returned to the battlefield.181 They will mistakenly identify Patroklos, decked out in Achilleus’ armor, as Achilleus through a process of careful comparison: note, for example, Pandaros’ use of eiskô to identify the approaching Diomedes (Il. 5.181–83). On the other hand, didômi can have a more precise sense in this context, and as a result it is probable that eiskontes is being used to allow for the possibility of a larger gap between tenor and vehicle.182 When Achilleus tells Patroklos not to press the Trojans too hard lest he diminish Achilleus’ own glory (Il. 16.87–90), he is assuming that Patroklos will eventually be recognized as himself on the battlefield. He even prays that Hektor learn how good a fighter Patroklos is on his own (Il. 16.242–45). For its part, Patroklos’ “costume” (if he intends to play Achilleus) is incomplete: he is unable to wield Achilleus’ Pelian ash 179

180

181 182

On “Nestor’s long and persuasive performance to Patroklos in Book 11,” see Martin 1989: 106–7. I give the OCT reading: see Hainsworth 1993: ad loc. Van Thiel (1996) and West (1998) both read iskontes. See Edwards 1987: 255. The following discussion is not intended to address the deep-rooted theme of Patroklos as a ritual substitute for Achilleus; see, for example, Nagy 1999: 33–34 and 292–93.

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spear (Il. 16.140–44).183 In any event, the charade only works for a short time.184 The narrator describes the Trojans’ initial reaction to Patroklos’ appearance on the battlefield: But when the Trojans saw the strong son of Menoitios, himself and his henchman shining in their war gear, their spirits were roused, and the ranks stirred, thinking that swift-footed Achilleus by the ships had thrown off his anger and chosen friendship: each looked about for a place where he might flee dire destruction. (Il. 16.278–83)

Yet, a bit later Sarpedon reveals that he is not convinced of the identity of the new combatant: “For I will engage with this man in order that I may learn who this one is who shows such prowess and does many evil things to the Trojans” (Il. 16.423–25). After Patroklos kills Sarpedon, the identity of the Achaian warrior is no longer at issue. Glaukos urges Hektor and the other Trojan leaders to rescue Sarpedon’s body: “But brazen Ares subdued him with a spear at the hands of Patroklos” (Il. 16.543).185 Finally, Apollo urges Hektor to “direct your strong-footed horses against Patroklos” (Il. 16.724). It would be wrong to say that Nestor’s plan fails. For it does not revolve entirely around tricking the Trojans. Beyond the possibility noted earlier that the Trojans will identify Patroklos with Achilleus, Nestor also suggests that they may find him similar to Achilleus. I return to Nestor’s use of the verb didômi “to give” in reference to Patroklos’ borrowing Achilleus’ armor (see dotô at Il. 11.798 and cf. dos at Il. 16.40). The notion that carrying weapons or wearing armor given as a gift is the mark of a skilled or famous warrior is prominent in the epic tradition.186 Pandaros, the archer who breaks the truce of Iliad 3 by hitting Menelaos 183 184 185 186

On this famous omission, see Collins 1998: 40–41. See Edwards 1987: 255 and de Jong 2004a: 104. See Janko 1992: 310–11 and de Jong 2004a: 105. Collins shows how when Patroklos and then Hektor put on Achilleus’ immortally wrought armor they become possessed by Ares and perform noteworthy feats in battle (1998: Chapter 1, esp. 18–19, 36–37, and 42–43), and he suggests a connection in myth between “wearing full immortal armor”

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with an arrow, received his bow from Apollo (edôken) (Il. 2.827),187 as did the best archer among the Achaians, Teukros (pore) (Il. 15.440–41). Nestor relates the history of the armor worn by the Arkadian champion, Ereuthalion: Ares gave (pore [Il. 7.146]) it to Areithoos, whom Lykourgos killed and despoiled. The dying Lykourgos gave (pore [Il. 7.149]) the armor to his son Ereuthalion (Il. 7.136–50). Agamemnon’s aristeia begins with a detailed description of the breastplate Kinyras gave him (dôke [Il. 11.20]) as he embarked for Troy (Il. 11.19–28). Hektor wears a helmet that Apollo gave him (pore) (Il. 11.352–53). Achilleus fights with a spear given (see pore [Il. 16.143]) to Peleus by Cheiron (Il. 16.142–44). The armor of Achilleus that Patroklos dons was originally a gift of the gods to Peleus (see eporon) who passed it on to Achilleus (opasse) (Il. 17.194–97) (see also dosan at Il. 18.84). Odysseus’ bow, which only he can wield and with which he slaughters the suitors, was given (dôke [Od. 21.13 and 38]) to him by Iphitos (Od. 21.11–41).188 The use of didômi in the context of Patroklos’ wearing Achilleus’ armor can be understood in light of this motif of excelling in battle while carrying or wearing weapons or arms, respectively, that have been given as a gift.189 The verb can point to the hope that Patroklos will fight gloriously,

187

188

189

and possession by the war god (39). Building on Collins’ work, I focus in this paragraph on the motif of a warrior who excels in battle with the aid of armor or a weapon given as a gift. But see Il. 4.105–11 for an alternative history of the bow, according to which Pandaros made it himself. Louden (2006: 314n6) notes the discrepancy. Other examples of this phenomenon: Diomedes’ breastplate was made by Hephaistos (Il. 8.194–95) and presumably given to Tydeus or Diomedes as a gift. Philoktetes’ prowess depends on his having received his bow from Herakles (see Sophocles Philoktetes 800–2 and cf. Od. 8.219). According to Proclus, in the Little Iliad Odysseus gives Neoptolemos his father’s (Achilleus) armor (τὰ ὅπλα δίδωσι) (arg. 10–11). Cf. Odysseus’ donning the boar’s tusk helmet in preparation for the night raid on the Trojan camp: Autolykos stole the helmet (Il. 10.267), and it was passed down eventually to Meriones (note dôke at Il. 10.268, 269, and 270). Meriones puts it on Odysseus’ head (ethêke) (Il. 10.261). As receiving a special weapon or set or piece of armor distinguishes a warrior and bodes well for his martial career, so receiving a helmet initially obtained through trickery enables Odysseus to take on the persona of a trickster in the Iliad (on this latter idea, see Grethlein 2008: 40).

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perhaps even as well as Achilleus, while wearing Achilleus’ armor.190 In this context, Nestor’s use of eiskontes aids him in broaching the possibility that the Trojans will think Patroklos similar to Achilleus. Nestor says two things at once as he posits two Trojan responses to Patroklos’ entrance. Patroklos will be judged either to be Achilleus or to be fighting in a manner similar to him. Either reaction will be sufficient to compel the Trojans to withdraw. Nestor articulates a plan for saving the Achaians through a statement that exhibits an ambiguity in the meaning of “like,” that is, in the matter of the gap between tenor and vehicle. It is to be classified as a likeness.

4. CONCLUSION

Modern-day rhetorical handbooks urge the appropriate use of simile in constructing an argument. In the fifth edition of their Argumentation and Critical Decision Making, Richard Rieke and Malcolm Sillars hold up the following similes as worthy of emulation: “Vouchers are like leeches. They drain the lifeblood – public support – from your schools.” And regarding a nonnative species of plant that some judged a threat to the Colorado River: “It’s like a big green solar blanket. Heat goes into the blanket and wouldn’t necessarily come back out. That’s like a slow cooker” (2001: 123). This chapter has argued that speakers in the Iliad also use similes in their arguments or make arguments by way of similes. Aineias, for instance, depicts neikos as an unheroic sort of speaking in his attempt to best Achilleus in the verbal combat that precedes their physical duel. Achilleus references the nonepic genre of fable in rejecting Hektor’s request for an oath. With similes of this type, speakers aim to enhance their performances and thereby distinguish themselves in a competitive and crowded linguistic arena. In fact, their use of similes is one component of a larger project aiming at the production of distinguishing statements in the shape “A (is) like B.” For Homeric characters in both epics also seek to demonstrate their verbal skill by generating likenesses. 190

Another verb, such as ekhô (used at, e.g., Il. 14.11 of Thrasymedes’ “borrowing” Nestor’s shield), would not achieve this effect.

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When the poet has his characters speak similes, he is using similes as a mechanism of verbal competition. In subsequent chapters, I expand on this idea by looking at how in the Iliad the poet makes his heroes compete both with other characters and with the narrator over simile. Our attention can shift to pairs and series of similes.

3 A Preparation for Reading Sequences of Similes

THE PREVIOUS CHAPTER DETECTED COMPETITIVE DYNAMICS

in similes that do not interact with the simile(s) of another speaker. Such dynamics are also evident in the Iliad poet’s sequences of similes.1 1

The word “sequence” can refer either to a pair or to a series of similes. The word “series” denotes more than two similes. Respecting the book divisions and allowing for up to ten lines between the end of one simile and the beginning of the next, I count twenty-one pairs of similes and two series of three in the Odyssey. Over the course of the Iliad, there are fifty-six pairs made up of two similes, eleven series made up of three similes, and three series made up of four similes. In addition to the impressive series of seven similes in book 2 that describe the mustering Achaian army (Il. 2.455–83) (on which see Scott 2005), series of more than four similes appear at Il. 11.56–73 (six similes), 16.742–70 (five similes), 17.725–57 (five similes), 19.350–86 (seven similes), and 22.127–64 (seven similes). Put another way, of the 341 similes in the Iliad listed by Scott (1974: Appendix), 111 occur within ten lines of the end of the previous one, and of those 111 similes, sixty-nine occur within five lines of the end of the previous one (cf. Moulton 1977: 28n16). I take no position on the historicity or authenticity of the book divisions, but I used them when calculating pairs and series of similes because I find persuasive Heiden’s arguments about their “orientation” value: “Thus the placement of ‘book divisions’ in the Iliad follows a consistent rationale: each of the twenty-three transmitted ‘book divisions’ occurs at the junction of a low-consequence and high-consequence scene, in that order. … The markings themselves, whatever their historical origin, are not an imposition upon the text, but a supplementation that cooperates with the text’s other indications … and enhances their efficiency for readers. For readers, the segment markings might as well be original” (2008b: 16; emphases in original). Danek (2006: 56n28) notes how book divisions influence scholarship on similes, and Scott (2009: 10–13) considers the issue at greater length. 87

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In the first place, the poet makes similes contribute to his depiction of a world filled with verbal competitors by having his heroes contest not just through but also over simile with other characters and with the narrator. Chapter 4 explores the use of similes in exchanges between characters. Chapter 5 looks at scenes in which the poet makes a character respond with a simile to the preceding simile(s) of the narrator. Second, the poet can provide a competitive orientation to the sequences of similes that he uses to describe battles in the narrator-text, and Chapter 6 begins by considering two such passages. The two sections of this chapter lay the ground for these investigations. In the first section, I trace how various strands of previous scholarship help us study the poet’s introduction of competitive dynamics into sequences of similes. I explore three points, the first of which requires the most exposition. First, previous scholarship encourages the investigation of pairs and series of similes regardless of whether or not the similes have the same vehicle. To be sure, a particular brand of the paradigmatic approach to similes remains popular and necessary. To analyze a given simile, critics will compile all the similes about that same vehicle (e.g., lions or rivers). Consistent with scholarly interest in analyzing similes of the same vehicle, interpreters chart the appearance of such similes along the syntagmatic axis, that is, over the course of an episode or a longer stretch of narrative. Among other scholars, however, we find those who explore the interactions between similes on the syntagmatic axis that do not use the same vehicle and those who direct our attention to the fact that similes are a subgenre of epic. We should feel as comfortable exploring pairs and series of similes that use unrelated vehicles as we do when examining pairs and series of similes made up of images that do deploy the same vehicle. Second, in keeping with scholarship on the sequencing of presentation in Homeric poetry, the investigator of these groupings of similes should attend to their sequential arrangement. Leonard Muellner (1996) offers an especially productive way to think about the presentation of successive elements in early Greek epic: he explores how characters try to top one anothers’ actions and speeches. Third, by joining Muellner’s analysis to work on reuse and recharacterization as they pertain to similes, we can discern one way in which the poet provides a competitive orientation to sequences of similes. The chapter’s second section turns to the use of similes in verbal duels, both ancient and modern, both real and imagined. A powerful argument

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for studying the agonistic orientation of sequences of similes in which at least the last one is spoken by a character comes from the following fact: in verbal dueling, one way to best a competitor is to top his or her simile.

1. CONNECTIONS

There is a paradigmatic axis and a syntagmatic axis of similes.2 The analysis of similes from a paradigmatic perspective can proceed in one of two ways. Important studies have shown how similes tend to appear at certain points in the Homeric poems and have demonstrated the value of reading those similes against one another. Bernard Fenik (1968) examines the similes that appear at specific junctures in the telling of a battle narrative.3 Tilman Krischer looks more specifically at the similes that tend to arise in the different parts of an aristeia (1971: 36–75). William Scott deploys this approach as well. In his 1974 study he offers the most thorough and methodical analysis of how particular moments in the narrative are often sites for similes: for example, when a god goes on a journey or when a warrior enters the battle. Moreover, most similes belong to a “simile family,” such as the family of lion similes or river similes, and it is possible to determine preferred slots for those similes: for example, “[t]here are two contexts which can be followed by a tree simile: a warrior who dies or a man who stands inflexible and unmoving in battle” (1974: 71). In his more recent work, Scott has continued to demonstrate how much we gain by reading a simile in light of those that appear at a similar juncture (2009: e.g., 56 and 171–73). Scott’s grouping similes by vehicle anticipated a shift in scholarly interest to another type of paradigmatic analysis focused on content, not placement.4 Well instructed in the workings of traditional oral poetry, scholars have set out to interpret a simile by getting at its connotations.5 To do that requires a paradigmatic analysis that looks both at other 2 3

4

5

Cf. Tsagalis 2008: 278. See, for example, his discussion of river and fire similes (83–84) or of a simile’s appearance after a monologue (100). In his pioneering analysis of similes in the Iliad (1921), Fränkel categorized them by their subject matter. See Foley 1991 on what he terms “traditional referentiality.”

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similes that use the same and similar vehicle(s) and at other passages, not necessarily similes, involving that entity. Clarke studies lion similes: but every time the image of a lion is deployed, the neutral ground is not merely the ostensible point of comparison but the full range of potential points of contact between the images of beast and warrior. In effect, the context from which the simile takes its meaning is not only its immediate environment in the poem, but the whole field of association between lions and men throughout the Iliad – or, indeed, in the wider tradition of martial epic that lies behind it. (1995: 141)6

In examining the simile at Od. 16.216–19 wherein Odysseus and Telemachos lament like vultures robbed of their young, Naomi Rood expands the search parameters: I aim to show that in the Odyssey, birds evoked a coherent social memory of the gods and vengeance. I will do this by considering the several configurations which contain the poem’s fifteen named birds: omens (2.146–55, 15.160–78, 15.525–34, 20.242–46); a dream (19.535–53); divine epiphanies (1.320, 3.372, 5.51, 5.337 and 353, 22.240); and similes (12.418–19, 14.308–9, 15.479, 16.216–19, 19.518–29, 21.411, 22.302–8, 22.468–72, 24.538). Once we have reconstructed the conventional association between birds and divinely ordained vengeance, the meaning of the curious simile of the grieving vultures becomes manifest. (2006: 1)

We must cast a wide net if we want our interpretation to approximate the response of a tradition-oriented audience to a simile.7 Turning to a brief history of the study of similes along the syntagmatic axis, we note that interpreters initially charted the use of similes of the same vehicle over lengthy stretches of narrative. In his examination of the similes in Iliad 4, 5, and 11, T. B. L. Webster contends that they “echo” and “cross-reference” one another by employing related 6 7

See also Wilson 2002b: 237 and Tsagalis 2008: 156. Muellner (1990) is seminal for this method of interpretation (see Anhalt 1997: 16). Scott stresses the need to take account of what the audience knew about how similes worked (see 1974: 185–86, 2005: 21, and 2006: 103–4). Scott (2009) embarks on an ambitious project of identifying “similemes,” that is, “the mental structure underlying each simile,” “the nonverbal background material” (19), and suggests that an audience would have responded to a simile in light of its knowledge of the relevant simileme.

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vehicles (1958: 227–33). He concludes, “[M]assed similes underline striking moments, sections of the action are marked off by similes, and the whole is held together by echoing similes” (234–35).8 In his influential book, Similes in the Homeric Poems (1977), Carroll Moulton offers a detailed examination of this sort. For example, he analyses the use of water, lion, and weather imagery in Iliad 5. The imagery shifts in keeping with the changing tides of the battle that it describes, a principle Moulton labels “dynamic symmetry.” Thus, the lion simile at 136–43 (Diomedes is like a raging lion) contrasts with that at 554–60 (Aineias kills Orsilochos and Krethon as herdsmen kill two lions). The river similes at 87–94 (Diomedes is like a destructive river in flood) and 597–600 (Diomedes is like a man who leaps back from a river, which corresponds to the attacking Hektor) make a contrasting pair, as do the cloud images at 522–27 (the Greeks stand fast like a cloud on top of a mountain) and 864–67 (Ares resembles a storm cloud as he leaves the battlefield in defeat). In sum, “[t]he associated lion, water, and weather images are deployed for contrast and reversal” (60–64; quotation on 63). Other analyses, such as that of the similes in Iliad 12 or Iliad 22, find a still more complex deployment in a chiastic format of similes with the same vehicle or with similar vehicles. As Martin notes (1997: 143), Moulton summarizes his findings with charts reminiscent of Cedric Whitman’s outline of the Iliad in his Homer and the Heroic Tradition (1958) (see, e.g., 67 and 78). This method of analysis remains popular. Of the similes in Iliad 11, Scott writes, “[S]imile subjects are often repeated in different scenes, thus suggesting that Homer seeks to create cross-references and invite comparisons within the first two major sections” of the book (2006: 113). Pointing to the set of three predatory bird similes and the set of four lion similes (plus one involving a boar) spread over Iliad 17, Scott concludes, “Thus striking sets of parallels throughout the book show that later similes are orchestrated to produce responsive variations on earlier comparisons” (2009: 153).9 8

9

Sheppard (1922) saw the unity of the Iliad residing in the sequential use of similes of like vehicle. See also Scott 2009: 59, 112, 137, 140–44, 152, 158, 160, 165, 169–70, and 179. Other examples: Stanley (1993) examines similes in this manner (see, e.g., 217); Wilson (2002b) discusses the sequential presentation of lion similes; Louden (2006: 105) comments on the cloud and storm similes in Iliad 16.

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At the same time, Moulton also finds interactions between similes with different vehicles.10 For instance, the common template of “the hunted beast” links several of the similes of Iliad 11 and 12 involving boars, stags, lions, and wasps (1977: 46–47). In discussing the similes in the first part of Iliad 17, Moulton argues for a connection between the image likening Menelaos to a “cow standing over a calf” (17.4–6) and that comparing Aias to a “lion protecting cubs” (17.132–37) (74). When Hektor imagines conversing with Achilleus as two lovers might (Il. 22.127–28) and Achilleus later compares their relationship to that between men and lions or wolves and sheep (Il. 22.262–66), Moulton suggests that the “similes do not cohere internally, but function rather as contrasting images for the two antagonists” (77) (cf. 80). Although Moulton seeks primarily to demonstrate connections between similes of like vehicle (see, e.g., 87), he still explores interactions between similes that do not share so marked a common denominator. Subsequent criticism has extended this latter component of Moulton’s study. Ann Bergren investigates the deployment of similes over the course of Odyssey 5: “Once he departs from Calypso’s island, Odysseus progresses in the similes from being a seed enclosed in a thistle, to a seed separated from the chaff, to an independent human rider, to a child whose father near death is restored, to a man who preserves his source of fire” (2008: 71).11 Taking a structuralist perspective, Thomas Hubbard explores pairs of successive similes with “antithetical” vehicles (1981). For example, he points to similes of sight and sound, such as those at Il. 3.2–7 (in which the Trojans are compared to cranes) and 3.10–12 (in which the dust that the Greeks stir up is likened to a thick mist) (60).12 Stephen Nimis argues that the simile likening the hour when the Achaians break the Trojan ranks to the time when a woodsman grows tired (Il. 11.84–90) influences what comes next: 10

11 12

In his lyrical reflection on the similes of Iliad 12 and 13, Benardete (2005: 54–60) reads the images in the order in which they appear, regardless of vehicle. This 2005 publication reprints his 1955 dissertation. Bergren first published this essay in 1980. His other categories are “attack and defense” (60); vegetal and animal; animal and “inanimate, elemental world” (63); the juxtaposition of “individual elements” (63), such as land and sea; and nature and culture (64–65). Hubbard ends by expanding his discussion to include more than just pairs: antithetical elements can connect lengthier series of similes as well (65–66).

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The form and content of the following narrative is generated by the form and content of the woodsman simile. Several of the larger similes, in particular, are generated by the semantic content; one is generated by a phonic play which has its origin in the woodsman simile. (1987: 57)

Similarly, Nimis sees connections between the simile likening the Achaians’ attack to that of wolves (Il. 16.352–56) and the simile comparing the noise made by the Trojan horses as they retreat to that of rivers in spate (16.384–93) (89). Christos Tsagalis contends that the simile likening Hektor to a snake with a “piercing glare” (Il. 22.93–96) “must be connected” to the preceding simile that depicted Achilleus as “a bright star” (Il. 22.26–32) (2008: 282).13 Another argument latent in previous scholarship redoubles our interest in linking similes that do not necessarily use the same vehicle. Simile constitutes a subgenre of epos with its own dictional and thematic mechanisms.14 George Shipp argued that similes reveal a 13

14

See also Baltes (1983) for a discussion of the connections between several similes in Patroklos’ aristeia in Iliad 16 (cf. Scott 2009: 162–63). Beye (1993: 107) speaks of how “[c]losely spaced similes often seem to reflect one another.” Scott (2009) occasionally reads against one another similes that do not have the same vehicle. He finds that the simile likening Aineias to a ram leading a flock (Il. 13.493–95) contrasts with the previous image that compared Idomeneus to a hunted boar (Il. 13.471–77) (2009: 54 and 141). The three similes with three different vehicles that mark Diomedes’ three entrances in the first part of Iliad 5 depict him “as an increasingly threatening and dangerous force” (106). So, too, do the similes with different vehicles that describe Menelaos in Iliad 17 “increase in strength” (151). Scott even posits a connection between three dispersed and radically different similes in Iliad 16: the comparisons of Patroklos to a spring (3–4), of the Myrmidons to wolves (156–66), and of Hektor and Patroklos to a lion and boar, respectively (823–28), all refer to a spring and thereby cross-reference one another (170). Nevertheless, as noted earlier, Scott remains committed primarily to connecting similes of like vehicle (see 58 and 216n36). The term subgenre is applied to similes by Muellner (1990: 60n1) and Martin (1997: 153); cf. Bakker 2005: 135. Other subgenres in epic include lament (see Tsagalis 2004: esp. 17–25) and the “heroic genres of speaking” (commands, flytings, and recollections) investigated in Martin 1989 (cf. Bakker 2006: 2). Ford (1992: 28) takes the initial proems of epic “not as a genre distinct from epic but as a subgenre.” Scodel (2005) speaks of “an ethnographic subgenre” (158) of storytelling in the Odyssey. Bakker (2006: 14) suggests, “Odysseus’

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propensity for late linguistic features and concluded that the extended similes of Homeric epic must have been a late addition to the text (1972: e.g., 215).15 Reevaluating some of these supposedly late features, Martin (1997) shows that such items demonstrate simile’s generic distinctiveness, not a temporal difference between the composition of the similes and the rest of the narrative: in fact, on the levels of morphology, diction, and meter, as well as metaphor and allusion, similes share affinities with nonepic poetry, such as that of Pindar and the Theognidean corpus. Other interpreters demonstrate some of Homeric similes’ unique thematic mechanisms and goals. Lonsdale, for example, details the various ways in which similes and their surrounding narrative contexts are made to play off one another. Words more naturally applied to men are used for animals and vice versa (1990: 3). In particular, words of motion and emotion are shared between tenor and vehicle (33–38). This sort of “trespassing” is a distinct attribute of simile.16 I point as well to the analysis of Susan Wofford (1992), who provides a deconstructive take on the Iliad’s figures. Similes offer a way to “bridge the gap” (66) between the finality of a hero’s death in battle and not only the immortality promised by epic but also, and more precisely, the notion that his death “affirms the continuity of the family or the nation” (67). For similes speak of the warrior’s death using “images of cyclicality and timelessness” (48). At the same time, the necessary disjunction between tenor and vehicle exposes this ideological leap. For example, fatally struck by Teukros, Gorgythion bows his head like a poppy weighed down by a rain shower (Il. 8.306–8). On the one hand, “heroic death is made to seem like a

15

16

tale may be a traditional type of ἔπος [subordinate genre, see his page 3] that the Homeric tradition has appropriated and used for its own epic purposes.” For the second generation of scholarly reaction to Shipp’s hypothesis, see Fagan 2001: 14–15 (who focuses on the work of Ruijgh 1957, Hoekstra 1965, and Chantraine’s 1955 review of Shipp’s first edition). See also Moulton 1974, Muellner 1990: 60n1, and Martin 1997: 152 and 251n40. Janko (1998: 6n37) concludes, “He [Shipp] was obviously wrong to suppose that they [similes] are interpolated.” See Lyne (1989: esp. 92–99) on “trespass” and cf. Silk 1974. The phenomenon occurs in omens as well: see de Jong 2001: 53 and Collins 2002: 24. Omens and similes overlap in significant ways: see Podlecki 1967: 14–15, Austin 1975: 118 and 124, Bushnell 1982, Lonsdale 1990: 112–15, Muellner 1990: 98–99, Anhalt 1995, and Clay 1999: 47.

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natural event. . . . Both the spring rains and the plant’s bringing forth of fruit and seeds are repeating moments in a natural cycle, and both speak of fertility and ongoing life.” On the other hand, “[t]he poppy is not wilted or dead, just top-heavy; in any case, a poppy will return every spring to bow its head, but Gorgythion’s death is final: it is a unique event that does not participate in any natural cycles of renewal or return” (51).17 The simile counters the very proposition it seeks to reify. To continue distinguishing similes as a subgenre from the surrounding narrative, one can expand on the narratological elements of Wofford’s analysis. As Muellner reminds us (1990: 96), the actions described (once) in the simile are thought of as happening repeatedly whereas the action in the narrative that is being described by the simile happens once.18 For example, Telemachos hangs only once the maids who slept with the suitors (Od. 22.465–67 and 471–73), but the simile that describes their death speaks of how hunters regularly catch birds (22.468–70).19 In addition, unlike most everything else with which the poet is concerned, similes do not happen to the characters: they are not part of the story, of “the narrated events, abstracted from their disposition in the text and reconstructed in their chronological order.”20 Rather, similes occur at the level of the telling of the tale, of the discourse: “they are interpretations of events.”21 Fittingly, Proclus’ presentation of the story of the Trojan saga does not have any similes in it. More indicative of their status in this regard is the fact that similes tend to occur at moments of transition from one part of the story to another, especially in the Iliad.22 17 18 19

20 21

22

Cf. “no spring will come after the death of heroes” (Benardete 2005: 55). Cf. de Jong 2004a: 94 and see Wofford 1992: 58–66. Bakker (2005: 134) offers a different take with an emphasis on how similes “become highly specific.” Rimmon-Kenan 1983: 3. de Jong 2004a: 125; emphasis in original. Cf. Wofford 1992: 33–34 and 40. On difficulties with and objections to the distinction between story and discourse, see Morrison (2007: 27–29), who nonetheless concludes that “distinguishing between them is still a fruitful and indispensable way of proceeding” (28); see also Laird 1999: 46–63 and Lowe 2000: 17–27. See Martin 1997: 144–47 and Clay 2007: 244–46. Cf. Kaschewsky (1985: 612) on how series of proverbial comparisons in the Gesar epic have no effect on the course of the plot. I hasten to add that I am not implying that similes can easily be cut out of the poems. Among other weaknesses, that problematic

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That similes constitute a subgenre has important interpretative consequences. We are quick to connect things that are alike. The obvious reason why scholars link similes with the same vehicle is that the commonality between the similes is explicit. The fact that simile is a subgenre provides another source of likeness between similes and another reason to connect them. Accordingly, even if a pair or series of similes is made up of images with different vehicles, the dissimilarity in vehicle does not trump the fact that they are all similes. Because they belong to the same subgenre, they are to be read against one another. To sum up this first point, then. Earlier criticism focuses a good deal of attention on the paradigmatic axes of similes, but it also encourages study of the syntagmatic axis of similes and especially of pairs and series of similes in which each image uses a different vehicle. We detect in the secondary literature an ever-greater willingness to examine such similes, and the endeavor can continue to gain impetus from the fact that as a subgenre similes “were plainly meant to stand out from the rest of the narrative to some extent.”23 When reading pairs and series of similes, we need not limit ourselves to those that have the same vehicle. I come to my second point. Previous scholarship rightly directs us always to keep in mind their sequential arrangement when we are investigating pairs and series of similes. Irrespective of whether the critic looks into similes with the same or different vehicles, there has been sustained interest, from Moulton onward, in the deployment of similes over the course of an episode, that is, in the sequential presentation of similes.24 Nimis, above all, exhorts the interpreter of similes to keep in mind that Homeric poetry was orally composed in performance and so unfolded in an irreversible sequence in real time (1987: 54–55,

23 24

idea fails to take into account both the phenomenon called “narrative through imagery” by Lyne (1989: Chapter 4) (cf. Edwards 1991: 28 and 32 and Scott 2009: 7–8) and the several similes in complex narrator-text (i.e., embedded focalization) (on which see Bremer 1986 and de Jong 2004a: 123–36). See also Nimis’s argument that similes allow for “the continuation of the text” (1987: 84–95; quotation on 93). Moulton 1974: 382; cf. 384. A more recent example: of four similes in Iliad 22 that use “the conceptual template … of ‘predator against prey’,” Tsagalis concludes, “[W]hen the sequence of homologous similes is completed, the audience may reactivate in their memory this chain of image-mappings and interpret them sequentially” (2008: 283; emphasis in original).

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60, 62, 86–88, and 93–95).25 Simile B needs to be read in light of its coming after simile A. We need to understand pairs and series of similes as sequences of similes. This charge is consistent with current approaches to the epics. These days, scholars do not direct us as often as they did in the past to the apparent randomness of Homeric presentation.26 Many critics now concentrate on the ways in which the poems unfold at the level of the verse, scene, episode, and story.27 Among those, we find interpreters who pursue such questions while emphasizing the factors of performance and/ or composition in performance.28 The analytical program outlined by Leonard Muellner (1996) is especially productive. Muellner shows that in archaic Greek epic what appears in a given episode or speech can often only be appreciated in light of what has appeared in the previous episode or speech.29 In particular, portions of epic narratives are structured according to a “metonymic” principle: characters aim to “top” one another’s actions and words by “including” them in and “bettering” them with their own (see, e.g., 87). For instance, in Hesiod’s Theogony, Ouranos attempts to retain power by preventing 25

26

27 28

29

Martin (1997: 143) critiques Moulton’s model: “The strategy is static because it insists on the text as a closed set of tropes, balanced against or connected to one another, but appreciated fully only in retrospect, not at the moment of performance, but in the leisure of rereading.” Edwards and Sienkewicz (1991: 143) note the importance of the concept of “real time” to the analysis of oral performance. Hainsworth (1980: 36) writes, “The poet focuses his attention so sharply on the episode he is narrating, that at times the logical connexion between adjacent episodes (or their balance) may be weak.” In discussing the evocation of traditional associations in re-performance, Foley (1991: 12) suggests that excessive attention to the sequence of episodes misses the point: “linear progression must remain a superficial feature of oral traditional works, since their primary loyalty is to an order and unity that lie outside the immediate text or version.” Martin (2000: 49–50) criticizes this sort of approach. See Taplin 1992, Stanley 1993, Louden 1999 and 2006, and Heiden 2008b. See Bakker 1997a: esp. 115–21, Martin 1993a and 2000: esp. 50 and 64, Nimis 1999, Minchin 2001 and 2007 (Part I), and Scodel 2008a: 109 and 121. On sequential arrangement in other genres of oral poetry and presentation, see Edwards and Sienkewicz 1991: 164–66 and 196–97 and Evans 2007: 492. Muellner builds on the anthropological work of Jacopin (see esp. 1988: 151). Beyond the points of method considered here, Muellner’s larger project is to

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Gaia from giving birth to their offspring. When his turn comes to try to stop the cycle of succession, Kronos does his father one better by imprisoning his children within himself. In swallowing his children, “Kronos has turned the tables on Rhea and put himself in the position that the ‘winning’ side had in the first episode of the myth” (70). Further, Kronos strategically conflates gender roles: From this perspective, we can see yet another way in which Kronos’s stratagem is an incremental improvement over the first episode. Gaia had succeeded in restoring her procreative function by using her cunning and allying herself with her youngest male child, who was trapped inside her. So it was an additive combination of female with male that defeated the exclusionary maleness of Ouranos. Kronos has gone one step further by cunningly combining male and female at once inside himself and in his own self to forestall his wife from doing the same. (70)

Kronos’ efforts, of course, fail. In order to retain power, Zeus will have to come up with a plan that bests those of his father and grandfather. He does so by swallowing the mother herself of the threatening child and taking over the process of birthing itself: Athena springs fully formed from his head (91–93). Muellner attends to series of speeches as well. For example, Aias’ speech in Iliad 9 “is the climax of a metonymic sequence of attempts to enforce the claims of philótês ‘friendship’ on Achilles, each one incorporating the previous one and going one step beyond it” (155).30 Muellner demonstrates the intersection of sequence and meaning in Homeric and Hesiodic poetry.31 His research also helps with our third preparatory point. Muellner’s analysis of the metonymic sequencing of episodes and speeches provides us with a way to think about how the poet introduces competitive dynamics into sequences of similes

30

31

trace the movement from the struggles of the Theogony to those of the world of the Iliad governed by a Zeus who exercises “the ultimate sanction, mênis” (94) and to investigate the trajectory of Achilleus’ own mênis. Here, Muellner most clearly shows the relationship between his reading procedures and Kakridis’s discussion of an “ascending scale of affection” (1949). See Alden (2000: Chapter 7) for more on Kakridis’s contribution. On philotês in the speeches of Iliad 9, see also Wilson 2002a: 106. Cf. “Units of meaning are created only when images are related to each other, combined in a particular way or put into a sequence” (Honko 1998: 97).

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within episodes. The second of a pair or the last of a series of similes can seek (to borrow Muellner’s language) to “top” or “better” the preceding simile(s). In turn, to clarify the specific mechanisms of this type of sequential competition, that is, “topping” and “bettering,” when it comes to similes, I redirect two straightforward interpretative approaches that scholars have long used to connect similes: reuse and recharacterization. A central feature of Muellner’s metonymic sequence is inclusion or incorporation: in essence, actor B takes over something from actor A. In keeping with previous scholarship on the connections between similes, I shall speak not of inclusion or incorporation but of (what I take to be another way of saying essentially the same thing) reuse. In a programmatic assertion of method, Moulton speaks of the “repetition of certain motifs and details” (1977: 78) between similes. Such analysis concerns itself with a range of phenomena, from the redeployment of a given word or pattern of action to the reworking of a thematic element. I, too, shall pursue these various kinds of reuse but with a view to discerning how the poet fashions sequences of similes with competitive dynamics. That reuse should be a prominent feature in this investigation comes as no surprise given the importance of repetition in verbal dueling.32 For instance, to pick but one from a sea of examples, I cite Jon Hesk’s discussion of capping in Aristophanes (2007).33 Hesk defines 32

33

Tannen (1989: esp. 36–97) shows how repetition among speakers can be used for cooperative, not competitive, purposes. Analyzing the transcript of a dinner party conversation, she argues that repetitions reflect a speaker’s involvement in the conversation and more generally establish a sense of rapport among participants. See also Martin 1989: 77 and 220, Hesk 2006: 14, 16, and 24, and, above all, Collins 2004 (who explores capping in a range of genres). From among Collins’s many examples, I point to his discussion of Kreon and Antigone’s exchange in Aeschylus’ Seven Against Thebes (1042–53) and Chremylos and the old woman’s conversation in Aristophanes’ Wealth (1031–37) (20–22 and 49–50, respectively). For examples of the importance of sequential reuse in verbal duels and in representations of verbal duels in other cultures, see Hurston 1935: 98–102, Labov 1972: 345, and Smitherman 1986: 127–28 (all on African American sounding), Salmond 1975: 52 (Maori informants), Gossen 1976: 129–30 (Chamula informants [Chiapas]), Clover 1979 and 1980 (Norse flyting), Reichl 1992: 249–58 (Turkic oral epic), Solomon 1994: 398–99 and 402–4 (Bolivian

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capping thus: “The ripostes must linguistically and stylistically parallel the previous line(s) and yet go one better than the preceding effort” (127). Hesk argues that Aristophanes offered stylized renditions of actual speech acts performed in public: “the capping duels of Knights … also draw their dramatic and comic impact from the fact that capping genres of discourse were … a very pervasive and important part of Athenian life” (142). He quotes several examples that demonstrate “that Agoracritus can only defeat Cleon via a specific poetics of capping in which he must match and surpass Cleon’s imagery and word-play as well as its content” (145). As Hesk’s discussion makes clear, reuse was essential to actual verbal competitions enacted sequentially as well as to literary representations of such repartee. Through recharacterization as well, the poet imparts a competitive orientation to sequences of similes.34 Critics note how pairs and series of similes recharacterize an actor or set of actors. Moulton observes the progression wherein the Achaians first resemble hunters chased from their prey by a lion (Il. 15.271–80) and then cows or sheep beset by two lions (Il. 15.323–26): “It [the second simile] balances and intensifies the earlier image at 271; this time, the Greeks are not the hunters, but rather a flock or herd that is stampeded by two wild beasts” (1977: 69). The impact of the second simile comes in the recharacterization it offers from the first.35 I point again to Bergren’s discussion of Odyssey 5 quoted earlier. The string of similes about Odysseus makes its contribution to the thematic trajectory of the book precisely because each simile is a recharacterization. Similarly, Scott writes of the simile likening the wounded Agamemnon to a woman in labor, “In contrast to the preceding similes describing complete and bloody destruction, the destroyer of young deer, thickets, and cattle suddenly becomes a mother figure” (2006: 106). Again, I, too, shall be pursuing instances of recharacterization but (as with the phenomenon of reuse) with the goal of detecting the competitive dynamics of sequences

34

35

informants), Kurpershoek 1994: 91 and 1999: 64–66 and 249n163 (Bedouin poets), Erdener 1995: 107, 127, 132–35, 145–46, 182, 184, 191, and 196 (Turkish minstrels), and W. A. Collins 1998: 139 (South Sumatran oral epic). For a survey, see Edwards and Sienkewicz 1991: 115–19. Recharacterization intersects with “retitling” as used by Crocker (1977: 44), who adapts Kenneth Burke’s concept of “entitlement.” See also Janko 1992: ad 15.579–91.

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of similes. Of course, reuse and recharacterization can occur together. In the majority of pairs and series of similes examined in Chapters 4, 5, and 6, the Iliad poet puts to use the strategies outlined here.

2. SIMILES IN VERBAL DUELING

In Chapters 4 and 5, I investigate how the Iliad poet fashions sequences of similes involving character-speech so that they exhibit competitive dynamics. I suggest in this section that this arrangement should come as no surprise. In the agonistic context of verbal dueling, one speaker regularly seeks to top another’s simile. Given that the Iliad poet has his characters contest with other speakers, he may fairly be expected to make such contests involve simile.36 I reference three very different sources. First, in modern-day genres of verbal dueling speakers attempt to cap one another in the act of figuration and regularly aim to do so by building directly through reuse on their competitor’s figurative effort. Second, we can look to the symposium for two ways in which ancient Greeks contested via simile. Third, the verbal sparring in Latin poetry finds a place for similes. The performances of pairs of Turkish minstrels studied by Yildiray Erdener often contain a section of ad hominem insults. Similes play an important part in these exchanges: Ashik Çobanoğlu: As a matter of fact your walking resembles a gazelle I don’t know whether or not you can be fast But sometimes you waddle like a duck Whether or not you could swim, I don’t know.

Ashik Şeref: The troubles of ashiks have never ended In the last thirty years 36

Comparative analysis never definitively proves anything about Homeric poetry, but it does lead us to frame old questions in new ways or pay attention to previously neglected phenomena. For the caveat, see, for example, Martin 1989: 9, Lord 1995: 193, and Niles 1999: 198. Pagliai (2009) provides a survey of current research on modern-day verbal dueling.

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A Preparation for Reading Sequences of Similes As a fox, whether or not you would destroy The nests of chickens, I don’t know.

Ashik Çobanoğlu: I understand your words Some of them would be a remedy for my sores Your legs are long but your body is short, like a hare Whether or not you would go into heat, I don’t know.

Ashik Şeref: I am Şeref and telling you that my words are flexible ................. Looking at you, one can tell you’re tall like a giraffe Whether or not you would wander around, I don’t know. (1995: 185–86)

Erdener provides a helpful commentary on the exchange: In his second stanza Şeref proclaims that Çobanoğlu is a fox and destroys the nests of chickens. This was not a good idea because Çobanoğlu takes advantage of being called a fox and names Şeref a hare: … First, he implies that he is more powerful than Şeref and like a fox he can destroy chickens’ nests as well as eat a hare. Second, he questions Şeref’s masculinity by saying that he does not know whether Şeref will go into heat. To express uncertainty about someone’s manliness in an overly masculine society is a pointed humiliation. When Şeref takes his turn everyone expected he would defend himself and fire back. The audience, however, was disappointed because instead of fighting back he said that Çobanoğlu looks like a giraffe. This is neither a good defense nor a strong attack because Şeref is also as tall as Çobanoğlu and may also be described in the same way. (187; see also 122–25)

Slightly different from sounding or “playing the dozens,” a related verbal game finds African American performers “cracking on” each other.37 Similes enable a good player here as well. Edith Folb provides the following excerpt from one of her informants: Hey bro, how come you hair so nappy? Look like a cotton ball! Better get you some Madam Walker [hair preparation] walk all’round d’ edges. (1980: 90)

37

Folb 1980: 92.

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A back and forth exchange is the norm: A: Hey man, you look like a goddamn Christmas tree! You a regular caution sign! You righteously light up the whole street! B: Listen sucker, don’t be buyin’ my clothes in Woolworth like some five-anddime nigger – five cent fo’ yo’ shirt an’ dime fo’ yo’ pants! (92)

Walter Edwards’s presentation of transcripts from tantalisin sessions, an analogous form of ritual insult dueling between friends in Guyana, reveals the need to respond in kind to a challenger’s simile. When Anita answers Count’s suggestive comments with “You call yourself man? Yu get everything like a woman,” Count retorts, “Yu backside like a lay-out bird and yu showin off when decent boys like me callin you off?” (1979: 28). Let these three examples stand for the importance of responding through simile to an “adversary’s” simile in modern-day verbal duels.38 In the ancient Greek world, we also find a speaker in a formal verbal contest countering his interlocutor’s simile with one of his own. The symposium was often a site for such contestation. First, in the skolia recorded by Athenaeus, evidence emerges for competition over simile.39 In the block of four skolia (Poetae Melici Graeci 893–96) about the tyrannicides, Harmodius and Aristogeiton, the two that contain similes might have made a competitive pair. 895 reads: “In a branch of myrtle I will carry my sword just like Harmodius and Aristogeiton when at the festival of Athena they killed a tyrant Hipparchus.” The simile therein can be compared with that in 893: “In a branch of myrtle I will carry my sword just like Harmodius and Aristogeiton when 38

39

For an example of simile competition in Norse flyting, see Clover 1980: 456. For an example from an Old Germanic story, see Huizinga 1955: 68–69. Metaphor, too, is highly prized in competitive dialogic speech duels: see the classic analysis of the verbal duels of Turkish boys by Dundes et al. (1972) and Fsadni (1993: 343) for the importance of metaphor in Maltese singing duels. For one’s interlocutor in a verbal duel as a partner, rather than an opponent, see Yaqub 2007: 173–76. For the agonistic performance of skolia at the symposium, see Collins 2004: 84–134. Skolia also present analogies between unlike terms: “The sow has this acorn but wants to take that one; and I have this beautiful girl but want to take that one” (Poetae Melici Graeci 904); “The prostitute and the bath attendant constantly have the same habit: in the same basin they wash the good and bad man” (905). On these two skolia, see Collins 2004: 126–27.

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they killed the tyrant and made Athens a city of equal laws.” The simile in 895 provides more context for the killing than that in 893, whereas the simile in 893 mentions the outcome of the killing.40 It is perhaps in this particular – an emphasis on the political ramifications of slaying the tyrant – that 893 aims to better 895. Indeed, 896 runs, “Always you will have glory on the earth, dearest Harmodios and Aristogeiton, because you killed the tyrant and made Athens a city of equality before the law.” Richard Neer notes that 893 and 896 offer praise “not just for the killing of the tyrant … but specifically for ushering in the new constitution” (2002: 171). This detail rendered 893 a worthy competitor to 895. Conversely, Derek Collins observes that “the greater generalizing force produced by the lack of an article in the second couplet [of 895] could be taken to mean that Hipparchus was one from among other tyrants who was killed, or who deserved to be killed” (2004: 113). The use of ton turannon forestalls the possibility of this argument in 893. Symposiasts found other ways to joust through and over simile. Aristophanes’ Wasps provides us with a scenario that we can take as representing one form of repartee in actual symposia. Xanthias, Philokleon’s slave, reports that Lysistratos mocked the drunk Philokleon with a derogatory simile: “Old fellow, you’re like a nouveau riche teenager, or an ass that’s slipped away to a bran pile” (1309–10). Philokleon, not to be outdone, replied “with his own comparison of Lysistratus to a locust that’s lost the wings off its cloak, or Sthenelus shorn of his stage props” (1311–13).41 Apparently, Philokleon won this round: all but one of his fellow symposiasts applauded his rejoinder (1314).42 Similes also have a part to play in the verbal duels imagined by Latin poets. In his Eclogue 7, Vergil has Thyrsis and Corydon momentarily contest by way of simile in their singing match.43 C. Nereine Galatea, thymo mihi dulcior Hyblae, candidior cycnis, hedera formosior alba, cum primum pasti repetent praesepia tauri, si qua tui Corydonis habet te cura, uenito. 40 41 42 43

See Collins 2004: 112–13. Trans. Henderson 1998. For an analysis of Philokleon’s victory, see Pelliccia 2002: 204–5. For a contest over analogy, see Eclogue 3.80–83.

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T. Immo ego Sardoniis uidear tibi amarior herbis, horridior rusco, proiecta uilior alga, si mihi non haec lux toto iam longior anno est. ite domum pasti, si quis pudor, ite iuuenci. C. Galatea, child of Nereus, sweeter to me than Hybla’s thyme, whiter than snow, lovelier than pale ivy, as soon as the bulls come back from pasture to the stalls, if you have any love for your Corydon, come to me! T. Nay, let me seem to you more bitter than Sardinian herbs, more rough than gorse, viler than upcast seaweed, if even now I find not this day longer than a whole year. Go home, my well-fed steers, for very shame, go home! (37–44)44

Commentators note how Thrysis’ three similes mimic the formal features of Corydon’s similes but are diametrically opposed when it comes to content: sweet thyme versus the bitter Sardinian herbs or crowfoot; the soft down of the gleaming swan versus “the sharp spines and red berries” of the shrub gorse or butcher’s broom; the pale ivy versus the dark brown seaweed.45 An additional component of Thrysis’ response to Corydon’s similes, and one in keeping with the creation of a series of opposed images, comes in his redirecting the use of simile from praising Galatea to imagining her attitude toward the speaker.46 Catullus 62 provides another example. The singing duel between the chorus of maidens and the chorus of young men ends with a simile competition. The maidens compare a girl to a flower that as long as it remains untroubled is desired by boys and girls (pueri … puellae) (39–42). As soon as it is plucked, “no boys (pueri), no girls (puellae) want it” (44). They then apply the vehicle portion: “so a maiden, while she remains untouched, the while is she dear to her own (suis); when she has lost her chaste flower with sullied body, she remains neither lovely to the boys (pueris) nor dear to the girls (puellis)” (45–47). The maidens stake their claim by playing on the various metaphorical applications of flower. The girl is herself a flower, as is her virginity. By contrast, the young men compare the girl to a grape vine that will droop limply unless it is wedded to a tree, whereupon 44 45

46

Trans. Goold 1999: 71. See Coleman 1977: ad locc. (the description of the butcher’s broom is his), Clausen 1994: ad locc., and Fantazzi and Querbach 1985: 361–63. See Coleman 1977: ad 42; cf. Fantazzi and Querbach 1985: 362.

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“many farmers, many oxen tend it” (55). The young men explain their image: “so a maiden, while she remains untouched, the while is she aging untended; but when in ripe season she is matched in equal wedlock, she is more dear to her husband and less distasteful to her father” (56–58).47 The young men appropriate the vegetal imagery of the maidens’ simile but transfer it from the uncultivated to the cultivated, from nature to culture; they also invert the figure’s trajectory: whereas the maidens go from the positive to the negative, the young men go from the negative to the positive. Their attempt to cap the maidens’ simile is further apparent in their application of the vehicle portion. The maidens’ simile contains one pairing of a tenor with an unlike vehicle: the girl resembles a flower. The terms of the other tenor/vehicle pairing are not drawn from two different spheres: the boys and girls of the vehicle portion resemble at first “her own” (suis) (45), presumably the girl’s family, but then they resemble boys and girls (47). The simile also, therefore, argues that the girl should be concerned with what her family and other boys and girls want. The young men respond to these formulations. First, they not only claim that the girl resembles a grape vine but also suggest other possible tenor/vehicle pairings of unlike terms: the elm to which the vine is joined can correspond to the husband; the farmers and oxen who cultivate the vine can stand for the husband and father who find the married girl “dear … and less distasteful,” respectively. Second, the young men contend that the girl should not care about her whole family and her peers but specifically about her future husband and father. That the young men get in the last word at the end of the poem suggests that they win this contest.48 They assert that a newly wedded bride must obey her husband because he has been granted the authority of her parents (59–65). They thus return to and amplify a central theme of their earlier simile.49 The ability to respond to or cap a competitor’s simile is a valuable skill for a range of verbal duelers, both ancient and modern, both actual and imagined.50 We may anticipate that the Iliad poet, who regularly Trans. Goold 1988: 89. Contra Goud 1995: 28–32, who suggests that the female chorus leader speaks the last stanza. See Panoussi (2007: 291n19) on the scholarly debate over who utters the final verses. 49 Cf. Panoussi 2007: 288. 50 It is not a formal verbal duel, but one can note as well the descriptive contest involving bird imagery in Aeschylus’ Agamemnon. Klytaimestra likens Kassandra, 47

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makes his characters compete directly with other speakers in the linguistic field, will have his characters contest over simile. The result will be competitively oriented sequences of similes. 3. CONCLUSION

To prepare for the next three chapters, I note the following. Investigators of pairs and series of similes in the Iliad should explore not only those made up of similes that have the same (or a similar) vehicle but also those consisting of similes that do not use the same vehicle. Moreover, they should attend to a pair or series of similes as a sequence of images that emerges over time. In turn, to detect the competitive orientation of these sequences, critics, inspired by Muellner’s work on metonymic sequencing, can observe how a simile reacts to the previous simile(s) through reuse and recharacterization. To prepare for the next two chapters, I add the following. When it comes to sequences of similes involving similes spoken by characters, the study of their agonistic dynamics gains impetus from the importance of simile to verbal duelers. It is now time to test the hypothesis. The success of the following chapters will depend on the quality of the close readings that I offer. The connections between the similes I study in these readings will certainly be subject to debate.51 But it often happens that one simile feels the gravitational pull of another in the Iliad. Agamemnon’s war prize, to a swallow (khelidonos dikên) whose words are unintelligible to human ears (1050–51). The Chorus a bit later compares (hoia) the now raving Kassandra to a nightingale that continually laments (1142–45). Kassandra resists by first denying the aptness of the Chorus’s figuration: “Ah, the fate of the shrill nightingale! The gods gave her a winged form and a sweet life without tears. But for me there waits a cleaving with a two-edged sword” (1146–49). She further rejects the bird imagery used of her when, resolving to die, she exclaims, “Strangers, not in vain do I tremble in fear like (hôs) a bird before a bush” (1315–17). But, in gloating over her victims, Klytaimestra says of Kassandra that she died “in the manner of a swan (kuknou dikên) singing her final lament of death” (1444–45). That these similes are commonplace and even proverbial would have rendered this contest transparent to an ancient audience. 51 Cf. McGavin (2000: 122) on studying sequences of similes in Chaucer’s Troilus and Criseyde.

4 Sequences of Similes in the Character-Text

THIS CHAPTER CONCERNS THE COMPETITIVE DYNAMICS OF

one series and three pairs of similes in the Iliad’s character-text. I first examine the implicit figurative confrontations at work in a conversation that has long captured the attention of critics. In the teikhoskopia of book 3, in which the Trojans look at the assembled Greek army, all the scene’s participants speak at least one simile. I then turn to how the poet sets up more pronounced and explicit contests over simile. I explore first the exchange between Paris and Diomedes in book 11 and then two instances of these sorts of “dueling similes” between members of the same side: Odysseus’ and Nestor’s words to the troops in book 2 and Achilleus’ rejection of Agamemnon’s offer in book 9 to which Phoinix responds.

1. SIMILES IN THE TEIKHOSKOPIA

A close reading of the similes in this episode can begin with the narrator’s contention that the Trojan elders who sit with Priam resemble cicadas: γήραϊ δὴ πολέμοιο πεπαυμένοι, ἀλλ’ ἀγορηταὶ ἐσθλοί, τεττίγεσσιν ἐοικότες, οἵ τε καθ’ ὕλην δενδρέῳ ἐφεζόμενοι ὄπα λειριόεσσαν ἱεῖσι· τοῖοι ἄρα ρώων ἡγήτορες ἧντ’ ἐπὶ πύργῳ. through old age to be sure having ceased from war, but as public speakers, good, similar to cicadas, who in a wood 108

Similes in the Teikhoskopia sit on a tree and emit their delicate voice: of this sort the leaders of the Trojans sat at the tower.

109

(Il. 3.150–53)

One effect of this simile is to represent the counselors as authoritative speakers of potentially both praise and blame. On the one hand, the phrase opa leirioessan hieisi reminds one of the Muses. In Hesiod’s Theogony these goddesses have just such voices (opi leirioessêi) (41)1 and “emit their voice” (ossan hieisai) (43) when they “glorify” (kleiousin) the gods (44). In the Homeric Hymn to Artemis (27), the Muses “emit their voice” (op’ ieisai) (18) in praise of Leto, and Odysseus describes the Sirens (who in claiming to recount the deeds of the Achaians and Trojans [Od. 12.189–90] position themselves as speakers of praise) as “emitting a lovely voice” (hieisai opa kallimon) (Od. 12.192).2 The language of the simile is used in the hexameter tradition for divine speakers of praise.3 On the other hand, one can build on J. C. B. Petropoulos’ discussion of the cicada’s association with blame poetry (1994: esp. Chapter 5 and 76). Cicadas are singing when the Muses appear to Aesop to grant him speech (Vita G 6–7 Perry),4 a scene that hints at the connection between the insect and authoritative speakers of blame. The equation becomes explicit in the case of Archilochus. The iambographer met with the Muses as the Mnesiepes Inscription relates (SEG 15.517 A (E1) II 35–38), and he figures the blame poet as a cicada: “you grabbed a cicada by its wing” (τέττιγος ἐδράξω πτεροῦ) (frag. 223 West).5 Scholars err in continuing 1

2

3

4 5

Leaf (1900: ad loc.), West (1966: ad loc.), and Thalmann (1984: 142) connect the Homeric and Hesiodic passages. See also opi kalêi of the Muses at Il. 1.604, Od. 24.60, Homeric Hymn to Apollo 189, and Hesiod Theogony 68. On epic and praise, see Nagy 1990b: 150. On the Sirens’ relationship to the Muses, see Cook 1995: 59 and Doherty 1995b: 83–85 and 88; older bibliography noted at Finkelberg 1998: 95n82. Heath (2005: 56) finds that although ops “is not specifically connected with the gods, it seems to have some links to the divine.” See Nagy 1999: 315 sect. 6 note 5. Lucian explains the reference: “That one [Archilochus] then when he had been spoken of badly by someone of this sort said that the man had taken a cicada by the wing, likening himself, Archilochus, to the cicada, which is by nature talkative even when not compelled to talk, and whenever he is grabbed hold of by the wing, he shouts in an even more loud-sounding manner. And you then, he said, ill-starred man, what is your purpose in provoking a talkative poet against yourself when that poet is seeking after grounds and subjects for his iambs?” (Pseudologos 1).

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to insist that the simile denigrates the Trojan elders.6 It represents them rather as speakers who merit attention and can both laud and criticize in a capable manner. This characterization coheres with their subsequent lines on Helen when she arrives at the wall. The narrator distills their comments into one speech of command:7 οὐ νέμεσις ρῶας καὶ ἐϋκνήμιδας Ἀχαιοὺς τοιῇδ’ ἀμφὶ γυναικὶ πολὺν χρόνον ἄλγεα πάσχειν· αἰνῶς ἀθανάτῃσι θεῇς εἰς ὦπα ἔοικεν· ἀλλὰ καὶ ὧς τοίη περ ἐοῦσ’ ἐν νηυσὶ νεέσθω, μηδ’ ἡμῖν τεκέεσσί τ’ ὀπίσσω πῆμα λίποιτο. It is not a source of blame for the Trojans and well-greaved Achaians to suffer pains for a long time over a woman of this sort: terribly similar to the immortal goddesses is she in her face; but even so, although she is of this very sort, let her go away in the ships, and may she not be left behind as a pain for us and our children. (Il. 3.156–60)

The elders are able to distance themselves from Helen’s allure: although she is as beautiful as the goddesses, she is not worth it; let her go home. The simile functions as a tool of praise,8 but the old men’s larger goal is to criticize Helen’s presence at Troy because she will bring only pain (pêma) to the Trojans. Nagy’s exploration of the thematics of the word pêma reveals the type of disaster the elders dread: pêma is often linked with the devastation that Achilleus wreaks upon the Trojans and causes the Achaians by his withdrawal (1999: 62–64, 69, and 77–78). The movement in this passage from praise to blame is thrown into relief when we observe the use of the same two elements (the comparison to goddesses and the word pêma) in Hesiod’s Works and Days solely for the purpose of 6

7

8

See, for example, Barker 2009: 70. By contrast, Austin (1994: 44) finds that the simile points to the the old men’s “liquid, fragrant voice of experience.” For the consolidation of the elders’ words, see Richardson 1990: 80–82. The phrase “winged words” (epea pteroenta) at Il. 3.155 marks their performance as a command: see Martin 1989: 30–37. Note also that the first two verses of the elders’ speech declare that the Achaians and Trojans cannot be blamed for “suffering pains” (algea paskhein), that is, for engaging in activities that earn the attention and praise of poets and storytellers. The Iliad forefronts the Achaians’ pains (algea) as its subject matter

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blame. In ordering the gods to fashion Pandora, Zeus tells Hephaistos “to make her similar to the immortal goddesses in her face” (ἀθανάτῃς δὲ θεῇς εἰς ὦπα ἐίσκειν) (62). Just like the adornments given her by some of the goddesses (72–76), Pandora’s beauty is an essential component in Zeus’ plan to fashion a “sheer trick, not to be reckoned with” (83). Whereas the old Trojans praise Helen with the image, Hesiod begins his condemnation of Pandora with the simile. The passage in the Works and Days ends with Hermes naming the gods’ creation Pandora “because all the ones holding the houses on Olympus gave her as a gift, a [source of] pain (pêma) for men who labor for their bread” (81–82). Hesiod and the Trojans conclude with the same charge: Helen and Pandora are both sources of pain (pêma).9 The old men’s simile contributes integrally to their argument because it serves as a foil for the accusation that Helen is a destructive force.10 They offer a familiar rhetorical maneuver as they first put her on a pedestal only to snatch it away. The simile’s formal characteristics catch our attention and thereby ensure that we appreciate the simile’s central role in the old men’s argument. The old men’s image stands out when juxtaposed with other similes likening a mortal to a god. One discerns a contrast with other similes in which the tenor is a female. In the Iliad, Briseis (19.282 and 286), Hekamede (11.638), Kassandra (24.699), and Kasteineira (8.305) are also compared to a generic goddess or goddesses, as is Nausikaa in the Odyssey (6.16 and 7.291). Penelope is said to be “similar to Artemis or golden Aphrodite” (Od. 17.37 and 19.54).11 Helen alone receives the simile in regard to a specific attribute, her face.

9

10

11

(1.2) (see Nagy 1999: 65 and 74–75). The Odyssey draws attention straightaway to the fact that the hero “suffered pains” (pathen algea) (1.4). On suffering pain as one mark of a hero, see Cook 1999. Constantinidou (2004) explores various parallels in a range of texts between Helen and Pandora. See also Worman 2002: 87 and Blondell 2010: 15 (with her note 61 for additional bibliography). Constantinidou examines the connections between Helen in Iliad 3 and Pandora (as a thauma that brings pêma) in the Theogony (2004: 200–2) and later introduces the simile from Il. 3.158 and Works and Days 62 into that analysis (219 with note 157). Cf. Moulton’s assertion that the simile at Il. 3.158 “is functional in context. … Her beauty and destructiveness are simply but powerfully concentrated” (1977: 92). See Parry 1973: 218–23 (Appendix II, List 10). Parry includes passages from the Odyssey that are not similes in her list: Hermione, Helen’s daughter, “has

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Other characters come close: Kastianeira is “similar to the goddesses in respect to her body (demas)” (Il. 8.305), and Nausikaa is “similar to the immortal goddesses in respect to her stature and form” (Od. 6.16). The specificity of the tenor, Helen’s face, allies this simile with the varieties that the narrator applies to men: Talthybios is “similar to a god in respect to his voice” (Il. 19.250); Euphorbos’ hair and locks are “similar to the Graces” (Il. 17.51–52); Agamemnon’s eyes, head, lower abdomen, and chest recall the corresponding parts of various gods (Il. 2.478–79). In addition, the composition of the old men’s verse differs from the composition of the other similes comparing a mortal to a god, be they applied to men or women. First, whereas the words athanatos and theos appear together in constative statements, such as “because he was hateful to all the immortal gods” (Il. 6.140), other similes do not use both athanatos and theos. Either theos stands alone (e.g., Il. 8.305, 11.638, and 19.286; Od. 1.371 and 7.291) or athanatos is used substantively (e.g., Il. 1.265, 4.394, and 11.60; Od. 7.5 and 8.14). The only exception in either Homeric epic occurs when the narrator speaks of Laertes as “similar to the immortal gods” (ἀθανάτοισι θεοῖς ἐναλίγκιον) (Od. 24.371). Returning to Il. 3.158, we can fill out a T scholion’s judgment that “for the purpose of hyperbole both words are used” (Erbse 1969, 1: ad 3.158b). The elders stress the vehicle with an adjective plus noun combination that is predictable, but nonetheless relatively rare, in such a context. Second, only two other examples of the “man like god” figure employ the introductory word eoiken: “now he/you are similar to the gods who hold the wide sky” (Od. 6.243 [a simile] and 16.200 [a comparison], respectively). Furthermore, with one exception, all other similes of this type position the introductory word (be it eikuia, enaligkios, epieikelos, homoios, ikelos, or isos) right next to the divine vehicle.12 The elders’ presentation differs

12

the form of golden Aphrodite” (4.14); Nausikaa’s maids “have beauty from the Graces” (6.18); Nausikaa “has beauty from the gods” (8.457); Hera and Artemis beautify the daughters of Pandaros (20.70–71). When Odysseus encounters Nausikaa, he likens her to Artemis: but because she very well could be Artemis, this image should not be thought of as merely a simile that seeks to compare two unlike terms; see Ready 2008: 473. I exclude these passages from my discussion. The one exception is the description of the sleeping Nausikaa at Od. 6.16: κοιμᾶτ’ ἀθανάτῃσι φυὴν καὶ εἶδος ὁμοίη (she slept similar to the immortal goddesses in respect to her stature and form).

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in that “in her face” splits the introductory eoiken and the vehicle, “the immortal goddesses.” All told, the elders fashion a distinctive utterance that perhaps validates the narrator’s likening them to cicadas.13 Its use in the only physical description of Helen in the epic and in the highly anticipated moment of her first appearance demonstrates just how valued the device of simile is.14 But we can also pay attention to who is speaking. The credit for this verbal production accrues to the old men. In turning to a formally distinct image to make their argument, they immediately show simile to be part of their repertoire as skilled talkers. That the speech representing a distillation of several speeches contains a simile could be taken to suggest that the elders frequently use the device. Priam manifests a different understanding of the situation when he claims that Helen is not to blame (ou … aitiê) (Il. 3.164). He asks her to sit by him and to name the Achaian warriors on the plain below.15 He thus begins to shift the gaze of the old men from Helen to the Achaians.16 Moreover, whereas the elders used simile in an attempt to ward off Helen, Priam soon employs the device when eliciting the name of an Achaian chief from Helen.17 Priam compares Odysseus twice over to a ram: αὐτὸς δὲ κτίλος ὣς ἐπιπωλεῖται στίχας ἀνδρῶν· ἀρνειῷ μιν ἔγωγε ἐΐσκω πηγεσιμάλλῳ, ὅς τ’ οἰῶν μέγα πῶϋ διέρχεται ἀργεννάων. and he himself like a ram roams among the ranks of men: I liken him to a thick-fleeced ram, who goes through a great flock of shining sheep.

13

14

15

16

17

(3.196–98)

Cf. “The elders prove worthy of their characterization [as cicadas] with their lines on Helen” (Moulton 1977: 92). On Helen’s being described only here, see Clader 1976: 12 and Moulton 1977: 92. See Minchin (2007: 185 and 259) for Priam’s desire “to engage Helen in conversation” (quotation on 259); cf. Lowe 2000: 109n8. See idêi at verse 163, the deictic tonde at 166, and idon at 169. For Helen as spectacle, see Austin 1994: 31, 36, and 42; for Priam’s shifting Helen “from spectacle to spectator,” see 44. Priam’s characterization as a performer in this scene has already been signaled by his recollection at Il. 3.184–90.

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The poet elsewhere builds on a short simile with a longer simile on the same topic: Patroklos’ simile comparing Kebriones to a diver, for instance, immediately follows the narrator’s own description of the Trojan as a diver (Il. 16.734–50).18 Yet, only in the case of Priam’s speech in Iliad 3 are both the shorter and longer simile found in the speech of a character. The diction Priam employs also makes the similes stand out: ktilos only occurs one other time, also in a simile (Il. 13.492), and pêgesimallos is a hapax legomenon. Lastly, one notes Priam’s use of the emphatic pronoun egôge and the first person singular eiskô, the inceptive form of the verb employed by the old men (eoike). With this rare form of introduction, Priam asserts his own figurative abilities and privileges himself as the generative force behind the second simile. By drawing attention to his images, Priam draws attention to what he is doing with them: his use of simile as he continues his conversation with Helen stands in contrast to the elders’ use of simile to dismiss her. The similes look back to the one just before.19 After Helen names Odysseus (Il. 3.199–202), Antenor responds to Priam’s inquiring similes with explanatory figures of his own.20 He recollects how Odysseus and Menelaos once came on an embassy to Troy to talk about Helen (3.205) and relates the judgments passed on each speaker. Menelaos spoke easily but briefly (3.213–15), whereas Odysseus, who at first seemed like a simpleton (ἀΐδρεϊ φωτὶ ἐοικώς) (3.219), let the words flow like snowflakes in winter (ἔπεα νιφάδεσσιν ἐοικότα χειμερίῃσιν) (3.221–22).21 The figures reflect Antenor’s verbal dexterity. 18 19

20

21

See Chapter 5 (subsection 1.2) for discussion of this pair of similes. The impulse (see, e.g., Moulton 1977: 93n14) to see instead in these similes a citation of the simile comparing Agamemnon to a bull (Il. 2.480) does not pay sufficient attention to the dynamics of the present scene. That both Achaians are compared to livestock is not reason enough to connect the passages. “He [Antenor] builds on what has just been said, both by Priam about Odysseus’ appearance and by Helen about his strategic skills” (Minchin 2007: 260). For a negative assessment of Antenor’s speech, see Roisman 2005: 111–12. Note the use of hiei of Odysseus’ speaking at Il. 3.221 and hieisi of the cicadas at 3.152.

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In the initial comparison, Antenor uses an adjective (aidris) that only appears elsewhere in the Homeric epics when Hermes applies it to Odysseus as the hero is on his way to Circe’s house (Od. 10.282). For its part, the noun aidreiê “ignorance” occurs only in the Odyssey. Odysseus’ men enter Circe’s house in ignorance of her sorcery (see Od. 10.231=10.257). Circe warns Odysseus about the fates of those who listen to the Sirens in ignorance of the effects of their singing (Od. 12.41). In both these cases, it is Odysseus’ ability to avoid the state of ignorance that allows him to continue his nostos. I find a similar point behind Odysseus’ statement that Epikaste married her own son Oedipus “in the ignorance (aidreiêisi) of her mind” (Od. 11.272). Odysseus, by contrast, is not ignorant when it comes to the matter of marriage: in declining to marry Calypso (see Od. 1.14–15 and 5.203–20) and then later Nausikaa (see Od. 6.244–45, 7.311–15, and 7.331–33), he shows, himself fully aware of the true nature of his heroic quest. The aidr-family of words seems especially relevant to Odysseus and the Odyssey tradition, and Antenor stands out as the speaker who applies it to Odysseus in the Iliad.22 For its part, the snow simile strikingly unites sight and sound, as a visual idea is used to describe the impact of the oral and aural.23 More specifically, we can build on a b scholion’s contention that the simile points to the “fearful shivering (phrikên) of the listeners” (Erbse 1969, 1: ad 3.222a1). Broadly speaking, the narrator compares to snow entities linked explicitly or implicitly with violence. Snow similes appear in battle narratives in which they describe falling missiles (see. Il. 12.156–60 and Il. 12.278–89) or the flash of armor (Il. 19.357–61). The narrator describes Iris’ descent to the battlefield as similar to that of snow or hail 22

23

The word probably does not occur at Il. 7.198. Toward the end of a speech, Aias says to Hektor, “For no one will willingly put me to flight when I am unwilling either by force (biêi) or by skill (idreiêi) in any way” (7.197–98). Aristarchus and Aristophanes read idreiêi (skill) against the manuscripts that have aidreiêi (folly) (Erbse 1971, 2: ad 7.198a1). Because the dative biêi in 197 refers to the subject, so should the contested dative in 198. If aidreiêi is chosen, it would have to refer to Aias’ own folly. I concur, then, with Monro and Allen’s reading of idreiêi. For the term “Odyssey tradition” (as opposed to, e.g., the “Odysseus tradition”), see Marks 2008: 12–13. See Nannini (2003: 53–57) on this juxtaposition.

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(Il. 15.170–72). She brings a message from Zeus to Poseidon: he must withdraw from the battle or “he himself intending to fight with you face to face will come here” (15.174–83). Through Iris, Zeus suppresses and compels. Appropriately, she performs her own act of symbolic violence when she reminds Poseidon that the Furies always side with the elder (15.203–4).24 Antenor’s simile should be understood in light of these other similes. He depicts Odysseus’ words as instruments of violence by comparing them to snow, and the validity of that characterization emerges in the next verse. Antenor notes that Odysseus stopped anyone from arguing with him: “no other mortal then could contend in words with Odysseus” (Il. 3.223). We may also be intended to read a bit more into this assertion by way of simile that Odysseus’ words are mechanisms of force. Antimachos had suggested in contravention of all custom that the Trojans kill Menelaos during this embassy to Troy (Il. 11.138–42). Odysseus’ words are like snow because they are to be understood as weapons with which he actively countered the threat of a Trojan assault.25 Priam used similes in seeking to learn the identity of Odysseus. In response, Antenor educates his audience through figure about Odysseus. His descriptions offer specific information on how the Ithakan behaved in a specific context. Helen, however, gets in the last word. The episode has in fact already drawn attention to Helen as a speaker. There is a notable connection between speaking and the “attendance motif” discussed by Nagler in which a woman enters the public sphere accompanied by her handmaidens (1974: passim).26 In Iliad 3 two handmaidens escort Helen to the wall: “not alone, together with her also two handmaidens followed” (οὐκ οἴη, ἅμα τῇ γε καὶ ἀμφίπολοι δύ’ ἕποντο) (3.143). In the Odyssey, the line appears twice in the same form (1.331 and 18.207) and two more 24

25

26

Note as well the movement from snow to the “great mouth of piercing war” in the vehicle portion of the simile likening the frequency of Agamemnon’s groans to Zeus’ lightning (Il. 10.5–9) (see Hainsworth 1993: ad loc.). Rosenmeyer (1978: 210–15) investigates the connections between violence and snow imagery. As for Antenor’s simile, Rosenmeyer comments, “[T]he emphasis is once again on density, swiftness, and sheer energy” (215). Contra Mackie 1996: 38, who writes, “Antenor recalls a more peaceful occasion on which Menelaos and Odysseus came as an embassy to negotiate for Helen’s return and were graciously entertained by him.” Nagler (1974: 65) focuses on “an explicit identification of chastity as the quality conferred by the motif.”

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times with a different, but metrically equivalent, phrase at the end: kion allai instead of du’ heponto (6.84 and 19.601).27 In each instance the woman participates in a conversation. In the presence of the suitors, Penelope addresses the bard, Phemios, (Od. 1.336–44) and later Telemachos (Od. 18.215–25). The motif marks her departure from her conversation with the disguised Odysseus (Od. 19.601) and is also applied to Nausikaa’s departure from her house in Odyssey 6 when she is destined to meet and engage in a lengthy discussion with Odysseus (Od. 6.84). Other instances of the attendance motif that are not expressed in precisely the same formulae as those noted so far nonetheless exhibit the same connection with speaking. Accompanied by handmaidens, Penelope (Od. 16.413 and 21.64) addresses the suitors (Od. 16.418–33 and 21.68–79, respectively).28 Followed into the room by several attendants (Od. 4.123–34), Helen engages Menelaos and Telemachos in conversation. With two attendants at her heels, Andromache rushes to the wall to learn the fate of Hektor (Il. 22.450; cf. 461) and begins a long lament (22.477–514) “among the Trojan women” (22.476). Helen’s entrance in the company of two attendants is part of a larger story pattern in which such a woman speaks soon after. An additional element, however, casts Helen not merely as one who speaks but also as an authoritative speaker. The narrator labels Helen’s initial reply to Priam a muthos: “And she responded to him with words (muthoisin)” (Il. 3.171). Helen will now speak authoritatively in a public setting before an audience capable of responding and judging her answers.29 Toward the end of the scene, Helen specifies from where precisely her authority as a speaker comes in this setting: “I see all the quick-eyed Achaians whom I could easily recognize and could name authoritatively (ounoma muthêsaimên)” (Il. 3.234–35). Although only at the invitation of the male leader, Priam (3.161–70),30 Helen successfully inserts herself into the male-dominated linguistic field by assigning names.31 That 27 28

29 30 31

See Nagler 1974: 65. Rubin (1995: 216–18) corroborates this paragraph’s argument when it comes to Penelope: on the four occasions in which Penelope is escorted by “Two attendants” she “Gives [an] order” (see his Table 9.5 at 218). See Worman 2002: 49. Elmer (2005: 19) argues that Helen is not dependent on Priam in this scene. Compare Kallidike in the Homeric Hymn to Demeter who also positions herself as a namer (onomênô, 149), but does so among a group entirely made up of women. For the importance of Helen’s name giving in Iliad 3, see Jamison

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is, throughout the scene Helen establishes herself as an authoritative interpellator.32 Only after her identifications can Priam and Antenor offer their further comments on Agamemnon and Odysseus. She effectively brings each Achaian into discrete existence in this scene.33 In this context Helen’s description of Idomeneus, “like a god” (Il. 3.230), merits attention:34 Ἰδομενεὺς δ’ ἑτέρωθεν ἐνὶ Κρήτεσσι θεὸς ὣς and Idomeneus on the other side among the Cretans like a god

Contrast Odysseus’ description of the Cretan Kastor: ὃς τότ’ ἐνὶ Κρήτεσσι θεὸς ὣς τίετο δήμῳ (Od. 14.205) [Kastor] who then among the Cretans was honored by the people like a god

Excluding Il. 3.230, there are in the two epics twenty-seven similes offering this argument (that some mortal is looked upon as a god) in

32

33

34

1994. Helen also emerges as a namer in the Odyssey. She identifies Telemachos by name (4.138–46), and Menelaos tells a story about how Helen circled the Trojan horse calling each Achaian by name (Od. 4.278) (see Chapter 2 [subsection 3.2] for more discussion of this scene). Martin (2003: 127–28) argues that Helen’s naming in Menelaos’ anecdote marks her as a lamenter. For the concept of interpellation, see Althusser 1989: 61–102 and Butler 1997: 5. If we wish to see Helen not just as an authoritative speaker but also as an authorial figure in this scene, we can extend this argument. Helen functions as “the author of what is essentially a second catalogue” (Clader 1976: 9) because she takes on the cataloguer’s duty of naming. (Tsagalis [2008: 126] asks, “Was Helen particularly linked to catalogues in epic poetry?” See also Elmer [2005: 26–29] on how the catalogue of ships in Iliad 2 resembles the teikhoskopia.) Clader (1976) shows that the Homeric corpus elsewhere associates Helen with authorship and poetry; cf. Suzuki 1989: 66–70 and Austin 1994: 41 and 78. Doherty (1995b: 86–88) discerns similarities between Helen and the Sirens (and so the Muses as well). As noted earlier, Martin (2003) sees Helen as “a professional keener” (123) who “represents lament” (128). Elmer (2005) argues that Helen operates not as an epic poet but as an epigrammatist. For Helen’s poetic affiliations and, more broadly, her authoritative speaking in the Odyssey, see Worman 2001: 30–36. Kirk (1985: ad 3.229–33) counters Shipp’s attempts to reject Helen’s simile as a later interpolation.

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this form,35 and, as in Od. 14.205, twenty-one of them are focalized by someone other than the speaker. The ones not so constructed are in the distinct minority and are only in the Odyssey. Peisistratos speaks to Menelaos: “whose voice we delight in like that of a god” (Od. 4.160). Odysseus addresses Achilleus: “for before we Argives used to honor you while you were alive equally as we did the gods” (Od. 11.484–85).36 Just so, it is Helen’s point of view that emerges in her description of Idomeneus: she does not attribute the characterization of Idomeneus as a god to anyone else. The simile provides a suitable ending to her participation in this conversation with the elite males of Troy. Helen begins as the discussed object, but soon becomes in her role as namer far more integral to the discussion than the elders. She concludes by taking over the vehicle (see again ἀθανάτῃσι θεῇς, Il. 3.158) of the elders’ simile in such a moment of naming, and her implicit assertion of her own role as focalizer of the simile emphasizes that act of appropriation.37 Indeed, if a bT scholion is correct in seeing the simile as based on the beauty of Idomeneus, Helen seeks to bring out the same quality in the tenor as the old men did in her case.38 Fittingly, no longer prompted by Priam, Helen at this point voices her own concerns, pondering her brothers’ motivations for their absence from the battlefield (Il. 3.236–42).39 This scene demonstrates the importance of simile in a social context. All the participants in the conversation try to keep up by deploying

35

36 37

38

39

This figure includes similes introduced either by hôs or by forms of isos: Il. 5.78, 9.155, 9.297, 9.302, 9.603, 10.33, 11.58, 12.312, 13.218, 16.605, 22.394, and 22.434; Od. 4.160, 5.36, 7.11, 7.71, 8.173, 8.453, 8.467, 11.484, 13.231, 14.205, 15.181, 15.520, 19.280, 22.349, and 23.339. Il. 12.176 is irrelevant. See also Od. 8.467, 13.231, 15.181, and 22.349. See, again, Worman (2001) for Helen as an “appropriative speaker” (quotation on 36) and (2002: 102) for Helen’s “vacillation between viewed object and viewing audience.” Tsagalis observes “a brilliant wordplay” between the old men’s use of athanatêisi (Il. 3.158) and Helen’s thanatos at (3.173) (2008: 116n24) and suggests other instances of “intratextual mirroring” between Helen’s and Antenor’s speeches (131–32; quotation on 132). A bT scholion notes on this line “tôi kallei” “because of his beauty” (Erbse 1969, 1: ad 3.230b). But the commentator might have been influenced by the old men’s simile. Cf. Louden 2006: 62.

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simile (or in Antenor’s case a comparison and a simile) so as to respond, however subtly, to a previous use of the device. Three other scenes show that confrontations over simile can be far more explicit. 2. DUELING SPOKEN SIMILES

The poet will have a character speak a simile that responds directly to a simile uttered by another character in the immediately preceding speech.40 At these moments, the agonistics of simile come to the fore: the phenomena of reuse and recharacterization discussed in Chapter 3 (section 1) are more apparent than in the similes of the teikhoskopia. 2.1. Paris and Diomedes In a textbook case of a flyting match,41 the poet has Paris figure himself as the shepherd defending the helpless Trojan flocks, but then makes Diomedes reject Paris’ self-fashioning and recharacterize the prince as “a woman or child.” In the midst of a Trojan onslaught in Iliad 11, Diomedes and Odysseus resolve to take a stand. Their stubborn defense garners a simile in which they are likened to boars who “hurl themselves in their pride upon the hounds who pursue them” (11.324–25). This truncated description alludes to the lengthier descriptions of a hunted boar wheeling on its attackers and continues the earlier figuration of the scene at 11.292–95 in which the Trojans attack like hunters and dogs, pursuing a boar or a lion. The two Achaians slaughter Trojans until Paris strikes Diomedes on the foot with a shot from his bow. At this point Paris addresses his disabled enemy, expressing the wish that he had mortally wounded Diomedes: 40

41

This analysis of dueling similes provides further evidence for the intricate connections between successive speeches in the epics. Lohmann (1970) reveals the principles of balance that unite paired speeches and the thematic relationships between them that can emerge from those arrangements. Parks (1990) examines the competitive speech duels (flyting) in which heroes attempt to best their opponents verbally. Beck (2005a) studies successive Homeric speeches as conversation. See Parks 1990: 62.

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ὁ δὲ μάλα ἡδὺ γελάσσας ἐκ λόχου ἀμπήδησε καὶ εὐχόμενος ἔπος ηὔδα· “βέβληαι, οὐδ’ ἅλιον βέλος ἔ́κφυγεν· ὡς ὄφελόν τοι νείατον ἐς κενεῶνα βαλὼν ἐκ θυμὸν ἑλέσθαι. οὕτω κεν καὶ ρῶες ἀνέπνευσαν κακότητος, οἵ τέ σε πεφρίκασι λέονθ’ ὡς μηκάδες αἶγες.” But he laughing very merrily leapt out from his ambush spot and boasting spoke a word: “You have been hit, nor did the arrow fly in vain; would that I had hit you in the lower part of the stomach and taken away your spirit. In that case the Trojans would have also gotten a break from misery, they who shudder in terror at the sight of you like bleating goats before a lion.” (Il. 11.378–83)

Paris boasts that he has succeeded in striking Diomedes. His simile then seems to make a different point. He insults his own men by comparing them to hapless victims – bleating goats. He raised the ire of a scholiast (bT) in so doing: “but it is the mark of a senseless man to insult his own people in front of the enemy” (Erbse 1973, 3: ad 11.383b).42 The antagonistic relationship that runs throughout the poem between Paris and the Trojans resurfaces here (cf. Il. 3.451–54). At the same time, keeping in mind that the simile evokes a much larger scene, we can detect an additional boast provided by the figure’s resonance. Paris portrays himself as the defender of the Trojans. Paris most likely speaks here of a herd of domesticated goats. Three of the other four occurrences of the phrase mêkades aiges “bleating goats” in the Homeric epics refer to such herds (Il. 23.31 and Od. 9.244 and 9.341). Just so, the only other mention of the sound of goats in the poems is when Odysseus hears the goats of the Cyclopes (phthoggên … aigôn) (Od. 9.167). The one exception to the use of the phrase “bleating goats” to refer to domesticated herds is Odysseus’ mention of the 42

Cf. Heath (2005: 66) on the Trojans’ being compared to bleating sheep in the narrator-text (Il. 4.433–35): “The image is not flattering to the Trojans. To be compared to animals – passive, domesticated, female sheep at that – especially in terms of language, would be a direct insult if uttered by anyone but the poet.”

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goats on the island facing the Cyclopes (Od. 9.124). Odysseus, however, cannot help but imagine the possibilities for cultivating the island and domesticating the animals on it (9.116–39).43 Consideration of the other references to a plurality of goats in the poems also prompts the conclusion that Paris is speaking of domestic herds. With two exceptions (Od. 9.118–19 and 17.294) the plural of aix is used in reference to goats from herds being sacrificed and eaten (e.g., Il. 1.315–16, 1.40–41 and 24.34 and Od. 2.56, 2.300, and 17.180 [cf. Works and Days 585 and 589]) or to goats being herded (e.g., Il. 2.474, 11.295, and 11.678 and Od. 14.101–6, 17.213, and 20.174 [cf. Theogony 445]). Melanthios’ one epithet aipolos aigôn consistently reminds us that goats in the plural are domesticated. Apart from again Od. 9.118–19 and 17.294, wild goats are usually encountered in the singular (Il. 3.23–24, 4.105–8, and 15.271–76 [cf. Aspis 407]).44 If Paris indeed refers to domesticated goats, his simile would first and foremost bring to mind other similes in which a lion attacks such a herd. To be sure, goats that are not necessarily domesticated or goats that are wild appear together with lions elsewhere in similes in the Iliad. The Aiantes grab the corpse of the Trojan ally Imbrios and carry it off “as two lions catch up a goat from the guard of sharp-fanged (karxarodontôn) hounds” (Il. 13.198–99). The Achaians are said to flee before Hektor just like hunters and their dogs who pursue a wild goat or stag only to be scared off from their pursuit by a lion (Il. 15.271–76). Menelaos is compared to a lion coming upon the corpse of a deer or wild goat (Il. 3.23–28). The connection between Paris’ simile and similes of this sort is undeniable, but although the first image may possibly refer to an attack upon a herd of goats,45 the next two clearly do not. Similes 43 44

45

See Dougherty 2003: 43–44. Tragos “he-goat” appears in the plural and refers to Polyphemos’ flocks in its one appearance in the Homeric poems (Od. 9.239). Eriphos “kid/young goat” appears seven times in the poems, always in the plural and always in reference to domesticated flocks. Janko (1992: ad 13.198) gives equal weight to the possibilities that the simile refers to a hunt (as at Il. 15.271–76) or to lions raiding a flock. Much rests on the implications of the epithet for the dogs. Karxarodontôn “sharp-fanged” is clearly used for hunting dogs at Il. 10.360 and the Hesiodic Aspis 303. Conversely, in the Works and Days, Hesiod describes guard dogs with the

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that adhere more strictly to the variables comprising Paris’ image should be privileged in an investigation into its traditional connotations. I take those variables to be: attacking lion, domesticated goats (in the plural) or, if there is no reference to goats, herds of domesticated animals more generally. The only sure instance of a simile describing a lion falling upon a domesticated herd of goats occurs in the Doloneia. Diomedes slaughters the sleeping Thracians “as a lion advancing on the unshepherded (asêmantoisin) flocks of sheep or goats pounces upon them with wicked intention” (Il. 10.485–86). The shepherd’s carelessness in letting his animals wander around unwatched gives the lion an opportunity. The allusion to a shepherd here is consistent with other similes involving a lion and a domesticated herd that also would have informed Paris’ image given that they, too, employ the variables lion and plurality of domesticated animals. Like the simile at Il. 10.485–88, these similes often introduce or allude to a shepherd or others who practice animal husbandry and are capable of at least trying to ward off the attacker.46 In the simile at Il. 5.136–43, a shepherd (poimên) makes an unsuccessful attempt to kill a lion that is attacking his sheep (cf. Il. 18.161–64). At Il. 12.299–308 the herdsmen (bôtoras andras) confront a hungry lion that is not daunted by their presence. At Il. 15.323–26 two thêre, most likely to be thought of as lions, ravage a flock at night when the shepherd (sêmantoros) is not present. In a scene on Achilleus’ shield, two lions attack a bull before the herdsmen (nomêes) and their dogs can scare them off (Il. 18.577–86).47 The defenders can, however, succeed. At Il. 11.548–55 the agroiôtai “country/rustic men” and dogs manage to fend off the intruding beast. That the simile is repeated nearly verbatim at Il. 17.657–64 suggests that it presents a scenario routinely evoked in similes. The shepherd (nomeus) found in another simile “does not yet (ou pô) know clearly” how to drive off an intruder (thêri) from his flocks, but presumably he will learn (Il. 15.630–38).

46 47

adjective (604 and 795). The adjective argiodous “having white teeth” refers to hunting dogs in its one appearance in reference to dogs (Il. 11.292). Contra Lonsdale 1990: 68. The herdsman (boukolon) killed by a lion in the simile at Il. 15.586–88 most likely died while trying to repel the intruder.

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This preparation allows for the following proposal: Paris pointedly excludes himself from those who fear Diomedes as they fear a lion and casts himself instead in the implicit role of the defender of the flocks. He alone had the opportunity to ward off the marauding lion from the helpless domesticated animals. His argument gains traction because another famous story treated by epic poets situates Paris among his flocks. In describing Paris’ choice between Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite, the Cypria places him on Mount Ida (arg. 7), where the Trojans shepherd their flocks, and the Iliad puts him in his messaulos (24.29), a place where animals are kept, if one extrapolates from the word’s other occurrences (cf. Il. 17.112 and 17.657 and Od. 10.435 [Polyphemos’ cave]).48 Paris depicts himself as a protector. With his bow at the ready only Paris stands between the Trojans and death. The injury inflicted by Paris soon compels Diomedes to withdraw from the battle (Il. 11.399–400). Downplaying the severity of his wound, however, Diomedes fights back with the only weapon he can now wield: his words.49 Diomedes responds to Paris’ boastful wish and assessment of the situation with a flurry of insults: τοξότα, λωβητήρ, κέρᾳ ἀγλαέ, παρθενοπῖπα, Archer, disgrace, lovely in your locks,50 ogler of girls,

(Il. 11.385)

I stress the sequence of epithets: Paris is a bowman, an object of blame, and concerned only with his appearance and looking at girls.51 48

49

50

51

Nickel (2002: 218–20) reminds us that these stories do not prove that Paris was a “full-time shepherd” in “the oral epic tradition”: only in the fifth century do we get references to his upbringing on Mount Ida as a shepherd (e.g., Pindar Paean 8a) (cf. Allan 2005: 2n6). In any event, Paris is definitively a herdsman in, for example, Euripides’ Hekabe 646 and 944, and he wears the garb of one on a Pontic amphora dated to 530 bce (Munich 837) (see Gantz 1993: 569). For (at the very least) a fifth-century audience, Paris’ self-representation as a shepherd resonates even more. For discussions of this speech in relation to the debate over the value of archery in the epics, see Mackie 1996: 50–53 and Mackie 2008: 101–2. I borrow Lattimore’s translation for this difficult phrase (1951: 244). Mackie (1996: 51) offers “wearer of pretty love-locks.” See Suter 1991. Heath (2005: 149–51) argues that lôbêtêr is used of one who brings humiliation upon others “especially with regards to the violation of

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Diomedes’ initial critique rejects Paris’ assertion of the value of the bow by associating the weapon with one who exhibits behavior unfit for the true warrior. Diomedes continues in this vein: εἰ μὲν δὴ ἀντίβιον σὺν τεύχεσι πειρηθείης, οὐκ ἄν τοι χραίσμῃσι βιὸς καὶ ταρφέες ἰοί· if in fact you should make trial of me face-to-face with armor and weapons, your bow and close-packed arrows would not protect you; (11.386–87)

With teukhea, Diomedes refers to not only armor but also weapons used in fighting at close quarters, namely, the spear and sword. He imagines a battlefield scenario in which Paris and he are fighting one another handto-hand with such weapons, that is, in which Paris does not have use of his bow, and he, Diomedes, predicts that he would easily defeat Paris. Diomedes’ point is that Paris is not a real fighter, one skilled when it comes to close combat. Diomedes then presses his verbal attack with a simile. The immediately preceding events, he claims, prove the archer Paris’ failings. Paris has merely “grazed” the top of Diomedes’ foot (11.388). The wound is so slight, the Achaian claims, that it is “as if a women or senseless child should hit me” (ὡς εἴ με γυνὴ βάλοι ἢ πάϊς ἄφρων) (11.389). Diomedes denies the efficacy of Paris’ shot, as the next verse, constructed with the help of an initial gar as an explanation for the verse containing the simile, affirms: “For (gar) the missile of an insignificant man without courage is blunt” (11.390). On the one hand, Diomedes may be saying that Paris is no better with his bow than a woman or child would be, neither of whom could be expected to do much damage with the weapon. On the other hand, he may envision a different point of comparison: the thing that Paris hit Diomedes with, an arrow, is no different from the thing a woman or child might hit Diomedes with, presumably something not normally used in combat. The point would be that just as the “weapon” of a woman or child fails to do much guest-host relationships and the failure to bury the dead” (quotation on 150). His chart at 151n87 shows just how much difficulty translators have with this word. Mackie (1996: 51) connects parthenopipa with the supposed cowardly behavior of an archer.

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damage, so too does Paris’ arrow. Diomedes suggests that Paris may as well have not been using a real weapon at all. At the same time, the simile can be understood to be likening Paris himself to a woman or child (note that Diomedes uses the same verb [baloi] for what the woman or child does as Paris used of his own feat [beblêai, 11.380]) and thereby arguing that his action has shown Paris not to be a true warrior. Diomedes declares that Paris belongs not on the battlefield but, where the simile is presumably set, at home. Linking Paris to the domestic is effective because it takes sides in the running debate in early Greek epic over Paris’ martial abilities. On the one hand, Hektor believes that Paris is a good fighter but does not apply himself (Il. 6.520–23). On the other hand, there is the characterization that Diomedes taps into. Paris can be cast as a “stay-at-home,” to borrow the language of Norse flyting. For instance, when Aphrodite snatches Paris from the clutches of Menelaos, she leaves him, cleaned up and looking like a choral dancer (Il. 3.392–94), to await Helen in their bedchamber (3.382). Aphrodite “resituates him in the setting more suited to his type.”52 With his simile, then, Diomedes continues his condemnation of Paris as an archer. At the same time, the figure works prospectively as well. Whereas Paris’ lack of martial skill is seen in his similarity to a woman (gunê ), probably a wife, or child (pais), Diomedes’ status as an exemplary warrior emerges in the pain he inflicts on wives and children: when a man faces Diomedes in battle, “his wife’s (gunaikos) cheeks are torn in mourning, and his children (paides) are orphaned” (Il. 11.393–94). Diomedes makes simile an integral part of his argument. Let us note, then, that in responding to Paris who used a simile to assert his own place in the battle as protector of the Trojans, Diomedes recharacterizes Paris and his martial act with a simile of his own. He counters the Trojan prince’s figurative representation of the scene. 2.2. Odysseus and Nestor The poet sets up another contest over simile when Odysseus and Nestor address their agitated troops in Iliad 2. Odysseus compares the Achaians to weeping children and widows, that is, to those who have suffered a 52

Worman 2002: 104.

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loss. Nestor rises to speak right after Odysseus and begins by immediately reusing one element of Odysseus’ simile, that the Achaians resemble children, for his own rhetorical purposes, namely, to question their skill in battle. In Iliad 2 the Achaians are thrilled by the prospect of leaving Troy after Agamemnon tells them their cause is hopeless. The narrator uses a pair of similes to describe the vigor with which they break up the assembly: the scene resembles what happens when wind rouses waves and when wind stirs grain (Il. 2.144–49). This doubling up of simile imparts a great degree of intensity to the Achaians’ rush to their ships. At the behest of Athena, however, Odysseus enjoins the kings to bring their men back to the meeting place. The Achaians retrace their steps, although without quite the same energy with which they left: a simile compares the din of the returning troops to a wave crashing on the beach (2.209–10). When contrasted with the previous use of two similes over five lines, the use of one two-line simile suggests that the Achaians do not come back as enthusiastically. The narrator portrays them as far more eager to leave. Odysseus remains in favor of staying.53 After chastising Thersites for his attack on the expedition’s leader, Odysseus begins another muthos (Il. 2.282 and 335) by rebuking the entire army for its unwillingness to fulfill the oaths it swore to sack Troy. In their desire to abandon the fight, Odysseus claims, the soldiers lament: ὥς τε γὰρ ἢ παῖδες νεαροὶ χῆραί τε γυναῖκες ἀλλήλοισιν ὀδύρονται οἶκόνδε νέεσθαι. for like either young children or widowed wives they lament to one another about returning home.

(2.289–90)

Other warriors also pair children and women in generating a mocking insult. Hektor demands that Aias “not make trial of me as if I were an insignificant child (paidos) or woman (gunaikos)” (Il. 7.235–36). As we just saw, Diomedes compares being “grazed” by Paris’ arrow to being struck by a woman or child (Il. 11.389). Odysseus’ simile also offers a variation on the rebuke voiced elsewhere, “Achaian women, no longer Achaian men” 53

On Odysseus’ reasons for wanting to continue the fight and the rhetoric he deploys to get the Achaians to stay, see Cook 2003.

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(Il. 2.235 and 7.96).54 Yet, the introduction of the noun khêrê “widow” suggests that Odysseus is doing more than criticizing the Achaians for a reversal of age and gender roles.55 Andromache is the only other character in the poem to use the noun khêrê, and she always pairs it with pais.56 For instance, upon learning of Hektor’s death, she envisions the plight of her fatherless son who will no longer be welcome in others’ houses: “Just go away: your father does not dine with us.” And the tearful child (pais) will return to his widowed (khêrên) mother. (Il. 22.498–99)57

In the first place, Andromache’s repeated collocations suggest that Odysseus refers to fatherless children as well as widows. With both vehicles, Odysseus compares the Achaians to those who have suffered an irreversible calamity. Second, the comparanda provided by Andromache demonstrate that Odysseus employs the vocabulary of lament. He forcefully associates the Achaians with those who have suffered the most profound of losses by using the diction that such victims use about themselves. The verb oduromai, a standard verb for lament, readily follows. Odysseus insults the Achaians by claiming that they act like those who have experienced a terrible misfortune – a far cry from the attitude evidenced in their oaths to wreak havoc on Troy (Il. 2.286–88). The simile, however, is not simply intended to insult. The subsequent verses of Odysseus’ speech (from 2.291 to 298) proceed through a series of three gnomic statements, and the simile can be seen to work 54

55

56 57

Insults comparing men explicitly or implicitly to women appear in epics the world over. For an example from the South Slavic poems collected by Parry and Lord, see Bynum 1993: 270 (lines 861–62). For an example from the West African Sunjata, see Conrad 2004: 122 (lines 3385–91). For an example from the South Sumatran The Guritan of Radin Suane, see W. A. Collins 1998: 250 (Canto 212, lines 27–30). As one example of how Odysseus attempts to counter Agamemnon’s speech to the troops in Iliad 2, Cook (2003: 181n37) suggests that Odysseus uses the simile to engage directly Agamemnon’s earlier statement that the Achaians’ wives and children are waiting for them to return (Il. 2.136–37). See Richardson 1987: 182, Taplin 1992: 125–26, and Nannini 2003: 63–64. See also Il. 6.408, 6.432, 22.484, and 24.725.

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in tandem with the last one: “But even so it is disgraceful (aiskhron), you know, to remain for a long time and to return empty-handed” (2.297–98).58 Douglas Cairns finds that aiskhron points “to one very narrow area of activity, that of return from a military enterprise with nothing to show for it” (1993: 59). He goes on to position aiskhron with reference to the concept of shame: “aidôs is normally the reaction to the disgrace which would be incurred in such a situation” (60). Throughout both epics, feeling shame before the possibility of disgrace or dishonor, whatever the cause, is a prominent motivator.59 Odysseus’ initial casting of the Achaians as fatherless children and widows – that is, those who have endured a horrible loss, perhaps even those who are victims of conquest – sets the stage for this subsequent motivational challenge to the men’s martial prowess that is intended to encourage their success in battle. Odysseus seems to change the Achaians’ minds: they roar their approval as soon as he stops speaking (Il. 2.333–34). Nestor then offers his own performance that competes with Odysseus’, even in the realm of simile.60 Nestor fastens on the children mentioned by Odysseus but redirects this aspect of his censure as he rebukes the Achaians for acting like those incapable of fighting: παισὶν ἐοικότες ἀγοράασθε νηπιάχοις, οἷς οὔ τι μέλει πολεμήϊα ἔργα. similar to children you deliberate, young children, who have no concern for deeds of war.

(Il. 2.337–38)

In order to elucidate this dense simile and determine its place in Nestor’s speech, we must carefully examine the connotations of its individual words. 58

59

60

The three gnomai are 2.291, 2.292–94, and 2.297–98 (see Lardinois 1997: 214n9, 215n15, and 225n58). Roisman (2007: 436) also posits a connection between the simile and the last gnome. See Cairns 1993: Chapter 1. Cf. “Odysseus uses these references to public shame to rouse the army” (Cook 2003: 185). On Nestor’s speech as a performance, see Martin 1989: 104 and 107. On Nestor’s competing with Odysseus, cf. Cook 2003: 189n56 and Louden 2006: 143 and 146. Martin (1989: 64) finds that Odysseus’ “speech is artfully juxtaposed so as to diminish even the words of Nestor’s less ornate recounting that follows it.” Scodel (2002a: 209) notes that both speakers use a simile.

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We shall see that Nestor’s simile asserts that the Achaians deliberate like those who as a rule do not know how to engage in combat. With its depiction of the Achaians as unskilled in combat, the image serves to presage the tactical advice that Nestor offers at the end of the speech. Analysis of this simile can begin with the relative clause. The verb that Nestor uses (melô) appears in two different scenarios. A character can urge another not to worry in a given instance: Priam, for example, should not “let death or fear be a concern (meleto)” when he goes to Achilleus’ tent (Il. 24.152). The verb can also be used to insist on a permanent separation between a group and an activity: Telemachos declares that “muthos will be a concern (melesei) to men all of them, and especially to me” (Od. 1.358–59) in sending Penelope away from the main hall; Hektor says the same thing about war (polemos) after telling Andromache to return to the house (Il. 6.492–93). In each case, the male speaker denies a specific woman entry into a markedly male activity.61 The point is not that Penelope or Andromache alone are to be excluded but that women categorically do not engage (or do not properly engage) in muthos or polemos. Nestor’s use of the verb corresponds to this sort of categorical exclusion: children have nothing to do with “deeds of war.” The elucidating parallel appears in Zeus’ speech to the wounded Aphrodite: “Not to you, dear child, have been given deeds of war (polemêia erga); but you pursue the lovely deeds of marriage, all these things [i.e., the deeds of war] will be a concern (melesei) to swift Ares and Athena” (Il. 5.428–30). The degree to which Aphrodite operates in a sphere distinct from “deeds of war” is the degree to which children do so as well. Next, the precise meaning of polemêia erga becomes important. With this phrase, Nestor refers to fighting skillfully with weapons. In contrasting himself with “a woman, who does not know deeds of war (ἣ οὐκ οἶδεν πολεμήϊα ἔργα)” Hektor offers a detailed explanation of the phrase’s meaning: he knows how to move his shield to the right and to the left, how to rush into the melee of horses, and how to fight

61

On the need for speeches by both Odysseus and Nestor, see Taplin 1992: 90, Rabel 1997: 67, Collins 2002: 26, Cook 2003: 193, and Tsagalis 2008: 53. See also Alkinoos on arranging for Odysseus’ escort (pompê) back home, comments aimed obliquely at Arete (Od. 11.352); and Telemachos’ assertion, directed at Penelope, of his own control over Odysseus’ bow (toxon) (Od. 21.352).

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in close combat (Il. 7.236–43). Hektor declares his martial skill.62 Furthermore, Nestor himself also uses oida in connection with polemêia erga. Neleus, he recalls, decided that Nestor “did not yet know deeds of war” (οὐ γάρ πώ τί μ’ ἔφη ἴδμεν πολεμήϊα ἔργα) and should not fight the Epeians (Il. 11.719). The deployment of oida by Hektor and Nestor suggests that polemêia erga refers to a skill set that one can acquire. For it brings to mind the following passages that are also about being knowledgeable when it comes to fighting: men can be “well-knowing in every manner of fighting” (μάχης εὖ εἰδότε πάσης) (e.g., Il. 12.100), and Nestor is “well-knowing about the arts of war” (πολέμων ἐῢ εἰδώς, Il. 4.310) right after he offers instructions on how to fight from a chariot (4.303–9); Philoktetes is “well-knowing about bows” (τόξων ἐῢ εἰδὼς, Il. 2.718), and his men are “well-knowing how to fight mightily with bows” (τόξων εὖ εἰδότες ἶφι μάχεσθαι, Il. 2.720).63 Those phrases, in turn, are closely related to others that point explicitly to the acquisition of skills: a carpenter learns his trade (πάσης / εὖ εἰδῇ σοφίης, Il. 15.411–12), a woman learns to weave (ἀγλαὰ ἔργα ἰδυίῃ, Od. 13.289), a horseman learns to ride (κελητίζειν ἐῢ εἰδώς, Il. 15.679) (cf. Il. 23.307–9), and a healer learns his medicines (φάρμακα εἰδὼς, Il. 4.218). Other passages corroborate that warfare requires skill. Aias declares, “No one will willingly put me to flight when I am unwilling either by force (biêi) or by skill (idreiêi)” (Il. 7.197–98).64 Hektor uses his shield to ward off missiles “by means of his skill in war” (ἰδρείῃ πολέμοιο) (Il. 16.359–61).65 And still other passages reaffirm that one learns those skills. Phoinix is to teach (didaskemenai) Achilleus “not yet 62

63

64 65

Circe rebukes Odysseus for thinking that polemêia erga will be of use against Scylla, that there may be some disabling blow he can deliver. Rather, the monster is “not to be fought against” (oude makhêton); one must employ the far different tactic of calling upon her mother, Krataiis, to make her stop (Od. 12.116–26). Note also how Poulydamas contrasts polemêia erga with boulê and noos, the ability to draw up battle plans (Il. 13.727–34). It is hard for one man to have the skills required for both planning and acting. See also “knowledgeable of war craft” (eidote kharmês) at Il. 5.608 and the more specific “well-knowing about the spear” (αἰχμῆς ἐῢ εἰδώς) (Il. 15.525). On this passage, see this chapter’s section I. The Phaiakians are the most skillful (idries) sailors (Od. 7.108); a smith is skillful (idris) (Od. 6.233 = 23.160).

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knowledgeable of battle” (οὔ πω εἰδόθ’ ὁμοιΐου πολέμοιο) to be a “doer of deeds” (πρηκτῆρά τε ἔργων), in other words, to fight (Il. 9.440–43). Euphorbos has been instructed in the art of war (didaskomenos polemoio) and excels with the spear and in horsemanship (Il. 16.809–11). Idomeneus says, “We all know how (epistametha) to fight” (Il. 13.223) (cf. Il. 2.611 and 16.243). Odysseus describes the Kikonians: “knowing how (epistamenoi) from horses to fight with men and where necessary being on foot” (Od. 9.49–50). Thoas is “skilled with the javelin” (ἐπιστάμενος μὲν ἄκοντι) (Il. 15.282). The use of the verb epistamai links fighting with the acquired skills of the craftsman: Harmonides knows how (epistato) to make wrought armor (Il. 5.60). Odysseus skillfully (epistamenôs) smoothes wood (Od. 5.245), one step in his making a raft on Kalypso’s island just like a carpenter (5.249–50) (cf. Od. 17.340–41). Similarly, everyone from Egypt is a knowledgeable (epistamenos) doctor (Od. 4.231–32; cf. Od. 19.457). Success in battle depends on other factors as well, such as physical might (biê )66 and the ability not to forget one’s strength (alkê ).67 Nevertheless, the fighter must learn to do all the things that, for instance, an exhausted Idomeneus can no longer do: charge, rush after his own spear, avoid missiles, and fight at close quarters (Il. 13.512–14).68 Such is the craft of combat.69 Nestor declares that children are categorically unconcerned with the fundamentals of martial combat. That he labels them nêpiakhos in this context makes sense. One of the attributes of nêpioi children is that they “do not possess those strengths or virtues through which adults strive to achieve permanence or immortality.”70 Combat is one of the surest 66 67

68 69

70

See Yamagata 1994: 185 and 221. See, for example, Il. 22.282 and cf. Il. 11.710 and Od. 2.61. See D. Collins 1998: 78–125 and Bakker 2005: 142. “Life is a matter of skill and courage” (Adkins 1960: 55). See Hanson 1993: 128 and Yamagata 1994: 203. Rood (2008: 38) finds that the several similes that liken aspects of combat to the work of craftsmen depict warfare as “a constructive, skillful activity.” Griffin’s claim, “Fate, not fighting technique, is what interests the Iliad” (1980: 143), is not quite true. Attention should be paid to, for example, a warrior’s leap (see, e.g., epalmenos at Od. 14.220 or epaixai at Il. 7.240 and 13.513). The combat between Aias and Diomedes in the funeral games for Patroklos forefronts skill (Il. 23.816–21): note especially aien at 821 in reference to Diomedes’ repeated stabbing move. Edmunds 1990: 59.

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routes in the Homeric world to immortal kleos. We can see, then, that Nestor rebukes the Achaians for acting inappropriately in their deliberations by declaring that in their deliberations they resemble those who do now know how to fight. The Achaians, he claims, act in a manner completely antithetical to their expressed purpose of sacking Troy, a task they swore to complete, as he reminds them in the following verses (Il. 2.338–41). But that Nestor has carefully crafted his simile emerges above all toward the end of his speech. Nestor’s questioning of the Achaians’ martial skills in this simile goes hand in hand with his main proposal. He suggests that Agamemnon attempt to distinguish the kakos fighter from the esthlos fighter by having each tribe and phratry fight together. In this way, Agamemnon will be able to determine whether he is unable to take Troy because the gods are against him or “because of the cowardice of the men and their senselessness in war” (ἀνδρῶν κακότητι καὶ ἀφραδίῃ πολέμοιο) (Il. 2.362–68). I submit that Nestor wants to determine not only who the cowardly and who the courageous fighters are but also who the bad and who the good fighters are, in the sense of unskilled and skilled in combat. This point requires attention because several passages would seem to allow for the definition of kakos simply as “coward.”71 The one who grows fearful in battle and does not fight in the front ranks is labeled kakos. Achilleus declares, “Equal is the fate for the one who remains [in the back of the fighting formation] and if someone fights a lot: the same honor awaits both the kakos and the esthlos” (Il. 9.318–19) (cf. Il. 6.489). Odysseus reminds himself that “kakoi flee from battle” (Il. 11.408). Indeed, any man who runs from a fight can be labeled kakos. Glaukos chastizes Hektor for not standing against Aias (Il. 17.166–68). Hektor responds that he will not be kakos but will kill any Achaian who tries to rescue Patroklos’ corpse (Il. 17.179–82).72 Excerpts of this sort seem to suggest that cowardice is the defining feature of the kakos and by extension that courage is the defining feature of the esthlos. Yet, Aias observes that “the missiles of all of them hit, whoever lets one fly, whether kakos or agathos” (Il. 17.631–32). Even those 71 72

Cf. Kirk 1985: ad 4.297–300. See also Glaukos’ earlier accusation against Hektor: “in vain esthlon glory holds you, you who are one who flees (phuxêlin)” (Il. 17.143).

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men not necessarily expected to hit their mark, the kakoi, are doing so. The opposition suggests that this whole family of words can refer to a fighter’s skill.73 These words appear in discussions of skill in any endeavor. Hektor hopes to capture Achilleus’ horses, which are now, he claims, being directed by kakoi charioteers (Il. 17.487). Melanthios exemplifies the kakoi shepherds who destroy their flocks (Od. 17.246).74 The Phaiakians speaks of athletic contests as involving skill: “if he knows about and has skill in some contest” (εἴ τιν’ ἄεθλον / οἶδέ τε καὶ δεδάηκε) (Od. 8.133–34; cf. 8.146); “a man skilled … in contests” (δαήμονι φωτὶ … / ἄθλων) (8.159–60). Odysseus declares in response that he is not kakos when it comes to these activities, and he illustrates this by pointing to his skill as an archer: “I know well (eu … oida) how to handle a well-made bow” (8.214–15). So, too, can esthlos refer to skill. In their capacity as public speakers, the Trojan elders are esthloi (Il. 3.151). When Antilochos speaks of Eumelos as esthlos (Il. 23.546), he refers to the fact that Eumelos excels in horsemanship (see Il. 23.289). Eumaios is esthlos in his capacity as a herdsman (Od. 15.557; cf. Od. 14.104).75 Lastly, the following passage demonstrates that the esthlos man can become so through instruction. Menelaos kills Skamandrios, “an esthlos hunter, for Artemis herself taught (didaxe) him to kill all the wild things, which the wood in the mountains nourishes” (Il. 5.51–52). These words can also be deployed with reference to martial skill. I point again to Odysseus’ claim that he is ou kakos when it comes to contests (Od. 8.214), but note here that as proof he segues immediately into an assertion that he would be the first to hit an enemy with a bowshot (8.216–18). The logical implication is that the kakos fighter would be incapable of this feat. There are more instances of esthlos and related 73

74 75

For agathos and esthlos as “almost exact synonyms by use,” see Yamagata 1994: 184. Yamagata (1994: 211) notes these two passages. Yamagata (1994: 197–98) notes these last two passages. As for the related word agathos and its comparatives and superlative, one can turn to the following: Podaleirios and Machaon are “agathô doctors” (Il. 2.732) presumably because they are skillful (see Yamagata 1994: 190). Euryalos declares that he will act as a more skilled (ameinôn) seer than Halitherses (Od. 2.180). See also Yamagata (1994: 201) on ameinones at Il. 23.479 and 206 on aristoi.

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words being used in regard to skill in combat. In the following two examples, the sequence of presentation suggests that the second clause refers to skill as does the first. Teukros is “best of the Achaians in archery and good even in close combat” (ἄριστος Ἀχαιῶν / τοξοσύνῃ, ἀγαθὸς δὲ καὶ ἐν σταδίῃ ὑσμίνῃ) (Il. 13.313–14). Thoas is “best by far of the Aitolians, knowledgeable with the javelin, and esthlos in close combat” (Αἰτωλῶν ὄχ’ ἄριστος, ἐπιστάμενος μὲν ἄκοντι, / ἐσθλὸς δ’ ἐν σταδίῃ) (Il. 15.282–83).76 Dione imagines that Diomedes will one day meet a better (ameinôn) opponent in battle than Aphrodite (Il. 5.411). She refers to not only a stronger person but also one more skillful in fighting, given that, as noted earlier, Aphrodite has no connection to the skills of combat (Il. 5.428). We can now look at passages like Nestor’s in Iliad 2 in which kakos, esthlos, and/or related words appear together to describe men in combat. With the material reviewed so far in mind – which showed that combat involves skill and that esthlos and kakos can refer to skill and martial skill more particularly – we should understand skill as well as courage and cowardice to be at issue. The esthlos fighter emerges not just as the opposite of the kakos in that he does not flee but also as an effective fighter, effective in part, we are to understand, because he puts his skills in combat to good use. Esthlos’s counterpart kakos may refer, therefore, to a corresponding inadequacy in the craft of fighting and not just a propensity to flee. Nestor draws up the Achaian battle lines: The horsemen first with their horses and chariots [he arranged], and behind them he arranged foot soldiers, many and esthloi, to be a wall (herkos) against war; and he drove the kakoi into the middle in order that even if someone were not willing he would fight by necessity. (Il. 4.297–300)

The narrator refers to foot soldiers (pezous). Why are these commoners called esthloi? After all, they do not use chariots, a reminder that they 76

That this passage continues by noting Thoas’ excellence at public speaking (agorêi, muthôn [15.283–84]), an activity that requires verbal skill, reaffirms the idea that the preceding clause speaks to his skill in close combat.

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do not belong to the elite conceived of as a social class.77 A humble foot soldier could warrant the label esthlos if the adjective referred to his efficacy in combat and not his social standing (see Od. 24.427–28 and cf. Il. 5.624). Appropriately, the narrator goes on to define these esthloi as staunch defenders (herkos).78 Their skill prompts their success in these sorts of maneuvers. In such a context, kakoi in the above passage refers both to a corresponding lack of martial skill and success as well as to the desire for flight spoken of in verse 300. Hektor offers similar judgments in his speech to Andromache: I would feel shame before the Trojans and Trojan women with long garments if I skulk far off from battle like a kakos. My spirit does not urge me to do that because I learned (mathon) to be esthlos always and to fight among the first of the Trojans, winning great glory (kleos) for my father and myself. (Il. 6.442–46)

When Hektor suggests that he has learned to be esthlos in battle, he implies that he not only has bought into the heroic ideology79 but also has learned the craft of combat. I refer again to Skamandrios, who under Artemis’ tutelage became an esthlos hunter (Il. 5.51–52). Further, Hektor defines the esthlos as one who fights effectively so as to win kleos: he means winning the sorts of victories in combat that he presently wishes for 77

78

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Note Nestor’s self-representation as one of the hippeis during the battle between the Pylians and Epeians even though he was initially on foot (pezos) (Il. 11.720–21); see Hainsworth 1993: ad 11.717–20. If he called himself a foot soldier, he would not be a member of the elite, which, of course, he is. That Aias, the paradigmatic defender, is three times called “the wall (herkos) of the Achaians” (Il. 3.229, 6.5, and 7.211) shows the connection between herkos and defensive actions. The epithet’s appearance at Il. 6.5 is illustrative. The narrator continues by saying that Aias “brought light (phoôs) to his companions” (6.6), an action elsewhere marked as defensive in nature. After Patroklos “brings light (phaos) to the ships” (Il. 16.95–96), that is, wards off the Trojans from the ships, he is to return to the camp. Achilleus is the only other character to be called a herkos (Il. 1.284). Here, too, the point is that Achilleus protects his fellow Achaians in combat. See Cairns 1993: 80–81.

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Astyanax (Il. 6.480–81). The implication is that the kakos fighter not only shrinks from battle but lacks, presumably because he never really learned, the skills to be effective. Our words also appear in the two scenes in which Hektor and Achilleus fight. Hektor declares to Achilleus: I know that you are esthlos and that I am far worse (polu kheirôn) than you. But in truth these things lie on the knees of the gods, as to whether I, although I am worse (kheiroteros), will take away your spirit having hit you with my spear because my spear, too, has been sharp before. (Il. 20.434–37)

What criteria does Hektor rely on to distinguish himself from Achilleus in this passage? It is probably not the same metric as Hera uses: Achilleus comes from an immortal mother, Hektor from a mortal mother (Il. 24.56–63). Is it strength? Usually, greater strength is marked by the adjective pherteros (see Il. 7.105 and 20.368). I propose that, whatever its other implications, the term also connotes skill level. Hektor claims that Achilleus is relatively more skillful in combat but that he, too, is capable in battle. This reading applies as well to their second confrontation. As Hektor flees Achilleus, the narrator reports, “In front an esthlos man was fleeing, but a man far better (meg’ ameinôn) was pursuing him” (Il. 22.158). Achilleus cannot catch Hektor (Il. 22.201), and Athena has to trick Hektor into fighting Achilleus. This prelude to their combat suggests that it is not merely or even primarily Achilleus’ natural physical attributes, exemplified in his swiftness of foot, that will bring him victory. Rather, his superior skill in combat allows Achilleus to kill Hektor: Achilleus finds the weak spot in Hektor’s armor and strikes him fatally (Il. 22.320–37).80 80

In another passage that supports the analysis offered here, Poseidon suggests an exchange of armor: “whoever is stout in the fight (menekharmos), but has a small shield on his shoulder, let him give it to a worse (kheironi) man and let him [i.e., the stout fighter] put on the bigger shield” (Il. 14.376–77). The narrator then describes the swap: “the esthlos man put on effective (esthla) armor and gave the less effective (khereia) armor to the worse (kheironi) man” (14.382). Building on Raaflaub’s observation that this passage shows “the best fighters … are thus not a priori identical with the elite” (2008: 477), I observe

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This preparation allows us to return to Nestor’s plan voiced at the end of his speech in Iliad 2. In seeking to determine who among the leaders and the people is esthlos and who is kakos, he aims to find out not just who will stand fast and who will flee81 but also who is a skillful fighter and who is not. Appropriately, he can speak of not only kakotêti “cowardice”82 but also aphradiêi polemoio “senselessness in war” as potential causes of the Achaian defeat (Il. 2.368). This latter phrase cannot mean that the Achaians are thoughtless when it comes to war in the sense that Polyphemos is done in by a thoughtlessness that stems from his unfamiliarity with wine (see aphradiêisin at Od. 9.361). Nor can it mean that the Achaians do not notice things when it comes to war in the manner of a Dolon who does not notice Odysseus and Diomedes (see aphradiêisin at Il. 10.350) or a shepherd who does not notice that his sheep have scattered (see aphradiêisin at Il. 16.354). Two passages suggest an alternative. The first passage provides the only other collocation in the epics of the noun with a dependent genitive. Agamemnon defends Menelaos: “For he often stays back and is not willing to toil, neither yielding to fear nor to senselessness when it comes to thoughts (οὔτ’ ὄκνῳ εἴκων οὔτ’ ἀφραδίῃσι νόοιο), but looking to me and waiting for my move” (Il. 10.121–23). Agamemnon denies that Menelaos is deficient when it comes to making plans or generating ideas.83 In the second

81 82 83

that the passage as a whole links the esthlos fighter to the menekharmos fighter. By definition menekharmos refers to efficacy in combat and therefore skill. The esthlos’s counterpart, the kheirôn fighter, is to be understood as less efficacious and less skillful. For its part, verse 382 in the narrator-text underlines the importance of efficacy in the definition of the esthlos when it puts the word next to esthla meaning “effective.” Elsewhere in the poems, mention is made of effective (esthla) medicines (Il. 11.830–31 and Od. 4.227–30) (see Yamagata 1994: 198). The second half of verse 382 offers the converse of this argument: a lack of efficacy is the mark of the kheirôn fighter as the term’s placement next to the very same word (khereia) in the precise sense of “less effective” reveals. See Yamagata 1994: 195. See Yamagata 1994: 220. By contrast, Athena tells Telemachos that he need not worry about the suitors’ intentions (noos): they are aphradeôn “because not at all are they able to generate thoughts (noêmones) well, nor are they just” (Od. 2.281–82). Odysseus juxtaposes Nausikaa as one who does not “miss the mark of excellent thought (noêmatos)” with other young people who tend to be senseless (aphradeousin) (Od. 7.292–94). Clarke explains that noos is “the conclusion of the thinking

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passage, Nestor uses the adverb aphradeôs when listing the telltale signs of an unskilled charioteer: “he senselessly drives too far to this side and that [when making the turn]” (Il. 23.320). Acting in an unthinking or senseless manner may be indicative of a lack of skill. I suggest viewing Nestor’s phrase aphradiêi polemoio at Il. 2.368 from the perspectives offered by these two passages. He argues that the Achaians may be unable to take Troy because they do not have the skills one needs in war. In a case of ring composition typical of Homeric speeches, Nestor refers in the last part of his presentation to the motif with which he began. The simile at Il. 2.337–38 with its contention that the Achaians are unskilled in combat is far more than an initial flourish because it anticipates the tactical advice Nestor gives at the conclusion of his speech. One notes that it is in the provision of such tactical advice that Nestor’s speech differs especially from Odysseus’.84 This point of differentiation reminds us that Nestor has in fact taken over the children from Odysseus’ simile but used that vehicle for a different end. Odysseus claimed that the Achaians resemble children so as to depict them as the bereaved. Nestor claims that the Achaians resemble children so as to depict them as incapable when it comes to fighting. That Nestor has designs on Odysseus’ simile emerges as well in his subsequent exhortation to the Achaians to “sleep with” the Trojan wives (Il. 2.354–56). These wives are understood to be widows, a group most recently invoked in Odysseus’ simile. Yet, whereas Odysseus cast the Achaians as distraught widows, Nestor urges the Achaians to rape the Trojan widows as a metonymic statement of their victory.85 This reference to widows echoes Nestor’s earlier appropriation for his own purposes of the children vehicle in Odysseus’ simile. 2.3. Achilleus and Phoinix In the previous two pairings, the interlocutors speak of the same referent. Paris and Diomedes both characterize Paris; Odysseus and Nestor both

84 85

process, the product of the act named by the cognate verb νοεῖν or νοεῖσθαι” (1999: 122; emphasis in original). See Cook 2003: 189n56 and 2009: 155. Louden (2006: 151–52) sees parallels between Nestor’s suggestion of mass rape and scenes in the Old Testament. Scodel (2002a: 209) takes it as “a reply to Thersites’ complaint that Agamemnon had an unfair share of captive women (2.226–33).”

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characterize the Achaians. As for this third example of “dueling similes,” I suggest that in figuring his reception by Peleus, Phoinix redirects the central element – the need to perpetuate the house – of Achilleus’ simile characterizing his own role in the acquisition of spoils. That is, the tenors of these similes differ, but the poet still fashions the second with the first in mind. In the midst of his virtuoso performance rejecting Agamemnon’s offer to return to the battlefield in Iliad 9, Achilleus compares himself to a mother bird:86 ὡς δ’ ὄρνις ἀπτῆσι νεοσσοῖσι προφέρῃσι μάστακ’, ἐπεί κε λάβῃσι, κακῶς δ’ ἄρα οἱ πέλει αὐτῇ, ὣς καὶ ἐγὼ πολλὰς μὲν ἀΰπνους νύκτας ἴαυον, ἤματα δ’ αἱματόεντα διέπρησσον πολεμίζων, ἀνδράσι μαρνάμενος ὀάρων ἕνεκα σφετεράων. δώδεκα δὴ σὺν νηυσὶ πόλεις ἀλάπαξ’ ἀνθρώπων, πεζὸς δ’ ἕνδεκά φημι κατὰ ροίην ἐρίβωλον· τάων ἐκ πασέων κειμήλια πολλὰ καὶ ἐσθλὰ ἐξελόμην, καὶ πάντα φέρων Ἀγαμέμνονι δόσκον Ἀτρεΐδῃ· ὁ δ’ ὄπισθε μένων παρὰ νηυσὶ θοῇσι δεξάμενος διὰ παῦρα δασάσκετο, πολλὰ δ’ ἔχεσκεν. ἄλλα δ’ ἀριστήεσσι δίδου γέρα καὶ βασιλεῦσι, τοῖσι μὲν ἔμπεδα κεῖται, ἐμεῦ δ’ ἀπὸ μούνου Ἀχαιῶν εἵλετ’, ἔχει δ’ ἄλοχον θυμαρέα· And as a mother bird brings to her unwinged young mouthfuls whenever she comes across them, and it goes badly for herself, so I, too, passed many sleepless nights and I spent bloody days fighting, warring with men for the sake of their wives. In fact, I sacked twelve cities of men with my ships and on foot eleven, I assert, throughout the rich Troad. From all of them many fine treasures I took out and I would bring and give all of them to Agamemnon, the son of Atreus; and he remaining behind by the swift ships 86

Achilleus’ speech is labeled a muthos at Il. 9.431. Martin (1989: e.g., 196) uses this speech to establish the features of the poet’s own style of performance.

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would receive them and dole out a few, but he kept many. And he gave other prizes to the leaders and kings, and their prizes remain safely in their possession, but from me alone of the Achaians he took, and he has my lovely wife: (Il. 9.323–36)

Just like the bird must toil to feed her family, Achilleus toils in battle to bring back the spoils of war to the community of Achaians. And just as the mother bird does not enjoy the fruits of her own labor, Achilleus is not adequately rewarded for his own efforts. Awaiting Achilleus’ return, Agamemnon takes the booty for which Achilleus has fought ceaselessly, hands out some spoil as prizes, but keeps much for himself. On top of that, Agamemnon took Achilleus’ prize, Briseis; no other Achaian was so mistreated. Let us expand on Bryan Hainsworth’s observation that uncompensated labor is a prime referent of this simile: “Achilles wishes to say that he is worn out in selfless unrewarded toil” (1993: ad loc.). Sophie Mills situates this simile in the context of other parental imagery used by and of Achilleus and suggests that the image reveals the impossibility of Achilleus’ giving up for good his role as protector of the Achaians: “the mother bird cannot abandon its young. . . : the hero’s obligation of ‘care-giving’ in all its complexity is ultimately impossible to abandon, and it seems that Achilles is punished for deliberately defying the expectations of the hero” (2000: 14). Alternatively, from looking at passages in Greek tragedy, Casey Dué concludes “that the simile of the mother bird is very likely a traditional one in Greek women’s laments for the loss of children” (2005: 15). Further, such laments are often intended to prompt vengeance. In the case of Achilleus’ simile, “the toil of the mother bird is, traditionally speaking, only half the story. The simile comes to an end just where one would expect it to narrate the subsequent loss of the nestlings and the bird’s lamentation. By leaving out this crucial segment of the bird’s story, Achilles does not yet seem to threaten the vengeance that is very often associated with lament” (16). Nonetheless, Dué argues, a tradition-oriented audience member would fill in the gaps. She continues, “As so often happens in Homeric poetry, larger themes and events of the poem are articulated by a character who should not have the omniscience to foretell them” (16). With his

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simile, Achilleus unconsciously anticipates the death of Patroklos and the revenge he takes in response.87 In building on these readings, one can consider why Achilleus frames his objections to Agamemnon’s actions in precisely these figurative terms, choosing a familial setting, concentrating so intently on the process of feeding, and employing a mother bird as vehicle. When we speak of the social order, we can refer to the ordering of individuals and groups into a hierarchy or we can refer to the ways in which people organize (that is, order) themselves. Achilleus, in talking about the acquisition of spoils, figures himself as a mother bird trying to feed her family because both activities are implicated in perpetuating the social order even though the concept of the social order is a bit different in each case. In explaining the simile (Il. 9.325–37), Achilleus details the exchange integral to the heroic enterprise. Warriors collect spoils and bring them back to the camp where they are redistributed. At this redistribution, a warrior receives a prize for his efforts. This exchange prompts him to return to the fight and repeat the sequence because the redistribution both creates and recreates the social order. A warrior gains a valuable symbol of his status that helps to position him relative to his peers. (For his part, a leader reaffirms his own standing by taking a larger share of the booty as well as by being the one to allot the rest of the prizes.) Although other activities, such as athletic contests and feasts, also influence the hierarchy of heroes, the redistribution of spoils most decisively shapes and perpetuates this component of the social order. The vehicle portion of the simile also focuses on the perpetuation of the social order but in a slightly different sense. Scholars have long observed that the household is the most important unit of societal organization in the Homeric world.88 Defending, augmenting, and passing on the substance of one’s oikos was a, if not the, primary concern of the Homeric hero.89 Achilleus can therefore figure the destruction he wreaks 87

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Farenga (2006: 80) combines elements of Mills’s and Dué’s analyses: “In keeping with lament’s chronotopes of childbirth and child-rearing, Achilles then compares himself to a mother bird who selflessly sacrifices her own needs to feed her brood.” See Finley 2002: 106, Lacey 1968: 34, and Donlan 2007: 33. See Lacey 1968: 34–37, 39, 44–45, and 50; and cf. Donlan 2007: 37.

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as “warring with men for the sake of their wives” (Il. 9.327) because even a joint enterprise such as an expedition comes down to the impact it has on each warrior’s oikos. Unsurprisingly, the provisioning of food is a significant part of a householder’s duty. Andromache envisions the humiliation that awaits the fatherless Astyanax. In need (deuomenos) he will go in search of food from his father’s peers only to be chased away (Il. 22.492–98); previously he had sat on his father’s lap and enjoyed the choicest meat (22.500–1). Odysseus sees replacing the flocks lost to the gluttony of the suitors as one of his first orders of business after killing the suitors (Od. 23.356–58). The following equation emerges: Achilleus aligns one activity (the acquisition of spoils) vital to a practice (the redistribution) that creates and recreates the social order – understood as a hierarchy – with another activity (feeding) vital to an entity (the family) constitutive of the social order – understood as the groupings into which people organize themselves. Yes, there is a slight wobble, in so far as what is meant by “the social order” differs in each case. But the overriding commonality motivating the figurative equation between the acquisition of spoils and feeding is the shared notion of perpetuating something of the highest importance to “the way things are.” Achilleus perpetuates the hierarchy of heroes just as the mother bird perpetuates the family. The connection that Achilleus urges between spoils and food is not far-fetched. Anthropologists have demonstrated the importance of alimentary metaphors to activities deemed vital to the perpetuation of the social order. For instance, Janet Carsten (1989) traces how, in a Malay fishing village on the island of Langkawi, men hand over their earnings to their wives who use the money to sustain the household: the women are said to “cook” the money.90 Yet, Achilleus does not offer the impartial assessment of the anthropologist. His figure is intended to emphasize his objection that for all his toil in battle he has seen his prize stripped from him. In this regard, a key word in his simile is the adverb kakôs. Although the adverb is employed of speeches with an insulting content (e.g., Il. 1.25, 1.379, and Od. 17.394), as well as in fighting scenes in the Iliad with reference to a warrior who has been killed (e.g., 5.164), or will be killed 90

See also Parry (1989) for the alimentary idiom and the perpetuation of the cosmic order.

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(e.g., 21.460), or otherwise temporarily bested (e.g., 9.551), the passages most relevant to an explanation of Achilleus’ use of the adverb in Iliad 9 are those in the Odyssey in which kakôs describes one who is dispossessed. Just as the blinded Polyphemos demands when cursing Odysseus (9.534), both Teiresias and Circe tell Odysseus that, if he and his crew harm the cattle of the sun, he will come home “badly” (11.114 and 12.141). In each case the speaker provides an explanatory gloss: Odysseus will lose his companions (9.534, 11.114, and 12.141) and have to sail on someone else’s ship (9.535 and 11.115). In another scene, Odysseus comments that the nearly impoverished Laertes is “badly squalid” in his filthy clothes (24.250).91 In Achilleus’ simile, kakôs specifies the mother bird’s and by extension Achilleus’ own suffering as deprivation. By departing from expected portrayals of single mothers and birds, Achilleus’ simile emphasizes this point. First, Homeric mothers who are on their own are usually widowed and unable to provide for their children. The narrator compares a stalemate in battle to a widow carefully weighing wool “in order that she may get an inadequate (aeikea) wage for her children” (Il. 12.435).92 Andromache predicts a day when Astyanax will return hungry to his widowed mother (Il. 22.499) who cannot help him. By contrast, Achilleus’ struggling mother figure is able to feed her children but can barely provide for herself. Second, the events in his simile contrast markedly with the actions of birds in other bird similes, most of which depict a fierce and often successful predator. Achilleus pursues Hektor around the walls of Troy like a hawk chasing a dove (Il. 22.139–43). Menelaos surveys the battlefield, just as a keen-sighted eagle searches for his prey (Il. 17.673–81).93 By contrast, Achilleus’ bird is not a victorious hunter, reveling in her ability to bring death to hapless animals lower down on the food chain. She picks up whatever she can (mastak’) and then gives it away, an action not referred 91

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See also Od. 2.203: Penelope and Telemachos’ possessions will be feasted upon “badly,” Eurymachos claims; they will be left with nothing. Given this theme in the Odyssey, it is appropriate to find Odysseus in the Iliad claiming that the Achaians do not know whether they shall return home “well or badly” (2.253). See Yamagata (1994: 220–21) for further comments on the adverb. See Hainsworth (1993: ad loc.) for this “spinning woman” as “a free widow.” See also, for example, Il. 13.62–65, 15.690–93, and 17.460.

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to in the other bird similes. As opposed to her winged peers, this bird does not participate in a violent interaction for her own benefit. In these two ways, Achilleus’ simile stresses the mother bird’s deprivation and so the lack of compensation Achilleus receives for his toil. Taken together, the two components of this analysis demonstrate the following: Achilleus’ simile aids him in suggesting that in the present situation the social order depends on a peculiar state of affairs in which the agents who perpetuate that order receive scant reward for their labor. Just as a mother bird constantly works to perpetuate her household but garners little immediate recompense, a warrior who contributes the goods that are allotted in such a fashion as to rank the leaders and kings is left with only the pain and misery he has endured on the battlefield when Agamemnon deprives him of his geras. Achilleus rejects this scenario: Agamemnon has tricked him (m’ apatêse) (Il. 9.344) once; he will not succeed again (9.345). If Agamemnon can exhibit so great a lack of kharis as to strip a warrior of his hard-earned geras (9.316–17), there is no difference between the kakos and the esthlos (9.319). In these circumstances, the bad fighter’s and the good fighter’s mortality renders them far more alike than their noticeably different successes on the battlefield distinguish them (9.318–20). Viewing Achilleus’ simile in these terms allows us to appreciate Phoinix’s own use of a simile in his subsequent speech, a performance that consists above all of recollections.94 In his lengthy response to Achilleus’ questioning of misapplications and violations of the heroic code,95 Phoinix deploys three exempla: his own biography, the nature of the Litai and Atê, and the myth of Meleagros.96 His first anecdote begins by relating how he slept with his father’s concubine at his mother’s request, and his father, Amyntor, cursed him in retaliation. Despite relatives’ entreaties, father and son will not reconcile, and Phoinix flees to Phthia. Peleus receives Phoinix ὡς εἴ τε πατὴρ ὃν παῖδα φιλήσῃ μοῦνον τηλύγετον πολλοῖσιν ἐπὶ κτεάτεσσι, 94 95

96

On Phoinix’s performance of the myth of Meleagros, see Martin 1989: 81. See Donlan 1999: esp. 332–37 and Wilson 2002a: for example, 7, 10, and 36–38. See Wilson 2002a: 96–104.

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Sequences of Similes in the Character-Text just as a father loves his own son, his sole cherished97 child among his many possessions,98 (Il. 9.481–82)

Whereas Peleus established such a relationship with Phoinix, Phoinix has earlier reminded Achilleus that he is essentially the young warrior’s surrogate father, a point driven home by his repeated references to Achilleus as a child (Il. 9.437, 440, and 444).99 He returns to that idea after the simile, describing how he alone could feed the baby Achilleus (9.486–91), and closes the initial section of his speech with the plea, “I made you my child, godlike Achilleus, in order that you might ward off from me at some time unseemly suffering” (9.494–95). For Donna Wilson, the interrelated goals of this preliminary portion are twofold. First, Phoinix offers himself as a negative exemplum. In a fight with his father over a concubine, he failed to heed the supplication of his relatives. “Achilleus should not be like Phoinix” (2002a: 96): Achilleus should not let his anger over Briseis trump his willingness to accede to the embassy. Rather (and second), he should stay at Troy and protect Phoinix: “Phoinix qua father presents himself as deserving Achilleus’ trust, his loyalty, and eventually his protection” (98). That is, by claiming for himself the role of father, Phoinix reminds Achilleus of the ties that bind them together and of a debt owed Phoinix by Achilleus. Phoinix urges Achilleus to honor the compact between caregiver and child, here, as in Achilleus’ simile, rendered by focusing on the act of feeding. In exchange for all his earlier labor, Phoinix asks Achilleus to return to the battle and, if we may unpack Phoinix’s metaphors and metonyms, to preserve the “house” by acknowledging his role as son and saving the father 97

98

99

The meaning of têlugetos has been disputed since antiquity. See Hainsworth (1993: ad 9.143), whose suggested translation I use here. West (1988: ad Od. 4.11) notes that the adjective “is always used of a dearly loved, special, or favorite child.” The Loeb translation fleshes out the clause: “who is the heir to many possessions” (Wyatt 1999: 429); see also Nannini 2003: 100. Note the horrific fate of Phainops, who is left without an heir after Diomedes kills both his sons: “and he did not beget another son to leave among his possessions (epi kteatessi)” (Il. 5.154). See Rosner (1976: 315) for the importance of the phrase philon teknon to the speech.

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figure.100 This process would by extension involve saving the Achaians. Phoinix posits a reciprocal ethic of familial and ultimately, though secondarily, communal responsibility in opposition to Achilleus’ model of a solitary, underappreciated warrior.101 There is one figure who can serve as a model for Achilleus when it comes to protecting Phoinix: Peleus.102 The simile that describes Peleus’ reception of Phoinix is intended to drive home the parallel. For the simile does not simply say that Peleus “loves him [Phoinix] as a father loves his son,”103 but rather figures Peleus as one who acts with a view to the perpetuation of his family and, secondarily, his community. Concern over preserving the family line and thereby keeping the goods of the family intact and within the family is prominent throughout Greek literature.104 Hesiod describes the failure of women in the unjust city to give birth and the consequent withering of the houses (Works and Days 243–45; cf. 282–84), and he urges the begetting of one son to preserve the paternal house (376–77).105 Klytaimestra compares Agamemnon’s return to the presence of an only son (Aeschylus Agamemnon 898). Similarly, a bT scholion points to the piling up of the adjectives “sole” and “grown” in Phoinix’s simile: the parents have put all their hope in this one child, meaning their hopes of continuing the family (Erbse 1971, 2: ad 9.481–2). Still, Phoinix actually generates a simile unique in Homeric 100 101

102 103 104

105

Cf. Scodel 2002a: 169. Cf. Farenga (2006: 95–96) on Phoinix’s construction of “an Achilles so constituted by and indebted to others, who so belongs to them and they to him, that he should not be able to say where the limits of his own self end and theirs begin” (cf. Hammer 2002: 103). Phoinix attempts to counter Achilleus’ “vision of the self as a radically autonomous ‘I’” (94) (on which see 76–91, 97–98, and 105–6; cf. Hammer [2002: 101] on “Achilles’ statement of autonomy”). See also Worman (2002: 69) on how Odysseus’ earlier speech “shows Achilles with a visual concreteness his proper place within the army’s social and battle formation.” Cf. Martin 1992: 18. Wilson 2002a: 98. Again, note Phainops, who suffers the horrific alternative because Diomedes killed his two sons: “and distant kinsmen divided up his possessions” (Il. 5.158). Martin (1992: 17) connects the Hesiodic passages with Il. 9.481–82: “Phoinix describes his personal biography in rhetoric that uses the themes of a Works and Days desideratum.”

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epic in alluding so clearly to a transfer of goods enacted between males and deemed essential to perpetuating the family. Five times the simile “he was as gentle as a father” appears (Il. 24.770 and Od. 2.47, 2.334, 5.12, and 15.152). Telemachos comes closer to Phoinix’s point when he says of his reception by Nestor, “He loved me kindly, as a father loves his own son who has just returned after a time from another place” (Od. 17.111–12), as does the narrator in describing Eumaios’ emotional response to the returning Telemachos as that of a father receiving his “sole cherished [son] for whom he has suffered many pains” (μοῦνον τηλύγετον, τῷ ἔπ’ ἄλγεα πολλὰ μογήσῃ) (Od. 16.19). Phoinix brings out the subtext of patrimony latent in these other father-son comparisons. He focuses on a family looking forward to a transaction essential to its preservation. Furthermore, the handing down of household goods not only ensures the reproduction of the household but also makes a contribution toward the continuation of the larger community, given that the household is the most elemental constituent of its community. In short, in welcoming and so saving Phoinix, Peleus acted as one who seeks to perpetuate his family and by extension his community. The content of the simile reinforces Peleus’ status as a model for Achilleus who, if he protects Phoinix, will be saving his de facto father and preserving his house; the Achaians collectively will benefit as well. The simile is also constructed so as to respond to Achilleus’ earlier image. Like Achilleus, Phoinix depicts a family in the vehicle portion of his simile, but offers a different take on its perpetuation. Achilleus’ mother bird has to be content with doling out bits and pieces (mastak’), providing a meager subsistence from day to day. The father in Phoinix’s simile gives many (polloisin) things to his son: we are to imagine myriad durable goods and aristocratic plenty. Phoinix reorients discussion of perpetuating the house from quotidian ephemera to a generational shift. This recharacterization is most apparent in the absence of the mother from Phoinix’s simile and her replacement by the male line as the force behind the house’s preservation. Such an alteration in scale makes it possible to elide the labor involved in the acquisition of the son’s inheritance. Phoinix could have gone that route, as the simile at Od. 16.17–20 (quoted earlier) indicates, wherein the father is said to toil on behalf of his son. Instead, there is no mention of the daily work required to amass the many possessions, nor does the father sacrifice

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his present comfort for his child. So imagined, the perpetuation of the household becomes a cause for joy, a far different picture from that constructed by Achilleus in his own simile wherein preserving the household exacts an enormous toll. In as much as Phoinix wants Achilleus to preserve his house, it makes sense that his simile offers a positive take on perpetuating the house. Yet, the reason for that characterization comes not only in its contribution to Phoinix’s larger argument but also in its revision of the thematic element at the heart of Achilleus’ previous simile. Achilleus used a simile that depicted perpetuating the household in a negative light so as to strengthen his argument for leaving Troy. In countering, Phoinix appropriates and redirects that concept. He deploys a simile that characterizes perpetuating the household in a positive light so as to reaffirm his own broader point that Achilleus must stay and protect his father, Phoinix.

3. CONCLUSION

That all the characters in the teikhoskopia deploy simile reveals the utility of the device as a distinguishing feature of one’s speech in a social context. Other concerns cannot subsume the negotiation of and for distinction in the linguistic field. More explicitly confrontational are pairs of “dueling spoken similes.” Responding to Paris, who casts himself as the shepherd able to defend the weak Trojan flocks, Diomedes offers a recharacterization: not only does the blow delivered by Paris resemble that which a woman or child might inflict but also the prince himself resembles a woman or child. Nestor redirects one element of Odysseus’ simile, that the Achaians are like children, in offering his take on what could possibly ail the Achaians: not just cowardice but perhaps even a lack of skill in combat. Phoinix reuses the central thematic component of Achilleus’ simile, the necessity for perpetuating the house, in urging him to remain at Troy. These three scenes illustrate that, like real and imagined verbal artists in other traditions, speakers in the Iliad can joust with one another by way of simile. The next chapter demonstrates how the poet will have a character’s simile respond even to the narrator’s figuration(s) of the same scene.

5 Narrator, Character, and Simile

CHAPTER 4 EXPLORED COMPETITIONS OVER SIMILE IN THE ILIAD’S

character-text. This chapter demonstrates that the poet can make similes spoken by characters contest with similes in the narrator-text as well. Before getting to the close readings that as usual make up the bulk of my analysis, I want to review how the narratological work of three different scholars gets us to the point of being comfortable with the claim that the poet can make his characters contest with the narrator. Irene de Jong observes that a Homeric character does not hear the words of the Homeric narrator. For example, a character is not aware of being made the tenor of a simile by the narrator: “comparisons and similes produced by the NF1 [primary narrator-focalizer] reach the NeFe1 [primary narratee-focalizee] only” (2004a: 125).1 Even so, through the NeFe1, the historical hearer/reader2 can compare the different presentations of the narrator and character: “The narratees, who hear the whole text of the story, both narrator-text and (all) speeches, can often detect cross-references which are hidden to the speaking and listening characters.”3 In a brief survey of some of these “cross-references,” de Jong focuses on moments in which the narrator-text and character-text present the same events and she draws attention to what that contact can reveal 1 2

3

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Cf. Richardson 1990: 174–75. On the NeFe1, see de Jong 2001: xv, 2004a: 53–60, and 2004c: 22–23. For the difference between the historical hearer/reader and the hearer/reader constructed by the text, the NeFe1, see de Jong 2004a: 35–36 and 2004b: 5. de Jong 1997: 96; cf. de Jong 1991: 415–16 and 2004b: 8. In the analyses of passages that follow, I rely on a variation of this idea: the poet invites the audience to connect the narrator-text and character-text at certain moments.

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about a speaker’s aims (2004a: 209–20). She explores, for instance, how Poulydamas argues for the predicative import of an eagle dropping a snake, an event initially recounted with a different slant in the narratortext (Il. 12.200–29), and how Thetis recapitulates the plot of the poem so as to reflect her own concerns and biases (Il. 18.444–60). Robert Rabel builds on de Jong’s findings. Whereas de Jong determines that the narrator is “a creation of the poet like the characters” (2004a: 45; emphasis in original) but nonetheless “can be considered Homer’s fictional representative inside the text” (44), Rabel posits an “ironic distance” (1997: 8) between poet and narrator and contends that the poet in fact treats the narrator as another character (19).4 This move allows him to argue that the poet can arrange a “dialectical clash of perspectives” between the narrator and the speaking characters (61). For example, the narrator begins the account of Achilleus’ wrath with the arrival of the priest Chryses at the Achaian camp and suggests Apollo as a model for Achilleus. Achilleus for his part starts the story with the sacking of Thebe and takes Chryses as a model for his subsequent actions. This presentation of differing perspectives on the starting point and nature of the quarrel in Iliad 1 is paradigmatic: “In a pattern that we will come to observe as typical of the Iliad, the presentation of action in narrative is subsequently followed by the attempt of a character to give definition and meaning to what has occurred from his or her own point of view within the drama” (43).5 Rabel sees the same juxtaposition in, for instance, the narrator’s and then Agamemnon’s reactions to the wounding of Menelaos: The poet, arranging these two conceptual points of view in opposition to one another, highlights the strengths and weaknesses of each without endorsing either of them. 4

5

On the narratologist’s axiom that the narrator is not the author, see Fludernik 2009: 56–58. With Rabel’s view of the narrator as a character, compare Nagy’s take: “the rhapsode, the performer of Homer, is engaged in a mimesis that re-creates not only the characters of heroic song but also the composer and prototypical performer of that song, Homer himself. . . . this “I” [of the proems] is perhaps the most dramatic of all the characters in heroic song. . . . This ‘I’ is Homer speaking” (1996a: 80). Richardson suggests that the Homeric narrator is “a meta-character, who plays his role not on the level of the story, but on the level of the discourse” (1990: 2; cf. 168, 173, and 181). Cf. Scodel 2002a: 104.

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The authorial audience can thus appreciate the complex dimensions of what has occurred by first hearing the account of the third-person narrator and then seeing the scene through the perspective of an actor within the unfolding drama. (80)

The Iliad is concerned throughout with the question of point of view. It denies the possibility of one ever telling a story that is not susceptible to being challenged by another speaker operating from a different perspective (214). Rabel, then, goes far beyond de Jong’s initial research into the interactions between narrator-text and character-text. What is more, the vocabulary and phrasing Rabel employs – “at odds with”; “the poet sets the major protagonist to work against the narrator”; “the dialectical clash of perspectives”; “certain irreconcilable conflicts that arise between the narrative and dramatic portions of the poem” (20, 47, 61, and 212, respectively) – urge the critic to consider how the poet not only purposefully juxtaposes the narrator- and character-texts but also makes them actively confront one another. Finally, I turn to Egbert Bakker’s proposed “narratology of performance” (2009: 118). In exploring the utility of traditional narratological principles for the study of the Homeric poems, Bakker questions the applicability of the narratologist’s notion that the relationship between the narrator and the characters is, as de Jong says, “one of subordination” (2004a: 35), that there is, in Bakker’s paraphrase of this idea, “a hierarchical relationship between a primary narrator who ‘quotes’ and characters or secondary narrators who are ‘quoted’” (2009: 129).6 Bakker suggests instead that the performer plays the “role” of “Homer” just as he plays a role when he impersonates the characters (126–27). One result of “the performer shifting from one role into another, from narrator to character” (126–27) is that “[t]he language of the heroes is not exactly subordinated, embedded, or represented: it takes center stage” (129).7 6

7

Bakker also challenges the notion that there is a significant difference between narrator and author when it comes to the Homeric poems (see esp. 124). For other classicists who have queried the relevance of this principle to ancient texts, see Morrison 2007: 30–35 and 60. Narratologists who deal with later works also debate the applicability of the concept: see Fludernik 2009: 13–14, 58, and 116. Cf. “the speech of the characters is not submerged within the dominant ideology or point of view of a controlling narrator” (Rabel 1997: 214; cf. 20).

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Bakker focuses on the impact this equality, as it were, between character and narrator has on our response to Odysseus’ Apologoi: “Odysseus’ tale is not subordinated to Homer’s; both are performances in their own right, complementing each other, reacting to each other, even competing with each other” (132). For instance, when Odysseus begins to recount his adventures to the Phaiakians (Od. 9.39–46), he deploys the diction and ideas of the narrator’s proem (131), and, more generally, his storytelling threatens to “crowd out the poet’s tale” (135). Before taking stock of these three contributions, I wish to consider two other factors that may increase the hearer’s willingness to attend to the ways in which the poet can fashion cross-references between narrator-text and character-text. First, archaic poets toy with a practice known as metalepsis. Second, Homeric characters can acquire exceptional knowledge. Metalepsis can be defined thusly: “the narrator enters (‘shares’) the universe of the characters or, conversely, a character enters (‘shares’) the universe of the narrator.”8 De Jong (2009) catalogues several different varieties of metalepsis in Greek literature, but her discussion of a passage in the Homeric Hymn to Apollo (see 107–13) is most instructive for our purposes. The narrator talks directly to the chorus of Delian Maidens who have up to that point been characters in the song: he asks them to speak of his own poetic excellence to passers-by (166–76).9 An ancient audience familiar with such play on the part of other poets would have been open to tracing the interactions between charactertext and narrator-text in the Homeric poems. Our second topic relates solely to the characters. It is indeed unlikely that we are to imagine a character as having overheard and therefore responding purposefully to the narrator. Most of the time, the poet cleaves to what we can anachronistically term a realist model: characters hear and know what characters are capable of hearing and knowing. The 8 9

de Jong 2009: 89. De Jong also discusses apostrophe as an example of metalepsis: at such moments, too, we find the narrator “entering the narrated world” (2009: 93–97; quotation on 93). The passage from the Homeric Hymn to Apollo differs in that the characters are thought of as hearing the narrator’s instructions. There is no indication the addressee of an apostrophe hears the narrator in the Homeric poems.

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most familiar instantiation of this principle is Jörgensen’s law: apart from those who are seers and poets, other characters “remain only vaguely aware of divine activity unless they witness an undisguised god in action or receive information from a divine source.”10 Odysseus, for instance, can only recount an exchange between Helios and Zeus (Od. 12.374–88) because, as he explains, “I heard these things from fair-haired Kalypso; and she said that she had heard them herself from the guide Hermes” (12.389–90). Nonetheless, a Homeric character can possess knowledge that we would not expect him to have if the poet were operating solely from a realist perspective. James Marks persuasively argues that Jörgensen’s law is set aside when Nestor narrates the stories of the Achaians’ returns from Troy: he introduces a “divine apparatus” and accordingly “alone of mortal characters that are neither seers nor singers fails to conform to Jørgensen’s law” (2008: 123). More frequent are examples of what narratologists refer to as “paralepsis”: “a speaker provides more information than he should, when the narrator intrudes with his superior knowledge into the embedded focalization of a character.”11 I pick a rather pedestrian example of this phenomenon to illustrate its prevalence. Before Odysseus has told them who he is, the Phaiakians “marveled looking upon the wise son of Laertes” (Od. 8.17–18): “The narrator intrudes upon the Phaeacians’ admiring embedded focalization, referring to Odysseus as ‘the wise son of Laertes’ (18) instead of ‘the stranger’, as would have been logical from their point of view.”12 In instances of paralepsis, the character does not know the relevant bit of information. Matters are different when we come to “transference,” a species of paralepsis that occurs in the character-text: “a character displays knowledge of something which, strictly speaking, he cannot know, but which the narratees do know; the knowledge of the narratees is ‘transferred’ to the character.”13 Again, a simple example involving a minor character can suggest the frequency of transference. Eurylochos sees that some of his companions have disappeared into Circe’s house and not come out again 10 11 12 13

Marks 2008: 122. See de Jong 2001: 224. de Jong 2001: xvi; emphasis in original. de Jong 2001: 193 ad 17–20. de Jong 2001: xviii.

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(Od. 10.258–60). After making it back to Odysseus and the rest of his companions, Eurylochos attempts to dissuade the others from returning to Circe’s: “she will turn you all into either pigs or wolves or lions” (Od. 10.432–33). As de Jong notes, “Strictly speaking, Eurylochus does not know that his companions have been turned into pigs … ; as the narratees do know about the metamorphosis we are dealing here with transference” (2001: 265 ad 432–4). Unlike paralepsis in the narratortext, in instances of tranference a character in fact knows something that he could not actually know. Finally, I cite Oliver Taplin’s list of scenes in which a character is aware of the content of another character’s speech that s/he could not have heard: Achilleus, for instance, knows (Il. 1.380–81) that the priest Chryses prayed to Apollo to punish the Achaians (Il. 1.37–42), but Chryses utters this pray as he walks by himself (apaneuthe) along the shore (Il. 1.34–35).14 These departures from the poet’s usual realist agenda do not obscure or vitiate that broader program, but they do relate to the matter of cross-references between narrator-text and character-text. I suggest that the hearer of poems in which characters periodically acquire knowledge of events and speeches they could not have seen or heard might be more willing to attend to the ways in which the poet can make a character refer to the narrator’s words that the character has not heard.15 Let me sum up the presentation to this point. De Jong, Rabel, and Bakker all argue that there can be cross-references between narratortext and character-text. I have suggested that this interaction is further enabled by the phenomenon of metalepsis and by the fact that characters are periodically found to know things they could not possibily know. In addition, Rabel and Bakker point not just to the reality of the interaction but to the competitive dynamics of these cross-references.16 14 15

16

See Taplin 1992: 149–50 and 223. Scodel (2002b) observes that a tradition-oriented audience, having heard much if not all of the story or stories like it before, would not have been so concerned as we are with questions of who knows what and how they know it. I observe that one can utilize this model without endorsing Rabel’s notion of an “ironic distance” between poet and narrator. Even if one finds no meaningful gap between the poet and the narrator, it is still perfectly reasonable to speculate that the poet makes the characters respond to his “own” voice.

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Each critic offers different reasons as to why the poet fashions such a relationship between character and narrator. To my mind, it stems partly from the wish to characterize the heroes as verbal disputants: the poet has them contest not only with each other but also with another (or even the most) prominent speaker in the poem, the narrator. Onward, then, to similes. Scholars have on occasion observed how similes are implicated in the interactions between narrator-text and character-text. De Jong notes the contrasting similes that the narrator and Achilleus produce in describing Patroklos’ tears at the start of Iliad 16: “Both the NF1 and Achilles, functioning as NF2 [secondary narrator-focalizer], comment on Patroclus’s weeping with a simile, the difference in relationship resulting in two very different pictures” (2004a: 126).17 Rabel for his part argues that the narrator’s brief description of Kebriones “as a diver” (Il. 16.742–43) “anticipates” Patroklos’ simile in which he also compares Kebriones to a diver (16.745–50) (1997: 162). James Morrison suggests that the narrator’s likening of Odysseus, crying at Demodokos’ rendition of the sack of Troy, to a captured woman (Od. 8.523–31) “corrects” Demodokos’ simile comparing Odysseus to Ares (8.518) (2005: 82–83).18 This chapter offers a thorough study of how in the Iliad the poet makes a character respond with a simile to the narrator’s simile(s) just as he makes his characters respond to one another’s similes. I do not intend to deny the possibility that the narrator can be made to react to a character. The movement investigated herein from narrator to character seems more prevalent. My analysis is in keeping with Rabel’s and Bakker’s understanding of the often fraught relationship between narrator-text and character-text. The poet can structure a character’s simile such that it expands upon and/ or exploits the narrator’s previous simile for its own ends. More often, the poet has a character’s simile challenge or even repudiate the earlier image(s). The mechanisms of the characters’ reactions are primarily those 17

18

See subsection 1.3. De Jong (2004a: 271n66) points to two other scenes in which a character creates a simile about an event that the narrator has also just described with a simile: Il. 12.131–37 and 12.167–72 (see subsection 2.2) and Il. 16.742–43 and 16.745–50 (see subsection 1.2). McGavin (2000: 128–34) also provides an instructive analogue for this project. He traces the use of similes with the same or nearly the same vehicle by character and narrator in Chaucer’s Troilus and Criseyde.

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outlined in Chapter 3 (section 1) and deployed in Chapter 4: the poet has a character reuse elements from the narrator’s earlier image(s) and/or recharacterize an actor or set of actors. I will also have occasion to note two passages (see subsections 1.1 and 3.1) in which although neither reuse nor recharacterization is a factor it remains productive to see how a simile aids a character in presenting a different take on the scene from that offered by the narrator’s previous simile. I begin by looking at three pairs of similes and then turn to three longer series. In the final two passages I examine, a simile or similes by the narrator precedes a flyting match between two characters in which the second speaker utters a simile. 1. PAIRED SIMILES

Similes spoken by the Lesser Aias, Patroklos, and Achilleus demonstrate how the poet can make his characters respond to a previous simile he put into the voice of the narrator. 1.1. The Lesser Aias on Athena The contestants in the foot race in the funeral games for Patroklos approach the finish line. Odysseus asks Athena to be his “helper,” and she complies by making Odysseus more nimble and causing the Lesser Aias to trip and fall (Il. 23.770–77). In the narrator’s account of the end of the race, then, Athena plays an important role in Odysseus’ success. This dramatic and memorable conclusion makes it easy to forget the narrator’s earlier description of the contest. Throughout, Aias runs ahead but Odysseus follows right behind. A simile measures the distance between them: ἐπὶ δ’ ὄρνυτο δῖος Ὀδυσσεὺς ἄγχι μάλ’, ὡς ὅτε τίς τε γυναικὸς ἐϋζώνοιο στήθεός ἐστι κανών, ὅν τ’ εὖ μάλα χερσὶ τανύσσῃ πηνίον ἐξέλκουσα παρὲκ μίτον, ἀγχόθι δ’ ἴσχει στήθεος· ὣς Ὀδυσεὺς θέεν ἐγγύθεν, αὐτὰρ ὄπισθεν ἴχνια τύπτε πόδεσσι πάρος κόνιν ἀμφιχυθῆναι· and brilliant Odysseus ran behind especially close, as when [close to] the chest of a well-girdled woman

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Odysseus is as near to Aias as the rod is to the weaver’s chest. That is the main point of comparison, but it is easy to cast Odysseus in the role of weaver. The parallel between “she holds it close by” and “Odysseus ran behind especially close … so Odysseus ran close” urges the identification as do two broader points. On a prosaic note, Odysseus more than any other male character in the Trojan War saga comes into contact with female weavers: Kalypso (see Od. 5.62), Circe (see Od. 10.226) and, the most well-known weaver of them all, Penelope (see Od. 2.94–110 and 15.517). More abstractly, Odysseus is renowned for his mêtis, and weaving is routinely a site for the display of mêtis, a principle personified in the fact that Athena, the patron goddess of weaving, is the daughter of Metis.19 With its similes comparing Odysseus to a weeping widow (Od. 8.523–31) or to a cow surrounded by her calves (Od. 10.410–15), the Odyssey teaches us not to be troubled by the notion that Odysseus might resemble a female vehicle. The potential link between Odysseus and the weaver is, however, less important than the vehicle portion’s reference to skill. The phrase eu mala “expertly” (761) declares that the weaver produces a refined piece of craftsmanship. The attention to skill in the simile is not coincidental. It encourages us to attend to Odysseus’ own tactics. He drafts, running directly behind Aias such that he lands on Aias’ footprints before the dust has settled (Il. 23.763–64). By using a simile to increase the attention given to Odysseus’ skill at running, the narrator stresses that factor as one of the causes of his victory. The narrator gives equal weight to two explanations for Odysseus’ success in the foot race: his own skill and Athena’s aid. Aias’ take diverges.20 Having ended up headfirst in some dung, he acknowledges the forces working against him: 19 20

On weaving’s connection to mêtis, see Clayton 2004: 24. On Aias’ presentation as a performance, see Worman 2009: 27–28.

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ὢ πόποι, ἦ μ’ ἔβλαψε θεὰ πόδας, ἣ τὸ πάρος περ μήτηρ ὣς Ὀδυσῆϊ παρίσταται ἠδ’ ἐπαρήγει. Damn! The goddess in truth tripped up my feet, who as she has before like a mother stands near and helps Odysseus. (Il. 23.782–83)

Odysseus, Aias claims, won the race because a powerful goddess always looks out for him (cf. Od. 3.218–22). There are, inevitably, mothers who turn on their children: Althaia calls down curses upon Meleagros (Il. 9.566–72); Hera hurls Hephaistos from Olympos (Il. 18.395–97). Even so, Aias’ choice to describe unconditional support by likening a backer to a mother would not strike anyone as strange: Thetis works diligently on behalf of Achilleus; Antikleia dies out of longing for Odysseus (Od. 11.202–4). Pointing to Odysseus’ patron is not an assertion of foul play because the help of the gods is a powerful, useful, and even necessary tool for a hero.21 Aias seeks not to cheapen Odysseus’ victory but to lament his own lack of divine favor.22 At the same time, the audience can observe that by attributing Odysseus’ success solely to the support of Athena, Aias’ speech differs from the narrator’s presentation that concentrated just as much on Odysseus’ skill.23 Furthermore, whereas the narrator employs a simile to highlight skill as essential to Odysseus’ victory, Aias uses a simile to stress a different cause – Athena. Even more significantly, in contrast to the vehicle portion of the narrator’s simile, Aias’ vehicle portion offers a 21

22

23

See, for instance, Achilleus’ words to Hektor after their first encounter, in which Apollo removes the Trojan from the battle: “Now Phoibos Apollo saved you, to whom you always pray when you enter the din of javelins. Indeed, I will slay you upon encountering you later if perhaps someone of the gods is a helper to me as well” (Il. 20.450–52). This last clause is not meant sarcastically, as it reflects a fact of battle. Diomedes says the same thing to Hektor at Il. 11.362–67. Compare Paris’ defense of his loss to Menelaos at Il. 3.439–40. See Clay 1999: 57 and Allan 2005: 8. A T scholion suggests that the simile caught Athena’s attention. Aias’ characterization of Athena is to be connected with his death as mentioned in the Odyssey: “Perhaps on account of this the poet says ‘and hateful to Athena’ [Od. 4.502] because he compared the virgin maiden (parthenos) to a mother” (Erbse 1977, 5: ad 23.783b). Cf. Aias “does not speak of a personal achievement” on the part of Odysseus (Snell 1984: 133; my translation).

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vivid departure from any talk of skill. It situates us rather in the realm of natural, biological relationships, far from the world of craft. The poet has Aias contest with the narrator over and through simile. 1.2. Patroklos on Kebriones Intent upon striking Hektor with a rock, Patroklos mortally wounds instead Kebriones, Hektor’s charioteer. The front of Kebriones’ face is crushed, his eyes pop out of his head, and he is propelled out of the chariot, as if he were a diver (arneutêri eoikôs) (Il. 16.734–43). The poet then has Patroklos expand at length on that proposition:24 ὢ πόποι, ἦ μάλ’ ἐλαφρὸς ἀνήρ, ὡς ῥεῖα κυβιστᾷ. εἰ δή που καὶ πόντῳ ἐν ἰχθυόεντι γένοιτο, πολλοὺς ἂν κορέσειεν ἀνὴρ ὅδε τήθεα διφῶν, νηὸς ἀποθρῴσκων, εἰ καὶ δυσπέμφελος εἴη, ὡς νῦν ἐν πεδίῳ ἐξ ἵππων ῥεῖα κυβιστᾷ. ἦ ῥα καὶ ἐν ρώεσσι κυβιστητῆρες ἔασιν. Marvelous! The man in truth is nimble, so easily does he somersault. If in fact he should be somewhere on the fishy sea, this man would sate many by searching for sea-squirts,25 leaping from his ship, even if the weather should be rough and stormy, in such manner as now he easily somersaults onto the plain from his horses. Verily, there are acrobats even among the Trojans. (Il. 16.745–50)

Patroklos makes a gruesome connection between Kebriones’ following his eyes to the ground and a diver’s seeking small shellfish. In addition to expounding on Kebriones’ similarity to a diver, Patroklos ends with the image of a tumbler, or acrobat – a transition prepared for by the wider applicability of the verb kubistaô. Vincenzo Di Benedetto argues that Patroklos’ words simply make explicit the sarcasm latent in the narrator’s simile (1998: 9–10).26 Yet, as 24

25 26

This simile has no word of introduction, but its typical resumptive clause (at 749) urges classification as a simile. Scott (1974) leaves it out of his list of similes in book 16, as does Larsen (2007), but in his 2009 book Scott speaks of the passage as a simile (170). For têthea as sea-squirts, see Janko 1992: ad loc. Cf. Rabel’s suggestion that Patroklos’ simile “provides the context necessary to an appreciation of the narrator’s choice of a diver simile” (1993: 339).

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Di Benedetto himself reminds us the narrator uses the same exact brief simile in describing Epikles’ fall from the Achaian wall (Il. 12.385–86 = 17.742–43), and there is no indication that the simile in book 12 is intended in a derogatory manner. Buxton offers better guidance when he says that Kebriones’ death “becomes unique when Patroclus mockingly elaborates the simile” (2004: 151; emphasis in original).27 The poet hands off, as it were, to Patroklos the narrator’s image of a diver, and the warrior turns it into a lengthy insult.28 The simile abruptly separates Kebriones from the heroic world. The chariot becomes a skiff, the battlefield becomes the sea, and a warrior falling from his chariot in death becomes a diver. The insult rests on the low social status attributed to Kebriones through the simile. As with all laborers in the Homeric world, the life of toil renders the diver and the fisherman of low standing.29 Moreover, in the Homeric world, fish is “a poor man’s food.”30 Let us concentrate, however, on two further details of Patroklos’ simile that highlight the diver’s low status. This fisherman is not in search of food only for himself: he “would sate many,” Patroklos says. Patroklos points to the diver’s skill by observing that he not only works in rough weather but also collects a lot of sea-squirts.31 But if that were all Patroklos is doing, he would not need to stress the number of people who eat the fish: the references to a large catch in Od. 19.113 and 22.384–89 do not mention what happens once the fish are caught. Unless our diver is hosting a dinner party, it stands to reason that Patroklos obliquely refers to the diver engaging in some sort of reciprocal exchange with those who consume the fish. The diver partakes in short-term transactions, that is, in this case, commercial transactions aimed at his individual day-to-day sustenance.32 Although the life of the Homeric aristocrat is necessarily filled with short-term transactions, his participation in various long-term transactions marks 27 28

29 30 31

32

Cf. Janko 1992: ad loc. The narrator labels Patroklos’ performance one of mockery: see epikertomeôn at Il. 16.744. See Parks 1990: 60 and 109. Purcell (1995) examines ancient attitudes toward fishing and fish. Davidson 1998: 16–17; quotation on 17. I here follow a bT scholion: the poet “shows the diver as consummate because he does not shy away from hunting even when the sea is rough” (Erbse 1975, 4: ad 16.748c). On short- and long-term transactions, see Bloch and Parry 1989: 23–28.

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him as elite. In contrast to short-term transactions, long-term transactions, such as exchanging gifts or fighting so as to gain a prize in the allotment of spoils, aim at or result in the perpetuation of the largescale social and cosmic orders.33 By aligning the diver with short-term transactions, Patroklos reaffirms the low status of the vehicle to which Kebriones is compared. We can see this same binary opposition at work in a passage from Pindar (Isthmian 1.47–51). He states that, along with the shepherd, plowman, and bird catcher, the fisherman (“the one whom the sea supports”) works for a wage (misthos) so that he can ward off hunger. In so far as this transaction allows the fisherman to subsist from day to day, it can be classed as short-term. By contrast, the aristocratic victor expends his energies on behalf of his community in games and in battles, and in return he is praised by the epinician poet. Because this transaction benefits the victor’s community, it is to be conceived of as a long-term transaction.34 This detail becomes more effective in light of a second one. Patroklos strenuously associates the diver with the open sea. No other fisherman in the Homeric epics is found with a boat. A fisherman sits on a rocky outcropping (Il. 16.407; cf. Od. 12.95 and 251–55). The Laistrygonians “spear” Odysseus’ men “like fish” (Od. 10.124).35 In a simile likening the slaughtered suitors to dead fish, fishermen drag nets filled with their catch onto the shore (Od. 22.384–89). Although fishing with a net does not require venturing so far out to sea that a boat is necessary, the use of boats may be implied. Nonetheless, it remains only an implication. When Odysseus says, “the sea provides fish” for the well-governed polity (Od. 19.113), he again elides the method of catching them and may even mean that it is easy to catch them from shore. Patroklos’ diver leaps from a ship and does so far from shore. In its other appearances the phrase *pontos ikhthuoeis “sea populated by fish” (or the “fishy sea”) denotes the open sea. In another simile, sailors anxiously watch a fire in the mountains recede as they are carried out “along the fishy sea far

33

34 35

On some of the short- and long-term transactions engaged in by the Homeric warrior, see Ready 2007. On this passage, see Kurke 1991: 237–28 and Thalmann 1998: 135–36. See Stanford 1992: ad loc.

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from friends” (Il. 19.375–78). Circe juxtaposes the sufferings Odysseus experiences “on the fishy sea” with those he experienced on land (Od. 10.458–59). The point is not that it would be unheard of for those who gather food from the sea in the Homeric world to use boats or to venture out into the deep, but that Homeric epic is consistently silent when it would have been possible to mention fishing from boats. Patroklos connects his diver with the open sea in a manner uncharacteristically forthright for the poems. This portrayal of the diver as working the open sea can be coupled with his portrayal as one engaged in short-term transactions. Such a characterization reinforces his low status because it aligns him with two markedly unaristocratic groups who sail in pursuit solely of short-term transactions: certain types of merchants and pirates. Carol Dougherty reviews the different ways the epics depict overseas trade.36 When Homeric elites, such as Mentes or Menelaos, engage in trade, “[t]here is no mention of greed or profit” (2001: 48), and “trade is attracted into the prestige economy of aristocratic guest-friends” (50), that is, it is aligned with the long-term transaction of xenia (48–49). By contrast, when Euryalos wishes to question Odysseus’ aristocratic credentials, he compares him to a seafaring merchant in search of “greedily seized profits” by way of short term transactions (Od. 8.159–64) (2001: 49).37 For their part, pirates (lêistêres) sail for the purpose of short-term transactions of brigandage. Although no one thinks it an insult to call another a pirate (see, e.g., Od. 3.72–74), an important point of differentation emerges between pirates and elite heroes, who partake in expeditions that on the 36

37

We need to qualify both Reed’s statement that in the archaic period sailing to engage in trade was an activity that “would disqualify one socially as an aristocrat” (2003: 66–67) and Malkin’s assertion that there is no “general derogation of trade” in the Odyssey (1998: 89) (on which see Cook 2000). The poet may depict Phoenician merchants as nonelite by labeling them “nibblers” (trôktai) (Od. 14.289 and 15.416). LSJ notes that one gloss provided for the word by later grammarians is “lover of profit” (philokerdês). That is, they go in quest of short-term transactions. What distinguishes Odysseus’ pursuit of “profits” (see Od. 19.283–86) is his use of goods for the long-term purpose of perpetuating his oikos. See Od. 14.323–26 and 19.272–95 wherein note how what start as ktêmata “acquired goods” become keimêlia “treasures of the house” (see von Reden 1995: 68).

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face of it closely resemble piracy.38 Pirates do not engage in a long-term transaction vital to the heroic enterprise and the perpetuation of the social and cosmic orders in which the Homeric elite live, namely the redistribution of captured spoils.39 A neat demonstration of this separation emerges in two of Odysseus’ lying tales. When he speaks of how he amassed wealth from the redistributions after nine raids and “became feared and revered among the Cretans,” he does not call himself a pirate (Od. 14.229–34). When speaking of an expedition to Egypt that ends in disaster and so does not offer the opportunity for a redistribution, he labels his companions as lêistêres (17.425). In sum, their engagement solely in short-term transactions separates from the elite certain types of merchants and pirates, both of whom sail the seas. When Patroklos says that the diver engages in short-term transactions after going out onto the open sea, he introduces details that taken together point toward these two low professions. He thereby enhances his portrayal of the diver’s low status. Patroklos’ simile works hard to belittle Kebriones. At the same time as he expands on the notion of a diver, Patroklos introduces by way of metaphor the acrobat or tumbler as a second point of comparison. The verb kubistaô lends itself to this transition. Somersaulting, at first applied to the diver from the ship, also prompts thoughts of tumblers.40 Tumblers are skilled dancers who lead a larger troop of singers and dancers (Il. 18.590–606 and Od. 4.17–19).41 Epics’ internal audiences appreciate the skill involved in dancing (Il. 18.603–4; cf. Od. 8.370–84). Now, war can be thought of as a dance: in a poem attributed to Tyrtaeus, Spartan youths are summoned to the “dance of Ares” (Poetae Melici Graeci 857).42 Appropriately, then, a good 38 39 40

41

42

See Tandy 1997: 74. See Ready 2007: 15n31. The diver and the tumbler should not be conflated (pace Di Benedetto 1998: 10). For the skill involved in performing such acts, see Lawler’s discussion of the Cretan “dance of the tumblers” (1964: 38). For another ancient testimonium concerning the skill required to be a tumbler, see Plato Euthydemos 294e2–4. Conversely, armed dances were ancient and popular; see Ceccarelli 1998: 16–25. For bibliography on the debate as to whether “the pyrrhichê has a strong practical utility in preparation for war,” see Ceccarelli 2004: 92n4. On the tragic chorus as a close order military drill, see Winkler 1990a.

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warrior dances on the battlefield. Hektor boasts, “I know how in deadly close combat to dance in honor of Ares” (Il. 7.241).43 In calling him “a dancer” (orkhêstên), Aineias allows that Meriones is an agile fighter (Il. 16.617).44 At the same time, dancing in the chorus can be juxtaposed with fighting.45 Aphrodite claims that Paris looks not as if he just fought a duel but as if he is going to or coming from the choral dance (Il. 3.392–94). Aias rebukes the Achaians: Hektor, he says, “does not invite you to enter into a choral dance, but to fight” (Il. 15.508). It is, therefore, an insult to claim that someone can only dance in the chorus but is incapable on the battlefield. This proposition underlies Priam’s lament that all his worthy sons have been killed and only the “liars and dancers (orkhêstai), best at beating the ground in the choral dance” (Il. 24.261) remain. By representing Kebriones as a tumbler, Patroklos relies both on the connections between the dance of war and choral dancing and on the opposition between fighting and choral dancing. On the one hand, he sarcastically draws attention to Kebriones’ skillful dancing in war at the moment of his death. On the other hand, in order to paint him as an ineffective fighter, he labels him a skilled choral dancer. Patroklos is revealed as an adept maker of simile when he outshines the narrator in this endeavor. From the audience’s perspective, his simile far exceeds the more neutral description in the narrator-text. What is more, that Patroklos tops his simile off with a related metaphor augments his characterization as a dexterous verbal artist. 1.3. Achilleus on Patroklos I close this examination of paired similes with a longer analysis of a well-known passage in Iliad 16. A crying Patroklos appears before Achilleus:

43

44

45

On how Hektor’s immediately preceding verses take the form of a lyric song, see Martin 1989: 132; on how the movements he describes in those lines resemble a dance, see Ceccarelli 2004: 103n32. Contra Janko 1992: 15.508–10. The boast (and insult) in Aineias’ words comes in the next verse, in which he claims that he would have killed Meriones if he had hit him (Il. 16.618). See Janko 1992: ad 15.508–10.

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Narrator, Character, and Simile Πάτροκλος δ’ Ἀχιλῆϊ παρίστατο, ποιμένι λαῶν, δάκρυα θερμὰ χέων ὥς τε κρήνη μελάνυδρος, ἥ τε κατ’ αἰγίλιπος πέτρης δνοφερὸν χέει ὕδωρ. but Patroklos stood before Achilleus, shepherd of the people, pouring warm tears like a spring with black water, which pours down dark water from a steep rock. (Il. 16.2–4)

The poet then turns to Achilleus’ reaction and address to his friend, a performance that contains “una famosissima e controversa similitudine:” 46 τὸν δὲ ἰδὼν ᾤκτιρε ποδάρκης δῖος Ἀχιλλεύς, καί μιν φωνήσας ἔπεα πτερόεντα προσηύδα· “τίπτε δεδάκρυσαι, Πατρόκλεες, ἠΰτε κούρη νηπίη, ἥ θ’ ἅμα μητρὶ θέουσ’ ἀνελέσθαι ἀνώγει, εἱανοῦ ἁπτομένη, καί τ’ ἐσσυμένην κατερύκει, δακρυόεσσα δέ μιν ποτιδέρκεται, ὄφρ’ ἀνέληται. τῇ ἴκελος, Πάτροκλε, τέρεν κατὰ δάκρυον εἴβεις.” And seeing him, swift-footed brilliant Achilleus pitied him, and addressing him, he spoke winged words: “Why are you in tears, Patroklos, like a girl, an ignorant one, who running alongside her mother begs her to pick her up, clutching at her garment, and she checks her, eager, and she looks up at her tearfully until she picks her up: similar to that one, Patroklos, you shed down a soft tear.” (16.5–11)

Commentators have noted the juxtaposed similes. Jasper Griffin speaks of a “contrast” between the two similes (1995: ad 9.14–16), and Rabel speaks of Achilleus’ viewing Patroklos’ tears “in a somewhat different way” than the narrator (1997: 155). I suggest the following: whereas the narrator’s simile argues that Patroklos is desperate and finds himself in a grave crisis, Achilleus’ simile recharacterizes the crying Patroklos to suggest that Patroklos sheds tears over a situation that can quickly be remedied. The simile is meant to offer comfort and in so doing can, from the audience’s perspective, challenge the narrator’s representation.

46

Nannini 2003: 73. Again, the phrase “winged words” (Il. 16.6) signals the advent of a performance: see Chapter 4 (section 1).

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Analysis of this passage can begin with an examination of Homeric crying.47 For it is imperative to observe first that the narrator and Achilleus differ in their assertions of how much Patroklos is crying. Different phrases for crying fulfill the different metrical and syntactical needs of the poet. In particular, he has numerous ways to express the essential idea “he cried” using words with the stem dakr-. The adjective dakruoeis tends to be toward the front of the verse when applied to people, whereas participial forms of the verb dakruô are flexible as to their placement in the hexameter line.48 Unlike the participial forms that begin with a long syllable, the perfect indicative middle forms not only obviously provide a finite expression but also begin with a short syllable, making them suitable for placement in the biceps of a dactylic foot. For its part, using the noun dakruon allows the poet to apply the idea, for example, to a masculine singular, participial subject either with an expression that extends from the start of the verse to the B1 caesura (e.g., Il. 18.17) or with one that stretches from the B1 caesura to the end of the line (e.g., Od. 11.391). The phrase τὼ δέ οἱ ὄσσε / δακρυόφι πλῆσθεν offers an opportunity for necessary enjambment (e.g., Il. 17.695–96).49 Given that we are dealing with a calibrated formulaic system, it is better not to fish for distinctions as to the amount or force of tears among the different ways of saying “he cried” that use a word from the stem dakr-. I draw a similar conclusion from the fact that the various phrases that use the noun dakru or dakruon to express the essential idea “he cried” can each be linked with a verb of lament, that is, with an expression that signals copious tears. Compare the following verses: (1) dakruon/a (l)eibô + oduromai Ἀντίλοχος δ’ ἑτέρωθεν ὀδύρετο δάκρυα λείβων, And Antilochos on the other side was lamenting, shedding tears, (Il. 18.32) ὣς ἄρα τοί γ’ ἐλεεινὸν ὑπ’ ὀφρύσι δάκρυον εἶβον. καί νύ κ’ ὀδυρομένοισιν ἔδυ φάος ἠελίοιο, 47 48

49

Previous bibliography on Homeric tears noted at Lateiner 1995: 69n7. For dakruoeis, see, for example, Il. 6.455, 18.66, 21.493, 22.499, and Od. 10.415. Dakrusasa appears in the first foot of Od. 17.33 and in the last foot of 17.38. See Clark 1997: 126–27.

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Narrator, Character, and Simile so they were shedding a pitiable tear under their brows. And the light of the sun would have come upon them lamenting, (Od. 16.219–20)

(2) thaleron … dakru/on with kheô or (kat)eibô + verb of lament οἴκτρ’ ὀλοφυρομένους, θαλερὸν κατὰ δάκρυ χέοντας. lamenting piteously, pouring down a blooming tear.

(Od. 10.409)

κλαῖε δ’ ὅ γε λιγέως, θαλερὸν κατὰ δάκρυον εἴβων, and he was lamenting shrilly, shedding down a blooming tear, (Od. 11.391) μυρόμενοι, θαλερὸν δὲ κατείβετο δάκρυ παρειῶν. weeping, and a blooming tear was falling from their cheeks. (Il. 24.794)

(3) dakrua … therma … rheô + muromai δάκρυα δέ σφι θερμὰ κατὰ βλεφάρων χαμάδις ῥέε μυρομένοισιν ἡνιόχοιο πόθῳ· and tears warm flowed from their eyelids as they were weeping out of longing for their charioteer; (Il. 17.437–39; cf. Il. 18.234–35)

See also: (3b) therma dakrua kheô + polla πολλὰ δέ σ’ ἀμφὶ δάκρυα θερμὰ χέον Δαναοὶ κείραντό τε χαίτας. and for you many warm tears did the Danaans pour forth and they cut locks of hair. (Od. 24.45–46; see also Od. 4.522–23)50

Because each phrase with the noun dakru or dakruon can be used in reference to a large outpouring of tears, the amount of tears and the extent to which the subject manifests his or her sadness is not to be found 50

Note as well the pairing of the noun gooio “lamentation” with the phrase dakru … bale “he threw (i.e., let fall) a tear” at Od. 4.113–14.

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within the semantics of any of the phrases. There is little point in trying to differentiate between, for example, “pouring” or “shedding” a tear, or between a “warm” or “blooming” tear.51 Rather, as hinted at in the collection of quoted verses, the poet creates a scale of visible and audible expressions of emotion (usually sadness). Words from and phrases with dakr- appear when characters shed tears. When they do so without further elaboration, I shall refer to that act as base level crying. But whereas some characters cry, others cry plentifully or constantly or cry and lament. The more words and phrases devoted to the description of the act of crying, the greater the outpouring of tears and, presumably, the greater the emotion. Put simply, Homeric characters can cry and they can cry harder. We can trace the use of several different expressions with dakr- for “he cried.” I look first to the noun. Take, for instance, the phrase kata dakruon eibô. Achilleus imagines that his absence saddens Peleus: “who I suppose now in Phthia sheds down a soft tear (τέρεν κατὰ δάκρυον εἴβει) out of longing for his great son” (Il. 19.323–24). Agamemnon reacts more expressively when he sees Odysseus in the underworld: “and he was lamenting shrilly, shedding down a blooming tear” (κλαῖε δ’ ὅ γε λιγέως, 51

Arnould (1990: 130) wrongly implies that the adjectival epithets applied to the word for “tear” make a given formula more precise. That said, the phrase “pitiable tear” (eleeinon … dakruon) does possess a distinct inherent meaning. The adjective eleeinos appears in the context of lament. Priam cries out pitiably (eleeina) upon seeing Achilleus mutilate Hektor’s corpse (Il. 22.408). In the vehicle portion of a simile describing Odysseus’ reaction to Demodokos’ song, a woman wails over her dead husband: “her cheeks are wasted by a most pitiable (eleeinotatôi) pain” (Od. 8.530). The Achaians lament around Patroklos’ pitiable (eleeinon) corpse (Il. 23.110). This connection with lament explains the use of the adjective in certain instances to describe the flow of tears when someone is lamenting. Telemachos and Odysseus weep upon being reunited. They lament shrilly (κλαῖον δὲ λιγέως) like vultures deprived of their young: “so they were shedding a pitiable tear under their brows (ἐλεεινὸν ὑπ’ ὀφρύσι δάκρυον εἶβον). And the light of the sun would have come upon them lamenting (ὀδυρομένοισιν)” (Od. 16.216–20). Similarly, Odysseus cries when he hears Demodokos sing: “so Odysseus shed a pitiable tear under his brow” (ὣς Ὀδυσεὺς ἐλεεινὸν ὑπ’ ὀφρύσι δάκρυον εἶβεν) (Od. 8.531). This sentence is the resumptive clause of the simile likening Odysseus to a woman lamenting over her dead husband.

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θαλερὸν κατὰ δάκρυον εἴβων) (Od. 11.391). Each verse offers a met-

rically and syntactically suitable expression for the idea “he cried” in the second hemistich. Only the first half of Od. 11.391 makes clear the greater extent to which Agamemnon expresses his sadness.52 Dakru / on also appears frequently as the object of the verb kheô. Andromache begins her last conversation with Hektor: “she stood near to him, pouring a tear (dakru kheousa)” (Il. 6.405).53 For her part, Hekabe expresses greater emotion: “And his mother in turn on the other side was lamenting, pouring a tear (ὀδύρετο δάκρυ χέουσα)” (Il. 22.79).54 The same distinction appears in different instances of the phrase “warm tears.” Eurykleia tearfully remembers Odysseus: “and she threw down warm tears” (δάκρυα δ’ ἔκβαλε θερμά) (Od. 19.362). Agamemnon cries harder upon returning to Mykene: “and from him many warm tears were pouring” (πολλὰ δ’ ἀπ’ αὐτοῦ / δάκρυα θερμὰ χέοντ’) (Od. 4.522–23). I note as well the instrumental use of dakruon as in Antilochos’ reaction to the news of Patroklos’ death: “and his two eyes were filled with tears” (τὼ δέ οἱ ὄσσε / δακρυόφι πλῆσθεν) (Il. 17.695–96). This usage is found in but one of the expressions denoting Odysseus’ prodigious weeping on Kalypso’s island (Od. 5.151–58: see esp. oduromenôi and stonakhêisi).55

On klaiô, see Arnould 1990: 145. The related phrase dakrua leibôn can also be used by itself (e.g., Il. 13.658; cf. Il. 13.88) or coupled with a verb of lament (e.g., Il. 18.32 and Od. 16.214). 53 Antilochos reports Patroklos’ death to Achilleus: “pouring warm tears (δάκρυα θερμὰ χέων), and he spoke a grievous message” (Il. 18.17). An instructive distinction appears during the truce in Iliad 7 when the two sides collect the corpses of their dead: “pouring warm tears (δάκρυα θερμὰ χέοντες), they placed [the bodies] on wagons. But great Priam did not allow [the Trojans] to lament (klaiein): and they in silence heaped them on the funeral pyre, pained in their hearts” (Il. 7.426–28). A contrast is drawn between crying and more effusive lament; see Arnould 1990: 145. 54 So, too, do Odysseus’ companions: “and they were lamenting shrilly, pouring down a blooming tear” (κλαῖον δὲ λιγέως, θαλερὸν κατὰ δάκρυ χέοντες) (Od. 10.201). 55 When Eurylochos relates an encounter with Circe, he, too, seems about to cry harder than Antilochos: “and his eyes were filled with tears, and his heart foreboded mourning” (ἐν δέ οἱ ὄσσε / δακρυόφιν πίμπλαντο, γόον δ’ ὠΐετο θυμός) (Od. 10.247–48). I use Heubeck’s suggested translation of γόον δ’ ὠΐετο θυμός (1989: ad loc.). 52

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The poet employs the verb dakruô in the same way. The perfect indicative middle appears the most of the finite forms of the verb, and the three uses of dedakruntai adhere to one of the two meanings proposed by Domenica Romango, an investigator of the Homeric perfect: “lo stato dell’ entità che subisce gli effetti di un dato evento” (2005: 111). Here, too, an additional word or phrase can alter our perception of the amount of tears. Philoitios cries at a base level when seeing the disguised beggar who reminds him of Odysseus: “my eyes have tears in them (dedakruntai) because I remember Odysseus” (Od. 20.204–5). Theoklymenos witnesses the suitors crying harder: “and lamentation blazes forth (οἰμωγὴ δὲ δέδηε), and your cheeks have tears on them (dedakruntai)” (Od. 20.353).56 Forms of the aorist active participle appear in these contexts as well. Eurykleia cries (dakrusasa) when she sees that Telemachos has returned safely from his travels (Od. 17.33).57 Penelope’s tears are greater: she both cries (dakrusasa) and laments (olophuromenê) (Od. 17.38 and 40, respectively).58 Finally, one can note here that the adjectival forms dakruoeis, dakruoessa, etc., “tearful” (metrically equivalent to the aorist participle to the extent that they fill the same number of feet) only designate base crying and are never coupled with another word or phrase to indicate a still greater amount of tears.59 In sum, the various expressions for the idea “he cried” serve as foundations upon which the poet can build. To signal a greater flow of tears, the poet introduces another word or phrase beyond one of those expressions. This ultimately straightforward proposition has required 56

57

58

59

Similarly, Andromache imagines the fatherless Astyanax’s constant weeping: “he finds humiliation everywhere (panta), and his cheeks have tears on them (dedakruntai)” (Il. 22.491). Note that Andromache goes on to use dakruoeis synonymously with dedakruntai (Il. 22.499). The perfect itself does not signify a greater amount of tears. The only other finite form of this verb that appears in the two epics is the aorist active: Odysseus cries three times (at a base level) in the underworld (dakrusa) (Od. 11.55, 87, and 395). That the participle on its own indicates base level crying emerges in the juxtaposition of Eumaios’ and the cowherd’s reactions to the start of the contest of the bow: the former cries (dakrusas); the latter weeps in lamentation (klaie) (Od. 21.82–83). Similarly, Odysseus envisions crying over a dead person for a whole day: ἐπ’ ἤματι δακρύσαντας (Il. 19.229). See Il. 6.455, 18.66, 21.493, 21.496, 21.506, and 22.499.

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attention because when Patroklos cries in Iliad 16 the narrator and Achilleus do not see the same thing. I come back now to the narrator’s description of Patroklos but via Iliad 9 where we encounter the same simile. Agamemnon cries heavily before the assembled Achaian leaders as he contemplates abandoning the expedition: ἵστατο δάκρυ χέων ὥς τε κρήνη μελάνυδρος, ἥ τε κατ’ αἰγίλιπος πέτρης δνοφερὸν χέει ὕδωρ· ὣς ὁ βαρὺ στενάχων ἔπε’ Ἀργείοισι μετηύδα· he stood pouring a tear like a spring with black water, which pours down dark water from a steep rock: so he groaning deeply spoke words to the Argives:

(Il. 9.14–16)

The narrator begins with a basic phrase for “he cried” to which he adds a simile declaring that the tears resemble a constant flow of water: Agamemnon’s tears are greater than the initial expression by itself would indicate. In other words, the simile supplements the base level expression just like, for instance, the verbs of lament or the adjective polla in the examples discussed earlier. The narrator adds one more element to reaffirm Agamemnon’s prodigious flow of tears by returning to the story proper with the phrase “groaning deeply.” Groaning is linked with heavy crying elsewhere. Achilleus laments (odureto) and groans (stenakhizôn) as he picks Patroklos’ bones from the pyre (Il. 23.224–25). The following verse can mark the end of a formal lament: “So she spoke lamenting, and women groaned in accompaniment” (Ὣς ἔφατο κλαίουσ’, ἐπὶ δὲ στενάχοντο γυναῖκες) (Il. 19.301; see also 19.338, 22.429, and 22.515).60 Odysseus “melts” (têketo) upon hearing Demodokos; he resembles a woman lamenting (klaiêi … ligu kôkuei) over her dead husband; Alkinoos “heard him groaning deeply” (βαρὺ δὲ στενάχοντος ἄκουσεν) (Od. 8.522–34; cf. 8.92–95). In their copious lamentation, Odysseus’ men make Circe’s house itself groan (κλαῖον ὀδυρόμενοι, περὶ δὲ στεναχίζετο δῶμα) (Od. 10.454). Agamemnon is crying tears so numerous that they bring to mind a continuously flowing source of water, and he is groaning as well, an act likewise indicative of a heavy outpouring of tears. 60

See Arnould 1990: 175.

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The narrator follows a typical pattern wherein he supplements the basic notion of “he cried” with additional material and thereby emphasizes the extent of the subject’s tears. In Iliad 16, the narrator uses precisely this sequence to describe the flow of Patroklos’ tears. He starts with the simple description “pouring warm tears” (δάκρυα θερμὰ χέων). To this he then adds the simile about a spring pouring water. Finally, the expected use of the phrase “groaning deeply” is here delayed until after Achilleus’ speech, when Patroklos speaks for the first time (16.20). The narrator depicts Patroklos as crying quite hard. The cross-reference with book 9 also tells us much about the resonance of this simile in book 16. Moulton follows Whitman in seeing a purposeful repetition here that urges the audience to “consider the contrast between Achilles’ greatest friend and his arch-enemy, not only with regard for their feelings toward him but also in their respective speeches” (1977: 103).61 First and foremost, however, the repetition reveals the simile’s inherent meaning. Agamemnon is ready to leave Troy empty-handed.62 Patroklos wishes to don Achilleus’ armor and fight in his stead. Accordingly, in full knowledge of the fact that two data points do not make a pattern, we can speculate that the black water simile traditionally encoded the following message: a character faces a terrifying situation and is willing to resort to measures that he never would have considered before.63 By employing the black water simile in Iliad 16, the narrator positions Patroklos as desperate on account of a grave crisis. The poet then crafts Achilleus’ response so as to challenge the narrator’s depiction of Patroklos. In contrast to the narrator, Achilleus insists on basic or unadorned descriptions of crying, both in his portrayal of Patroklos and his image of the girl. He states that Patroklos is crying 61

62

63

See Whitman 1958: 279–80, Rabel 1997: 155, and cf. Griffin 1995: ad 9.14–16. Hainsworth (1993: ad 9.14–15) questions an audience’s ability to make such a connection. “Agamemnon appears then as the hyperbolic expression of this feeling of failure” (Arnould 1990: 55; my translation). “Acute distress at imminent disaster to the army causes floods of tears in both cases” (Hainsworth 1993: ad 14–15). See also Beye 1993: 11–12. Nannini finds that warriors cry out of a sense of uncertainty and frustration (2003: 65–66) and links Agamemnon’s and Patroklos’ similes at 74–75.

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both at the start of his speech (dedakrusai) (Il. 16.7) and then again in the simile’s resumptive clause (τέρεν κατὰ δάκρυον εἴβεις) (11). The initial perfect does not suggest that Patroklos cries hard,64 but only that he is currently crying. The verb instantiates the other of the two functions of the perfect delineated by Romango: “lo stato propria dell’ autore di un dato evento” (2005: 111). In this case, tears are coming from Patroklos’ eyes at the moment of Achilleus’ utterance, a state that befits one who is crying. David Monro’s translation is still best: “[you] art in tears” (1891: sect. 28). More important, in both verse 7 and 11, there is no additional detail to suggest that the amount of tears being shed exceeds base level crying. Indeed, although variations of kata dakruon eibô are elsewhere expanded upon (see, e.g., Od. 11.391), the notion of a “soft tear” is not. The simile, too, is intended partly to characterize the flow of tears: there, we find the girl only “tearful” (dakruoessa). As with the phrase “soft tear,” all forms of the adjective “tearful” are only ever used to describe base level crying. The form brings to mind the metrically equivalent dakrusasa, the participle that can be part of a larger set of words indicating a greater amount of tears. But again, such expansion is here absent. The first thing to observe about Achilleus’ response, then, is that he does not make Patroklos out to be crying as hard as the narrator does. The text does not suggest we conflate or equate the narrator’s description of Patroklos’ tears with Achilleus’ description.65 This important point of differentiation encourages one to continue exploring the ways in which Achilleus’ simile can be seen to counter the narrator’s depiction of Patroklos.66 Again, we have to take a step back. A well-known crux in the passage concerns the use of “pity” in verse 5. If Achilleus “pities” Patroklos, why does he launch into a speech filled with sarcasm and irony in which he belittles Patroklos by comparing him to a little girl and then plays dumb as to the reason for his tears? Kathy Gaca offers the most recent and thorough attempt to reconcile these apparent contradictions (2008). In contrast to previous scholars who imagine Achilleus to be wrestling with his 64 65 66

Contra Gaca 2008: 156. Contra Arnould 1990: 55 and Gaca 2008: 155–56. My analysis, then, will differ from Scott’s (2009: 158). He finds that the two images function as a “pair” in which the second “reinforces” the “peaceful tone” of the first.

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emotions,67 Gaca denies that there is a problem here at all: Achilleus’ simile is not mocking in tone but rather a sympathetic likeness of Patroklos to a girl attempting to escape along with her mother from men who are pillaging their town. This imagined scenario is untenable, but Gaca rightly and importantly observes that Achilleus is not trying to insult Patroklos with the figure and that he does feel pity for his friend. That said, what is missing from Gaca’s and earlier analyses of this passage is a discussion of how Achilleus’ expression of pity for Patroklos also contains an argument. Let us consider Gaca’s reading of the simile as referring to the sack of a town. Gaca focuses on the scene’s verbs. She claims that the mother and daughter are running in headlong flight but neglects to note that the verb theô is not especially associated with flight. Forms of the verb appear in reference to running with a specific destination (e.g., Il. 10.54, 11.617, and Od. 13.88) or goal (e.g., Il. 8.331, 17.691, 18.167, and 22.192) in mind. More significantly, it is used for running in pursuit of someone: Hektor runs after Achilleus’ horses (theeis … diôkôn) (Il. 17.75); hunting dogs try to chase down a boar (theousi) (Il. 17.727); Odysseus stays close behind the Lesser Aias in the footrace (theen … theôn) (Il. 23.763 and 766, respectively). The instances in which the verb denotes flight are far less frequent. The Trojan horses run fleeing (theousai) from Patroklos (Il. 16.393). Hektor and Achilleus “run (theon) for the soul of Hektor” (Il. 22.161). In this latter passage, the previous verses have made clear who is pursued and who is pursuing (22.158); the verb in 161 simply means “to run.” In short, the verb does not immediately trigger thoughts of flight and is only so used in unambiguous contexts. It cannot by itself stand as proof that the mother and daughter are fleeing. Gaca also puts a lot of weight on Achilleus’ use of the participle essumenên. Looking through the appearances “of the uncompounded verb σεύεσθαι in the middle voice,” Gaca finds that it “signifies movement of a swift, headlong sort when used without a complementary infinitive or objective genitive, as it is in the simile” (2008: 151–52). Accordingly, with this verb as well, Achilleus depicts the mother as fleeing from attackers. I point to two weaknesses in this approach. 67

See Most 2003: 68; cf. Ledbetter 1993.

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First, forms of the verb seuesthai refer more easily to pursuit, as Gaca’s own comparanda make clear (152–54). Whereas a compound form, such as the apessumenon applied to the retreating Peiros (Il. 4.527), can indicate flight, the only instance Gaca cites of the simple verb having some connection to flight appears in Hektor’s running from Achilleus: “they run” (esseuonto) (Il. 22.146). A better example is found when the Trojans flee (esseuonto) Agamemnon (Il. 11.167), but here, too, the point remains that the verb does not immediately trigger thoughts of flight and is only so used in unambiguous contexts. A critic should not rely on it to prove that the mother is fleeing . Second, I do not think that the participle essumenên even refers to motion in Achilleus’ simile. To my mind, Gaca’s search criterion (again, “the uncompounded verb σεύεσθαι in the middle voice”) is too broad and in the end misleading. I point instead to the fact that, as in Achilleus’ simile, the participle essumenos is twice elsewhere in the Homeric poems paired with the verb katerukô. First, Paris meets up with Hektor, who is “about to turn from the spot where he was conversing intimately with his wife” (Il. 6.515–16). Paris apologizes to his brother for delaying their return to battle: “surely I detain you even though eager” (ἦ μάλα δή σε καὶ ἐσσύμενον κατερύκω) (6.518). Second, Menelaos declares, “Equally bad is it, if someone when his guest is not willing to return urges him on and if someone detains his guest who is eager [to return] (καὶ ὃς ἐσσύμενον κατερύκει)” (Od. 15.72–73). In neither passage does essumenos apply to one in motion. Both speakers use the participle to mean “eager.” These close parallels for Achilleus’ expression suggest that we use “eager” when translating it. The question “Eager for what?” immediately arises. I shall try out two different answers. First, Paris and Menelaos use katerukô to mean “detain,” as, for example, Athena does: “Do not now still detain (kateruke) me” (Od. 1.315; cf. Il. 24.218). They do not use it in its other sense of “to stop (someone in motion),” as, for example, the narrator does of Iris’ stopping (kateruke) Hera and Athena in their tracks as they attempt to depart Olympos (Il. 8.412; cf. Od. 3.345). If Achilleus is using the verb in the same sense as both Paris and Menelaos do, then he means that the child, having already made her mother stop, is now detaining her. It could be that the reference to the girl grabbing (haptomenê) her mother’s garment is sufficient to indicate that she brings her to a halt. In another simile, a dog aims to make the boar or lion it is chasing stop by grabbing (haptêtai) on

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to it (Il. 8.339). Be that as it may, if this reconstruction is right, it becomes possible to determine the source of the mother’s eagerness. For there is an example of essumenos’s use with an implied complement that refers to an interrupted action. A rock leaps, flies, and runs down a mountain; it comes to a level plain: “and then not at all does it roll although eager (essumenos per)” (Il. 13.140–42). The complement to be supplied refers to what the rock was just doing: flying, rolling, falling.68 Just so, the mother in Achilleus’ simile is eager to resume her running. Second, a more pedestrian, but perhaps more satisfactory, answer suggests itself. Achilleus may be using katerukô to mean “stop (someone in motion)” (the indication that the mother is in motion coming from the earlier participle theous’, not from essumenên). If so, we will never know what the mother is eager for. But if Achilleus is using the verb in this way, it could also be the case that he is not concerned with the mother’s precise goal. His only point is that she is eager to get to whatever she is after or wherever she is headed. I advocate taking 16.9 to mean “and she checks her, eager.” The semantics of the verbs in Achilleus’ simile do not allow for Gaca’s reconstruction of the scene. Yet, Gaca helpfully insists that the narrator’s “pity” (ôiktire) in 16.5 be taken seriously: Achilleus does not insult or mock Patroklos with the simile. We need a better sense of what pity means in the Homeric poems. In what follows, I start from Jinyo Kim’s contention that oiktirô/oikteirô, eleein, and eleairô are semantic equivalents (2000: 31, 41, 58, and 65n61). We will see that oiktirô/ oikteirô fits comfortably into the semantic field marked out by the more frequently used eleein and eleairô. Pity is a routine motivator in the epics. In the first place, pity motivates action. It prompts a warrior to move to a certain spot on the battlefield upon seeing the death of his comrade(s): “And Telamonian Aias pitied (eleêse) them as they fell; and he stood nearby coming up close and made a cast with his shining spear” (Il. 5.610–11) (cf. Il. 5.561–62, 17.346–47, and 17.352–53).69 Conversely, an absence of pity leads to 68

69

Gaca (2008: 153n24) speaks of “the lively, personified rock eager to keep tumbling down the slope even though it has just come to a stop on the plain.” See Kim 2000: 41–42 and Most 2003: 55–56 and 61–62. The remainder of this paragraph is indebted to Kim (2000: 36–52). For further comments on pity in the Homeric poems, see Konstan 2001: 78–79, 109–11, and 125–26; for pity in texts from the classical period, see Konstan 2006: 201–18.

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inaction. Nestor states that because Achilleus does not pity (oud’ eleairei) the Achaians, he remains (menei) by the ships (Il. 11.665–66). More precisely, pity motivates one to aid another in some fashion: “‘to pity’ implies not simply to feel the emotion but ‘to do something to help or save.’ ”70 Nestor hopes that Diomedes’ pity (eleaireis) for Nestor’s age will prompt Diomedes to join him in summoning the Achaian leaders to a council: that way Nestor will not have to run all over the camp himself (Il. 10.175–76). Hera claims that pity (eleêsen) compelled Poseidon to help the Achaians in the fight (Il. 15.44). Patroklos’ pity for the wounded Eurypolos (ôikteire) (Il. 11.814) prompts him to delay his return to Achilleus and heal his “exhausted” (teiromenoio) comrade (11.838–41).71 Apollo preserves Hektor’s corpse out of pity (eleairôn) (Il. 24.19). The suitors pity (eleairontes) the beggar Odysseus and give him some scraps of food (Od. 17.367) (cf. Il. 22.494). Mortals hope that the pity of the gods will save them. Hekabe is to promise a sacrifice to Athena “if she pities (eleêsêi) the town” and saves Troy (Il. 6.93–95) (cf. Il. 24.301). Just so, the suppliant puts the same hopes for his safety in the supplicandus. Lykaon says to Achilleus, “but you reverence me and pity (eleêson) me” (Il. 21.74) (cf. Il. 20.465 and 22.419; Od. 14.279, 22.312 and 22.344). Conversely, an absence of pity means the suppliant’s death. Hektor imagines that Achilleus will not pity (eleêsei) him if he offers supplication, but will kill him instead (Il. 22.123–24) (cf. Il. 24.207).72 70 71

72

Kim 2000: 36. Patroklos’ pity, noted by the narrator at Il. 11.814, may prompt him to lament (olophuromenos) the Achaian situation in the immediately following verses (11.815–18). But given that one can pity those who are exhausted and move to help them (see teiromenous eleaire at Il. 9.302 and teiromenous … eleêsen at Il. 15.44), Patroklos’ claim that he will tend to the exhausted (teiromenoio) Eurypolos signals that the narrator’s ôikteire applies here as well (if not solely here): Patroklos heals his friend out of pity. Observe also the use of related words. (1) Eupeithes reproaches Odysseus for both losing all the men he took to Troy and killing the suitors (Od. 24.426–37). The narrator reports that “pity (oiktos) seized all the Achaians” (24.438). After Halitherses says that the Ithakans are themselves to blame (24.454–62), the majority still side with Eupeithes and hasten to grab their weapons (24.465–66). We can surmise that the majority are motivated at least in part by their pity for Eupeithes to help him in his quest for vengeance.

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Within this larger grouping of passages connecting pity with aid, there is a subset especially germane to our inquiry. Pity often leads someone to offer comfort or help, in a subsequent speech, to the person who has prompted the pity. Hektor pities (eleêse) Andromache and aims to assuage her worries by declaring that no one will kill him before he is fated to die (Il. 6.484–93). Pity leads both Eidothea to tell Menelaos how to capture Proteus (see eleêse at Od. 4.364) and Ino to instruct Odysseus in how to save himself from drowning (see eleêsen at Od. 5.333).73 Still more helpful are the following two passages. Achilleus pities (ôikteire) Eumelos who has come in last in the chariot race and suggests giving him the second prize (Il. 23.534–38). Achilleus’ pity (oiktirôn) for Priam motivates his lengthy discussion of the lot of mortals in an effort to comfort the king (Il. 24.516–51).74 When we are told that Achilleus pities Patroklos, we need to have in mind the resonance of the concept demonstrated here. I suggest that Achilleus attempts to explain by way of simile why Patroklos need not cry.75

73

74

75

(2) Priam wishes Achilleus to think of him as pitiable: see his use of eleeinon at Il. 24.309 and of eleeinoteros at 24.504. If Achilleus pities him, Priam implies, he will be able to get what he wants from Achilleus. See Kim 2000: 63–64. A god can be moved by pity and urge a course of remedial action in a subsequent speech. Hera pities (eleêse) the Achaians and asks Athena to defend them (Il. 8.350–56). Zeus is regularly motivated by pity to order another god to aid a mortal. He pities (eleêse) the Achaian elders and instructs Athena to “drip” nectar and ambrosia into Achilleus (Il. 19.340–48). His pity (eleêse) for Priam leads him to tell Hermes to escort the king (Il. 24.332–38). Out of pity (eleaireskon) for Hektor, the gods ask Hermes to steal the Trojan’s corpse (Il. 24.23–24). On Achilleus’ pity for Eumelos as generating his attempt to mitigate Eumelos’ loss in the race, see Kim 2000: 62. On Achilleus’ “consoling him [Priam] as a fellow mortal with similar sufferings,” see 65. Another passage may fit the scheme posited above: Odysseus’ men lament “piteously” (oiktr’ olophuromenous) as they wait for his return from Circe’s (Od. 10.409). The adverb may represent Odysseus’ focalization; that is, it may signal that he pitied them. If so, we note that Odysseus straightaway tells his men that their comrades are okay (10.425–27). (Conversely, the phrase is formulaic [see also Od. 4.719, 19.543, and 24.59], and it may represent the sentiments of the subject(s) who thinks herself or think themselves in a pitiable situation.) Hanson (2003: 199) notes that Achilleus’ initial question “Why are you in tears?” “recalled a mother’s comforting question to her grieving infant, as well as to her adult child” (see Il. 1.361 and 18.73).

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The tenors and vehicles of Achilleus’ figure hardly intersect at all. Achilleus and Patroklos are standing next to one another (see paristato [16.2]); neither is moving. Usually, if the tenor is moving, the vehicle moves; if the tenor is stationary, the vehicle is stationary. Furthermore, both Achilleus and Patroklos, heroic male warriors, are represented in the vehicle portion as females; more specifically, Achilleus, the younger of the pair, stands as the mother, whereas Patroklos, the older, is represented by the daughter figure. These gender and age reversals have rightly caught the attention of critics, and there is obviously much to be said about the poetic or thematic effects of these dissimilarities between the tenors and vehicles.76 But these polarities also serve to focus our attention on the primary point of similarity between the tenor, Patroklos, and the vehicle, the little girl, that is rehearsed at both the beginning and the end of the simile: they are both crying. Achilleus pronounces some sort of judgment on Patroklos’ tears through the figure. I disagree with Gaca’s conclusions, but she is right to ask after the cause of the girl’s tears. I can find no linguistic or thematic cues to explain why the daughter wants to be picked up. Yet, regardless of whether the ophra clause of verse 10 is temporal (“until she picks her up”) or final (“in order that she may pick her up”),77 I do find it clearly stated that the little girl cries because she has not yet been picked up. When the mother does so, the daughter stops or will stop crying. Patroklos, that is, resembles one who cries over that which is easily remedied.78 76

77

78

See, for example, Ledbetter 1993: esp. 483n8, Mills 2000: 11–13, and Pratt 2007: 36 with note 46. Gaca (2008: 159) favors the former. Dué (2002: 54) prefers the latter. On ophra clauses, see Monro 1882: sect. 287 and Willmott 2007: 73–74 and 156–68. Homeric epic’s only other collocation of dakruoessa and kourê provides an elucidating parallel. Boxed on the ears by Hera, Artemis runs to Zeus: “and tearful the girl sat on the knees of her father” (δακρυόεσσα δὲ πατρὸς ἐφέζετο γούνασι κούρη) (Il. 21.506). In response, Zeus “drew her toward himself … and laughing sweetly (hêdu gelassas), he asked her. . . .” (21.507–8). Having seen the fight between Hera and Artemis (see, e.g., Il. 21.388–90), Zeus finds no reason to be upset about the situation. As Dione makes clear (Il. 5.382–402), even the far more severe blows suffered by gods have little effect: Paieon healed Hades’ wounded shoulder with ease (5.401–2). See Hanson 2003: 194–95 for a survey of Iliadic scenes in which parents comfort their children.

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It now becomes necessary but also possible to account for Achilleus’ use of nêpiê. Edmunds’ (1990), Bakker’s (1997b: 35–36), and Ingalls’ (1998: 32–34) analyses of nêpios demonstrate that ignorance is the overarching connotation of the term. For our purposes, it is important to note that of the thirty-three times (excluding 16.8) a word from the stem nêpi- begins a verse, it is clear that an explanation for the use of the label immediately follows twenty-eight times. For instance, Agamemnon is “nêpios (ignorant), and he did not know the deeds that Zeus was planning” (Il. 2.38). Nestor compares the Achaians to ignorant children “who have no concern for deeds of war” (νηπιάχοις, οἷς οὔ τι μέλει πολεμήϊα ἔργα) (Il. 2.337–38). Achilleus is nêpios because he does not realize that men cannot break armor made by the gods (Il. 20.264–66). In 16.8 the poet adheres to this typical pattern: nêpios points to the girl’s ignorance, and the relative clause that follows provides an explanation for the choice of the adjective. The child is nêpios not because she delays her mother, but because she manifests a childish ignorance in crying over something that is easily dealt with. This characterization reveals the argument embedded in the simile. After a priamel of sorts in which he pretends to be unaware of the cause of Patroklos’ tears,79 Achilleus observes that his friend cries over the Achaians “who perish by the hollow ships because of their own wrongdoing” (Il. 16.17–18). Yet, Achilleus has previously made clear how the Achaians could remedy the situation: “now I think the Achaians will stand about my knees begging (lissomenous)” (Il. 11.609–10). He returns to this idea again in his conversation with Patroklos in book 16: I would return to the fight, he says, if “Agamemnon should be well-disposed toward me” (Il. 16.71–73). As Wilson (2002a) shows, Achilleus wants an offer not of ransom but of reparation from Agamemnon. This whole situation could be taken care of. When Patroklos cries in this context, he acts like a girl who cries over something that is easily tended to. To take stock, then. By claiming a resemblance between the crying Patroklos and a spring, the narrator’s simile declares Patroklos to be at his wit’s end and facing an impending disaster. Achilleus’ simile recharacterizes Patroklos as a crying girl in contending that Patroklos shed tears over a matter that can be swiftly remedied. Achilleus tries 79

See Ledbetter 1993: 485, Kim 2000: 60, and Nannini 2003: 75.

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to comfort Patroklos with his simile. In such a move, the audience can detect a challenge to the narrator’s representation. There is one other way in which the poet makes Achilleus’ simile respond to that of the narrator. The tone of his figure is unique. Scholarship situates the image in the larger family of parent-child similes, several of which concern Achilleus and Patroklos.80 When compared to those images, however, Achilleus’ crying little girl and busy mother stand out. In the other parent-child similes, the parent expresses only devotion toward his or her offspring. Twice warriors are like angry wasps, fighting to protect their children (Il. 12.167–72 and 16.259–67). The narrator likens a stalemate in the battle to the balancing of a scale by a wool worker laboring “in order that she may get an inadequate wage for her children” (Il. 12.435). Even Achilleus elsewhere in the image of the mother bird (Il. 9.323–27) uses a simile to cast himself as a devoted parent who sacrifices for his children.81 This portrayal of the parent-child relationship as a loving one that demands sacrifice is consistent with the interactions between, and the renderings of, parents and children in the nonfigurative parts of the poems: “there is much evidence to suggest that children were loved, cared for, and greatly valued in Homeric society”; “the Iliad sustains a coherent vision of parental devotion.”82 The mother in Achilleus’ simile in book 16 is by no means a neglectful parent but the scene seems more observed and nuanced than the other parent-child similes, as it plays on some of the tensions of child rearing. The clause “and she checks her, eager” acknowledges the other pressures or desires in the mother’s life. It is not even clear that the mother picks up the child: whether ophr’ anelêtai is temporal (“until she picks her up”) or final (“in order that she may pick her up”), the action is not assured. Achilleus’ simile is made to oppose itself even more forcefully to the narrator’s previous image by countering its traditional content and application with a slightly different rendition of parenthood than is found elsewhere in the Iliad’s similes. 80 81

82

See, for example, Moulton 1977: 101–6, Mills 2000, and Pratt 2007: 35–37. Another example: Athena brushes aside Pandaros’ arrow so that it only wounds Menelaos, as a mother swats a fly away from her child (Il. 4.130–31). See Pratt 2007: 31–32. Ingalls 1998: 21 and Pratt 2007: 26, respectively.

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When we finally hear from Patroklos, his reply to Achilleus’ speech corroborates the proposed reading. He begins, “Do not be angry (mê nemesa): for so great a pain has come upon the Achaians” (Il. 16.22). Whereas Grace Ledbetter (1993: 487) sees Patroklos as responding to the anger and irony evident in Achilleus’ speech, I suggest that Patroklos purposefully chooses to depict Achilleus as angry in keeping with one of the goals of his speech.83 He goes on to rebuke Achilleus for his wrath (kholos) (16.30–31). Patroklos can respond to Achilleus in this manner because Achilleus just made an argument, and it is easy to conflate argument with anger.

2. SERIES OF SIMILES

Sometimes the poet constructs a character’s simile such that it responds to the narrator’s previous similes. Similes spoken by Sarpedon, Asios, and Achilleus provide three examples. 2.1. Sarpedon on the Trojans Sarpedon rebukes Hektor with a lion simile that the audience can see as a critique of the earlier lion imagery in the narrator-text applied to the Trojans’ confrontation with Diomedes. Diomedes dominates the figurative landscape for much of Iliad 5. His aristeia begins with a simile likening the fire coming from his armor to the “star that comes in the late summer,” the most conspicuous of all stars (Il. 5.5–6).84 A simile likening him to a raging river describes the swath of destruction that he cuts through the Trojans (5.87–94). Lions then emerge as the central vehicle.85 Pandaros wounds Diomedes with an arrow but is unable to force him from the battle. Emboldened by Athena, Diomedes returns to the fight, and a simile captures this reversal. The Greek is like a lion that raids a sheepfold. 83

84

85

Note that in the other occurrence of this phrase there are no indications that the addressee is angry (Il. 10.137–45). On the Homeric warrior’s aristeia, see Krischer 1971: 13–88, Thornton 1984: 73–82, and Camerotto 2001. See Lonsdale (1990: 50–55) for a survey of the extended lion similes in Iliad 5.

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The herdsman wounds him at first, but, having failed to subdue the lion, he retreats and leaves his flocks to a gruesome fate. They can only flee before being slaughtered in quick succession (5.136–43). This long, detailed simile of seven lines not only depicts the savagery of Diomedes but also anticipates the destruction in store for the Trojans by characterizing them as helpless victims.86 Appropriately, none of Diomedes’ next six opponents attempts to land any blows of his own. A second marauding lion simile follows upon this first one, as now the lion kills a grazing ox or heifer (5.161–64). This image provides none of the preliminaries of the first lion simile. The lion appears straight off in the midst of his slaughter. No herdsman offers resistance or tries to protect his charges.87 The destruction wrought by Diomedes as he kills two sons of Priam is the sole object of the narrator’s figurative efforts. Aineias witnesses this slaughter and urges Pandaros to join him in confronting Diomedes. When Diomedes kills Pandaros, Aineias rushes forward to save his comrade’s corpse, “and he bestrode him [Pandaros] like a lion trusting in his strength” (ἀμφὶ δ’ ἄρ’ αὐτῷ βαῖνε λέων ὣς ἀλκὶ πεποιθώς) (Il. 5.299). The brief simile represents a condensed version of a script found manifested at greater length in Menelaos’ killing of Euphorbos: “a mountain-reared lion trusting in his strength” (λέων ὀρεσίτροφος, ἀλκὶ πεποιθώς) devours a cow (Il. 17.61–69 [quoted later]; cf. Od. 6.130–34).88 Even though Aineias assumes a defensive posture he is described with a simile appropriate for a tenor on the offensive. In creating a tension between story and discourse in Iliad 5, the narrator asserts Aineias’ ferocity. The narrator has avoided the other ways of describing one who stands over his comrade’s body that do not make for such a disjunction. Menelaos, for example, stands over the corpse of Patroklos (ἀμφὶ δ’ ἄρ’ αὐτῷ βαῖν’) as a cow over her calf 86

87

88

“Neatly did he [the poet] bring forward the weaker of the four-footed creatures, the flocks, and the strongest of the beasts, the lion” (bT at Erbse 1971, 2: ad 5.136–40). Lonsdale (1990: 53) sees the two lion similes as forming a sequence in which “the second simile resolves the action of the first.” Cf. Kirk 1990: ad 5.161–2. Minchin (2001) introduces the Homerist to the cognitive scientist’s concept of a script or schema. Cf. Farenga 2006: 8 and 144.

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(Il. 17.4–6).89 What is more, Aineias’ challenge to Diomedes is appropriately articulated by way of a vehicle with which heretofore Diomedes has been associated.90 Aineias is, however, unable to pull off the shift in battle that the simile suggests: he is almost mortally wounded by Diomedes, who then continues his onslaught. At Il. 5.438 and 459, the Achaian is likened to a daimon (daimoni isos), as he attacks the gods themselves. It then falls to Sarpedon to rally the Trojans.91 We can trace how he does so in part with a simile that can be seen to build on the narrator’s earlier imagery. Sarpedon claims that Hektor as well as Hektor’s brothers and brothers-in-law “cower like dogs around a lion” (καταπτώσσουσι κύνες ὣς ἀμφὶ λέοντα) (Il. 5.476). Sarpedon is chastising Hektor for failing to defend his own city, and he refers, therefore, in this simile not to an “offensive” hunt but to a “defensive” scene either in a steading or among grazing animals. One version of these marauding lion images explicitly notes the guard dogs’ unwillingness to confront the lion. For instance, the Trojans’ fear of joining battle with Menelaos, who has just killed Euphorbos, is like that of herdsmen and their guard dogs too frightened to attack a lion who kills a cow: Ὡς δ’ ὅτε τίς τε λέων ὀρεσίτροφος, ἀλκὶ πεποιθώς, βοσκομένης ἀγέλης βοῦν ἁρπάσῃ ἥ τις ἀρίστη· τῆς δ’ ἐξ αὐχέν’ ἔαξε λαβὼν κρατεροῖσιν ὀδοῦσι πρῶτον, ἔπειτα δέ θ’ αἷμα καὶ ἔγκατα πάντα λαφύσσει δῃῶν· ἀμφὶ δὲ τόν γε κύνες τ’ ἄνδρές τε νομῆες πολλὰ μάλ’ ἰύζουσιν ἀπόπροθεν οὐδ’ ἐθέλουσιν ἀντίον ἐλθέμεναι· μάλα γὰρ χλωρὸν δέος αἱρεῖ· ὣς τῶν οὔ τινι θυμὸς ἐνὶ στήθεσσιν ἐτόλμα ἀντίον ἐλθέμεναι Μενελάου κυδαλίμοιο.

89

90

91

See subsection 3.1 in this chapter for a discussion of this simile. Note as well the vehicle portion of the simile used to describe the upset Odysseus: a barking dog stands over (peri … bebôsa) her puppies (Od. 20.13–16). Presumably, this image could be applied to a warrior defending a corpse. “Aeneas receives the same comparison in coming forward as a warrior of equal ability” (Scott 2009: 107). On Sarpedon’s performance of a rebuking muthos (Il. 5.493), see Martin 1989: 73.

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Narrator, Character, and Simile And as when some mountain-reared lion trusting in his strength snatches a cow, whichever is best, from a grazing herd; and he breaks its neck taking it in his mighty teeth first, and then he laps up all the blood and guts ravaging it; and around him the dogs and herdsmen make a great commotion from a distance and they do not want to confront him; for green fear holds them: so no one’s spirit in his breast dared to confront glorious Menelaos. (Il. 17.61–69)

Sarpedon alludes to such a moment. By citing a stock component of the sort of marauding lion similes that the narrator had used to describe Diomedes and Aineias, Sarpedon’s simile reveals its engagement with the narrator’s previous figures. The image returns to and reasserts one point of the narrator’s earlier similes on Diomedes (the devastation he causes), but it also rejects the narrator’s association of Aineias with the lion. By reassigning the role of lion to Diomedes, Sarpedon’s simile suggests that no Trojan can claim that vehicle and the ferocity it implies. There is a further play on the earlier lion similes. The narrator characterized first the Trojan army (Il. 5.143) and then two sons of Priam (Il. 5.159) as helpless animals, overwhelmed by a superior foe. Sarpedon’s simile does not let Hektor and his male relatives off the hook so easily, instead rendering them as potential protectors who do not do what they should. In the world of similes, guard dogs can be found warding off a lion (see, e.g., Il. 11.548–49); for their part, hunting dogs will pursue a boar or lion (e.g., Il. 11.292–93).92 Sarpedon characterizes Hektor and his male family members as those capable of offering a defense, but failing to do so.93 Whereas the narrator’s image had constructed the Trojans and Priam’s sons simply as victims, Sarpedon’s figure charges Hektor and his immediate family with being complicit in their own victimization. The poet has the Lykian’s

92

93

See Chapter 4 (subsection 2.1) for how the defenders of flocks behave in similes. Note, then, how the point of his insult differs from that in Paris’ simile likening the Trojans to “bleating goats before a lion” (Il. 11.383): see, again, Chapter 4 (subsection 2.1).

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figurative representation of the battle both build on and challenge the narrator’s portrayals of the scene.94 2.2. Asios on the Lapithai In voicing his frustration at the course of the battle in Iliad 12 around the Achaian wall, the Trojan Asios utters a simile that reuses elements of the narrator’s previous similes describing the Achaian defenders. As Asios prepares to attack, the narrator introduces the Achaians Polypoites and Leontes, the latter of whom is said to be “equal to mortalplaguing Ares” (Il. 12.130). Hainsworth calls the epithet “an extravagant compliment” because Achilleus and Hektor are the only others to receive it in the Iliad (1993: ad loc.).95 Leontes finds himself in privileged company. Any distinctions between the two Lapithai are played down, however, in the following simile in which they are compared to oaks: τὼ μὲν ἄρα προπάροιθε πυλάων ὑψηλάων ἕστασαν ὡς ὅτε τε δρύες οὔρεσιν ὑψικάρηνοι, αἵ τ’ ἄνεμον μίμνουσι καὶ ὑετὸν ἤματα πάντα, ῥίζῃσιν μεγάλῃσι διηνεκέεσσ’ ἀραρυῖαι· ὣς ἄρα τὼ χείρεσσι πεποιθότες ἠδὲ βίηφι μίμνον ἐπερχόμενον μέγαν Ἄσιον οὐδὲ φέβοντο. The two then in front of the lofty gates stood as when lofty-headed oaks stand on the mountains, trees that stand up to the wind and rain every day, outfitted with great, far-extending roots: so they trusting in their hands and strength stood up to the great Asios as he came and they did not flee. (Il. 12.131–37) 94

95

Sarpedon continues to deride the Trojans by figuring them as animals: “Do not, as if taken in the mesh of a net that catches all, become in some way objects of spoiling and prey for your enemies” (Il. 5.487–88). He depicts them as either fish or birds caught in a net. Cf. a T scholion: “the poet names him first and then praises him [with the epithet]” (Erbse 1973, 3: ad 12.129.130.130a). Achilleus is so called at Il. 20.46 and Hektor at Il. 11.295 and 13.802. Patroklos is said to be similar simply to Ares (Il. 11.604) and Achilleus is similar to Enyalios at Il. 22.132. See Parry 1973: Appendix II.F.

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The relative clause in the simile’s vehicle portion introduces two especially important ideas. First, the trees “stand up to” (mimnousi) the winds and rains. Accordingly, the narrator can now say of the Lapithai that they too “stand up to” (mimnon) their opponents and thereby suggest that they do not just happen to be positioned (estasan) at the gates but are prepared to make an active defense. Second, unlike others in the family of tree similes, this simile is not about the felling of the trees.96 Rather, their long roots allow them to endure hostile weather. Vergil’s revision of this scene is instructive in this regard. He likens Bitias and Pandaros to trees when the defenders of the Trojan gates find themselves in an analogous position to that of the Lapithai. But Vergil does not include the portion of the Iliad ’s simile about the trees’ long roots, and Turnus kills Bitias.97 In Iliad 12, the detail emphasizes the Lapithai’s resolve and anticipates their success in the encounter. The next image performs a similar function. The two Greeks are said to be ἀγροτέροισι σύεσσιν ἐοικότε, τώ τ’ ἐν ὄρεσσιν ἀνδρῶν ἠδὲ κυνῶν δέχαται κολοσυρτὸν ἰόντα, δοχμώ τ’ ἀΐσσοντε περὶ σφίσιν ἄγνυτον ὕλην πρυμνὴν ἐκτάμνοντες, ὑπαὶ δέ τε κόμπος ὀδόντων γίγνεται, εἰς ὅ κέ τίς τε βαλὼν ἐκ θυμὸν ἕληται· ὣς τῶν κόμπει χαλκὸς ἐπὶ στήθεσσι φαεινὸς ἄντην βαλλομένων· μάλα γὰρ κρατερῶς ἐμάχοντο, λαοῖσιν καθύπερθε πεποιθότες ἠδὲ βίηφιν. similar to feral boars, who in the mountains await an oncoming noisy group of men and dogs, and darting about slantwise, they smash the wood around them, cutting it out at the base, and a din from their teeth arises until someone should hit them and take away their spirit: so the shining bronze rang out on their chests 96

97

For warriors compared to felled trees, see, for example, Il. 4.482–89, 13.178–80, and 16.482–85; see Fenik 1968: 58 and Schein 1984: 86n19. Simile: Aeneid, 9.679–82; death of Bitias: 9.702–16. Vergil does supply lengthy details about the tree’s ability to withstand bad weather and about its deep roots in his description of Aeneas as a tree when the Trojan is unmoved by Anna’s pleas (4.441–46).

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as they were hit; for mightily did they fight, trusting in their comrades on the wall and in their strength. (Il. 12.146–53)

The simile expands on the concerns of the first one. As the trees stand up to (mimnousi) the wind and rain in the mountains (ouresin), the boars stand fast against (dekhatai) their opponents in the mountains (en oressin). But in contrast to a comparison to trees, a comparison to boars on the defensive is a more familiar and more assertive topos of defensive intent.98 Indeed, the only way the animals in this simile will cease from their furious resistance is if one of the hunters kills them (12.150), but the use of the subjunctive in verse 150 indicates that the hunters’ success is not at all assured. Contrast the use of indicatives in the simile comparing Patroklos to a marauding lion: “he is hit (eblêto) in the chest, and his own strength kills (ôlesen) him” (Il. 16.753). Through this simile, the Lapithai emerge as a more dominant presence in the battle. In the next verse the narrator turns to the Achaians as a whole who throw (ballon) rocks from the walls “defending (amunomenoi) themselves and their huts and their swift-sailing ships” (Il. 12.155–56). A third simile then seems to start out as a description of this defensive action wherein the thrown rocks are likened to falling snow: νιφάδες δ’ ὡς πῖπτον ἔραζε, ἅς τ’ ἄνεμος ζαὴς, νέφεα σκιόεντα δονήσας, ταρφειὰς κατέχευεν ἐπὶ χθονὶ πουλυβοτείρῃ· ὣς τῶν ἐκ χειρῶν βέλεα ῥέον, ἠμὲν Ἀχαιῶν ἠδὲ καὶ ἐκ Τρώων· and they kept falling to the ground like snowflakes, which the blustering wind, having driven the dark clouds, pours down thick on the earth that feeds many: so the missiles streamed from their hands, both of Achaians and of Trojans; (Il. 12.156–60)

When the resumptive clause makes clear that the simile is to be applied to the missiles thrown by both Achaians and Trojans (Il. 12.159–60), the 98

Hainsworth (1993: 333) notes a bT scholion’s observation that the boar simile signifies “firmness + aggression.”

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image’s point becomes a bit different. Its appearance in lengthier form slightly later in book 12, to describe the continued fight around the wall (Il. 12.278–89), shows that this type of snow simile regularly emphasizes a stalemate in battle.99 In the earlier scene in book 12, two features of the image rehearse the nature of the confrontation. The aorist participle, donêsas “having driven,” adds the element of time to the simile as we see first the wind summon the clouds and then the snow begin. The ponderous epithet pouluboteirêi “that feeds many,” extending from the break at the diairesis over the final two feet of the verse, brings the line to a grinding halt. Prolonged in this fashion, the simile focuses attention on the stalemate.100 The defense of the Lapithai in particular holds. The poet then has Asios perform an elaborate simile that reuses components of the previous similes.101 Slapping his thighs in frustration, he labels Zeus “fond of lies” (Il. 12.164) and goes on to explain this outburst: “for I denied that the Achaian heroes would check our battle fury and our invincible hands” (12.165–66). That is, Asios claims that some earlier show of support from Zeus led him to boast that the Achaian defenders would not fight him off. He then fashions a simile to describe the two Lapithai: οἱ δ’, ὥς τε σφῆκες μέσον αἰόλοι ἠὲ μέλισσαι οἰκία ποιήσωνται ὁδῷ ἔπι παιπαλοέσσῃ, οὐδ’ ἀπολείπουσιν κοῖλον δόμον, ἀλλὰ μένοντες ἄνδρας θηρητῆρας ἀμύνονται περὶ τέκνων, ὣς οἵ γ’ οὐκ ἐθέλουσι πυλάων καὶ δύ’ ἐόντε χάσσασθαι πρίν γ’ ἠὲ κατακτάμεν ἠὲ ἁλῶναι. But they, as wasps flexible around the middle or bees make their homes on a rocky road and do not leave the hollow house, but remaining ward off hunters for the sake of their children,

99

100 101

Another snow simile appears at Il. 19.357–61, and snow is an alternative subject at Il. 10.5–9, 15.170–72, and 22.151–52. See the discussion in Chapter 4 (section 1) of Antenor’s claim that Odysseus’ words resemble snowflakes. Cf. Scott 2009: 100. The narrator provides two other signals that Asios is performing here. One of the two verses introducing his speech states that “he wailed aloud” (ôimôxen) (Il. 12.162). This verb is coupled with the noun muthos at Od. 9.506 and

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so they are not willing, being but two men, to withdraw from the gates before either they kill or are taken. (12.167–72)

With its assertion that the Lapithai are like tenacious insects that stand up to a much larger enemy, the simile shows how far the Achaians’ actions are from what was to be expected and thereby highlights how far Zeus has misled Asios. When the Myrmidons gather to fight, the narrator likens them to wasps that “have homes on the side of the road … and defend their children” (Il. 16.259–67). This vehicle reveals the ferocity of the Lapithai: they are not simply pesky but dangerous. Asios did not anticipate encountering such an opponent.102 The value of Asios’ simile emerges not only in its centrality to his argument but also in its engagement with the narrator’s previous figures. The repetition in the simile of the verb amunô that just appeared in the narrator’s description of the Achaians (Il. 12.155) is of a piece with the ways in which Asios’ simile builds directly on two of the earlier similes. The insects hold their ground (oud’ apoleipousin … menontes) against their attackers (andras thêrêtêras) (Il. 12.169–70), just as the trees stand up to (mimnousi) the winds and rains (Il. 12.133), and the boars ready themselves to receive (dekhatai) the band of hunters and their dogs (andrôn êde kunôn) (Il. 12.147). As Hainsworth points out, Asios’ use of thêrêtêr “hunter” for the enemies of the insects is odd here, unless it refers to a farmer getting honey from his bees (1993: ad loc.). One is tempted to see the use of the word as a means of signaling this simile’s connection with the earlier boar simile. Finally, in its resumptive clause, Asios’ simile reintroduces the topos of “kill or be killed,” which has made its most recent appearance in abbreviated form in the vehicle portion of the boar simile (Il. 12.150). Whereas Scott finds that Asios’ image joins with the narrator’s similes to “emphasize the stalemate between Greek and Trojan warriors” (2009: 97), I suggest an alternative reading. Asios’ simile does not let the language of tenacity remain

102

11.59. Analogously, the narrator uses agoreuôn “speaking in public” in the verse after the speech (Il. 12.173): on the “good formulaic evidence … for the association between muthoi and agoreuein,” see Martin 1989: 37. Cf. Nestor’s challenge to Zeus at Il. 15.372–75, on which see Marks 2008: 113.

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in the narrator-text as a testament solely to the prowess of the Lapithai. The audience can detect how in his simile Asios appropriates that language from the narrator’s similes to point toward the very different notion of Zeus’ trickery. 2.3. Achilleus on the Skamandros The poet uses two similes in the narrator-text to describe Achilleus’ fight with the river Skamandros. The poet then has Achilleus voice a simile that challenges the narrator’s figurative descriptions. The narrator first compares Achilleus as he runs away from the torrent to an eagle: Πηλεΐδης δ’ ἀπόρουσεν ὅσον τ’ ἐπὶ δουρὸς ἐρωή, αἰετοῦ οἴματ’ ἔχων μέλανος, τοῦ θηρητῆρος, ὅς θ’ ἅμα κάρτιστός τε καὶ ὤκιστος πετεηνῶν· τῷ ἐϊκὼς ἤϊξεν, And the son of Peleus leapt away the length of a spear-cast, having the impetus of a black eagle, the hunter, which is at the same time the strongest and swiftest of birds: similar to this one he leapt, (Il. 21.251–54)

Elsewhere, the image of an eagle is applied to a warrior in a fit of martial fury. When Hektor rushes to burn the ships (Il. 15.690–93), when he begins his duel with Achilleus (Il. 22.308–10), and when Odysseus charges at the suitors’ male relatives (Od. 24.537–38), they are likened to eagles.103 The vehicle is also thought an apt comparand for one determined to carry out a given task on the battlefield: Menelaos resembles an eagle as, at Aias’ request, he searches for Antilochos in the melee (Il. 17.673–81).104

103

104

See Richardson 1993: ad 21.252–3. Note as well the omens in the Odyssey that liken Odysseus, soon to take vengeance on the suitors, to an eagle: see esp. 19.548–49. Note that the phrase “swiftest of birds” only occurs elsewhere in a simile likening Apollo to a “dove-killing falcon” as he descends to the plain of Troy to carry a message to Hektor (Il. 15.238); see Richardson 1993: ad 21.253.

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The river god catches up with the Myrmidon over the course of a simile that starts three lines after the eagle simile. The lengthy anecdote presents a farmer (who corresponds to Achilleus105) leading water (which corresponds to the Skamandros) through an irrigation ditch. In spite of his best efforts to control it, the water flows past the farmer: ὡς δ’ ὅτ’ ἀνὴρ ὀχετηγὸς ἀπὸ κρήνης μελανύδρου ἂμ φυτὰ καὶ κήπους ὕδατι ῥόον ἡγεμονεύῃ χερσὶ μάκελλαν ἔχων, ἀμάρης ἐξ ἔχματα βάλλων· τοῦ μέν τε προρέοντος ὑπὸ ψηφῖδες ἅπασαι ὀχλεῦνται· τὸ δέ τ’ ὦκα κατειβόμενον κελαρύζει χώρῳ ἔνι προαλεῖ, φθάνει δέ τε καὶ τὸν ἄγοντα· ὣς αἰεὶ Ἀχιλῆα κιχήσατο κῦμα ῥόοιο καὶ λαιψηρὸν ἐόντα· θεοὶ δέ τε φέρτεροι ἀνδρῶν. And as when a man drawing off water from a spring with black water through his plants and gardens leads a stream of water, holding a mattock in his hands, knocking impediments from the trench; as the water flows forward, all the pebbles beneath are swept away; and it suddenly overflowing babbles in a sloping place and it overtakes him as he leads it: so continually the wave of the stream overtook Achilleus even though he was nimble: for gods are more powerful than men. (Il. 21.257–64)

The simile provides an example of narrative through imagery. When the simile begins, the river is still pursuing Achilleus (21.256), but by the end of the image the scenario on the battlefield has changed as the river now has the upper hand. The simile has attracted attention for its Homeric hapax legomena. Demetrius found that its unique content makes it an exceptional demonstration of the phenomenon of vividness (enargeia) (De elocutione [On Style] 209).106 But the simile’s memorable story line prompts further questions. Besides the general notion of water overtaking someone, the simile bears little resemblance to its narrative context. In the scene conjured in the simile, the farmer, the vehicle that corresponds 105

106

See especially the juxtaposition of ton agonta and Akhilêa in verses 262 and 263. See Richardson 1993: ad loc.

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to the beleaguered Achilleus, is in control of the stream until the very end. The mighty Skamandros – pursuing Achilleus with “a great roaring” in the verse before the simile (Il. 21.256) – is cast as a mere stream. Richardson comments, “Part of its [the simile’s] effect comes from the contrast between the violent scene of the river-god’s pursuit and the peaceful picture of the gardener” (1993: ad loc.). The poet makes Achilleus speak a simile soon after that takes issue with precisely this “contrast” in revising the narrator’s figurations of the scene. Achilleus rebukes his mother for misleading him about the nature of his death.107 She said he would die struck by an arrow under the gates of Troy (Il. 21.275–78). At least, Achilleus continues, Hektor might have killed him in what would have been a match of peers (21.279–80). As it stands now the great Achilleus will die an ignominious death in the clutches of the river (21.281). Achilleus concludes with a simile that describes his present situation: νῦν δέ με λευγαλέῳ θανάτῳ εἵμαρτο ἁλῶναι ἐρχθέντ’ ἐν μεγάλῳ ποταμῷ, ὡς παῖδα συφορβόν, ὅν ῥά τ’ ἔναυλος ἀποέρσῃ χειμῶνι περῶντα. but now it has been fated for me to be taken in a grievous death, hemmed in in the great river, like a swineherd boy, whom a torrent sweeps away as he tries to cross in the winter. (21.282–83)

The simile functions within the immediate context of this speech. Achilleus’ main goal seems to be to shame the gods into saving him because he is not supposed to die in this fashion, as Thetis herself said. Anathema to every hero’s aspirations, the prospect of a death in water reveals how misled he was. First, death by drowning does not happen before an audience, and a public death alone gives rise to public laudations of bravery. So Hektor imagines dying “gloriously before the city” (ἐϋκλειῶς πρὸ πόληος) (Il. 22.110). Second, if one drowns, a grave cannot be constructed as the site of memorials in the future.108 As Griffin notes, “[G]lory is attached particularly to the tomb of the dead” (1980: 98).109 Menelaos reports 107 108

109

Note as well ôimôxen at Il. 21.272: see note 101. See Il. 21.318–23 for the river Skamandros’ ironic depiction of a tomb in water. See also Vernant 1991: 69.

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erecting a tomb for Agamemnon “in order that his glory (kleos) might be inextinguishable” (Od. 4.584). Conversely, although one may live on in the occasional epic song, as Odysseus does in Demodokos’ verse,110 a warrior without a grave suffers a devastating blow to his kleos.111 These realities (no tomb for one who drowns, far less glory without a tomb) prompt Odysseus, as he contemplates death by drowning at sea, to expresses the wish that he had died at Troy. The Achaians would have performed the proper rites of burial and “would have spread my glory (kleos êgon)” (Od. 5.311) (cf. Od. 1.236–41, 14.365–71, and 24.30–34). As it stands, “now it has been fated for me to be taken in a grievous death” (5.312 = Il. 21.281).112 In Iliad 21, Achilleus is in danger of suffering that which renders a hero no longer heroic: drowning. Achilleus’ simile in his speech to Zeus contributes to this separation from the heroic by divorcing Achilleus from his exalted position as a powerful warrior. Achilleus draws attention first and foremost to his self-figuration as a child swineherd by constructing a simile that differs from the situation it describes only in regard to the person being swept away: Achilleus, the warrior, about to be carried off by a river is like a child swineherd, carried off by a river. A bT scholion asserts that the character of the swineherd points toward “the insignificance and worthlessness of his [Achilleus’] death” and that “the poet abases the character by means of the age and occupation [of the vehicle]” (Erbse 110 111

112

See Bouvier 2002: 107. See Vernant 1991: 71. For instance, when Idomeneus imagines that many Achaians will die “nameless” (nônumnous) at Troy, he means first and foremost that people will forget about them (see Od. 13.238–41) but implicitly attributes this sad outcome to their not being buried in proper tombs (Il. 13.227 = 12.70 = 14.70). Comments on the adjective nônumnos at Higbie 1995: 19–20. See Cook 1995: 50–51 and Most 2003: 69n45. The equation between the absence of a tomb and a loss of glory appears elsewhere in the context of drowning. It is operative in the suitors’ desire to render Telemachos’ family “nameless” (nônumnon) by ambushing him at sea as he returns from his travels (see Od. 4.670–71 and 14.180–82) and presumably dumping his body into the water. Upon learning about Telemachos’ sea voyage and the ambush the suitors have planned, Penelope declares in metonymic fashion that “the winds snatched up from the hall my beloved child [so as to render him] without glory (aklea)” (Od. 4.727–28; cf. 710), again relying on her hearers’ supplying the idea that he will not be buried properly.

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1977, 5: ad 21.282f). Achilleus positions himself as one of low status.113 Although a prominent warrior will occasionally tend to his flocks (cf. Il. 5.311 and 20.89–92),114 herding animals for a living would never cross the mind of a member of the elite in the Homeric world. That is the job of slaves like Odysseus’ men, Eumaios and Philoitios.115 The simile figures Achilleus’ separation from the world of heroes in another way as well. Elsewhere, enaulos in the sense of torrent or riverbed is linked with heroic action. If he were fighting, Achilleus says, he would force the fleeing Trojans into the riverbeds (enaulous) where he would cut them down (Il. 16.71–72). The Skamandros urges the Simois to “rouse up all the torrents (enaulous)” (Il. 21.312) in an effort to overwhelm the berserker Achilleus.116 Although the swineherd boy of Achilleus’ simile finds himself by an enaulos, he does nothing heroic. His failure to act in such a fashion in a space suitable for those sorts 113

114 115

116

In commenting on this passage, Nannini (2003: 68) observes Achilleus’ interest in “condizioni sociali inferiori.” She refers to Achilleus’ simile at Il. 9.648 and 16.59 and his willingness to be a slave if he were alive (Od. 11.489–91). See Nickel 2002: 219 and Scodel 2002a: 155. See Haubold 2000: 18. Berman (2005: 232–38) notes the positive portrayal of cowherds and the negative portrayal of goatherds in moral terms in Homeric epic. Cowherds gain in stature by performing a task in which Apollo and Anchises engage (232–33). Conversely, see Scodel’s examination of the application of the epithet dios to Eumaios: “a puzzle for the audience: what kind of swineherd is ‘godlike’?” (2002a: 156–60; quotation on 160). Enaulos (en + aulos) has a homonym enaulos (en + aulê) that only appears in the plural; see LSJ s.v. enaulos (A). It is tempting to speculate that this second enaulos’s connection with heroic activity parallels and even reaffirms the first enaulos’s link to the same. Appearing in other hexameter poems, enauloi refers to glens inhabited by animals, gods, and nymphs: see Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite 74 and 124, Homeric Hymn 14.4–5 and 26.7, and Theogony 129–30. Enauloi should be understood as potential sites of heroic activity because heroes regularly confront animals and nymphs in the “wild.” Nestor recalls the men of old who fought with “beast-men of the mountains (phêrsin oreskôioisi) and destroyed them all” (Il. 1.268). Odysseus proves himself by killing a boar found in a glen (bêssan) on Mount Parnassus (Od. 19.428–58). Herakles’ belt summarizes his and the generic hero’s career: on it are depicted “bears, savage boars, and lions with flashing eyes, and combats and battles and slayings and slaughters of men” (Od. 11.611–12). See, for example, Hesiod Theogony 327–32 for Herakles’ killing the Nemean lion that dwelled in the hills (gounoisin); Apollodorus recounts that Herakles drove the Erymanthian boar

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of actions reaffirms his lack of heroism. Achilleus continues to divorce himself from the heroic by placing in this precise setting the low-status vehicle that he uses to represent himself. The simile gains in effect when seen in contrast to the narrator’s two previous similes. For on another level accessible to the audience, the reproachful simile drastically alters the picture of the scene put forth in the narrator’s earlier images.117 Achilleus is no longer to be considered a high-flying eagle, a vehicle befitting purposeful and heroic actions on the battlefield. Nor is the Skamandros to be figured as a gentle stream, and Achilleus as a farmer tending his own fields. Rather, the Skamandros resembles a torrent, and Achilleus is like a child, in fact, like a mere swineherd far from the communal life of the farm.118 The third simile can function as a retort to the implications of the previous two. Achilleus is made to offer a markedly different view of his fight with the river and, in particular, of how to describe it with water imagery. Neither in “real” life nor in a simile world is he in charge. For the audience, this recharacterization and especially the reuse of water imagery for the purpose of recharacterization can render Achilleus’ pathetic selffiguration all the more notable.

3. SIMILES AND FLYTING

I add a final wrinkle. The poet can generate the following sequence. The narrator characterizes a hero in a certain way through simile. A flyting match then arises between two characters. The first speaker does not use a simile but does continue the argument offered by the narrator’s simile(s). The second speaker utters a simile that helps him respond

117 118

from a thicket (lokhmês) (Library 2.87). Having sex with nymphs far from the city is another proof of heroism. The “city-sacker” (ptoliporthôi) Otrynteus sleeps with a nymph “at the foot of snow-covered Tmolos” (Il. 20.384–85) (cf. Il. 6.21–26). Priam sleeps with Alexirhoe below shady (umbrosa) Mount Ida (Ovid Metamorphoses 11.762–63). Contra Scott 2009: 69. See Redfield (1994: 189–90) for the sown fields versus the grazing areas. On the herdsman’s engaging in “an inherently antisocial occupation,” see Cook 1995: 102.

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not only to his opponent in the verbal duel but also, from the audience’s point of view, to the narrator’s previous simile(s). I provide two examples. 3.1. Menelaos on Euphorbos As the fight over the dead Patroklos begins, the narrator uses a simile to cast doubt on Menelaos’ efficacy as a defender of Patroklos’ corpse. Euphorbos presents an even more forthright declaration of Menelaos’ inability to protect Patroklos. For his part, Menelaos employs a simile in a speech declaring his readiness to perform that very task.119 When Patroklos finally falls, Menelaos stands over him ὥς τις περὶ πόρτακι μήτηρ πρωτοτόκος κινυρή, οὐ πρὶν εἰδυῖα τόκοιο· like over her calf a mother having given birth for the first time,120 threatening, not before knowledgeable of childbirth: (Il. 17.4–5)

The narrator stresses the cow’s parental devotion to the calf, first, as a bT scholion notes (Erbse 1975, 4: ad 17.4b), by using the word mother instead of cow,121 and, second, as a T scholion observes (ad 17.5b1), by designating the calf as the cow’s first-born.122 We could say that with its emphasis on the cow’s attachment to the calf, this simile underscores Menelaos’ desire to defend Patroklos’ corpse, intentions that are then reiterated in verse 7: “in front of him he held his spear and perfectly balanced shield.” This reading, however, misses the point. The image falls into the category of those studied by Muellner (1990) wherein the poet relies on the audience to fill in the gaps. Most animal similes (especially those 119

120

121

122

On Euphorbos and Menelaos’ flyting match, see Parks 1990: 57–58 and 115–16. The adjective prôtotokos can also mean “giving birth for the first time,” but I doubt that Menelaos is compared to a cow in parturition. For another simile that stresses the tight bond between cow and calf by using the word “mother” (mêteras), see Od. 10.410–15. On the preeminent position of the eldest child in the Homeric poems, see Il. 4.59–60 and 15.204. For a woman’s affection for her first-born, see Plato Theaetetus 151c4–5.

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involving domesticated livestock) that appear in battle scenes describe some type of predator-prey interaction. Indeed, the narrator elsewhere tells of a lion killing a calf: Diomedes, for example, slays Echemmon and Kromion as a lion breaks the neck of a calf (portis) or a cow among a grazing herd (Il. 5.161–64).123 That the simile in book 17 refers to such an attack may also be suggested by the adjective kinurê, a word that appears only here in archaic Greek epic. It is possible that the cow is lowing “plaintively” as she stands over her dead calf.124 A different, and to my mind better, interpretation advocated by Edwards is to follow Manu Leumann in taking kinurê to mean “threatening” (1991: ad loc.).125 The calf might not be dead, and the cow is expressing her willingness to defend her offspring. As Edwards notes, other similes that feature an animal standing over (peri) its young make explicit its willingness to fight: seeing an unfamiliar man, a dog stands over her puppies (περὶ σκυλάκεσσι βεβῶσα), barks (hulaei), and readies herself to fight (μέμονέν τε μάχεσθαι) (Od. 20.13–16); Aias “stood as a lion [stands] over its young” (ἑστήκει ὥς τίς τε λέων περὶ οἷσι τέκεσσιν) and prepares to fight a group of hunters (Il. 17.132–37). It would be odd to find a cow defending her offspring against an attack because cows usually flee predators (see, e.g., Il. 11.172–78). But the diction may point in that direction, and narrative context elsewhere prompts an animal in a simile to act in an uncustomary fashion. For instance, the narrator likens the Aiantes as they carry Imbrios’ corpse out of the battle to two lions carrying off a goat (Il. 13.198–202), even though Homeric lions

123 124

125

See Chantraine 1999 s.v. poris. The adjective kinuros and the verb kinuromai are associated with lament in later works. Apollonius speaks of a “plaintive lament” (kinuros goos) (Argonautica 4.605); and he couples the verb kinuromai with goaô “to lament” (1.292–93). Aristophanes also clearly uses the verb in the sense of lament (Knights 11). Forms of the related adjective minuros and the verb minurizô can conjure the idea of complaining more than of lament: see Il. 5.889 and Od. 4.719. But the Chorus in Aeschylus’ Agamemnon says that they are terrified by Kassandra’s laments (minura threomenas) (1165). See Arnould 1990: 153. With reference to Leumann 1950: 242–43. Lonsdale (1990: 80n20) brings up Leumann’s reading as a possibility, and both Nannini (2003: 77n74) and Scott (2009: 238n50) favor it.

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do not elsewhere cooperate in hunting. Menelaos is figured as a cow intent on defending her calf against a predator. Yet, how can a cow hope to succeed in such an endeavor? Contrast the far more fearsome characterization offered by the simile just cited: when it is Aias’ turn to defend Patroklos’ corpse, he resembles a lion protecting his cubs (Il. 17.132–37). Once we understand what is happening in the simile’s vehicle portion, we grasp its argument: it is problematic, to say the least, to have Menelaos defend Patroklos’ corpse.126 Perhaps we are supposed to imagine what will happen if he has to face Hektor, the last Trojan mentioned (Il. 16.866) and one who was just compared to a lion as he killed Patroklos (Il. 16.823–28). Or perhaps the narrator contends that the task of defending Patroklos’ corpse may simply be too much for Menelaos regardless of which Trojan attacks. The simile presents a pointed take on Menelaos’ action. The Trojan Euphorbos, the first to wound Patroklos, then steps forward to claim Patroklos’ armor. His speech continues the characterization of Menelaos offered by the narrator in his simile: “withdraw, leave the corpse, let alone the bloody spoils,” he says, “lest I hit you and take away your honey-sweet life” (Il. 17.13 and 17). Menelaos, he contends, will not be able to defend Patroklos; he should yield. Unperturbed, however, Menelaos straightaway rebukes Euphorbos and asserts his ability to protect Patroklos’ corpse. He makes a smile an essential part of his argument: Ζεῦ πάτερ, οὐ μὲν καλὸν ὑπέρβιον εὐχετάασθαι. ὄυτ’ οὖν παρδάλιος τόσσον μένος οὔτε λέοντος οὔτε συὸς κάπρου ὀλοόφρονος, οὗ τε μέγιστος θυμὸς ἐνὶ στήθεσσι περὶ σθένεϊ βλεμεαίνει, ὅσσον Пάνθου υἷες ἐϋμμελίαι φρονέουσιν. Father Zeus, it is not seemly to boast super-violently. In fact, neither of the leopard is the fury so great nor of the lion nor of the destruction-minded wild boar, whose heart most greatly exults in his chest over his might, as great as are the thoughts that Panthoos’ sons of the good ash spear think. (Il. 17.19–23) 126

See Mueller 2009: 110 and Scott 2009: 55–56.

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Using the common technique of speaking about and not to an addressee for derogatory effect,127 Menelaos passes harsh judgment on Euphorbos’ and his brother Hyperenor’s boasts. In a simile notable for its formulation as a series of negatives, Menelaos declares that the pair is so haughty that they eclipse animals portrayed here as the most confident in their ability to fight.128 Yet, their boasts are empty. In the verses following the simile, Menelaos reminds Euphorbos of the ease with which he killed Hyperenor, and he urges him not to make the same mistake as his brother lest he too perish: neither brother is actually a good fighter (Il. 17.26–32). Menelaos’ simile helps him represent the sons of Panthoos as breaking one of the rules of the heroic game: their deeds do not live up to their words (see, e.g., Il. 13.292–93 and 16.627–31). They will fail to do so this time as well. Menelaos’ simile aids his response to Euphorbos, but the audience is invited to see the image as directed at the narrator as well. For when Menelaos uses the same device as the narrator but toward a very different end, he can be thought of as challenging the narrator through and over simile. 3.2. Paris on Hektor The poet makes a simile spoken by Paris address his characterization by the narrator and Hektor. The narrator’s similes, as well as a rebuke by Hektor, claim that Paris as a man better suited to the realm of culture will not fare well in the state of nature found on the battlefield. Paris’ simile suggests that Hektor’s career itself demonstrates the inadequacy of this proposition. Paris’ initial appearance on the battlefield in Iliad 3 is striking for the absence of an accompanying simile. Although a warrior need not always 127 128

Cf. Barker 2009: 80n152. Another “negative” simile appears at Il. 14.394–401; see Bowra (1952: 269–72) for a discussion of negative comparisons in other epics. The three animals Menelaos lists are also among the most terrifying for men to confront: Menelaos uses the same collocation of animals (with the addition of a snake) to describe the shapes that Proteus took when trying to escape the ambush Menelaos and his men had set for him (Od. 4.456–57). Proteus obviously wants to scare off Menelaos.

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garner a simile at these moments, a dramatic entrance such as the one at issue here may be expected to provoke one.129 After all, some take this scene as a reenactment of a notional, initial contest between Paris and Menelaos for Helen’s hand.130 Instead, the narrator takes note of Paris’ leopard-skin cape (pardaleên) (Il. 3.17). Investigating the semantic field surrounding pardaleê, Fred Naiden (1999) points to the poikilê (Il. 10.30) leopard skin worn by Menelaos. The epithet is applied there and elsewhere only to coverings, such as armor or embroidered clothes, and “all these coverings or surfaces are products of workmanship.” The adjective thus points toward the sphere of craftsmanship: it “means more than ‘spotted’. . . . Instead it means ‘wrought’ in the sense of ‘wrought as though the skin were a covering’” (182). Naiden’s observations suggest that the leopard-skin-clad Paris is explicitly linked with cultural production and sophistication upon entrance. The narrator then casts this attribute as putting Paris at a disadvantage. For he constructs an opposition between nature and culture in the paired similes that follow. The first simile depicts Menelaos’ reaction to seeing Paris.131 Then (further drawing attention to the absence of a simile during his entrance), the narrator employs one to describe Paris’ retreat: Τὸν δ’ ὡς οὖν ἐνόησεν ἀρηΐφιλος Μενέλαος ἐρχόμενον προπάροιθεν ὁμίλου μακρὰ βιβάντα, ὥς τε λέων ἐχάρη μεγάλῳ ἐπὶ σώματι κύρσας, εὑρὼν ἢ ἔλαφον κεραὸν ἢ ἄγριον αἶγα πεινάων· μάλα γάρ τε κατεσθίει, εἴ περ ἂν αὐτὸν σεύωνται ταχέες τε κύνες θαλεροί τ’ αἰζηοί· ὣς ἐχάρη Μενέλαος Ἀλέξανδρον θεοειδέα ὀφθαλμοῖσιν ἰδών· φάτο γὰρ τείσεσθαι ἀλείτην· 129 130 131

See Scott 1974: 38–41; cf. Scott 2006: 106n18. See Constantinidou 1990: 47–48 and Austin 1994: 46n33. De Jong (2004a: 126) observes that in this and the following simile the narrator “assimilates” his focalization to that of the characters: such similes aim at the “expression of the emotions of the characters” (136). De Jong’s discussion does not imply that the character is to be thought of as generating the comparison. Rather, the narrator is deemed responsible both for the choice of actors in the vehicle portion of the simile and the way the vehicle portion unfolds. Only when a character focalizes a simile, do we impute it to the character (134–35).

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αὐτίκα δ’ ἐξ ὀχέων σὺν τεύχεσιν ἆλτο χαμᾶζε. Τὸν δ’ ὡς οὖν ἐνόησεν Ἀλέξανδρος θεοειδὴς ἐν προμάχοισι φανέντα, κατεπλήγη φίλον ἦτορ, ἂψ δ’ ἑτάρων εἰς ἔθνος ἐχάζετο κῆρ’ ἀλεείνων. ὡς δ’ ὅτε τίς τε δράκοντα ἰδὼν παλίνορσος ἀπέστη οὔρεος ἐν βήσσῃς, ὑπό τε τρόμος ἔλλαβε γυῖα, ἂψ δ’ ἀνεχώρησεν, ὦχρός τέ μιν εἷλε παρειάς, ὣς αὖτις καθ’ ὅμιλον ἔδυ Τρώων ἀγερώχων δείσας Ἀτρέος υἱὸν Ἀλέξανδρος θεοειδής. But when then war-loving Menelaos saw him coming out in front of the crowd, striding greatly, as a lion delights coming upon a corpse, finding either a horned stag or a wild goat, while hungry; for vigorously does he devour it even if swift dogs and strong young men rush at him: so Menelaos delighted upon seeing godlike Paris with his eyes; for he said that he would punish the offender; and immediately from his chariot in his armor he leapt to the ground. But when then godlike Alexandros saw him appearing among the front rank fighters, his heart was shaken, and he retreated back into the crowd of his companions, avoiding death. As when someone seeing a snake starts back and away in the folds of a mountain, and a tremor takes his limbs, and he withdraws, and paleness seizes his cheeks, so back again into the crowd of good Trojans entered godlike Alexandros fearing the son of Atreus. (Il. 3.21–37)

As many similes do, both of these images construct the battlefield as a place in which men enter into a state of nature: “On the battlefield man becomes predator to man.”132 The first simile predicts markedly different fates for Menelaos and Paris in this arena. As one who resembles a lion, Menelaos will be successful: this vehicle is most often used of a warrior in the midst of slaughtering his enemies.133 Paris, as one who resembles the corpse of a hunted animal, will not be victorious. As 132 133

Redfield 1994: 199. Cf. Mueller 2009: 107. See Scott 1974: 58–62.

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much as the simile elevates Menelaos, it diminishes Paris.134 The second simile builds on the argument of the first in specifying why precisely Paris fails. Paris resembles one who comes upon a snake and withdraws in fright. Just so does he recoil from combat with Menelaos. The simile marks Paris’ dread and shows his misplaced confidence in his ability to challenge the enemy on his own. But the phrase oureos en bêssêis “in the folds of a mountain” and the word ôkhros “paleness” give greater depth to the simile and its characterization of Paris. Appearing nine other times in archaic Greek epic, the phrase oureos en bêssêis is coupled five times with a reference to human activity. Twice woodcutters (drutomoi) are mentioned (Il. 11.86–89 and 16.633–34) and once reference is made to the practice of melting iron underground (Theogony 864–66135). The phrase appears in conjunction with herdsmen (Homeric Hymn to Hermes 286–88) and in a slight variation (en bêssêis oreos) at Aspis 386 with reference to a boar preparing to fight some hunters (386–91).136 Whatever role the tis of the narrator’s simile in the Iliad fills, be he a woodcutter, smelter, herdsman or hunter, he is a cultural agent. He is not out on a recreational hike. In keeping with his leopard-skin cape, Paris is explicitly linked with cultural endeavors. The simile goes on to depict Paris as a coward in the face of nature. Great heroes can suffer from tremors (tromos) of anxiety or fear (see, e.g., Il. 10.25, 10.95, 22.136, and 24.170). So, the fact that the limbs of the man in the simile shake (tromos) (3.34) is less interesting than what follows: “paleness (ôkhros) seizes his cheeks” (3.35). The negative implications of this pallor appear in Odysseus’ recounting of the episode of the wooden horse to Achilleus. Unlike the other Achaians who wept and trembled, Neoptolemus did not grow pale (ôkhrêsanta) (Od. 11.529). Moulton points to the following Homeric passages that, although not employing the same diction as Il. 3.35, do show that paleness in battle is the mark of a coward: Idomeneus says that the coward will be one color at one moment and another at the next (Il. 12.279), 134

135 136

For a bT scholion, the simile is “an insult based on his [Paris’] cowardice” (Erbse 1969, 1: ad 3.24a). See West 1966: ad loc. The phrase also appears at Il. 14.397 (in reference to wind), 16.766 (wind), Theogony 860 (Typhoeus), and Works and Days 510 (wind).

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whereas the brave man’s face never changes color (Il. 12.284); when the Aiantes wheel on the Trojans, the Trojans’ faces change color, and they do not dare to attack the Greeks (Il. 17.733–34) (1977: 90n3). One can add the moment at which the Trojan spy Dolon turns green (khlôros) when Diomedes and Odysseus catch him (Il. 10.376).137 Terrified by the natural world, the man in the simile in book 3 suffers from the unheroic fear of the coward. This characterization is transferred to Paris through the magic of simile. Both of the narrator’s similes claim for Paris an inability to operate successfully in the natural world of the battlefield as a fighter. The second simile specifies that he fails in this context because he is a man of culture. Seeing Paris retreat, Hektor performs a two-pronged attack on his brother that picks up on the narrator’s characterization.138 Hektor begins by criticizing the very components of what makes Paris who he is. His beauty (Il. 3.39, 44–45, and 55), one of the “gifts (dôra) of Aphrodite” (3.54), is not useful in battle. He lacks the might and strength required in that arena (3.45). In addition, his good looks may have allowed him to run off with a beautiful woman, but that act has been a source of woe (pêma) for his city and people (3.50). Then, like the narrator, Hektor connects Paris with culture. He asserts that if Paris were to face Menelaos, his lyre would not save him (3.54). Moreover, Hektor claims that if the Trojans were not such cowards, Paris would already “have donned a tunic of stones” (3.57). The metaphor “almost certainly refers to execution by stoning,” and Hektor again mocks a signal attribute 137

138

Lucian quotes the whole hemistich from Il. 3.35: Athena asks Zeus, “Why does paleness seize your cheeks?” (Juppiter Tragoedus 1). The application of the phrase to Zeus is clearly intended as an intertextual joke: how could the omnipotent Zeus be as cowardly as a mortal? There is only one time when it is acceptable to turn green: Odysseus experiences “green fear” (khlôron deos) when surrounded by the shades of the dead in Hades (Od. 11.43); Zeus’ thunderbolt generates “green fear” in the Achaians (Il. 8.77). On these and other occasions in which the phrase khlôron deos appears, the subject suffers from a “supernaturally induced fear” (Foley 2002: 121). In these situations, when one is confronted by an otherwordly entity, one cannot be faulted for turning pale. (I am assuming that the adjective khlôron is not a dead metaphor in the phrase, although it may well be. Foley writes that the phrase “cues not a color or metaphor but an idiomatically recognizable state of mind” [121].) On Hektor’s performance of a rebuke here, see Martin 1989: 134–35.

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of Paris, his beautiful appearance and handsome clothes.139 Muellner posits that the reference to a stone tunic participates in Hektor’s condemnation of Paris’ identity as a dancer because attractive attire is associated with dancers: Paris will trade his dancer’s tunic for one of stones (1990: 88–89).140 Hektor not only denigrates the qualities for which Paris is well known but also is made to join the narrator in casting Paris as one better suited to cultural endeavors who will necessarily have a difficult time on the battlefield. The poet has Paris answer his accusers. Whereas Hektor had spoken disparagingly of the “gifts of Aphrodite,” Paris characterizes them as “lovely” (erata) and speaks of the “glorious gifts of the gods” (θεῶν ἐρικυδέα δῶρα) (Il. 3.64–65). That second phrase is also part of his performance of a gnome that breaks down into three units: “[1] you know, the glorious gifts of the gods are not to be thrown away, [2] as many as they themselves give, [3] and one could not obtain them simply by willing” ([1] οὔ τοι ἀπόβλητ’ ἐστὶ θεῶν ἐρικυδέα δῶρα, / [2] ὅσσα κεν αὐτοὶ δῶσιν, [3] ἑκὼν δ’ οὐκ ἄν τις ἕλοιτο) (3.65–66). Compare the following. A disguised Odysseus comments, “But (alla) in silence let him bear the gifts of the gods (δῶρα θεῶν ἔχοι), whatever they give (hotti didoien)” (Od. 18.142). Metaneira states, “But (alla) the gifts of the gods (theôn … dôra), even though it grieves us, by necessity we humans bear (tetlamen): for a yoke lies upon our necks” (Homeric Hymn to Demeter 216–17; see also 147–48). Nausikaa declares, “And I suppose (kai pou) these things he [Zeus] gave (tad’ edôke) to you, and you must bear (tetlamen) them all the same” (Od. 6.190). In terms of structure and vocabulary, units 1 and 2 of Paris’ gnome overlap to varying degrees with the other three passages. However, unit 1 speaks of the dôra in a positive light by describing them as erikudea whereas Odysseus and Metaneira use dôra in a neutral or even negative sense in referring to the “things given” by the gods. Unit 1 also introduces a further point of difference that is expanded upon in unit 3: Paris speaks not of “enduring” or “bearing” the gifts of the gods, but of the impossibility of discarding them or acquiring them through one’s own will power. In riffing on a typical 139 140

Moulton 1979: 282–83. On attempts to criticize someone as a dancer and not a fighter, see subsection 1.2 in this chapter.

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gnome, Paris not only defends himself but also signals an unwillingness to yield as a performer of verbal art.141 Indeed, we can trace how the simile with which Paris begins his speech can be seen as a response not only to Hektor’s argument but also to the narrator’s similes. Paris likens Hektor’s mental apparatus to an ax that a workman uses to fashion a ship timber:142 αἰεί τοι κραδίη πέλεκυς ὥς ἐστιν ἀτειρής, ὅς τ’ εἶσιν διὰ δουρὸς ὑπ’ ἀνέρος, ὅς ῥά τε τέχνῃ νήϊον ἐκτάμνῃσιν, ὀφέλλει δ’ ἀνδρὸς ἐρωήν· ὣς σοὶ ἐνὶ στήθεσσιν ἀτάρβητος νόος ἐστί· always your heart is weariless like an ax, which is driven through a log by a man who skillfully fashions a ship timber, and the ax augments his force: so you have a mind unswerving from its course in your breast: (Il. 3.60–63)

The argument of the simile unfolds as follows: just as the unyielding ax aids the carpenter, so does Hektor’s mental apparatus enable him to fight without getting tired.143 The sequence of presentation suggests that Paris is referring specifically to Hektor as a tireless warrior.144 Hektor has just urged him, although by way of sarcastic insults, to fight Menelaos. At verse 59, Paris says (I paraphrase), “You are right to chastise me for not fighting,” and at 67–70 agrees to a duel with Menelaos. In between, he uses the simile to say, “You for your part are always willing to fight.” The other signal that Paris refers to Hektor in his capacity as a warrior comes from his choice of the adjective atarbêtos, which, although a hapax legomenon, is to be linked with martial exploits. Nestor remembers his son: “strong and fearless (atarbês) Antilochos, exceptional as a swift runner 141

142

143

144

Lardinois sees Paris using the gnome at 3.65–66 and another at Il. 6.339 as insults directed at Hektor (1997: 229n76 and 223, respectively). For Paris’ performance as a flyter here, see Martin 1989: 75. “Mental apparatus” from Clarke 1999: for example, 100 and 121 in reference to this simile; see his 119–26 for noos. Differently, Rabel (1997: 77) suggests that Paris is meant to correspond to the shipbuilder: just as the builder relies on the ax, so Paris is motivated by Hektor. Cf. Coffey 1957: 131.

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and a fighter (makhêtês)” (Od. 3.111–12). The god Phobos attends his father, Ares: “both strong and fearless (atarbês) he followed, who puts to flight even the stouthearted warrior (polemistên)” (Il. 13.299–300). Finally, one also notes that the only other simile describing a tenor’s kradiê is that likening the Myrmidons as they enter battle to wasps (Il. 16.259–67). To return to Iliad 3, we can consider what Paris achieves by using the vehicles he uses to describe Hektor’s martial self. Building on Naomi Rood’s reading of this simile wherein she argues that in the Homeric poems the shipwright “emerges as a paradigm of intelligence and artistry” (2008: 33),145 I note that Paris speaks of a shipbuilder who confronts the natural world for the advancement of culture: he makes a ship timber from a rough-hewn log (douros). By likening the warrior Hektor to a shipbuilder depicted in such a manner, Paris claims that as a warrior Hektor, too, engages with nature on behalf of culture. In turn, this characterization relies on a well-established proposition. Hektor ventures out into the natural chaos of the battlefield in defense of his city,146 an exemplary cultural site.147 Paris reminds Hektor of his own links to culture. But things are not so simple: the simile also argues for a necessary collusion between nature and culture.148 First, although the carpenter relies on skill (tekhnêi), he also possesses a natural strength or force (erôên) 145

146

147 148

In general, the craftsman is a cultural figure par excellence. In the Odyssey, Eumaios explicitly links the carpenter with the seer, healer, and, most important, bard (17.383–85). From this perspective, the craftsman produces specialized work comparable to the honored singer of tales. See Nagy (1999: 234) for the increasing weight given to each profession in the list of four. Nagy (1996b: 89–91) discusses Homeric poetry in light of carpentry metaphors. Scully (1990: 60–61) argues that although Hektor’s primary concern seems to be the safety of his own oikos, “[w]hen he fights for Andromache, by necessity he fights for the city. If the motivations for war for the city-defender germinate from impulses planted deep within the oikos, those stimuli naturally metamorphize so that the hero also fights expressively for the polis itself” (61). On Hektor as defender of the city, see also Nagy 1999: 145–46. On Hektor in his “civic aspect,” see Taplin 1992: 117. See Scully 1990: esp. 25, 46, and 63. See Redfield 1994: 70–72: “The frontier between nature and culture is flexible” (71). Wilson (2002b: 238n63) supplements Redfield: “The central ambiguity of the Iliad, as I read it, is that biê and nature are, like the heroes themselves,

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that he exhibits in the swing of the ax. So, too, does a winnower cause beans to skip across a threshing floor with a swing (erôêi) of his shovel (Il. 13.589–90). Second, to Paris’ mind, Hektor’s mental apparatus of kradiê and noos, which exist naturally, finds its most suitable analogue in an implement of man’s creation, the ax. Third, Paris imputes a naturally untiring and inevitable solidity to the ax that the craftsman wields, but, again, the ax is itself the product of man’s ingenuity. Not only, then, does Hektor himself resemble a cultural agent, but nature and culture cannot be easily separated. It is not difficult to see why Paris would make these arguments. For he suggests thereby that however much he actually may be, or however much one may wish to think of him as, a man cut out for a life of refined cultural pursuits, he, too, can enter the wilds of battle.149 Appropriately, he goes on to express his willingness to fight Menelaos (Il. 3.67–77). A bT scholion paraphrases Paris’ response to Hektor: “Do not lay a charge against me by comparing me to yourself (πρὸς σεαυτὸν με συγκρίνων)” (Erbse 1969, 1: ad 3.60). One can go further. Paris is not cowed in the figurative arena. From the audience’s point of view, he is made to use simile to answer not only Hektor’s insults but the narrator’s similes as well.

3. CONCLUSION

Chapter 4 examined how a simile in the character-text can respond to a previous simile in the character-text. This chapter has unearthed a related phenomenon through which the Iliad poet continues to fashion his characters as verbal competitors: the poet makes a character’s image build on and challenge, often through reuse and/or recharacterization,

149

at once necessary to and a danger for culture. Accordingly, the Iliad’s task is not, as Redfield (203–23) argues, to banish the hero and his reconciliation to the realm of nature, outside of culture, but to assimilate and appropriate the hero, biê and nature into and for culture” (emphasis in original). Cf. Cook 1995: 32 and 96. On similes conflating nature and culture, see Wofford 1992: 47. Lowenstam (1993: 86–89) argues that Paris is “undoubtedly … a man of nature” (86).

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the previous figuration(s) of the narrator. I have traced the following three interactions discernable to the audience. First, a character can be seen to respond to the previous simile of the narrator with a simile of his own. For example, whereas the narrator’s simile describes the crying Patroklos in such a way as to imply that Patroklos faces a crisis, Achilleus’ simile recharacterizes Patroklos and his tears in suggesting that Patroklos should not be so upset. Second, a character can be seen to respond to the previous similes of the narrator with a simile of his own. For example, Sarpedon’s lion simile both supports and rejects the narrator’s lion similes. Third, a character can be seen to respond by way of simile both to his opponent’s argument in a flyting contest and to the narrator’s use of a simile or similes right before the contest began. For example, with its take on Hektor’s relationship to nature and culture and its insistence that the two terms cannot be separated, Paris’ simile rejects the way the narrator and Hektor represent Paris as an incapable warrior. It is now time to turn to the narrator-text itself.

6 Similes in the Narrator-Text

THE

RESULTS

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THE

PREVIOUS

CHAPTERS

URGE

AN

exploration of the Iliad’s narrator-text itself and a search for the competitive dynamics of similes therein. I begin this chapter with a brief examination of the sequential arrangement of one pair and one series of similes in the narrator-text. At such moments, the poet gives a competitive orientation to the similes describing the heroes’ martial contests. This arrangement amplifies the successful warrior’s feat. I then study at greater length a hitherto neglected component of the narrator’s similes. Like sequences of similes, individual extended similes in the narrator-text can evince an agonistic orientation: they contribute to the portrayal of the characters in the Iliad as competitors for time in the spotlight. 1. TWO SEQUENCES OF SIMILES

When they first meet in combat, Patroklos and Hektor resemble two lions (Il. 16.756–58), but when Hektor gains the upper hand, Patroklos is said to resemble a boar, and Hektor, a lion that defeats the boar (16.823–28). Deborah Beck writes, “[Patroklos] has been beaten in the battle of both narrative and simile” (2005a: 180). We could just as easily say that Hektor wins in the battle of both narrative and simile. What happens in one important element of the discourse (the simile) parallels and reinforces the victor’s success at the level of the story: the vehicle that represents the victor triumphs over the vehicle that represents his opponent. So much is obvious, but I have quoted Beck because I wish to reorient her phrase “the battle of … simile.” In this section, I argue that the poet can construct sequences 211

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of similes in the narrator-text such that the second of a pair or the last of a series caps through reuse and/or recharacterization the previous simile(s). This capping proceeds in tandem with changes in the course of the battle, and success at the story level is mirrored and thereby emphasized by the fact that a simile describing successful action or the action of one soon to be victorious caps a simile describing the opponent’s action. Such an analysis builds on but at the same time goes beyond the proposition that “similes play a major role in emphasizing and organizing shifts in the balance and complexity of the hard-fought battle.”1 It might be prudent to leave off there, but I wish to go one step further. The competitive arrangement of similes in the narrator-text is not just a matter of emphasis. Annie Schnapp-Gourbeillon observes of the similes discussed by Beck, “The reversal is carried out: from a lion, Patroklos in dying becomes a boar, while Hektor reclaims the image [of the lion] to his own profit” (1981: 83; my translation). What is this “profit”? When a successful or victorious warrior is compared to a lion or some other nonhuman entity, the poet suggests that the warrior exceeds the limits of normal human behavior. The simile does not just confirm the fighter’s success in the story but magnifies and exalts his deed. I suggest an analogous response to several sequences of similes in the narrator-text, two of which I explore momentarily. The competitive orientation of the similes does not merely parallel and draw attention to the shifts in the battle. A capping move redounds to the credit of the simile’s tenor and amplifies his martial success. Previous critics have alluded to the competitive dynamics underlying the presentation in the narrator-text of similes with the same vehicle. In addition to Schnapp-Gourbeillon’s reading of the similes in Iliad 16, one also notes Lonsdale’s comments on the trajectory of the similes applied to Achilleus’ combat with Hektor: “When Achilles returns to the fighting he is compared to a lion, but as his vengeance impels him to consume Hektor he also subsumes the Trojan’s dominant imagery of the hunt” (1990: 110). In supplementing these scholars’ observations, one can explore sequences of similes in the narrator-text regardless of vehicle.2 1 2

Scott 2009: 89. Another precedent for my analysis is the work of Nimis (1987: 52–53, 55, 57, and 82) on the second of a pair of similes in the narrator-text “correcting” the first.

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1.1. Hektor and Achilleus After Hektor realizes that Athena has tricked him into confronting Achilleus, he resolves to die gloriously. He rushes against Achilleus: ὥς τ’ αἰετὸς ὑψιπετήεις, ὅς τ’ εἶσιν πεδίονδε διὰ νεφέων ἐρεβεννῶν ἁρπάξων ἢ ἄρν’ ἀμαλὴν ἢ πτῶκα λαγωόν· like a high flying eagle, who heads toward the plain through the dark clouds to snatch either a gentle lamb or a cowering hare: (Il. 22.308–10)

The simile momentarily casts Hektor as the dominant of the pair and figures Achilleus as the timid prey. Hektor’s charge stirs up Achilleus. He places his shield in front of his chest; the plumes of his helmet shake. The narrator likens the shimmer of his spear point to a star: οἷος δ’ ἀστὴρ εἶσι μετ’ ἀστράσι νυκτὸς ἀμολγῷ ἕσπερος, ὅς κάλλιστος ἐν οὐρανῷ ἵσταται ἀστήρ, And as a star goes among stars in the dark of night, the evening star, which stands out as the most beautiful star in the sky, (Il. 22.317–18)

Although the simile strictly speaking connects the point of Achilleus’ spear to a star,3 it is hard not to (and we are perhaps supposed to) align Achilleus with the star itself. After all, not only can an individual warrior be said to resemble a star (e.g., Hektor at Il. 11.62–65) but Achilleus himself in his full panoply is elsewhere compared to celestial bodies: the sun (Il. 19.398) and the Dog Star (Il. 22.25–32). More than just a “balancing simile,”4 Achilleus’ simile appropriates and reworks elements of Hektor’s image. Like Hektor’s eagle, Achilleus’ star goes (eisin) through the sky. Yet, whereas the eagle moves from the sky to the earth, Achilleus’ star remains perpetually in the heavens.5 3 4 5

See Scott 2009: 32. Scott 2009: 73. The standard reading at 22.309 in Hektor’s simile is dia “through” the clouds. A T scholion’s apo becomes relevant in light of Achilleus’ star remaining in

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Achilleus is linked with a permanent fixture in the sky in contrast to the intermittently airborne eagle. Like Hektor’s eagle, Achilleus’ star moves in the dark. However, in the Iliad, the phrase nuktos amolgôi used in Achilleus’ simile carries an inherent resonance of destruction.6 Twice, a lion kills a cow in the dark of night (Il. 11.173 and 15.324). The phrase also appears in the simile likening the advancing Achilleus to the Dog Star that portends suffering for mortals (Il. 22.28). Achilleus’ simile at Il. 22.317–18 is made to recast the notion of darkness as a foreboding of death, perhaps that of Hektor himself.7 The second verse sharpens the contrast between Achilleus’ star and Hektor’s eagle. It turns out that the star is not just any star, but Hesperus, the evening star. A bT scholion connects it to Aphrodite (Erbse 1977, 5: ad 22.318c), and Sappho, too, had kind words for it: according to Himerius, she speaks of the evening star as “the most beautiful of all stars” (ἀστέρων πάντων ὀ κάλλιστος) (frag. 104(b) Campbell). The adjective kallistos also describes the star in verse 318, and, as is to be expected, elsewhere in Homeric poetry it marks out especially notable objects, people, and even animals: the robe with which the Trojan women attempt to propitiate Athena (Il. 6.294);8 the women Agamemnon offers to Achilleus as part of his efforts to get the Myrmidon to return to the fight (Il. 9.140 and 9.282); Ganymede (Il. 20.233); and Rhesos’ horses (Il. 10.436).9 When Achilleus is paired with the evening star, a distinctive and unique entity, the generic nature of Hektor’s eagle emerges. We can put this point together with the initial verse’s implied contrast between the star that is always in the sky and the eagle that cannot fly forever. From this perspective, we see that the

6

7

8

9

the sky (Erbse 1977, 5: ad 22.309). Apo would emphasize more than dia the descent of Hektor’s bird. Tsagalis (2008: 153–87) outlines this phrase’s associations with “imminent danger.” Cf. Richardson (1993: ad 22.308–11), who suggests a connection between “the eagle in the dark clouds and the radiance of the evening star against the darkening sky in the simile which follows at 317–21, symbolizing Akhilleus’ victory and Hektor’s doom.” The same language is used when Helen gives Telemachos a robe (Od. 4.614); cf. Menelaos’ gift to Telemachos at Od. 15.114. Moulton (1974: 394) writes, “κάλλιστος (318) focuses attention on Achilles and his supreme heroism.”

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recharacterization offered by the simile pertains not only to Achilleus’ shift from inevitably worsted prey to special star but also to Hektor’s shift from powerful predator to mere bird. In short, the simile applied to Achilleus caps that applied to Hektor because it reuses elements from the simile applied to Hektor and recharacterizes both Achilleus and Hektor. The outcome of this contest in the figurative realm presages and amplifies Achilleus’ victory that follows a moment later. 1.2. Hektor at the Achaian Wall Four similes describe Hektor’s assault on the Achaian wall in Iliad 15. Janko notes that the last three advance the narrative (1992: 292), and Moulton points out that the middle two “are obviously an associated pair, whose poetic signification is reversal” (1977: 70).10 We can detail more precisely the mechanics of the series’s development. The first three function as a competitively oriented sequence, and the last reaffirms the point of the third. At first, Zeus stokes Hektor’s battle fury: μαίνετο δ’ ὡς ὅτ’ Ἄρης ἐγχέσπαλος ἢ ὀλοὸν πῦρ οὔρεσι μαίνηται, βαθέης ἐν τάρφεσιν ὕλης· And he raged as when spear-wielding Ares or a destructive fire rages in the mountains, in the depths of a deep wood: (Il. 15.605–6)

Hektor is not only like the war god himself, but also like fire, the elemental instantiation of martial might.11 A T scholion comments, “He [the poet] likens him to all that is fearsome” (Erbse 1975, 4: ad 15.605–6). The verb mainomai also contributes to this picture because it is regularly connected with gods and with warriors who fight with the help of the gods, both groups verging on the insane.12 10 11 12

See also Nannini 2003: 29. See Nagy 1999: 330–37. Cf. Tsagalis 2008: 4. Gods: Il. 5.717, 5.831, 15.128 (Ares); 6.132 (Dionysos); 8.360 (Zeus); and Od. 11.537 (Ares). Warriors with the gods: Il. 5.185

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But the Achaians withstand his onslaught: ἴσχον γὰρ πυργηδὸν ἀρηρότες, ἠΰτε πέτρη ἠλίβατος μεγάλη, πολιῆς ἁλὸς ἐγγὺς ἐοῦσα, ἥ τε μένει λιγέων ἀνέμων λαιψηρὰ κέλευθα κύματά τε τροφόεντα, τά τε προσερεύγεται αὐτήν·13 ὣς Δαναοὶ ρῶας μένον ἔμπεδον οὐδὲ φέβοντο. for they held fitted together as a defensive wall, like a rock steep and great, being near the gray sea, which stands up to the swift paths [i.e., the rush] of shrill winds and the swollen waves, which break against it: so the Danaans stood up to the Trojans steadfastly, nor did they retreat. (Il. 15.618–22)

The narrator reuses an implicit motif of the previous simile. Nagy demonstrates that Ares is connected with the wind (1999: 327–28), and the forest fire may be fanned by the winds as it is in the similes at Il. 11.155–58 and 20.490–93 (cf. Il. 17.737–39). The reappearance of the winds in the simile at 15.618–22 is not a chance repetition due to the choice of the “water strikes rock” motif. Rather, the simile is a purposefully constructed allomorph of a mental template that also underlies the simile at Il. 17.747–51.14 In that latter passage, the Aiantes ward off the Trojans as other Achaians finally manage to carry Patroklos’ corpse out of the fight:

13

14

(Diomedes), 9.238 (Hektor), and 16.245 (Achilleus asks Zeus to help Patroklos in the fight). Cf. Il. 6.389 and 22.460 (Andromache rages like a maenad inspired by Dionysos) and Od. 18.406–7 (Telemachos reproaches the suitors in their madness, saying they must be being “stirred up” by a god). For additional thoughts on this verb, see D. Collins 1998: 28. I follow the OCT reading of autên (as opposed to aktêi); see Janko 1992: ad loc. Comparing Il. 15.618–22 with Il. 17.747–51 is a much more precise exercise than comparing the passage in Iliad 15 with the simile at Il. 2.394–97 (an image of waves stirred by winds and striking a cliff). When searching for the mental template underlying a simile, it is important to compare apples to apples, as it were. Just because two similes share a vehicle or vehicles does not mean that they derive from the same template.

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Αἴαντ’ ἰσχανέτην, ὥς τε πρὼν ἰσχάνει ὕδωρ ὑλήεις, πεδίοιο διαπρύσιον τετυχηκώς, ὅς τε καὶ ἰφθίμων ποταμῶν ἀλεγεινὰ ῥέεθρα ἴσχει, ἄφαρ δέ τε πᾶσι ῥόον πεδίονδε τίθησι πλάζων· οὐδέ τί μιν σθένεϊ ῥηγνῦσι ῥέοντες· the Aiantes held back [the Trojans], as a cliff holds back water, a wooded cliff running into a plain, which checks even the destructive streams of strong rivers and at once directs the flow of all of them to the plain, making them wander, and as they flow they do not break it with their strength: (17.747–51)

Compare not only the similarity in vehicles but also the structural parallels between Il. 15.618–22 and 17.747–51: 1. The idea that prompts the simile: they held (iskhon) (15.618) the Aiantes held back (iskhanetên) (17.747)

2. The central vehicle of the simile, which is introduced immediately after the comparative word: like a rock (ἠΰτε πέτρη) (15.618) as a cliff (ὥς τε πρὼν) (17.747)

3. The use of water as a hostile agent, as it were: swollen waves (κύματά τε τροφόεντα) (15.621) water (hudôr) … rivers (potamôn) (17.747 and 749, respectively)

4. In the second verse, a description of the vehicle in item 2 that moves from adjective(s), to location, to participle: steep and great, being near the grey sea (ἠλίβατος μεγάλη, πολιῆς ἁλὸς ἐγγὺς ἐοῦσα) (15.619) wooded, running into a plain (ὑλήεις, πεδίοιο διαπρύσιον τετυχηκώς) (17.748)

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5. In the third verse, a description of a hostile agent that moves from relative pronoun to two noun-epithet phrases, the first in the genitive case, the second in the accusative case: which stands up to the swift paths of shrill winds (ἥ τε μένει λιγέων ἀνέμων λαιψηρὰ κέλευθα) (15.620) which even the destructive streams of strong rivers (ὅς τε καὶ ἰφθίµων ποταμῶν ἀλεγεινὰ ῥέεθρα) (17.749)

6. A concluding reference to the water striking the vehicle in item 2: which break against it (τά τε προσερεύγεται αὐτήν) (15.621) and as they flow they do not break it with their strength (οὐδέ τί μιν σθένεϊ ῥηγνῦσι ῥέοντες) (17.751)

Once we discern the template underlying the simile in book 15, we are less prone to overlook the simile’s use of wind in item 5. The wind is not an inevitable requirement of this sort of simile. The poet chooses to introduce that element here. The powerful winds implied in the preceding simile at Il. 15.605–6 meet an immovable foe. The image applied to the Achaians at 15.618–22 aims, then, to cap the previous simile’s depiction of a raging Ares-like and fire-like Hektor. This shift in the figurative realm not only parallels the development in the battle as the Achaian line holds but also makes that success seem all the greater. In turn, a simile assigned to Hektor reuses components of this second simile. The Trojan falls upon (en … epes’) the Achaians, ὡς ὅτε κῦμα θοῇ ἐν νηῒ πέσῃσι λάβρον ὑπαὶ νεφέων ἀνεμοτρεφές· ἡ δέ τε πᾶσα ἄχνῃ ὑπεκρύφθη, ἀνέμοιο δὲ δεινὸς ἀήτης ἱστίῳ ἐμβρέμεται, τρομέουσι δέ τε φρένα ναῦται δειδιότες· τυτθὸν γὰρ ὑπὲκ θανάτοιο φέρονται· ὣς ἐδαΐζετο θυμὸς ἐνὶ στήθεσσιν Ἀχαιῶν. as when a wave falls upon a swift ship, a furious wave nourished by the winds under the clouds; and the whole ship is enveloped in spray, and a fearsome blast of wind roars against the sail, and the sailors quake in their minds

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with fear; for they are carried but a short way from death: so the spirit was torn in the breasts of the Achaians. (Il. 15.624–29)

The narrator redeploys the wind and water of the previous simile that described the Achaians’ resistance. But in the image of a wind-nourished wave, an unstoppable conflation of sea and air, the simile recasts the elements as destructive.15 This shift parallels and magnifies Hektor’s renewed success. The capping of the previous simile emerges as well in the recharacterization of the Achaians. They are disconnected from an immovable, seemingly permanent feature of the natural world, a rock,16 and linked instead with the mortal and fragile, a characterization underscored by the sailors’ fear of death. This fear is itself pointed up by the use of the verb tromeô because one “quakes” at the prospect of imminent injury or death. Antinoos chastises Iros for quaking (tromeeis) before the beggar (Od. 18.79–81). Having learned of his expedition abroad, Penelope trembles (amphitromeô) for Telemachos (Od. 4.820). Agamemnon quakes (tromeonto) as he ponders the dire situation facing his army (Il. 10.10; cf. 10.95).17 A further effort at recharacterization immediately follows, making the argument of the simile at Il. 15.624–29 even more forcefully. Hektor now resembles a marauding lion; the Achaians are like cows that flee (hupetresan) the predator (Il. 15.630–38). Hektor, that is, wreaks more havoc. The recharacterization by way of the shift from the wind-fed wave vehicle to that classic symbol of destruction, the lion vehicle, announces this development. The Achaians suffer a correspondingly negative recharacterization. In the previous simile at 15.624–29, the Achaians resembled 15

16

17

A T scholion comments on the force of the wave (Erbse 1975, 4: ad 15.624–5). The permanence of rocks and stones is illustrated in the fate of the Phaiakian ship that returns Odysseus to Ithaka. Poseidon turns it to stone just as it is about to reach Scheria (see lithon at Od. 13.156 and laan at 13.163). It is to serve as an eternal proof of Poseidon’s power: see Zeus’ statement that “all may marvel at it” (Od. 13.157) and Marks 2008: 57. For her part, the petrified (lithos) Niobe continues even now (nun) to brood over (pessei) her sorrows (Il. 24.614–17). See also the Pylians’ fear of Lykourgos (etromeon at Il. 7.151), the Trojans’ fear of Achilleus (hupotromeousin at Il. 22.241; cf. Il. 17.203), and Eurymachos’ reference to Telemachos’ fear of death (tromeesthai at Od. 16.446); cf. the suitors’ disregard for the gods (oud’ … tromeousi at Od. 20.215).

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sailors, scared but nonetheless still clinging to life.18 Here, they are likened to the helpless victims in a stock representation of slaughter.19 The verb describing the cows’ flight enhances the sense of victimization and loss. Elsewhere, the form hupetresan signifies a costly retreat: the Greeks give way and almost lose the body of Patroklos (Il. 17.275); Apollo chastises Hektor for retreating before Menelaos, saying that no one will fear the Trojan prince now (17.586–88). We are thus prepared for the subsequent turn of events: Hektor kills Periphetes (Il. 15.638–52), and the Achaians yield the first line of ships (15.653–56). In this scene in Iliad 15, the poet offers in the narrator-text a contest in the figurative realm through a series of similes in which those that follow cap those that precede. This arrangement is in keeping with the changes in the battle and therefore draws attention to those shifts, but it also amplifies the success of first the Achaians and then Hektor. Readings of this sort can be multiplied if we continue to pay attention not only to similes with the same vehicle but also to pairs and series of similes regardless of vehicle.20 I wish at this point, however, to turn to an analysis of individual similes in the narrator-text. Chapter 2 considered the agonistic orientation of similes in the character-text that do not interact with that or those of another speaker. Just so, similes in the Iliad’s narrator-text need not interact with another in order to exhibit competitive dynamics. 2. EXTENDED SIMILES

A series of similes describes the onset of battle in Iliad 11: ῞Εκτωρ δ’ ἐν πρώτοισι φέρ’ ἀσπίδα πάντοσ’ ἐΐσην. οἷος δ’ ἐκ νεφέων ἀναφαίνεται οὔλιος ἀστὴρ παμφαίνων, τοτὲ δ’ αὖτις ἔδυ νέφεα σκιόεντα, ὣς Ἕκτωρ ὁτὲ μέν τε μετὰ πρώτοισι φάνεσκεν, ἄλλοτε δ’ ἐν πυμάτοισι κελεύων· πᾶς δ’ ἄρα χαλκῷ λάμφ’ ὥς τε στεροπὴ πατρὸς Διὸς αἰγιόχοιο. 18 19 20

Cf. Krischer 1971: 52. Lions attack cows in similes at Il. 5.161–62 and 12.293. See, for example, the similes in the following passages: Il. 12.421–52, 15.579–93, and 17.61–137.

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Οἱ δ’, ὥς τ’ ἀμητῆρες ἐναντίοι ἀλλήλοισιν ὄγμον ἐλαύνωσιν ἀνδρὸς μάκαρος κατ’ ἄρουραν πυρῶν ἢ κριθῶν. τὰ δὲ δράγματα ταρφέα πίπτει. ὣς ρῶες καὶ Ἀχαιοὶ ἐπ’ ἀλλήλοισι θορόντες δῄουν, οὐδ’ ἕτεροι μνώοντ’ ὀλοοῖο φόβοιο. ἴσας δ’ ὑσμίνη κεφαλὰς ἔχεν, οἱ δὲ λύκοι ὣς θῦνον. And Hektor in the front ranks carried his well-balanced shield. And as a baleful star appears out from the clouds, shining, but then again it enters into the shadowy clouds, so Hektor at one time appeared among the front ranks and at another time among those in the rear giving orders; and all over in his bronze he shone like the lightning bolt of aegis-bearing father Zeus. And they, as reapers opposite one another drive in a line down the field of a rich man [a field] of wheat or of barley, and the swathes fall thick: so the Trojans and Achaians leaping against one another fought, and neither took thought for destructive flight. But the battle maintained equal heads, and they as wolves were raging: (Il. 11.61–73)

The four in this passage neatly demonstrate the range of similes that the poet constructs. He begins with a multiple-correspondence simile, that is, a simile with more than one discrete tenor/vehicle pairing. Hektor is compared to a star; the Trojans he leads are compared to clouds. Next comes a simile with one tenor and one vehicle: Hektor shines in his armor like Zeus’ lightning. There follows a complex multiple-correspondence simile that assigns one vehicle to two tenors twice over: both the Trojans and Achaians are reapers; both the Trojans and Achaians are the crop that is reaped.21 Finally, one vehicle is assigned to two tenors in a “shared” simile: both the Trojans and Achaians are like wolves.22 Thinking about the number of tenors and vehicles helps us explore how extended similes in the narrator-text can manifest a competitive orientation. Subsection 2.1 introduces the concept of the spotlight and 21 22

See Hainsworth 1993: ad loc. For the term “shared,” see Scott 2006: 108.

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suggests that the Iliad poet constructs his characters as competitors for the spotlight. Subsection 2.2 explores how the poet implicates similes in that vision. 2.1. The Characters as Competitors for the Spotlight The poet works to ensure that the audience knows which character he is attending to at any one moment, that is, which character is in the spotlight. Clarity here is of paramount importance because, as previous scholarship has demonstrated, the longer a character is in the spotlight the greater becomes his or her narrative status. What is more, the poet frequently moves the spotlight around among his many characters or widens it to include more than one person. He thereby declares that a character has competitors for the spotlight. At the same time, the poet makes an identical claim when he keeps a character in the spotlight: he constructs the character as an obstacle to others receiving the time in the spotlight that would enhance their narrative status. The poet reinforces this definition of what it means to be a character in his poem when he portrays the characters as believing that the spotlight in subsequent tales is something over which they compete. 2.1.1. The Spotlight and Narrative Status The first verse of the Iliad declares that its story will be about the disastrous effects of Achilleus’ mênis, a word that signals to the tradition-oriented hearer a story pattern involving the withdrawal of, the devastation caused by the absence of, and, finally, the return of the angered individual.23 One may expect that Achilleus will remain in view for the whole poem just as Demeter does during the recounting of her mênis in the Homeric Hymn to Demeter. Instead, the Iliad removes Achilleus from the field of action. Indeed, at various times throughout the poem, the audience is told (or, perhaps more accurately, has to be told) of the centrality of Achilleus’ anger to the story, reminders that highlight his notable absence from essentially

23

On this story pattern, see Foley 1994: 91–92 and the bibliography noted therein.

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books 2 through 17 with the important exception of book 9.24 A space is opened up for numerous other characters.25 The most obvious demonstration of the poet’s (and audience’s) interest in having a great number of actors in the narrative is found in the lengthy catalogues of Achaians and Trojans in book 2.26 The third-century ce commentator Porphyry (ad Il. 1.1) can appropriately contrast the multiplicity of characters in the Iliad with the centrality of Odysseus in the Odyssey.27 Let us consider in the first place how the Iliad poet deals with all of these characters. I choose the metaphor of the spotlight as a heuristic convenience for speaking about the attention the poet gives to his characters.28 A character is in the spotlight both when he is an or the actor being spoken of, that is, when he is in focus, and when he functions as a focalizer, that is, when he speaks or when his perspective is presented through complex narrator-text (embedded focalization).29 The poet strives at all times to make clear who is in the spotlight. Egbert Bakker shows how the poet brings discrete characters to the audience’s attention. In a section entitled “The Syntax of Activation” (1997a: 108–11), Bakker finds certain “verbalizations” that often correspond to how long a character has been out of sight. On the next page, I present a slightly reformatted version of his chart from his page 111. When a character is already on the scene and is reintroduced, the poet will not give his or her name but will present him or her with ho / hê de or autar ho / hê (category 1).30 Conversely, if there is the slightest possibility that this sort of reintroduction will confuse the audience,

24 25

26 27 28

29

30

See, for example, Il. 13.347–50, 14.366–67, and 15.72–77. “The Iliad only includes so many secondary characters because Achilles himself withdraws from the battle in Book 1” (Woloch 2003: 3; emphasis in original). Cf. Barker 2004: 106 and Willcock 2004: 57. See Heiden 2008a: esp. 134. See Schrader 1880: 1–2. This metaphor allows us to speak both in temporal terms (e.g., the poet trains the spotlight for a certain amount of time on a character) and in spatial terms (e.g., the poet expands the spotlight to include more than one character). Cf. Buxton (2004: 155) and Scott (2006: 107) for the term “spotlight.” See Nünlist (2002: 446–48) for a reminder of the difference between focus and focalization. On de and autar, see Bakker 1997a: 62–71 and 96, respectively.

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Table 6.1. (taken from Bakker 1997a: 111) 1. present active:a 2. copresent near-active:

3. returning semiactive: 4. appearing inactive:

a

ho de or autar ho clause without name ho de clause + name in same unit ho de clause + noun-epithet phrase in next unit answering-formula + noun-epithet phrase in next unit simple name with de or autar + clause in next unit simple name with de + clause in next unit tou/tôi/ton de clause + noun-epithet phrase in next unit

The first term (e.g., present) refers to the status of the “Character in the narrative”; the second term (e.g., active) refers to the status of the “Character in the consciousness of poet and listeners” (Bakker 1997a: 111).

the poet can give the character’s name and perhaps epithet.31 Bakker’s fourth category is of particular interest. When a character reappears after a long absence, the poet can introduce the character in relation to one already on the stage with an oblique form of the demonstrative pronoun (tou, tôi, ton, etc.) that corresponds to the already active character and a noun-epithet phrase for the new actor. At such moments the shift or expansion of the spotlight is doubly articulated. In addition to the noun-epithet combination that emphatically brings its referent into the performance,32 the poet uses a tou/tôi/ton de clause. Such “staging formulas,” as Bakker terms them, are “almost always” followed by a noun-epithet phrase (1997a: 164). That is, the formula itself signals the coming of a name.33 31 32 33

See Bakker 1997a: 94. See Bakker 1997a: 161. Cf. Elmer (2009) on what he terms “presentation formulas” in South Slavic oral epic: these expressions can direct “the audience to shift focus” (50) from one character to another. One feature of Bakker’s chart merits further comment. Note that “answering formula + noun-epithet phrase in next unit” pertains to the introduction of a copresent near-active character (category 2), and “tou/tôi/ ton de clause + noun-epithet phrase in next unit” pertains to the introduction of an appearing inactive character (category 4). Yet, an “answering formula,” such as τὸν δ’ ἀπαμειβόμενος προσέφη (and him answering he addressed), is a type of “tou/tôi/ton de clause” (see Bakker 1997a: 163 and 173). (Again, Bakker calls these clauses “staging formulas” [164].) What is it about the

Extended Similes

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The poet seeks to ensure in other ways, too, that we know who is in the spotlight. Beck observes that not every introductory speech formula can “stand alone to introduce a speech, because it does not name the speaker. Many context-specific speech introductions require an additional verse or verses in order to supply enough information to introduce the following speech clearly” (2005a: 41).34 In addition, beyond the clear introduction of secondary narrator-focalizers in speech introductions, the primary narrator-focalizer usually marks the switch in focalization when he embeds the viewpoint of a secondary focalizer in his presentation. De Jong collects the words indicating perception, thought/emotion, and indirect speech that perform this function (2004a: 102–18). These moments of explicit embedded focalization differ from the phenomenon of implicit embedded focalization

34

speech introduction for a character already on the scene that can prompt the appearance of a structure elsewhere used to introduce an inactive character? Bakker finds that this form of introduction (staging formula + noun-epithet phrase in next unit) is as a general rule used both when a character already on the scene is about to affect the course of the plot through a speech (166–69) and when an inactive character is about to affect the course of the plot through his/her actions (173–78). Accordingly, when the poet introduces a speaker in this way, his concern is to signal the importance of the coming utterance, not to reintroduce the character to us. It should be stressed that we are dealing here with a special case: we should not expect to see “tou/tôi/ton de clause + noun-epithet phrase in next unit” regularly used of active characters who are not about to speak. In fact, one way in which Bakker accounts for the appearance of τὸν δὲ ἰδὼν ἐλέησε πατὴρ ἀνδρῶν τε θεῶν τε (and him seeing he pitied, the father of men and gods) (Il. 15.12) in reference to an already active Zeus is by pointing out that two verses later Zeus begins an incredibly important speech. My sense is that at other moments, in which he seems to use this form of introduction “incorrectly,” the poet is suggesting that the character so introduced has in fact been displaced from our attention. (On this last point, my account differs from Bakker’s: compare my discussion later of Il. 21.49 with Bakker’s [195].) Similarly, a West Texas storyteller attempts to shine the spotlight clearly on a given speaker: “the organizing system for reported speech in these texts is highly redundant, with multiple devices operating concurrently to indicate who is speaking and when” (Bauman 1986: 67). Cf. “In an oral performance the bard can easily confuse his audience unless he alerts it often to the movement between narrative and direct speech” (Richardson 1990: 32).

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wherein such words are lacking (118–22). De Jong contrasts embedded focalization with character-text: “in the Iliad direct speech is the preferred narrative situation for the expression of thoughts/emotions of characters” (2004a: 122). Just so, a tally of passages exhibiting explicit and those exhibiting implicit embedded focalization would probably demonstrate the greater frequency of the former, that is, of passages that are clearly marked as presenting a particular character’s point of view. Nonetheless, even when it comes to implicit embedded focalization, the identity of the focalizer is for the most part easily detected.35 In short, the poet works diligently to let us know who is making a claim on our attention at each moment. To be in the spotlight, then, involves either being in focus or being a focalizer or both at the same time (e.g., telling a story about oneself). Yet, the spotlight pertains to more than just an analysis of the poet’s desire to be clear. Time is a limited and so valuable commodity. Scholarship has long recognized that the poet adheres to the following rule: the amount of time in the spotlight a character receives determines that character’s narrative status, that is, his or her importance to the tale and its telling. The longer one is in focus, the greater is one’s narrative status.36 So, too, the longer and the more frequently one speaks and the more one serves as an embedded focalizer, the greater is one’s narrative status.37 In other words, once a character is in the spotlight, the question immediately arises, for how long? The next subsection demonstrates that the way the 35

36

37

Scodel (2002b) points to some passages in which the identity of the focalizer is hard to ascertain. See Strasburger 1954: 44, Bakker 1997a: 202 (cf. 55), Rabel 1997: 179, and Beck 2005a: 4; cf. Lord 2000: 89. In examining the poet’s reporting of direct speech, Martin (1989: 50 and 138) observes that the number of lines allotted to a speaker is a marker of his or her status. Lowe (2000: 116) adds that the frequency with which one speaks “indexes a character’s importance.” Logically, the handling of complex narrator-text (embedded focalization) should be seen as achieving the same end. Martin (1989: 235–37) argues that the poet aligns his presentation with the viewpoint of Achilleus himself. Just so, although such passages tend to be short (see de Jong 2004a: 110), the degree to which other moments of embedded focalization linger on the perspective of a focalizer will reflect that character’s narrative status: “it is the use of point of view that labels a character as a player” (Lowe 2000: 46–47; emphasis in original).

Extended Similes

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poet handles the spotlight allows him to articulate a specific vision of what it means to be a character in his poem: it means to be a competitor for the spotlight.38 2.1.2. The Poet’s Use of the Spotlight The Iliad’s battle scenes provide us with an extensive but not overwhelming amount of material from which to draw some conclusions about how the poet uses the spotlight. We see right off that he tends not to focus attention on one character alone for very long.39 The poet moves the spotlight between his characters. He shifts it from agent to agent, and analysis of the obituaries given to slain minor warriors shows

38

39

The following discussion owes something to the comments on the Iliad that Woloch offers by way of prologue to his study of minor characters in the realist novels of Austen, Dickens, and Balzac. Woloch (2003: 3) contends that in the epic there is a “battle on the discursive plane” as secondary characters compete against Achilleus for the poet’s attention. (The precise terms “competition” and “attention” appear in Woloch 2006: 295, an abbreviated restatement of his thesis. There, he speaks of “competition between a multitude of characters who are coimplicated within a single narrative” and of characters “jostling for space and attention among a crowded field of other characters.”) The Iliad’s proem hints at the competition to come. An extended subordinate clause, the lines begin with the wrathful Achilleus but quickly turn to the “many strong souls of heroes” hurled into Hades. As the clause unwinds, “[t]he characters who experience devastation begin to interest him [the poet] not merely in symbolic relation to Achilles – as the residual consequences of another’s wrath – but as real, suffering individuals” (2003: 2). On account of this initial broadening of scope, Achilleus must be reintroduced: “the very repetition of ‘Achilles’ within one sentence indicates that we have somehow left him” (3). Achilleus has been momentarily pushed aside and partially eclipsed. This contest continues throughout the poem: “Achilles’ honor is produced through this destruction of the many, but such destruction can always potentially wrest attention away from the protagonist. The poet’s point of view, although omniscient, is never secure” (3). As an example, Woloch looks at Achilleus’ encounter with Lykaon and how attention shifts repeatedly to the Trojan’s perspective (9–11). For the primary narrator’s movement from character to character, see de Jong and Nünlist 2004: esp. 67–73. I have not found it necessary to adopt their technical vocabulary.

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that he can shift it from agent to patient(s).40 The poet also expands the spotlight to include more than one character; here, too, analysis of the obituaries can provide the required proof. The poet’s frequent shifting and widening of the spotlight suggest that we pay attention as well to moments in which he keeps it trained on one character. Of Iliad 11, Scott writes, “There are almost too many characters in book 11, and they seem to get in each other’s way” (2009: 81). Indeed, throughout the lengthy narratives of combat, the spotlight shifts between agents even when the poet suggests that one will be the center of attention.41 For instance, the poet has the narrator imply at the start of Iliad 5 that he will concentrate on Diomedes’ aristeia (5.1–8). Diomedes does straightaway kill Phegeus and Idaios, but after that introductory episode, the narrator reports that “each of the leaders [of the Achaians] took a man” (5.37–38) and he proceeds to tell of the exploits of Agamemnon, Idomeneus, Menelaos, Meriones, Meges, and Eurypylos.42 Frequent switches between agents can also be found following the two instances of “a man took a man” trope (Il. 15.328 and 16.306–7) (cf. Il. 14.508–22). In the former case, six separate agents, Hektor, Aineias, Poulydamas, Polites, Agenor, and Paris, appear within a span of fourteen verses (15.329–42).43 In the latter scene, eleven agents, Patroklos, Menelaos, Phyleides (i.e., Meges), Antilochos, Maris, Thrasymedes, Oilean Aias, Peneleos, Lykon, Meriones, and Idomeneus, appear within a span of forty-four verses (16.307–50). Just as the poet trains the spotlight on a range of agents, so, too, does he switch from agent to patient(s) in the Iliad’s killing scenes. I have in mind the short backstory provided for a minor warrior at the moment he is slain in battle. (Occasionally, the backstory pertains to a pair of minor warriors who are killed at the same time.) Whereas previous scholarship 40

41

42

43

Bakker 1997a speaks of “agents” and “patients”: an “agent” can not only act but also prompt others to action or prompt a given sequence of events; a “patient” is the recipient of an action or is forced to act by an agent. For a schematic presentation in tabular form of the numerous agents who appear during the Iliad’s battle narratives, see Stoevesandt 2004: Appendix 4. Cf. Lang 1995: 159. See Fenik 1968: 9 and Scott 2009: 103. Cf. Bakker 1997a: 101–4 on Il. 12.317–23 and Scott 2009: 139 on Il. 13.361–539. On Aineias’ time in the spotlight in this scene, see Kyriakidis 2007: 20–21.

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has looked to the thematic work of these so-called obituaries or argued that they ultimately reinforce the prestige of the killer, I suggest that we focus from a narratological perspective on the relationship between the obituaries and the spotlight.44 Bakker points to the repeated use of the particle ara in the beginning of and in the first verse after an obituary. When found at the start of an obituary, it serves to “reactivate” the soon to be victim and his kleos, which Bakker glosses as “his being the object of previous speech = performance” of traditional epic. The biographical statements that follow will be based on the kleos of the victim (1993: 20). When found in the first sentence after the obituary ends (e.g., Il. 5.615), ara marks the previous verses as having returned the victim to the audience’s attention: the warrior is now a real presence and can be killed (21). In short, the obituary functions as a significant reactivation of a warrior, or, to borrow Bakker’s terms, a returning to presence of a fighter who has been absent from our consciousness for a time. Continued analysis of the structure of the verse (wherein the victor is reintroduced) that immediately follows the obituary reveals whether the poet thinks that the slayer has been displaced by the victim’s (or the victims’) backstory or has remained in focus during the recounting of the obituary – that is, whether the spotlight has shifted or expanded. There are forty-nine obituaries of slain warriors in the Iliad.45 I will make use of the thirty-three passages in which the slayer is mentioned immediately before the obituary and then is reintroduced after it.46 Bakker’s

44

45 46

For previous work on the obituaries, see Griffin 1980: 138–41, Tsagalis 2004: 179–92, and Stoevesandt 2004: 145 with her note 463. See Stoevesandt 2004: Appendix 4. There are thirty-six obituaries that occur in the midst of a warrior being killed. I exclude three from my analysis because, for one of two reasons, they are not relevant. (1) Hektor is activated at Il. 16.577 after the obituary for Epeigeus: he is not on the scene immediately before. (2) Last mentioned at Il. 13.643, Menelaos is reactivated at 13.646 after the obituary for Harpalion, but he does not kill Harpalion. Meriones does a moment later. (3) Last mentioned at Il. 15.525, Meges is reactivated at 15.528 after the obituary for Dolops, but he does not kill Dolops. Menelaos does a moment later. Passages (2) and (3) support the argument I make here about shifts in the spotlight, but I set them aside because the reactivated warrior is not the actual killer.

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discussion of the different ways in which the poet activates characters aids investigation of these passages. I refer back to Bakker’s table reproduced in subsection 2.1.1. The victor is often reintroduced in a manner identical, parallel, or similar to the way in which the poet brings back a character who has been offstage for some time. Again, Bakker sees the template “tou/tôi/ ton de clause + noun-epithet phrase in next unit” regularly manifested in the introduction of a character who is “appearing” and “inactive” (category 4), that is, is making “an entirely new appearance on the stage.”47 It appears three times to reactivate Achilleus after the obituary of his opponent. For example, Achilleus kills Iphition (Il. 20.381–87). After the obituary from verses 383 to 385, Achilleus returns at 386: τὸν δ’ ἰθὺς μεμαῶτα βάλ’ ἔγχεϊ δῖος Ἀχιλλεὺς (but him rushing straight on brilliant Achilleus hit with a spear).48 Most of the time, the reactivation of a character after an obituary parallels but does not reproduce exactly Bakker’s formula. Schematized “demonstrative pronoun in an oblique case + particle(s) + name,” the reactivation does not use the particle de, the name of the victor can be in the same unit as the pronoun and particle, and an epithet may be absent. Despite these deviations from Bakker’s template, the most important points remain consistent – namely, that the killer is reintroduced by name in relation to his victim(s) who appear(s) in an initial demonstrative pronoun that is in an oblique case and is followed by a particle or particles.49 Seven times the particle men is used.50 For instance, Diomedes kills the two sons of Merops (Il. 11.328–34). After the obituary from 329 to 332, Diomedes returns: τοὺς μὲν υδεΐδης δουρικλειτὸς Διομήδης / θυμοῦ καὶ ψυχῆς κεκαδὼν κλυτὰ τεύχε’ ἀπηύρα (Them Diomedes, the spear-famed son 47 48

49

50

The final quotation comes from Bakker 1997a: 110. See also Il. 21.49. The third passage replicates Bakker’s formula but lacks in the first unit the particle de after the initial pronoun: τὸν βάλε μέσσον ἄκοντι ποδάρκης δῖος Ἀχιλλεὺς (Him [Polydoros] swift-footed brilliant Achilleus hit with a spear in the middle) (Il. 20.413). The passages we are dealing with here are not about the introduction of speech. We are, therefore, well within our rights to align them with the second rubric in Bakker’s category 4 as opposed to the third in his category 2 (see his chart reproduced in subsection 2.1.1). On men as “the basis from which to make a new step,” see Bakker 1997a: 84.

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of Tydeus, deprived of their spirit and life and stripped their splendid armor) (11.333–34).51 The particle ara appears seven times after the pronoun in these situations.52 For instance, Menelaos kills Podes (Il. 17.574–78). After the obituary at verses 576 to 577, Menelaos returns at 578: τόν ῥα κατὰ ζωστῆρα βάλε ξανθὸς Μενέλαος (him then in the belt tawny Menelaos hit).53 Two other times the verse reactivating the victor begins with a pronoun followed by still another particle or adverb. For instance, Idomeneus kills Alkathoos (Il. 13.427–44). After the obituary in verses 428 to 433, Idomeneus returns at 434: τὸν τόθ’ ὑπ’ Ἰδομενῆϊ Пοσειδάων ἐδάμασσε (him then at the hands of Idomeneus Poseidon subdued).54 Three other passages do not correspond so neatly to Bakker’s model, but still can be seen as manifestations of a similar template. Note the preparatory particle(s), the noun-epithet combination, and, in the first two cases, the presentation of the victim(s) in a pronoun in the accusative case. Diomedes slays Abas and Polyidos (Il. 5.148–51). After the obituary at verses 149 to 150, Diomedes returns at 151: ἀλλά σφεας κρατερὸς Διομήδης ἐξενάριξε (but them mighty Diomedes killed). Menelaos kills Skamandrios (Il. 5.49–56). After the obituary from verses 51 to 54, Menelaos returns: “but him the son of Atreus spearfamed Menelaos (ἀλλά μιν Ἀτρεΐδης δουρικλειτὸς Μενέλαος), while he 51

52 53

54

See also Il. 5.65, 5.72, 5.79 (men + ar), 6.27–28, 14.446, and 16.597 (men + ara). Cf. Bakker 1993: 21 and 1997a: 118n58. See also Il. 5.537, 5.615, 13.177, and 21.144. Included in this count are two passages in which the narrator returns from the obituary with a verse that renames the victor but begins with a pronoun in the nominative case (hos) that refers to the victim (see Il. 11.231 and 15.644). See also Il. 11.126 (τοῦ περ δὴ; the antecedent of the tou is the victims’ father who has been the focus of the obituary). Tote appears at “moments that the narrator most needs the participation of the listeners” (Bakker 1997a: 79). On dê, Bakker (78–79) comments, “[T]he use of this particle draws the hearer into the story by marking the narration as deriving from a shared basis, a common experience that binds the narrator and the listeners together as if they were actually jointly witnessing a given scene.” It makes sense to find such particles after an obituary as the poet switches temporal frames in returning to the here and now of the tale. He especially requires the attention of the audience at that moment.

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[Skamandrios] fled before him, he wounded in the back with a spear” (5.55–56). Agamemnon kills Isos and Antiphos (Il. 11.101–9). After the obituary at verses 104 to 106, Agamemnon returns: “Then indeed the son of Atreus wide-ruling Agamemnon (δὴ τότε γ’ Ἀτρεΐδης εὐρὺ κρείων Ἀγαμέμνων) hit the one in the chest above the breast with a spear” (11.107–8). In sum, the following fact announces the degree to which attention can shift from the victor to the victim(s) during an obituary: returning to the victor after the obituary demands a prominent reintroduction that is identical (three times), schematically parallel (sixteen times), or at the very least similar (three times) to the format used to activate a character new to the scene. In addition to shifting the spotlight, the poet can expand it so that more than one character is firmly ensconced in it. As noted earlier, analysis of the reactivation of a warrior after his opponent’s (or opponents’) obituary is instructive in this regard as well. In seven of the relevant thirty-six passages, the narrator returns to the victor without naming him at all. For instance, Diomedes kills Axylos and Kalesios (Il. 6.12–19). After the obituary on Axylos in verses 13 to 15, an unnamed Diomedes returns at verse 17: ἀλλ’ ἄμφω θυμὸν ἀπηύρα (but both of them he despoiled of their spirits).55 That the narrator does not rename the victor implies that the victor has not been displaced from the spotlight during the obituary. The spotlight has not moved solely to the victim(s) but has expanded to include the victor and victim(s) equally. Four other passages suggest the same. In three passages, the narrator provides the victor’s name. For instance, Aias kills Simoesios (Il. 4.473–79). After the obituary in verses 474 to 478, Aias returns: “but he lived a short life, subdued by great-spirited Aias (ὑπ’ Αἴαντος μεγαθύμου) with a spear” (4.478–79).56 One other passage sees the victor reactivated with the “name + de” formulation. Idomeneus kills Othryoneus (Il. 13.361–70). After the obituary at verses 364 to 369, Idomeneus returns at 370: Ἰδομενεὺς δ’ αὐτοῖο τιτύσκετο δουρὶ φαεινῷ (But Idomeneus took aim at him with a shining spear). The poet feels the need for the narrator to rename the victor and in the case of Idomeneus conceives of him as “returning” and 55 56

See also Il. 5.155, 13.671, 14.493, 15.433, 16.606, and 17.309. See also Il. 5.559 and 17.303.

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“semiactive” (Bakker’s category 3).57 But in no case does the poet feel that the victor has been so eclipsed as to require a form of introduction that both uses an initial oblique pronoun for the victim(s) and follows it with a particle. Again, the spotlight has expanded such that two (or more) characters have equal claims on our attention; it has not moved elsewhere. Why does the poet constantly shift the spotlight between his characters and why does he expand the spotlight to include more than one character? Both his desire for extension,58 clarity, and vividness and the opportunity to demonstrate his prodigious knowledge of the heroic past undoubtedly motivate the poet to use these techniques. At the same time, he thereby declares that a character’s narrative status is never secure. Each character is surrounded by others who regularly exclude him from or deny him sole access to the spotlight. Each character is surrounded by competitors for the spotlight. Of course, the poet does hold the spotlight on a character for a certain amount of time.59 The fact that the spotlight can at any time move elsewhere or expand and often does renders significant those times in which it is stable. From one perspective, at such moments he does not talk about others. That is, we might note how Diomedes, for instance, remains the agent of a stretch of narrative from Il. 5.144 to 16560 or how Achilleus remains the sole agent in Il. 20.455–89 wherein he kills ten Trojans.61 From another perspective, at such moments the poet limits what he tells us about others. For instance,

57

58 59

60 61

The “name + de” formulation also appears in Bakker’s category 4, “appearing” and “inactive.” See Raaflaub 2008: 481–82 on “epic overextension.” When it comes to character-text, for instance, a speaker usually gets to hold the floor for as long as it takes to state his or her point. On the rarity of interruptions in the epics, see Minchin 2007: 229. See Fenik 1968: 24. See Bakker 1997a: 65n26. From Il. 20.158 to 404, the only agents who inflict harm other than Achilleus are Asteropaios and the gods: see Stoevesandt’s table (2004: 409–12). Pursuing a different question, Lang (1995: 150) finds “the complete absence of other Achaians fighting alongside Achilles when he is on the battlefield” indicative of the fact that the Iliad tradition was doing something new with this hero.

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Hektor’s victims in Il. 11.299–305 are listed by name in quick succession.62 Nor are there any obituaries in the midst of Achilleus’ killing spree in Il. 20.455–89.63 In these cases, the poet restricts the amount of information provided on the victims, giving them the briefest bit of time in the spotlight. (I therefore differentiate this use of the spotlight from when the poet expands the spotlight so as to make two [or more] characters equally claim our attention.) From both perspectives, the poet constructs the character in the spotlight as one capable of so claiming his attention that other characters are neglected, however momentarily, to varying degrees. The character emerges as an obstacle to others either being in the spotlight at all or gaining any real purchase in the spotlight, to others receiving the attention that brings narrative status. That is to say, when he puts a character into the spotlight, the poet puts the character into an oppositional stance as regards other characters’ time in the spotlight.64 In this way as well, the poet sets up his characters as competitors for the spotlight. In moving the spotlight around among his characters, in expanding it to include more than one character, and in keeping the spotlight on one character, the poet transfers the agonistic realities of the war story he is telling to the telling itself.65 The next subsection argues that the poet enhances this portrayal of what it means to be a character in his poem by assigning to the characters a particular take on the spotlight in tales told by others. Characters think of the spotlight in future tales as something they compete

62

63 64

65

Cf. Il. 5.677–78, 8.273–77, 11.489–91, 16.415–18, and 16.692–97. See Fenik (1968: 68–69) on these slaying “catalogues” as well as Kyriakidis (2007: 33 and 77). Morrison (1999: 133n23) lists instances of “anonymous deaths” wherein victims are not even named. See Stoevesandt’s chart (2004: 410–11). Again, Woloch’s work on characterization in the realist novel has influenced my thinking here (2003). Woloch studies the effects of the fact that the protagonist can only emerge when other characters are neglected or given short shrift. Cf. “The formal clash between protagonist and minor characters redounds back on, and is motivated by, the clashing world of the story itself” (Woloch 2003: 3). Woloch entitles his prologue “The Iliad’s Two Wars.”

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over: they want to be the only one in it and they actively try to keep others from it. 2.1.3. The Characters on the Spotlight Characters express the desire to dominate the spotlight in subsequent stories,66 be they songs sung by professional bards or tales told by nonprofessionals.67 When Hektor speaks of the desire to gain kleos (Il. 6.446; cf. 22.304–5), it seems that he does not envision having any competitors for the teller’s attention. Less opaque is his declaration in Iliad 7. He anticipates a future time in which a passerby sees the tomb of one of his victims: “This is the tomb of a man who died long ago, whom at some time shining Hektor killed in the midst of his show of excellence.” Thus at some time someone will speak: and my glory (kleos) will never perish. (Il. 7.89–91)

The victim’s anonymity suggests that details about him are irrelevant to the story. The notional speaker is to focus on Hektor.68 From the same perspective, one can understand Achilleus’ prayer: O father Zeus, Athena, and Apollo, may none of the Trojans, as many as there are, escape death 66

67 68

Cf. “Heroes who fight are competing for their lives, but also to be the focus of a story” (Scodel 2008b: 22). See Scodel 2002a: 73 and 77 for the distinction. Contra Higbie 1995: 18; see, rather, Scodel 1992: 59 and Nagy 1999: 28. On Hektor’s wish to be praised by future speakers, see Martin 1989: 136–37. For his part, Odysseus requests that Demodokos sing about the wooden horse “which once brilliant Odysseus led onto the acropolis as a trick filling it full of men who sacked Ilion” (Od. 8.494–95). Judging from the indirect report of Demodokos’ performance, the bard takes Odysseus’ suggestion that that character be at the center of the song (see Macleod 1983: 10). Odysseus is the only one mentioned specifically by name (8.502) until the recounting of Odysseus’ and Menelaos’ expedition to Deiphobos’ house (8.517–18).

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Similes in the Narrator-Text nor any of the Argives, but may we two put off destruction in order that alone we may loosen the holy citadel of Troy. (Il. 16.97–100)

Beyond indicating Achilleus’ estrangement from his community,69 the statement expresses a wish to be the primary subject of tales. A similar fantasy lies behind Diomedes’ claim that Sthenelos and he will stay behind to sack Troy by themselves (Il. 9.48–49).70 These more or less explicit references to subsequent tales suggest that a hero hopes to be the only character who really matters in such tales. We can also take the narrative strategies deployed by the characters as providing a model for how they want stories in which they are involved to be told by others. When Nestor, for one, presents stories about the past, he puts himself in a starring role.71 Minchin sees the old man’s recollections as “paradigms of men’s storytelling for an audience of men” in their focus on the teller’s own exploits (2007: 255). For example, in recounting his aristeia in the fight between the Pylians and Epeians (Il. 11.737–62), Nestor names only himself as an individuated agent apart from a brief mention of Poseidon (11.751–52). Although he does attend briefly to his most significant opponent, Moulios, in describing his family (11.739–41), Nestor focuses almost exclusively on himself as his description of killing one hundred nameless men demonstrates (11.748–49) and as his concluding line reaffirms: “And all gave glory to Zeus among the gods and to Nestor among men” (11.761).72 Similarly, the only characters to receive more than passing mention in Nestor’s recounting of his 69 70

71

72

See Janko 1992: ad loc. Speaking to Hektor, Helen seems to assert that only she and Paris will be the subject of song in the future: “toil comes over your mind especially for the sake of me, a dog, and for the sake of the folly of Alexandros, on whom Zeus set an evil fate in order that even hereafter we may be subjects of song for men to come” (Il. 6.355–58). The “we” she speaks of could be taken to refer only to Paris and herself. “Nestor’s narratives in the Iliad tell his own deeds, not those of another” (Scodel 2002a: 74). Compare the fact that Diomedes uses the glories of his forefathers as a basis for asserting a claim to the internal audience’s attention (Il. 14.109–32), but as Scodel (2002a: 133) notes, he speaks of “no particular heroic deed” of Tydeus. Cf. Minchin 2007: 256n51.

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victories at the funeral games for Amaryngkeus (Il. 23.629–42) are the twin sons of Aktor who won in the chariot race (23.638–42) (although one notes Nestor’s emphatic reassertion that the story is about him at 23.643).73 In addition, a speaker will cast himself or herself as an overt focalizer even when the story has another protagonist. Antenor recounts his and his fellow counselors’ reaction to Odysseus’ speech during an embassy to Troy: “not then did we marvel (agassameth’) so, looking at the outward form of Odysseus” (Il. 3.224). Minchin observes that in Andromache’s recollection of the sack of her hometown, Thebe, she “evaluates the narrative action from her own perspective as a woman” (2007: 263).74 From the characters’ own storytelling strategies, one can extrapolate their hopes as regards stories told by others. They would like to be the center of attention. Given that wish, it is appropriate to find them attempting to keep others from being the subject of such tales. In my discussion of Achilleus’ simile at Il. 21.279–81 in Chapter 5 (subsection 2.3), I 73

74

This same phenomenon is discernable among the Odyssey’s storytellers. Odysseus “plays the leading part” in his Apologoi (Minchin 2007: 266; cf. Barker [2009: 97], who rightly denaturalizes Odysseus’ prominence in the Apologoi). De Jong (1992) documents how Odysseus’ presentation in Odyssey 9 through 12 consistently reflects his own judgments and emotions. See also Minchin (2007: 268–70) on Odysseus’ recollection of making his marriage bed (Od. 23.184–204) and on his lying tales. Helen uses a story of her encounter with Odysseus in Troy to discuss her own change of heart and desire to return to Menelaos (Od. 4.242–64); cf. Worman 2001: 23 and 2002: 48. Minchin (2007: 276–77 and 280) observes that Helen differentiates her story in Odyssey 4 from those told by other Homeric women (and also from today’s middleclass female English speakers, Minchin’s heuristic comparanda) in foregrounding herself as a protagonist. Finally, one notes that Menelaos gives a lengthy account of his travels in response to Telemachos’ request for information about Odysseus (Od. 4.332–586); cf. Marks 2008: 112. This phenomenon as well is evident in the Odyssey. Antinoos injects the suitors’ perspective into his version of Penelope’s weaving trick: “she maltreats (atembei) the hearts in the breasts of the Achaians” (Od. 2.90) (all eight occurrences of the verb atembô are in the character-text: it represents an ethical judgment on the part of a character); “we discovered (epheuromen) her undoing the splendid web” (2.109). Amphimedon reviews the second half of the Odyssey for Agamemnon (Od. 24.125–90): see verses 149, 153, and 169 for moments in which his focalization stands out.

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reviewed the equation between proper burial and being the subject of oral remembrances.75 I noted the corollary as well: a warrior without a grave suffers an insuperable blow to his kleos. (I concentrated on death by drowning, but that point obtains irrespective of the reason for the absence of a tomb.) Here, we can add Griffin’s description of one of the warrior’s primary goals: “He then aims to strip off his [victim’s] armour and abolish his identity by depriving him in death of burial, and leaving his corpse to be mauled by scavenging animals and birds” (1980: 90).76 As Charles Segal’s discussion (1971) of the theme of the mutilation of the corpse makes clear, such defilement, especially leaving a victim’s corpse to the animals, aims at preventing burial in a tomb. Achilleus tosses Lykaon’s body into the river and boasts, “Your mother will not place you on a bier and lament you, but the eddying Skamandros will carry you into the wide bosom of the sea” to be eaten by fish (Il. 21.123–27). Hekabe predicts that if Achilleus kills Hektor, she will not get the chance to bury him: the dogs and birds will eat him (Il. 22.86–89). This theme culminates in Achilleus’ plan to bury Patroklos 75

76

Again, these remembrances can but need not be in the form of poems (pace de Jong 2006: 200). Cf. Vernant (1991: 67), who speaks of “the disfigurement and debasement of the dead opponent’s body, so as to deny him access to the memory of men to come.” Two warriors see to the burial of their opponents. Achilleus buries Eetion (Il. 6.417–20), and Orestes buries Klytaimestra and Aegisthus (Od. 3.309–10) (and see Gantz 1993: 592 for Hellenistic era accounts of Achilleus’ burial of an opponent named Trambelos). For his part, Hektor’s fantasizes that a passer-by will remember Hektor upon seeing the tomb of the Trojan’s victim (Il. 7.89–90). Using these passages, Scodel (2008b: 81–82) argues that warriors have much to gain from allowing their opponents to be buried: “the tomb can honor the slayer along with the victim” (81). That idea is not as prominent as Scodel implies. Other references suggest that narratives prompted by tombs focus almost exclusively on the dead man (see Elpenor’s self-assessment at Od. 11.74–78) even if he has been killed by another: see Od. 4.584 (Menelaos buries Agamemnon “in order that his glory might be inextinguishable”) and 5.311 (if Odysseus had received a proper burial, the Achaians “would have spread my glory”) and cf. the sarcastic vaunt of a Trojan over Menelaos’ tomb at Il. 4.176–82; note as well the formulaic couplet at Od. 1.239–40, 14.369–70, and 24.32–33 according to which a warrior (who was either slain in battle or died at home) is buried in a tomb and acquires kleos for himself and his son.

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but to leave Hektor for the dogs and birds (Il. 22.335–36).77 The persistence of this equation makes Achilleus’ return of Hektor’s body for burial all the more remarkable, “the shock of the Iliad.”78 Mutilating a victim’s corpse, then, stands in metonymic relation to denying the victim burial in a tomb. Preventing burial forestalls opportunities for the victim to be remembered in the songs or stories about him that his tomb, and the cultic activity attendant upon it, would prompt. Agamemnon exclaims, “May all the inhabitants of Troy perish utterly, without funeral rites and blotted out (akêdestoi kai aphantoi)” (Il. 6.59–60): if we ensure that they are not buried, eventually no one will speak of them. The characters’ desire to keep others from being the focus of subsequent tales goes hand in hand with their wish to be themselves the main subject of later songs and stories.79 The characters think of the spotlight in subsequent tales as where they want to be and where they do not want others to be. To their minds, time in the spotlight is something for which they have to compete against others. This point of characterization reinforces the poet’s contention that in his present tale the characters are competitors for narrative attention. The next subsection explores the contribution extended similes in the Iliad’s narrator-text make to the competitive dynamics underlying the intersections between the characters and the spotlight. 2.2. Similes and the Characters as Competitors for the Spotlight Since antiquity, interpreters have attributed the extension of a simile’s vehicle portion to the poet’s wish for auxêsis “amplification” and emphasis.80 For her part, Nannini deploys a familiar dichotomy in her 77 78 79

80

See Segal 1971: 30, 33–34, and 37, respectively. Cf. Od. 3.256–61. Benardete 2000: 47. Cf. Segal 1971: 67 and 71 and Griffin 1980: 115–16. Compare the zero-sum proposition offered by Poseidon: the Achaian wall will gain repute (kleos) the world over; the wall that Poseidon and Apollo built for Laomedon will be forgotten (epilêsontai) (Il. 7.451–53). On the scholiasts, see Snipes 1988: 210–11 and Nünlist 2009: 290–91. Cf. “a simile produces a pause in the action, prolongs the tension, and draws the audience’s attention to an important point” (Edwards 1991: 39). Scodel (2002a: 93) (with reference to Austin 1966) summarizes the broader principle at work: “When a narrative moment is especially significant, the epic

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discussion of that class of extended similes in which an observer in the vehicle portion (such as the goatherd who watches an approaching storm in the simile at Il. 4.275–81) does not correspond to a character in the narrative context: a simile is long either because its various parts perform thematic functions or because the image is ornamental (2003: 7–8). I offer an additional explanation for such lengthening. The extension of a simile’s vehicle portion enables the poet to implicate it in his portrayal of his characters as competitors for the spotlight. The poet uses some of these similes to prolong a character’s time in the spotlight and, therefore, the time that he is envisioned as in the way of other characters’ getting into the spotlight. Analogously, at other moments, the poet suggests that one character draws his attention and therefore is the reason why he can only glance at another. Conversely, the poet can also construct extended similes in which, as the spotlight expands, one character is made to deny another sole possession of the spotlight. This investigation will examine separately two types of extended similes. Some similes have more than one actor in the vehicle portion, but only one tenor/vehicle pairing. They are to be distinguished from those similes that have more than one discrete tenor/vehicle pairing (multiplecorrespondence similes).81 2.2.1. Similes with Multiple Actors in the Vehicle Portion Given that when a vehicle is in the spotlight, the tenor to which it corresponds is in the spotlight, numerous similes lengthen the amount of time a character has the spotlight to himself. Short assertions of resemblance – such as of the Trojans to sheep (Il. 8.131), of Hektor to a whirlwind (Il. 12.40) or to a “snowy mountain” (Il. 13.754), of the dead Harpalion to a worm (Il. 13.654), and of Achilleus to a lion (Il. 24.572)82 – achieve this effect, as do extended similes that also have only one actor in the vehicle portion. For instance, when Apollo goes from Olympos to find

81 82

emphasizes it by expansion.” An extended simile has an expressed verb in the vehicle portion: see Edwards 1991: 26–27. (Edwards prefers to speak of “long” similes. I do not shared his reservations about the term “extended.”) Pace Nannini 2003: 21–24. See also Il. 17.88–89 and 18.616.

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Hektor, he resembles a hawk (Il. 15.237–38); when Hektor returns to battle, he is like a horse running free (Il. 15.263–69) (cf. Il. 19.350–51 and 22.22–24). The poet can also construct extended similes that have more than one actor in the vehicle portion but keep the spotlight on one character. At these moments, the poet not only increases the amount of time that character is in the spotlight and therefore is keeping others from the spotlight. The introduction of a plurality of actors itself points toward the idea that the character has competitors for the spotlight. Hermann Fränkel (1921) “liberated criticism” of the simile with his investigation of the numerous connections between vehicle portion and narrative setting.83 In addition to the main point of comparison offered by a simile, the other elements found in the vehicle portion make some sort of thematic or even atmospheric contribution. For instance, when Hippodamas falls to Achilleus, he bellows like a bull dragged off to be sacrificed to Poseidon, “and the Earthshaker delights in them” (Il. 20.403–6). Poseidon’s reaction parallels the audience’s delight in the feats of Achilleus.84 However, as Mills notes, skeptics remain, insisting that the one central point of contact between vehicle portion and narrative context is paramount and that “extra details … are simply included to give a fuller picture of the item on which the initial main point of comparison depends” (2000: 4).85 As often, the answer should lie somewhere in between these two poles. The extent to which the elements in the vehicle portion of a simile connect with actors or ideas outside of it varies from simile to simile.86 The majority of scholars rightly continue Fränkel’s project. Yet, I want to draw attention to a mechanism the poet uses to constrain us in one component of that endeavor. When the vehicle portion of a simile has a multiplicity of actors, the poet may make a special effort to demonstrate that only one corresponds to a character in the narrative context, that is, that the simile has only one tenor/vehicle pairing.87 Put differently, the poet can encourage us to link one character 83

84 85 86 87

Moulton 1977: 12. Cf. Coffey 1957: 114n7, Austin 1975: 115, Edwards 1991: 31, and Hofmeister 1995: 293. See Fränkel 1921: 83, cited and critiqued by Edwards 1991: ad 20.404–5. See Erbse 2000. As the scholiasts understood; see Nünlist 2009: 289. In other words, an actor in the vehicle portion of a simile can only be called a vehicle when it represents a character, that is, a tenor, in the narrative context.

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to one actor in the vehicle portion, but discourage us from aligning other actors in the vehicle portion with other characters in the narrative setting. At such moments, we should follow the poet’s lead and understand the extension of the vehicle portion to be intended to prolong the amount of time the character represented in the vehicle portion is in the spotlight. The poet can send this message in two ways. In some similes, only one of the actors in the vehicle portion can correspond to a character, given what is happening in the actual story. For instance, Menelaos departs from the fight around Patroklos in order to find Antilochos. He resembles a saddened lion that retreats from a steading after contending all night against cowherds and their dogs (Il. 17.657–66). The narrative context does not allow us to take these defenders as representative of the Trojans who are on the offensive at this point (see, e.g., Il. 17.630).88 Because no tenor corresponds to the defenders, our attention is directed solely to the simile’s characterization of Menelaos. In another passage, the narrator likens Hektor as he urges his men to cross the ditch in front of the Achaian wall to a lion or boar that, although soon to die, attempts to fight off the hunters who have come to slay it:89 ὡς δ’ ὅτ’ ἂν ἔν τε κύνεσσι καὶ ἀνδράσι θηρευτῇσι κάπριος ἠὲ λέων στρέφεται σθένεϊ βλεμεαίνων. οἱ δέ τε πυργηδὸν σφέας αὐτοὺς ἀρτύναντες ἀντίον ἵστανται καὶ ἀκοντίζουσι θαμειὰς αἰχμὰς ἐκ χειρῶν. τοῦ δ’ οὔ ποτε κυδάλιμον κῆρ ταρβεῖ οὐδὲ φοβεῖται, ἀγηνορίη δέ μιν ἔκτα. ταρφέα τε στρέφεται στίχας ἀνδρῶν πειρητίζων. ὅππῃ τ’ ἰθύσῃ, τῇ τ’ εἴκουσι στίχες ἀνδρῶν. ὣς Ἕκτωρ ἀν’ ὅμιλον ἰὼν ἐλλίσσεθ’ ἑταίρους τάφρον ἐποτρύνων διαβαινέμεν. and as when among dogs and hunters a boar or lion turns exalting in his strength; and they fitting themselves together in close array stand opposite and hurl thick and fast 88 89

See Edwards 1991: ad 17.657–67. On scholarship’s difficulties with this simile, see Clay 1999: 53 and Erbse 2000: 260–63.

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spears from their hands; but his glorious heart never is frightened nor moved to flight, and his courage kills him; and frequently he turns assaulting the ranks of men; and wherever he charges, there the ranks of men yield: so Hektor went through the crowd and rallied his companions, urging them to cross the ditch; (Il. 12.41–50)

The tenor/vehicle pairing of Hektor and the boar/lion is the only one that makes sense given the narrative context. The hunters cannot correspond to the Achaians. First, the simile is prepositioned: only when we get to the resumptive clause, do we learn how the vehicle portion applies to the narrative context. Here, the vehicle portion is applied to Hektor moving about as he urges his men to cross the ditch; the resumptive clause does not refer to the Achaians. One may find that explanation too convenient, in which case we can observe that the Achaians are pinned down by their ships and terrified of Hektor (Il. 12.37–39). They are not well represented by hunters who track down and eventually kill an animal. In fact, surveying other related similes (i.e., those about hunting a lion or boar), we note that when both hunter and hunted in the vehicle portion correspond to actors in the narrative context, both sets of correspondence are explicit.90 By contrast, when it comes to Hektor’s simile, a correspondence between the hunters and the Achaians is difficult to detect; we simply have to work too hard to make the connection. What is more, as parallels for the idea that hunters who appear in the vehicle portion of a simile need not represent actors in the narrative context, I cite Il. 13.471–77 (discussed later), Il. 20.164–75,91 and Od. 4.791–93. So, no one can correspond to the hunters, but that is not to say they are superfluous. Rather, their presence motivates the boar/lion to be at its most vigorous,92 and the imagined scene thereby emphasizes Hektor’s own energetic movements amid the Trojan ranks. I am also tempted to include in this category the odd simile in which Menelaos, as he scans the battlefield in search of Antilochos, is 90

91 92

See Il. 11.292–95, 11.414–20 (discussed in this chapter’s subsection 2.2.2), 17.281–85, and 17.725–34. Differently, Edwards 1991: ad loc. Scott (2009: 96) finds that this simile “presents at length one of the strongest lions of the simileme.” “Simileme” is his term for the mental template that underlies any one simile about a given vehicle.

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said to resemble an eagle first spotting and then swooping upon and killing a hare: ῝Ως ἄρα φωνήσας ἀπέβη ξανθὸς Μενέλαος, πάντοσε παπταίνων ὥς τ’ αἰετός, ὅν ῥά τέ φασιν ὀξύτατον δέρκεσθαι ὑπουρανίων πετεηνῶν, ὅν τε καὶ ὑψόθ’ ἐόντα πόδας ταχὺς οὐκ ἔλαθε πτὼξ θάμνῳ ὑπ’ ἀμφικόμῳ κατακείμενος, ἀλλά τ’ ἐπ’ αὐτῷ ἔσσυτο, καί τέ μιν ὦκα λαβὼν ἐξείλετο θυμόν. ὣς τότε σοὶ, Μενέλαε διοτρεφές, ὄσσε φαεινὼ πάντοσε δινείσθην πολέων κατὰ ἔθνος ἑταίρων, εἴ που Νέστορος υἱὸν ἔτι ζώοντα ἴδοιτο. So speaking tawny Menelaos departed peering about everywhere like an eagle, which they say is the sharpest of the winged creatures in the sky at seeing, whom, even when he is high up, a hare swift with its feet does not escape lying hidden under a thick-leafed bush, but against it he [the eagle] rushes and swiftly grabs it and takes away its life. So then, god-born Menelaos, your shining eyes roamed everywhere through the band of numerous companions to see if he should somewhere catch sight of the son of Nestor still living. (Il. 17.673–81)

On the face of it, the logic of the comparison runs as follows: Menelaos is as intent upon discerning Antilochos, who is one among many on the battlefield, as an eagle is upon discerning his hidden prey; the hare corresponds to Antilochos in so far as like Antilochos it is energetically sought after. The major difficulty with this reading is that no other bird simile likens the hunted prey to a friend or ally of the character represented as the predator. The prey in bird similes is usually made to correspond to the victim(s) or opponent(s).93 I suggest that Antilochos does not correspond to the hare. As a parallel for the idea that the prey mentioned in the vehicle portion need not correspond to a character in the narrative context, I cite Il. 13.62–65: Poseidon departs the battlefield like a hawk in pursuit of

93

See Il. 15.690–93, 16.582–85, 17.460, 17.755–59, 21.493–96, 22.139–43, 22.308–10, and Od. 22.302–8.

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another bird. As in Il. 17.657–66 and 12.41–50, there is actually only one tenor/vehicle pairing in the simile at Il. 17.673–81. The eagle is described as searching out and then killing a hare in order to focus attention perhaps on Menelaos’ keen eyesight but certainly on his persistence and resolve. In such cases, then, so constructed as to reject actively the possibility that there is more than one tenor/vehicle pairing, the simile focuses on one character. Other similes use a more quantifiable technique to indicate that only one of multiple actors in the vehicle portion corresponds to a tenor.94 The Homeric poet conscientiously watches over the number, that is, whether they are singular or plural, of his tenor(s) and vehicle(s). Most similes match a singular tenor to a singular vehicle and a plural tenor to a plural vehicle.95 On infrequent occasions, a singular vehicle is explicitly marked through repetition between the two portions of the simile as standing for a plural tenor: the Achaians are like a hunted boar or lion (see ep’ … ep’, Il. 11.292–95); the Aiantes check (iskhanetên) the Trojans like a cliff checks (iskhanei) a river (Il. 17.747–51).96 In Homeric poetry, one will be harder pressed to find the converse: namely, an explicit linking of a plural vehicle to a singular tenor. Two examples come from the Homeric Hymn to Hermes: Hermes Of the simile at Il. 11.558–65 in which Aias’ stubborn refusal to yield to the Trojans reminds the narrator of a donkey driven from a field by boys, Bakker (2005: 134) writes, “Nor is Aias actually compared to a donkey, or the Trojans to boys”; see also Pelliccia 2002: 199 and cf. Edwards 1991: 31. I am skeptical of this reading of simile not only because it is startlingly counterintuitive but also because of (1) the phenomenon of interaction between tenor and vehicle explored by Lonsdale (1990) (and evidenced in the simile in Iliad 11), (2) the loss to discrete characterization if similes are viewed in such a manner, and (3) the phenomenon I am about to discuss in this paragraph. 95 See Scott 2009: 29. See, for example, Il. 4.433–36, 17.389–95, 21.12–15, and Od. 22.302–8. In comparing the battalion led by the Aiantes to a cloud, the simile at Il. 4.275–81 explores the metaphor “cloud … of foot soldiers” (nephos … pezôn) in the immediately previous verse (274). Note also the sensible shift from singular to plural over the course of the simile at Od. 9.383–88; and observe the use of tis in the resumptive clause of the simile at Il. 11.113–21: each Trojan corresponds to the deer, not the Trojans collectively. 96 See also Il. 15.618–22 and 17.725–34. To my mind, de Jong (2001: ad loc.) errs in taking the man in the simile at Od. 20.13–16 as corresponding to the suitors. 94

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sings “like young men” who compose impromptu songs at feasts (55–56); Hermes “pondered a sheer trick in his mind, such things as thieves plot in the time of dark night” (66–67). These sorts of similes do not occur in the Iliad and Odyssey, with one rule-proving exception: similes describing joyous reunions. Land appears as welcome (aspaston) to Odysseus as a healed father appears welcome (aspasios … phanêêi) to his children (Od. 5.394–99). Odysseus appears as welcome (aspastos) to Penelope as land appears welcome (aspasios … phanêêi) to shipwrecked sailors (Od. 23.233–39). To be sure, there are moments in which the primary point of the chosen image requires a plural vehicle to stand for a singular tenor. Helenos’ arrow bounces off Menelaos’ shield like beans bounce on a threshing floor (Il. 13.588–92): to speak of one bean would be nonsensical (see also Od. 5.328–30). Odysseus’ men are as happy to see him as calves are happy to see the (mother) cows returning from pasture (Od. 10.410–15). Exceptions to the rule that plural vehicles are not idly used of singular tenors are not just infrequent but also clear (i.e, we are not confused) and/or necessary. I suggest that other apparent violations of the rule that are not clear and/or necessary are in fact not violations at all. A plural entity in the vehicle portion of a simile should not be taken to stand for a singular tenor. If the poet wanted that entity to correspond to a singular tenor, he would have made it singular in accordance with his usual practice. Consequently, the introduction of a plural entity (that cannot be linked with a plural tenor) is another way for the poet to indicate purposefully that only one actor in the vehicle portion corresponds to a character and to direct our attention to that one character, that is, to the tenor represented in the vehicle portion. For instance, Idomeneus stands fast against the advancing Aineias and is said to resemble a boar that awaits a group of hunters and their dogs (Il. 13.471–77). For Aineias to gain any traction in the space of the simile’s vehicle portion, we would have to align him with the hunters and their dogs. If the poet had intended that equation, he might instead have used a singular hunter as he does in the hunting similes at Il. 11.292–95 and 21.573–80. The reference to woodsmen (tektones andres) in the repeated simile describing first the death of Asios and then that of Sarpedon works in a similar way. Neither in the case of the simile applied to Asios (Il. 13.389–93) nor

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to Sarpedon (Il. 16.482–85) does the plurality of woodsmen stand for the singular killer, Idomeneus and Patroklos, respectively.97 By contrast, Simoeisios falls like a tree chopped down by a chariot maker. The craftsman corresponds to Aias, his killer (Il. 4.482–89). Again, the simile likening the slain Adamas to a cow being dragged off by herdsmen introduces a plural entity, in the herdsmen, that because of its number should not be taken to stand for the slayer, Meriones (Il. 13.571–73).98 Arranged thus, these similes lengthen the amount of time one character is in the spotlight. With similes of the sort examined in this subsection, the poet extends the amount of time given to a character and sets up that character as the reason that other characters are, however momentarily, excluded from the spotlight and relegated to a lesser status in the poem’s discourse. But it is not just that these similes prolong the time a character has sole possession of the spotlight, but how they do so. They create this effect while introducing a group of actors into the vehicle portion. That multiplicity serves as a reminder of the competition for the spotlight so prevalent elsewhere in the poet’s telling of the tale. For that whole issue arises most insistently in the context of a plurality. It is appropriate that the prolonging of a character’s time in the spotlight, and therefore a prolonging of the time he is made to keep other characters from it, takes place not only by way of similes with only one actor in the vehicle portion but also through similes whose vehicle portion alludes to the existence of competitors for the spotlight. 2.2.2. Multiple-Correspondence Similes The vehicle portions of multiple-correspondence similes that have more than one discrete tenor/vehicle pairing are also a space in which the poet positions the characters as competitors for the spotlight. In this subsection, I first look at examples in which one tenor or one tenor/vehicle pairing eclipses another. These similes suggest that 97 98

Contra Scott 2009: 162. See also Il. 20.403–6: the young men who sacrifice the bull do not correspond to Achilleus.

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one character’s time in the spotlight prompts, if not the exclusion or neglect of another, at least the partial suppression of another. The character emerges as an obstacle to others getting a greater share of the spotlight. Second, I look at how the vehicle portion of a simile can become a site in which, through the expansion of the spotlight, a character is denied sole possession of the spotlight. Throughout this subsection, I find it helpful to keep two basic interpretative principles in mind. First, the obvious one stated earlier: when a vehicle is in the spotlight, the tenor to which it corresponds is in the spotlight. Second, it is especially useful in these cases to pay attention to the resumptive clause when it appears. That clause can perform a couple of different tasks. It tells us who is at that precise moment in the spotlight, but it is also retrospective to the extent that it addresses the vehicle portion. It can play an instructive role either by giving us further information about or by letting us know who was in the spotlight in the vehicle portion (that is, the simile is partially or fully prepositioned). It can also offer a take on what happened as regards the spotlight in the vehicle portion. In some multiple-correspondence similes, the poet makes one tenor or one tenor/vehicle pairing obscure another. I explore two phenomena here. First, the poet can connect two vehicles to one tenor and thereby give a greater share of the spotlight in the vehicle portion to that tenor. Second, the poet will give almost the entirety of the spotlight to one tenor/vehicle pairing and have an entity that corresponds to another tenor gain little inflection in the vehicle portion. To begin dealing with the first group, I note that one way to make clear that the spotlight is on one character or set of characters during the vehicle portion of a simile is by linking two vehicles to that one tenor. For example, the narrator compares the advancing Trojans to a blast of wind that rouses the waves such that they pile up one after the other, some in front and others right behind (πρὸ μέν τ’ ἄλλ’, αὐτὰρ ἐπ’ ἄλλα). In the resumptive clause we learn that the waves correspond to the Trojans as well: “some in close order in front and others immediately behind (πρὸ μὲν ἄλλοι ἀρηρότες, αὐτὰρ ἐπ’ ἄλλοι) … followed along with their leaders” (Il. 13.795–801). When the poet introduces this redundancy into a simile with another tenor/vehicle pairing, he allots the tenor twice linked to the vehicle portion a greater share of the

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spotlight in the vehicle portion. Take, for instance, the simile describing Aineias and his men: αὐτὰρ ἔπειτα λαοὶ ἕπονθ’, ὡς εἴ τε μετὰ κτίλον ἕσπετο μῆλα πιόμεν’ ἐκ βοτάνης· γάνυται δ’ ἄρα τε φρένα ποιμήν· ὣς Αἰνείᾳ θυμὸς ἐνὶ στήθεσσι γεγήθει, ὡς ἴδε λαῶν ἔθνος ἐπισπόμενον ἑοῖ αὐτῷ. but then the troops followed, as flocks follow the lead ram from the pasture to drink; and the shepherd delights in his mind: so Aineias’ spirit delighted in his breast when he saw the host of troops following him. (Il. 13.491–95)

The simile begins by asserting that the Trojans follow (heponth’) Aineias like flocks follow (hespeto) their lead ram. An additional point of correspondence then emerges in the next verse and the resumptive clause: just as the shepherd delights (ganutai) at this scene, Aineias delights (gegêthei) when he sees the troops following (epispomenon) him. Aineias takes precedence over the Trojans in the vehicle portion. Another example of this phenomenon appears when Antilochos kills Melanippos and rushes in to despoil him: ὁ δ’ οὐχ ἅλιον βέλος ἧκεν, ἀλλ’ Ἱκετάονος υἱόν, ὑπέρθυμον Μελάνιππον, νισόμενον πόλεμόνδε βάλε στῆθος παρὰ μαζόν. δούπησεν δὲ πεσών, τὸν δὲ σκότος ὄσσε κάλυψεν. Ἀντίλοχος δ’ ἐπόρουσε κύων ὥς, ὅς τ’ ἐπὶ νεβρῷ βλημένῳ ἀΐξῃ, τόν τ’ ἐξ εὐνῆφι θορόντα θηρητὴρ ἐτύχησε βαλών, ὑπέλυσε δὲ γυῖα· ὣς ἐπὶ σοί, Μελάνιππε, θόρ’ Ἀντίλοχος μενεχάρμης τεύχεα συλήσων· and he let fly a missile not in vain, but the son of Hiketaon, haughty Melanippos, who was coming into battle, he [Antilochos] hit in the chest near the breast. And he fell and made a thud, and darkness enveloped his eyes. And Antilochos sprang in as a dog, who darts at a wounded fawn, which as it leapt from its lair

250

Similes in the Narrator-Text a hunter successfully hit and he loosened its limbs: so at you, Melanippos, Antilochos strong in the fight leapt intending to seize your armor; (Il. 15.575–83)

Both the dog and the hunter of the vehicle portion are made to correspond to Antilochos. He rushes in like the dog: compare eporouse and aixêi (15.579 and 580, respectively); he hits like the hunter: compare bale and balôn (577 and 581, respectively).99 This dominance of the vehicle portion’s spotlight on his part is rehearsed in the resumptive clause wherein the verb thrôiskô earlier applied to the deer that stands for Melanippos is now applied to Antilochos. It is as if Antilochos retroactively takes over that component of the vehicle portion as well. In the second category, I place, to repeat, similes in which the poet gives almost the entirety of the spotlight to one tenor/vehicle pairing and has an entity that corresponds to another tenor gain little inflection in the vehicle portion. For instance, when he resolves to fight Achilleus, Agenor resembles a leopard that confronts a hunter: ἠΰτε πάρδαλις εἶσι βαθείης ἐκ ξυλόχοιο ἀνδρὸς θηρητῆρος ἐναντίον, οὐδέ τι θυμῷ ταρβεῖ οὐδὲ φοβεῖται, ἐπεί κεν ὑλαγμὸν ἀκούσῃ· εἴ περ γὰρ φθάμενός μιν ἢ οὐτάσῃ ἠὲ βάλῃσιν, ἀλλά τε καὶ περὶ δουρὶ πεπαρμένη οὐκ ἀπολήγει ἀλκῆς, πρίν γ’ ἠὲ ξυμβλήμεναι ἠὲ δαμῆναι· ὣς Ἀντήνορος υἱὸς ἀγαυοῦ, δῖος Ἀγήνωρ, οὐκ ἔθελεν φεύγειν, πρὶν πειρήσαιτ’ Ἀχιλῆος, As a leopard comes out from the dense thicket against a hunter and not at all in her spirit is she scared, nor does she turn to flee when she hears the baying; for if anticipating her one either wounds her with a thrust or hits her with a throw, even so although pierced with the spear she does not cease from her fury before either engaging or being subdued: so the son of noble Antenor, brilliant Agenor, refused to flee until he had made trial of Achilleus, (Il. 21.573–80) 99

On Antilochos as the hunter, see Nannini 2003: 28.

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The vehicle portion presents the focalization of the leopard: she is not afraid; she hears the howl of the hunting dogs. Further, whereas the hunter is presented as the aggressor for only one verse (21.576), the various offensive maneuvers of the leopard attract far more attention. The resumptive clause claims that Agenor has dominated the spotlight in the vehicle portion: “so the son of noble Antenor, brilliant Agenor, refused to flee until he had made trial of Achilleus” (21.579–80). More pronounced is the near complete suppression of the vehicle that corresponds to Achilleus in the following simile: ἀλλ’ ὅ γε μίμν’ Ἀχιλῆα πελώριον ἆσσον ἰόντα. ὡς δὲ δράκων ἐπὶ χειῇ ὀρέστερος ἄνδρα μένῃσι, βεβρωκὼς κακὰ φάρμακ’, ἔδυ δέ τέ μιν χόλος αἰνός, σμερδαλέον δὲ δέδορκεν ἑλισσόμενος περὶ χειῇ· ὣς Ἕκτωρ ἄσβεστον ἔχων μένος οὐχ ὑπεχώρει, but he awaited the huge Achilleus as he came near. And as a snake in the mountains waits for a man by his hole, stuffed with evil poisons, and a terrible rage descends upon him, and he glances around fearsomely as he coils about his hole: so Hektor, possessed of inextinguishable battle fury, did not retreat (Il. 22.92–96)

The tenor/vehicle pairing of Hektor and the snake takes up most of the vehicle portion. The man who represents Achilleus makes the briefest of appearances in the accusative case.100 Here, too, the resumptive clause declares that the vehicle portion of the simile has been about Hektor: “so Hektor, possessed of inextinguishable battle fury, did not retreat” (22.96). In certain multiple-correspondence similes, then, the poet argues that, when one character is in the spotlight, his presence there restricts others’ access to it. With such similes, the poet positions the characters as competitors for the spotlight, just as he does elsewhere in his tale when in concentrating on one character he limits what he reports about others. Other multiple-correspondence similes enable the poet

100

Contrast the simile at Il. 3.33–36: the man commandeers the spotlight; the snake merits only a brief mention in the accusative case.

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to replicate in the figurative register the expansion of the spotlight so integral to his constructing the characters as competitors for it at other points in his presentation. As an initial example, I cite Il. 11.414–20. Left alone after his companions retreat, Odysseus claims the spotlight as his ensuing seven-line soliloquy makes clear (Il. 11.404–10). The poet then turns to the Trojans. Functioning as both agents and patients, the Trojans surround Odysseus “setting pain (pêma) among themselves” (Il. 11.413). With one exception, in which the noun pêma is found in the narrator’s summary of Demodokos’ song (Od. 8.81), the word only appears elsewhere (forty-three times) in the character-text in the Homeric poems.101 Its appearance in 11.413 signals the focalization of the Trojans.102 The vehicle portion of the simile that follows keeps both Odysseus and the Trojans in the spotlight: ὡς δ’ ὅτε κάπριον ἀμφὶ κύνες θαλεροί τ’ αἰζηοὶ σεύωνται, ὁ δέ τ’ εἶσι βαθείης ἐκ ξυλόχοιο θήγων λευκὸν ὀδόντα μετὰ γναμπτῇσι γένυσσιν, ἀμφὶ δέ τ’ ἀΐσσονται, ὑπαὶ δέ τε κόμπος ὀδόντων γίγνεται, οἱ δὲ μένουσιν ἄφαρ δεινόν περ ἐόντα, ὥς ῥα τότ’ ἀμφ’ Ὀδυσῆα Διῒ φίλον ἐσσεύοντο Τρῶες· And as when around a boar dogs and strong young men rush, and he comes from a dense thicket sharpening his white tusks in his curved jaws, and they dart around, and thereupon a din from his teeth arises, but they await him without hesitation although he is fearsome, so then around Odysseus dear to Zeus rushed the Trojans; (Il. 11.414–20)

With de four times marking a topic switch, both vehicles, the boar and the hunting party, function in turn as attacking agents. The vehicle portion closes by presenting the perspective of the hunters on the boar as deinon 101

102

Hektor, for instance, claims that Achilleus is the greatest pêma for the Trojans (Il. 22.288). See de Jong 1988.

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“fearsome.” By mentioning both tenors, the resumptive clause declares that the vehicle portion has been about both of them.103 That both tenor/vehicle pairings are equally in the spotlight in this vehicle portion is not inevitable. Aias resembles a boar that easily scatters hunters and dogs, who are referred to briefly in the accusative case (Il. 17.281–85). A simile in the Hesiodic Aspis focuses solely on the thoughts and actions of the boar-vehicle that corresponds to Herakles. The hunters are mentioned only in passing in the dative case; they are in any event in the plural and so do not correspond to Cycnos, Herakles’ opponent (386–92). Conversely, the Trojans pursue Aias as hunting dogs chase after a wounded boar (Il. 17.725–34). Of the five-line vehicle portion of the simile, one verse focuses on the boar (728). These renditions show that a poet could construct this vehicle portion so as to focus primarily or entirely on one or the other tenor/vehicle pairing; he need not focus on both. Although we may not really notice the expansion of the spotlight in the description of the actual battle, we should denaturalize that expansion in the vehicle portion of the simile. Each tenor/vehicle pairing keeps the other from sole possession of the spotlight. We can also study those moments in which one tenor’s vehicle encroaches upon the space initially controlled by another tenor’s vehicle. When looking at a multiple-correspondence simile, we should not just seek the points of contact between the vehicle portion and the narrative context.104 Beyond noting that a simile equates tenor A with vehicle A and tenor B with vehicle B, we should also attend to how the spotlight in the vehicle portion of a simile over time expands to include multiple tenor/vehicle pairings. The three passages discussed next exemplify how one tenor/vehicle pairing can thereby deny the entirety of the spotlight to another. 103

104

The simile is technically prepositioned. The resumptive clause, therefore, instructs us as to which vehicles correspond to which tenors: the repetition of the preposition “around” (amphi … amph’) points to Odysseus’ connection to the boar; the verb applied to the hunters and their dogs is used of the Trojans (seuôntai … esseuonto). Yet, in this case, we surely do not need to wait for the resumptive clause to provide us with the pairings; we know them from the start of the vehicle portion. See, for example, Hofmeister 1995: 312; cf. Edwards 1991: ad Il. 20.164–74.

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I begin with Aias’ late entry into a simile. The scene unfolds as follows: Sokos wounds Odysseus, who exacts vengeance by promptly killing him, but Odysseus then finds himself beset by Trojans invigorated by the sight of Odysseus’ blood. A simile picks up the story: ἀμφὶ δ’ ἄρ’ αὐτὸν Τρῶες ἕπονθ’ ὡς εἴ τε δαφοινοὶ θῶες ὄρεσφιν ἀμφ’ ἔλαφον κεραὸν βεβλημένον, ὅν τ’ ἔβαλ’ ἀνὴρ ἰῷ ἀπὸ νευρῆς· τὸν μέν τ’ ἤλυξε πόδεσσι φεύγων, ὄφρ’ αἷμα λιαρὸν καὶ γούνατ’ ὀρώρῃ· αὐτὰρ ἐπεὶ δὴ τόν γε δαμάσσεται ὠκὺς ὀϊστός, ὠμοφάγοι μιν θῶες ἐν οὔρεσι δαρδάπτουσιν ἐν νέμεϊ σκιερῷ· ἐπί τε λῖν ἤγαγε δαίμων σίντην· θῶες μέν τε διέτρεσαν, αὐτὰρ ὁ δάπτει· ὥς ῥα τότ’ ἀμφ’ Ὀδυσῆα δαΐφρονα ποικιλομήτην Τρῶες ἕπον πολλοί τε καὶ ἄλκιμοι, αὐτὰρ ὅ γ’ ἥρως ἀΐσσων ᾧ ἔγχει ἀμύνετο νηλεὲς ἦμαρ. Αἴας δ’ ἐγγύθεν ἦλθε φέρων σάκος ἠΰτε πύργον, στῆ δὲ παρέξ· Τρῶες δὲ διέτρεσαν ἄλλυδις ἄλλος. and around him [Odysseus] the Trojans thronged as if bloody jackals in the mountains around a horned buck that has been struck, whom a man hit with an arrow from a bow-string; him [the man] he [the buck] evaded with his feet, fleeing as long as the blood was warm and the limbs moved; but when in fact the swift arrow subdues him, the raw-flesh eating jackals devour him in the mountains in a shady glen; a daimon leads in a ravenous lion; the jackals flee, but he [the lion] eats: so then around wise much-devising Odysseus the Trojans thronged many and stout, but the hero rushed in and with his spear was warding off the dread day of death. And Aias came near carrying his shield like a tower and he stood forth beside him; and the Trojans scattered, different ones in different directions. (Il. 11.473–86)

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The simile begins with a focus on the jackals that stand for the Trojans but then shifts in verse 475 to dilate for four verses on the backstory of the deer wounded by the hunter. Already announced at the start of the simile (see amphi … auton and amph’ elaphon), the patient tenor/vehicle pairing of Odysseus and the deer moves into the spotlight. That the deer collapses in death reveals the abstract nature of the link between the two: the point of the equation is to stress the difficult situation in which Odysseus finds himself. Yet, the Trojans/jackals return to the spotlight at verse 479 as the dominant agent tenor/vehicle pairing. The vehicle portion could end there with the focus on the Trojans’ jackals. After the B1 caesura in verse 480, however, the poet introduces another agent, the lion who scares away the jackals and then eats the deer himself. The resumptive clause instructs us in how to deal with these developments in the vehicle portion. It begins by restating the pairing of the Trojans and the jackals and even forges again for a brief moment a link between Odysseus and the deer: the Trojans gather around (amph’) Odysseus as the jackals around (amph’) the deer (11.482 and 475, respectively). But the narrator’s next assertion severs that latter connection: “but the hero [Odysseus] rushed in (aissôn) and with his spear was warding off the dread day of death” (11.483–84). The deer of the vehicle portion had fled and then collapsed. This detachment of Odysseus from the vehicle portion of the simile prepares for Aias’ assumption of the lion-vehicle in the third part of the resumptive clause. On account of Aias’ arrival, the Trojans flee (dietresan) just like the jackals fled (dietresan) the lion (11.486 and 481, respectively); the same verb appears in the same metrical position in each line.105 To claim that the vehicle portion of the simile merely anticipates the events on the battlefield is to miss the point. One should evaluate the unfolding of the vehicle portion keeping in mind that the story it tells could come to a close before the arrival of the third actor. That actor, the lion, represents the encroachment of a new agent tenor/vehicle pairing into the vehicle portion of a simile that initially came to focus on another such pairing. 105

Few doubt that the lion ultimately represents Aias: see Willcock 1978: ad loc., Lonsdale 1990: 73, and Hainsworth 1993: ad 11.474–81.

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An agent tenor/vehicle pairing can also enter the space first marked out for a patient tenor/vehicle pairing.106 Aias kills Simoeisios: ὁ δ’ ἐν κονίῃσι χαμαὶ πέσεν αἴγειρος ὥς, ἥ ῥά τ’ ἐν εἱαμενῇ ἕλεος μεγάλοιο πεφύκει λείη, ἀτάρ τέ οἱ ὄζοι ἐπ’ ἀκροτάτῃ πεφύασι· τὴν μέν θ’ ἁρματοπηγὸς ἀνὴρ αἴθωνι σιδήρῳ ἐξέταμ’, ὄφρα ἴτυν κάμψῃ περικαλλέϊ δίφρῳ· ἡ μέν τ’ ἀζομένη κεῖται ποταμοῖο παρ’ ὄχθας. τοῖον ἄρ’ Ἀνθεμίδην Σιμοείσιον ἐξενάριξεν Αἴας διογενής· and he fell in the dust on the ground like an ash tree, which grows in the meadow of a great marsh smooth, but it has branches at the very top; and a chariot maker cuts it down with his flashing iron in order that he may fashion a wheel for a beautiful chariot; and it lies near the banks of the river as it dries. Of this sort Simoeisios son of Anthemion did he slay, Zeus-born Aias; (Il. 4.482–89)

A bT scholion contends that “up until this point [i.e., “he fell … like an ash tree”] is the comparison made. But the rest of it he [the poet] speaks in an excessive manner showing off and pursuing pleasure” (Erbse 1969, 1: ad 4.482). Indeed, beginning in verse 485, our attention is directed from the tree that stands for the patient Simoeisios to the craftsman who stands for the agent Aias. The chariot maker emerges as the driving force behind the action of the image: he cuts the tree down, he intends to make a wheel out of it, he leaves it to dry on the riverbank. That the vehicle portion starts out focused on the Trojan actually prepares for its shift to chariot making because Trojans are associated with this activity: Pandaros speaks of eleven “newly wrought” chariots in his father’s house (Il. 5.193–94); Lykaon is cutting branches to make the rails for a chariot when Achilleus captures him for the first time (Il. 21.37–38). Over the course of the vehicle portion, then, Aias moves

106

See also, for example, Il. 14.414–18 (with which contrast the Hesiodic Aspis 421–23).

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into the spotlight. In ordering the names as it does, the resumptive clause suggests that the vehicle portion began with its focus on the patient but then came to include the agent as well: it gives us first “Simoeisios son of Anthemion” in the accusative case and then “Zeus-born Aias” in the nominative case (Il. 4.488–89). By the end, the simile’s vehicle portion is just as much about what Aias did as it is about what Simoeisios suffered.107 Not only concerned with the young warrior’s pathetic death,108 the vehicle portion is also about the agent Aias’ intrusion into a space initially devoted to the patient Simoeisios. Just as the agent can intrude upon the patient, a patient can encroach upon an agent, keeping him from sole possession of the spotlight.109 Automedon hurls his spear into Aretos’ stomach: ἡ δ’ οὐκ ἔγχος ἔρυτο, διαπρὸ δὲ εἴσατο χαλκός, νειαίρῃ δ’ ἐν γαστρὶ διὰ ζωστῆρος ἔλασσεν. ὡς δ’ ὅτ’ ἂν ὀξὺν ἔχων πέλεκυν αἰζήϊος ἀνήρ, κόψας ἐξόπιθεν κεράων βοὸς ἀγραύλοιο, ἶνα τάμῃ διὰ πᾶσαν, ὁ δὲ προθορὼν ἐρίπῃσιν, ὣς ἄρ’ ὅ γε προθορὼν πέσεν ὕπτιος· and it [the shield] did not check the spear, but the bronze pressed straight through, and it [the spear] went through the belt into the lower part of the stomach. And as when a vigorous man has a sharp axe, and he strikes behind the horns of a field-dwelling bull, and he cuts through the whole tendon, and he [the bull] with a forward leap falls, so he leaping forward fell on his back; (Il. 17.518–23) 107

108

109

Schein’s paraphrase brings this out: “Just as the chariotmaker puts an end to a living poplar, which then lies hardening, so Ajax ends the life of the youth” (1984: 74). See Moulton (1977: 56–58) for the standard reading of this scene as one of the more moving and pathos-filled moments in the poem; cf. Richardson 1990: 46 and Mueller 2009: 106. By contrast, note Benardete’s analysis of how “Simoeisios is lost in a work of art”: “the simile of the poplar overshadows the death it was meant to describe” (2000: 38 and 39, respectively). Cf. Rabel’s discussion of the simile at Il. 11.113–21 (1990: esp. 3).

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As the simile unfolds, one notes the difference between the killing in the vehicle portion and that in the narrative context. Automedon hits Aretos in the stomach with a spear thrown from a distance. The slayer of the bull strikes it with an ax from up close, behind the horns. Conversely, the man’s driving the ax through (dia) the neck echoes the movement of Automedon’s spear through (diapro and dia) Aretos’ breastplate. To see a likeness between Automedon and the slayer of the bull is appropriate especially because both are singular entities in contrast to, for instance, the characters in the simile likening the dying Adamas, struck fatally by Meriones, to a bull bound by herdsmen (Il. 13.571–73). His vehicle the main focus of attention, Automedon takes up the spotlight. Yet, the vehicle portion of the simile then turns to follow the bull and points us toward Aretos. Furthermore, the resumptive clause draws our attention to this component of the vehicle portion: just as the bull lunges forward in death (prothorôn eripêisin), so does Aretos (prothorôn pesen) (17.522–23). The effect is to insist on Aretos’ prominent place in the vehicle portion. The simile is not only about Aretos’ death but also about the denial of the spotlight solely to the agent Automedon.

3. CONCLUSION

Like similes in the Iliad’s character-text, similes in its narrator-text can also function as mechanisms and sites of competition. Sequences of similes that deploy the phenomenon of capping not only mimic the contest on the battlefield but also amplify the feat of the successful warrior. What is more, the poet fashions individual extended similes so that they contribute to his positioning of his myriad characters as competitors for the spotlight. Some similes keep one tenor/vehicle pairing, and so one character, in focus in the midst of a larger plurality in the vehicle portion. The poet thereby extends the amount of time other characters are kept out of the spotlight while simultaneously referring to the very notion of a contest for the spotlight. In crafting multiple-correspondence similes, the poet may make one tenor or tenor/vehicle pairing overshadow another: in this way the simile becomes a space in which one character’s dominance of the spotlight keeps others from a larger share

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of the spotlight. In other multiple-correspondence similes, the poet may expand the spotlight such that either two tenor/vehicle pairings are equally and unnecessarily prominent or one tenor’s vehicle enters into a space at first devoted to another tenor’s vehicle. At such moments, as he does elsewhere in the nonfigurative portions of his poem, the poet makes one character deny others or another the entirety of the spotlight. Additional features of similes could also be considered in an investigation of similes and the spotlight. I note again de Jong’s observation that certain similes in the narrator-text are focalized by characters implicated in the scene (2004a: 123–36). For instance, when Priam sees Achilleus approaching Hektor and the narrator compares Achilleus to the Dog Star that “brings much fever to wretched mortals” (Il. 22.26–32), the simile’s “secondary function is to express Priam’s feelings … at seeing Achilles running straight toward his son” (126). De Jong contrasts the simile later in book 22 comparing Achilleus’ spear point to a star: it “focus[es] attention on Achilles and his supreme heroism (see Moulton 1974: 394), not on Hector as its victim” (126). In the first simile, our attention is directed to the focalizer, Priam, as well as to Achilleus, whereas the second makes no such gesture. We might also attend to similes’ frequently discussed thematic goals. For instance, in foreshadowing coming events, the vehicle portion of a simile can deflect attention from the ostensibly primary referent of the image. Take as an example the narrator’s description of Achilleus’ slaughter of the Trojans:110 And as when smoke rises and climbs into the wide sky from a burning city, and the wrath of the gods makes it rise, and it puts toil upon all and sends pains upon many, so Achilleus put toil and pains upon the Trojans. (Il. 21.522–25)

Although the resumptive clause makes clear that the simile is intended to depict Achilleus’ slaughter of the Trojans, the vehicle portion focuses our attention not at all on Achilleus but on the sack of Troy, an event that Achilleus helps bring about but in which he does not participate.111 110 111

I discuss this simile in Chapter 2 (subsection 2.4). See de Jong 2004a: 134.

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Similarly, Heiden (1998) argues that the simile of the fugitive homicide applied to Priam (Il. 24.480–83) when he appears in Achilleus’ tent interacts not only with its immediate narrative context and that of the poem as a whole but also with the larger mythic background of the image of the fugitive. As a result, the reference to the suppliant exile points us toward not only Priam but also Achilleus and Peleus.

Conclusion: The Odyssey Compared

IN MANY WAYS, HOMERIC SIMILES STAND APART FROM THEIR

surroundings: “because of its characteristic everyday content the Homeric simile for a moment unites narrator and audience in their world, not that of the heroes, as together they marvel at the mighty deeds of the past.”1 At the same time, scholarship continues to demonstrate that this distance does not stop similes from making vital thematic contributions to the epics. In the spirit of such inquiries, this study has revealed that his similes are an essential tool in the poet’s depiction of his characters as competitors in the Iliad. More precisely, I deployed comparative and narratological approaches to bolster a series of close readings in which I argue that similes both in the character-text and the narrator-text can emerge as mechanisms and sites of competition. By deploying similes (and likenesses), the heroes distinguish themselves as speakers and thereby compete in the linguistic field. This contestation becomes more explicit when a character responds with a simile, most often through processes of reuse and recharacterization, to the previous simile(s) of another character or of the narrator. Similes in the narrator-text also reveal an agonistic orientation. In a sequence of similes, that which follows can be constructed so as to top that which precedes: this move makes all the greater the success of the referent of the capping simile. Furthermore, extended similes – both those with multiple actors in the vehicle portion and multiple-correspondence similes – provide an additional forum for the portrayal of characters as competitors for the spotlight. 1

Edwards 1991: 39; emphasis in original. See Bakker (2005: 114–35) and Taplin (2007: 179) for more on this proposition. 261

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Character, Narrator, and Simile in the Iliad

Although it helpfully encapsulates the gains of the book, this summary makes clear what I have not touched on. As far as similes spoken by characters go, I have not looked at similes spoken by gods. There remains much to say about, for example, Apollo’s claim that mortals are like leaves (Il. 21.462–66), Iris’ judgment that the Achaian army resembles leaves or sand (Il. 2.800), or Thetis’ assertion that Achilleus “shot up like a shoot” and like “a tree on the high ground of an orchard” (Il. 18.56–57 and 18.437–48). Of interest is the fact that Zeus, the chief god, does not speak any similes. Nor, it should be said, have I examined in the manner of Austin (1975: 115–29) the “other analogical modes of thought” (115) the characters deploy as revealed by their reactions to omens and dreams and by their use of paradigms. My study has not taken on other, still more wide-ranging questions. For instance, Homerists regularly try to situate the poems in Homer’s actual world: “texts such as the Iliad are examples of social practice, of someone trying to do something at a certain moment in a certain social context”; each poem is “an attempt to raise and resolve the problems and thoughts of a community in which the poet also acts and thinks.”2 I have not been concerned with such matters, but it is surely worth asking after the Homeric simile’s engagement with life, above all political life, in the archaic period.3 For instance, it has become popular to see a split between an elite and a middling ideology among aristocrats of that time.4 Might Homeric similes have been implicated in such a contest? After all, a hero can resemble the regal lion or the aristocratic horse, but he can also be compared to a shepherd, fisherman, or donkey. What are the symbolic values of those vehicles lower down on the social ladder, and what is the message of such comparisons? Nor have I explored the possibility that similes help the poet. Nimis, for example, contends that the simile likening the Myrmidons to wolves that devour a deer and then drink from a spring (Il. 16.156–66) aids the poet in negotiating the fact that soldiers, on the one hand, are supposed 2

3

4

Nimis 1987: 62 and 63, respectively; emphasis in original. See, for example, Morris 1986, Cook 1995: 128–70, Thalmann 1998: 272–305, and Dougherty 2001. Wofford (1992) explores the ideological work of the Homeric simile but does so from an ahistorical perspective: see my Chapter 3 (section 1). See Hammer (2004) for a challenge to this model.

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to eat before fighting, but Achilleus, on the other hand, is in no position to hold a communal feast (see 1987: 41 and 85). Nimis argues, then, that similes can help the poet deal with challenges in presentation. Now, other trustworthy sources have considered how figurative language enables one to address difficulties in articulation or comprehension. For instance, Aristotle notes that metaphor allows us to talk about phenomena that are otherwise impossible to describe: Further, metaphors must not be far-fetched, but we must give names to things that have none by deriving the metaphor from what is akin and of the same kind, so that, as soon as it is uttered, it is clearly seen to be akin, as in the famous enigma, I saw a man who glued bronze with fire upon another. There was no name for what took place, but as in both cases there is a kind of application, he called the application of the cupping glass “gluing.” (Rhetoric 1405a34-b3)5

Poets have long represented figurative language as helping us not just talk about something but also understand it.6 Orestes describes the robe that Klytaimestra threw over Agamemnon when she killed him: What name shall I give, be I never so fair-spoken? A trap for a wild beast? Or a covering for a corpse in his bier, wrapt round his feet? No, rather ’tis a net – a hunting net, you might call it, or robes to entangle a man’s feet. This were the sort of thing a highwayman might get, who tricks strangers and plies a robber’s trade; and with this cunning snare he might slay many a man and gladden his heart thereby. (Aeschylus, Libation Bearers 997–1004)7

Just as Orestes finds that comprehension emerges only through metaphor, so, too, does Percy Bysshe Shelley resort to similes to describe the skylark: “What thou art we know not; / What is most like thee?” (“Ode to a Skylark”). We might, then, consider the Homeric simile from this perspective: is there any indication that the poet positions simile as a 5 6

7

Trans. Freese 1926: 359. See also Minchin 2001: 138 on “lexical gaps.” For the ancient critical precept that similes should use a familiar vehicle to explain an unfamiliar tenor, see Hunter 2006: 92–98 (cf. Minchin 2001: 138). I differentiate that idea from what I am exploring here, namely, the notion that figurative language is the only way to explain something. Trans. Smyth 1926: 257–59.

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device especially useful when there seems to be no other way to talk about something or even when there is no other way to grasp something mentally?8 Let these questions stand for the opportunity costs of my investigation into similes. At the same time, the paragraph with which this chapter began reveals one gap that can be filled in, at least partially. I discussed several examples of Odyssean likenesses in Chapter 2, but this book has concentrated on how similes function in the Iliad. In particular, when it came to sequences of similes as well as to extended similes, the Odyssey did not enter into the discussion. I wish to close by returning to that poem. In my Introduction, I outlined three areas in which the Iliad’s mortal characters are made to compete: they engage in physical confrontations; they contest verbally with both other characters and with the narrator; and they are portrayed as competitors for the spotlight. Subsequent chapters investigated how the poet implicates similes in these three areas. How does the Odyssey compare?9 In the Odyssey, it is possible to see a competition between Odysseus and the narrator. I again cite Bakker’s reading (2009) of Odysseus’ Apologoi as not only complementing but also competing against the narrator’s tale. One could argue that an important part of Odysseus’ strategy in proving himself a worthy competitor is his use of similes. He generates the same variety of similes that the narrator does. As Minchin observes (2001: 221), Odysseus provides long, extended similes (e.g., Od. 9.383–88 and 10.216–19). He deploys similes that one finds elsewhere in the epics’ narrator-texts (e.g., Od. 9.51 and 12.251–55) as well as similes that appear unique (e.g., Od. 10.410–15 and 12.433). The tertiary narrators speak similes (e.g., Od. 11.222 and 11.411): that is, Odysseus’ “characters” speak similes. In short, Odysseus exhibits a repertoire of similes that matches that 8

9

Conversely, McGavin (2000: esp. 22–23 and 46) contends that Chaucer ponders the fact that “comparison involves a common hermeneutic circularity which qualifies its claims to illuminate” (22). Does the Homeric poet have similar concerns? I do not, then, deal here with the polemical relationship between the two Homeric epics, on which see Nagy 1999: 15–25, Pucci 1987, and Cook 1995: 10, 28–32, 36–45 and 150–51. For the Odyssey’s rivalry with nonIliadic traditions, see Tsagalis 2008 and Marks 2008.

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of the narrator. At the same time, the type of competition over simile between narrator and character discussed in Chapter 5, that involving pairs and series, does not occur in the Odyssey.10 Erwin Cook argues that, in likening Nausikaa to Artemis (Od. 6.151–52), Odysseus affirms the point behind the narrator’s assertion that Nausikaa resembles Artemis (Od. 6.102–9): “Nausikaa has the power of life and death over him” (1999: 157–58; quotation on 158).11 On the one hand, then, there is a measure of competition between narrator and character in the Odyssey, and we might implicate similes in that competition. On the other hand, the Odyssey does not give us moments in which a character responds directly to a simile or similes of the narrator as happens in the Iliad. Indeed, additional attempts to apply the findings about the Iliad’s similes to the Odyssey run aground, and with good reason. The competition for the poet’s attention in the Odyssey is not really a fair one: from book 5 onward, Odysseus is the undoubted protagonist. Vigorous competition for the spotlight is, then, not a primary concern of the poem. Appropriately, whereas the extended similes in the Iliad’s narrator-text provide an additional site for that poem’s depiction of its characters as competitors for the spotlight, the most intriguing extended similes in the Odyssey’s narrator-text have been thought to reveal a different purpose. Above all, scholars often trace the thematic impact of “reverse similes” in which the tenor is compared to a vehicle in many ways (if not in every way) its opposite.12 For instance, after discussing Odysseus’ description of Penelope as a prosperous king (Od. 19.108–14) and the narrator’s description of Penelope as a shipwrecked sailor (Od. 23.233–39), Foley concludes: “Thus the Odyssey 10

11

12

For the number of pairs and series of similes in both epics, see the introductory remarks to Chapter 3. On the relative paucity of sequences of similes in the Odyssey, see Lee 1964: 12–13 and Moulton 1977: 118. Again (see my introductory remarks to Chapter 5), Morrison (2005: 82–83) finds an instance of the narrator reacting to a character’s simile: when the narrator compares Odysseus to a weeping widow (Od. 8.523–31), he is “correcting Demodocus’ inaccurate description of ‘godlike’ Odysseus [at 8.518].” See Moulton 1977: 128–34, Nannini 2003: 93–120, and Morrison 2005: 79. This brand of simile appears, albeit less conspicuously, in the Iliad as well: on, for example, Priam’s resemblance to a fugitive homicide (Il. 24.480–83), see Heiden 1998, Nannini 2003: 101–8, and Beck 2005a: 136–38.

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argues for a particular pattern of male-female relations within Ithaca. The reverse similes which frame the return of Odysseus reinforce and explore these interdependent relationships” (1978: 21). The extension of the simile works not toward agonistic ends, as can happen in the Iliad, but to suggest the interconnectedness of the poem’s actors.13 That leaves us with the matter of physical and verbal competition between mortal characters. The beginning of the poem alerts us to the contests (aethlôn) Odysseus faces (Od. 1.18), and the hero is subject to numerous “toils” (ponoisi) (Od. 13.301).14 Those contests and toils include his “battle of wits” with the Cyclops, Polyphemos,15 and the troubles fashioned for him by his ritual antagonist, Poseidon.16 Nonetheless, scholarship agrees that Odysseus is portrayed as “the most heroic Achaean in the Odyssey,” even “the superlative role model for the males of the ancient world,” who “manages to transcend a hero’s normal limitations, adding a successful homecoming (nostos) to the winning of glory (kleos).”17 More precisely, Odysseus does not face any competition from mortal males when it comes to acting and talking.18 In the first place, Odysseus has no human rivals in the sphere of deeds. He easily bests his supposed opponents in athletic contests: he 13

14 15 16

17

18

What precisely is accomplished by that argument for “interdependence” or “interconnectedness” is subject to debate. For instance, Winkler (1990b: 161) says of the simile at Od. 23.233–39, “It is not easy to say in the cultural language of that highly stratified society that men and women are in any sense equal. But the author of the Odyssey has succeeded in doing so.” By contrast, von Reden (1995: 54) writes of the simile at Od. 19.108–14, “Penelope is only the key to Odysseus’ kleos without gaining it herself. . . . The reverse simile at this moment is in fact a textual strategy to describe the qualities of Odysseus within a simile on Penelope’s qualities.” See Nagler 1990: 337 and 345. Cook 1995: 95. On Poseidon as Odysseus’ antagonist, see Cook 1995: for example, 20 and 53–54. Nagy 1999: 36, Beye 1993: 185–86, and Murnaghan 1995: 76 (cf. Cook 1995: 30–31), respectively. Cook (1995: 32) finds that Odysseus comes closest to Zeus in “integrating wisdom and force.” See Thalmann 1984: 175 and 182; cf. Suzuki 1989: 72. On the “marginalization of contest” in the Odyssey, see Barker 2009: 107, 117, and 130; quotation on 107.

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throws a discus farther than any of the young men of Scheria, makes short work of a fistfight with the beggar, Iros, and is the only one to string the bow and shoot an arrow through the ax-heads in the contest for Penelope. In the poem’s climactic fights, Odysseus quickly defeats the suitors and then their male relatives, the latter hardly an example of a battle with “equal heads” (e.g., Il. 11.72). Second, the Odyssey poet portrays Odysseus as similar to a poet and thereby casts Odysseus as unrivalled in speaking.19 When Odysseus relates his travails to the Phaiakians over the course of four books, it is difficult to remember one’s narratology. He is technically a secondary narrator-focalizer speaking as every other character does, but he seems to function as the primary narrator-focalizer speaking in verse.20 Appropriately, internal audience members on two separate occasions compare Odysseus to a poet (Od. 11.368 and 17.518–21), and when he handles the bow during the contest in book 21, he resembles, according to the narrator, a singer stringing his lyre (Od. 21.404–9). The more precise question to be asked is, with what sort of poet or poets is Odysseus aligned? William Thalmann sees affinities between Odysseus and the Odyssey poet (1984: 170–74). Looking at the Cyclopeia, Ralph Rosen argues that Odysseus operates in the manner not of an epic singer but of a satirist (2007: 123–41). Adrian Kelly suggests that Odysseus takes on a Hesiodic persona (2008). Segal rightly concedes of the hero that “he is not actually a bard” (1994: 159),21 but Odysseus talks and is said to talk like one.22 No other character in the epic is portrayed as so talented a speaker.23 19 20

21

22

23

Cf. Cook (1995: 94–96) on Odysseus as a “master of language.” Cf. Beck’s discussion of the ways in which Demodokos’ presentation intersects with that of the primary narrator (2005b: 215–17). Cf. Thalmann 1984: 170, Beck 2005b: 217 and 225–26, and Rosen 2007: 122n11. It is no wonder that many critics choose simply to say that Odysseus is a poet. See, for example, Suzuki 1989: 71, Dougherty 2001: 52, Hernández 2001–2: 323, and Tsagalis 2008: 71. On Eurymachos’ ineptitude in his verbal duel with Odysseus in book 18, see Thalmann 1998: 110. Marks (2008: 112–31) contends that Nestor “is in both Homeric epics assimilated to the character of a ‘singer of tales’” (123) (cf. Dickson 1995: 47–100). Nonetheless, the Odyssey’s Odysseus still outshines

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Fittingly, motifs associated with divinities cluster around this Odysseus whose deeds and words are unparalleled. Emily Kearns (1982) demonstrates how the poet models Odysseus’ return on a theoxeny, the testing and consequent punishing or rewarding of mortals by a visiting, disguised god. This perspective makes sense, for instance, of the way in which the narrator frames the disguised Odysseus’ begging for food among the suitors:24 and in order that he might discern who were just (enaisimoi) and who were disrespectful of that which is right (athemistoi); but not even so was she [Athena] going to protect anyone from evil. And he set out to ask each man, moving from left to right, stretching out his hand every which way as if he had been a beggar for a long time. (Od. 17.363–66)

Similarly, when Odysseus strings the bow and prepares to slaughter the suitors, the theoxenic motif advances inexorably towards its climax. In a moment, Odysseus will assume the role of the god of such mythic tales who metes out justice to those mortals he has encountered.25 It is only logical that this god-like hero develops a relationship with an actual god, Athena, that is unparalleled in its intimacy and “like-mindedness.”26 The Odyssey, then, assumes Odysseus’ superiority in every endeavor.27 As Lillian Doherty puts it, “[T]he hero is no longer surrounded by peers;

24 25

26

27

Nestor in this regard, if on account of no other feature than the sheer length of his performance. See Russo 1992: ad loc.; cf. Reece 1993: 183. On Odysseus and the motif of the theoxeny, see also Murnaghan 1987: 11–14, Reece 1993: 181–87, Louden 1999: 22–23, and Bierl 2004: 50–51. See Murnaghan 1995: 71–72. For Odysseus’ assimilation to Apollo, see Cook 1995: 149–51. For ways in which the poet challenges the conception of Odysseus as god-like, see Morrison 2005: 80–83. Telemachos short-circuits an emerging (Oedipal) rivalry when, on Odysseus’ signal, he does not string his father’s bow and then invites those “who are greater in strength than I” to try the feat, one of whom will be Odysseus himself (Od. 21.124–35) (on Telemachos’ subordination to Odysseus, see Thalmann 1998: 206–23). To be sure, as the trio prepares to face the suitors’ relatives, Laertes says that his “son and grandson hold a contest over excellence” (Od. 24.515). This is one of the rare moments in which the Odyssey references a type

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indeed, no living male character in the poem is portrayed as a match for him” (1991: 32). The point is not simply that Odysseus bests all comers (although he does), but that there is no competition to be had even at ostensibly competive moments, indeed that, when it comes to Odysseus, real competition with other mortal males is not a significant factor in or concern of the Odyssey. I note the run-up to the moment in which Odysseus tries his hand at the bow in book 21 and at first blush seems to engage in the climactic contest with the suitors. In truth, he proposes that he be given an opportunity to string the bow only after he has suggested a suspension of the contest for the day (Od. 21.279–80), and he is not the only one to assert that he is not participating in the actual competition. The suitors understand that the beggar will not lead off Penelope if he accomplishes the shot (Od. 21.322–23). At the same time, they do think that the beggar may defeat them in the broader contest for honor that the bow represents.28

28

of competition so prevalent in the Iliad – contending with those on one’s same side to be the best in battle. Yet, in Odyssey 24, that competitive urge is not represented as an end in itself but as subordinated to the larger goal of preserving the house (see Thalmann 1998: 221–22). In the Iliad, by contrast, jockeying for position is a primary motivator, and intracommunal strife arises when a warrior feels that his contribution has not been adequately recognized. Many critics favor seeing Penelope as Odysseus’ one true rival and so, equal. (For Alkinoos’ challenge to Odysseus, see Ahl and Roisman 1996: 80–81.) After all, she manifests a similar degree of cunning in her famous trick involving their marriage bed (Od. 23.174–80) (see, e.g., Suzuki 1989: 86–87 and 90, Beye 1993: 184–85, and Felson-Rubin 1994: 54 and 64). Other interpreters remind us that Homeric marriage is an inherently unequal proposition requiring the subordination of the wife and that Penelope’s marriage is no different (see, e.g., Doherty 1995a, Thalmann 1998: 127, 186n29, 205, 232–37, and the bibliography noted in Chaston 2002: 14n43). Moreover, Chaston (2002: 16) observes that Penelope’s final test of Odysseus “is not a competitive trick to prove that she can outsmart the master of deceits (23.124–126) – although it is a neat irony that it does – but a trick to establish common ground”; and Thalmann (1998: 235) notes that Penelope deploys her cunning “in Odysseus’s behalf.” Bolmarcich (2001) favors the proposition that Odysseus and Penelope’s marriage is “between comrades and equals” (212), but argues that this is the case only because Penelope “is analogized to a male ally of Odysseus in order to play the role of a faithful wife successfully” (213). (Cf. Doherty [1991: 42–43] on Athena who “acts, even when not in male disguise, as an ‘honorary man’, sharing the male perspective.”) See Thalmann 1998: 225 and 228.

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Yet, Penelope contends in response (Od. 21.336–42) that “as beggar he can compete neither for honor nor for her as a bride.”29 Odysseus is, then, emphatically positioned as not entering the archery contest.30 I suggest that his exclusion mirrors the fact that, for the characters and narratees in the know, Odysseus is in reality far superior to all his supposed competitors, that there is in the end no real contest to be had.31 We are in a very different world from that of the Iliad wherein constant contestation and the presence of real rivals are vital thematic elements. The treatment of similes in the Odyssey reflects the fact that this breed of competition is not a major thematic component of the epic. Although in both poems the value of likenesses and similes as marks of distinction in the linguistic arena emerges,32 we will not find in the Odyssey the competitively oriented sequences of similes that appear both in the Iliad’s character-text (see Chapter 4) and in its narrator-text (see Chapter 6 [section 1]). For instance, after an initial exchange with the disguised Odysseus, the beggar Iros insults him by comparing him to “an old woman who works a furnace” (Od. 18.27) and threatens to knock out his teeth “like a crop-consuming pig” (18.29). Odysseus offers no response even though his rejoinder would make for the fourth turn in the conversation, and in the Odyssey “the average length of a conversation … is four speeches.”33 Competitively oriented 29 30

31

32

33

Thalmann 1998: 230. Note as well that while the suitors try to string the bow, that is, while the contest is taking place, Odysseus is not even in the palace but out in the courtyard making sure that Eumaios and Philoitios are on his side (Od. 21.184–245). I offer, then, a slightly different take on the scene than Thalmann, who stresses how Odysseus emerges as “a master competitor” or “the consummate competitor” (1998: 204 and 231, respectively). See my introductory remarks to Chapter 2 as well as section 3 in Chapter 2. In regard to the similes spoken by Odyssean characters that I referenced at the start of Chapter 2 (Od. 19.108–14 and 19.518–24), note that both of them occur in muthoi: see 19.103 and 19.508, respectively. On muthos as an indicator of performance, see the reference to Martin 1989 in Chapter 2 (section 1). Beck 2005a: 127. One could say that Odysseus reserves his rejoinder for Od. 18.105–7. He drags the defeated Iros outside and tells him to “scare away the dogs and pigs (suas),” thereby echoing Iros’ quip about a pig at 18.29.

Conclusion: The Odyssey Compared

271

sequences of similes in the narrator-text are also absent in the Odyssey. For instance, in the truncated combat between Odysseus’ household and the suitors’ relatives, there is only one brief figurative reference to Odysseus: “he drew himself together and charged like a high-flying eagle” (οἴμησεν δὲ ἀλεὶς ὥς τ’ αἰετὸς ὑψιπετήεις) (Od. 24.538). By contrast, that same verse introduces the first simile in the pairing examined at the start of Chapter 6 (subsection 1.1) that is applied to the combat between Hektor and Achilleus (see Il. 22.308–10). Equally instructive is the one pair of similes used to describe the slaughter of the suitors: they flee Odysseus and his men like cows stirred up by a gadfly (Od. 22.299–301); Odysseus and his men kill the suitors like vultures slay smaller birds (22.302–8). The two similes are to be taken together and understood to make one argument: the suitors will all perish because they are subject to “a wild mania that contrasts with the purposeful onslaught of her [Athena’s] favorites.”34 The phenomena of reuse and recharacterization that introduce competitive dynamics into some sequences of Iliadic similes are not to be found here. In short, whereas the Iliad uses similes to enhance the agonistic element in its mortal characters’ interactions, the Odyssey, making a different argument about mortal interaction, does not so energetically deploy similes in a competitive manner. Rather, the lack of figurative competition echoes the absence of true competitors for Odysseus. I make one last suggestion. If similes are an inherently competitive space, or if similes are so readily converted into a competitive space, perhaps that feature explains why there are fewer similes in the Odyssey than in the Iliad, a fact frequently remarked upon by critics.35 We would not need to resort to the oft-cited explanation that with its lengthy narratives of combat, the Iliad relies on similes to keep its listeners engaged, whereas the Odyssey tells the audience about such a wide range of peoples and places that it does not require figurative interventions to liven the presentation.36 Charles Beye objects sensibly, “In what theory of literature can we accommodate the view that poets spin out lengthy 34 35

36

Murnaghan 1995: 73. For quantitative comparisons of the similes of the two poems, see Carspecken 1952: 60, Scott 1974: 120–24, Moulton 1977: 116–19, and Larsen 2007. See, for example, Minchin 2001: 156.

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passages that they know will bore the audiences?” (1993: 105).37 Rather, just as competition in the Odyssey never reaches the same level as it does in the Iliad, so there is less occasion for simile, a device naturally of a competitive orientation, in the Odyssey. Be that as it may, the Odyssey’s use of similes contrasts for the most part quite sharply with the Iliad’s construction of its similes as mechanisms and sites of competition. Whereas in both poems speakers aim to distinguish themselves with similes and likenesses, in the Iliad we find additional contests in sequences of similes and in extended similes.

37

See also Mueller 2009: 106–7. Cf. Tsagalis (2004: 190–91), who questions the idea that the obituaries for minor warriors in the Iliad help the poet avoid monotony.

Abbreviations

Aevum(ant) AJPh A&A BMCR C&M ClAnt CB CJ CPh CQ CW ColbyQ EMC ElectronAnt GB G&R GRBS HSPh ICS JHS JIES LCM OT PCPhS QUCC RPh

Aevum Antiquum American Journal of Philology Antike und Abendland Bryn Mawr Classical Review Classica et Mediaevalia Classical Antiquity Classical Bulletin Classical Journal Classical Philology Classical Quarterly Classical World Colby Quarterly Échos du monde classique Electronic Antiquity Grazer Beiträge Greece and Rome Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies Harvard Studies in Classical Philology Illinois Classical Studies Journal of Hellenic Studies Journal of Indo-European Studies Liverpool Classical Monthly Oral Tradition Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Society Quaderni urbinati di cultura classica Revue de philologie, de littérature, et d’histoire anciennes 273

274

SIFC SyllClass TAPhA YClS

Abbreviations

Studi italiani di filologia classica Syllecta Classica Transactions of the American Philological Association Yale Classical Studies

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Index Locorum

Aeschylus Agamemnon 717–36................................64 898......................................147 1050–51..............................107n50 1142–49..............................107n50 1165....................................199n124 1315–17..............................107n50 1444–45..............................107n50 Libation Bearers 997–1004............................263 Seven Against Thebes 1042–53..............................99n33 Fragments (Radt) 135–36 ...............................61n120 Aesopica (Perry) Vita G 6–7 ..............................109 Vita W 97 ...............................66 97............................................66 140..........................................64 153..........................................66n135 159..........................................66 160..........................................66 261..........................................66 334..........................................66n134 340..........................................64n128 572..........................................66 Apollodorus Library 2.87.....................................197n116

Apollonius Argonautica 1.292–93............................199n124 4.605..................................199n124 4.811–15............................61n120 Scholia: (Wendel) ad 4.814–15a .................61n120 Archilochus (West) frag. 173 ................................64 frags. 174–81 .........................64 frags. 185–87 .........................67n138 frag. 223 ................................109 Aristophanes Knights 11.......................................199n124 Wasps 1309–14.............................104 Wealth 1031–37.............................99n33 Aristotle Poetics 1448b15–17.......................13n5 Politics 1278a35–38 .......................36 Rhetoric 1378b32–35.......................36 1405a8–9 ...........................30 1405a34–b3 .......................263 1406b20–26.......................30 1410b17–20.......................12

297

298 BGU (Berliner griechische Urkunden) 2460....................................38n33 Catullus 62.39–65.............................105–6 Demetrius On Style 209..................................193 Demosthenes 9.44.....................................36n28 Empedocles (Inwood) 8/2.5 . .................................45n56 Euripides Hekabe 646..................................124n48 944..................................124n48 1215................................45n55 Medea 461–63............................38 554..................................38 560–61............................38 Eustathius 781.18.................................37 Herodotus 1.173.5................................36n28 3.48.3..................................59n112 7.161.3................................36n27 Hesiod and [Hesiod] Aspis 5–6..................................24n25 178–82............................33n19 303..................................122n45 386–91............................204 386–92............................253 407..................................122 421–23............................256n106 Theogony 41....................................109 43–44..............................109 68....................................109n1

Index Locorum 129–30............................196n116 185..................................23 195..................................44n51 327–32............................196n116 445..................................122 524..................................45 641..................................44 860..................................204n136 864–66............................204 901–6..............................60 Works and Days 37–39..............................74n162 62....................................111, 111n9 72–76..............................111 81–82..............................111 83....................................111 137–39............................51n80 202–12............................67n138 225–47............................74n162 243–45............................147 276–80............................52 282–84............................147 376–77............................147 377..................................45 394..................................45 510..................................204n136 585..................................122 589..................................122 604..................................123n45 634–40............................37 772–73............................45 795..................................123n45 Scholia: (Pertusi) ad 633–40 ...................37 Fragments (Merkelbach-West) 30 ...................................24n25 317 .................................44n52 Homer Iliad 1.2...................................111n8 1.25.................................143 1.34–35...........................155 1.37–42...........................155

Index Locorum 1.40–41....................... 122 1.85–91....................... 62n123 1.161–68..................... 35 1.163........................... 35n26 1.167–68..................... 35n26 1.199–200................... 81n177 1.213........................... 35n26 1.224........................... 52n82 1.232........................... 52n82 1.233–44..................... 62n123 1.247........................... 53 1.249........................... 44 1.265........................... 33, 33n19, 70n155, 112 1.268........................... 196n116 1.278–81..................... 33 1.283........................... 17 1.284........................... 136n78 1.303........................... 40n40 1.315–16..................... 122 1.361........................... 179n75 1.379........................... 143 1.380–81..................... 155 1.387........................... 43 1.500–16..................... 58 1.604........................... 109n1 2.38............................. 181 2.87–93....................... 18n12, 70 2.136–37..................... 128n55 2.144........................... 70n149 2.144–49..................... 127 2.169........................... 70n150 2.209–10..................... 127 2.235........................... 128 2.241........................... 42 2.241–42..................... 52n82 2.245........................... 61n121 2.253........................... 144n91 2.282........................... 127 2.286–88..................... 128 2.289–90..................... 127–29 2.291........................... 129n58

299 2.292–94..................... 129n58 2.297–98..................... 129, 129n58 2.333–34..................... 129 2.335........................... 127 2.337–38..................... 129–39, 181 2.338........................... 49 2.338–41..................... 133 2.354–56..................... 139 2.362–68..................... 133–39 2.368........................... 138–39 2.394–97..................... 216n14 2.455–83..................... 87n1 2.474........................... 122 2.478–79..................... 112 2.480........................... 114n19 2.594–600................... 51 2.611........................... 132 2.627........................... 70n150 2.718........................... 131 2.720........................... 131 2.732........................... 134n75 2.800........................... 262 2.807........................... 80n177 2.827........................... 84 3.2–7........................... 92 3.10–12....................... 92 3.10–14....................... 70n151 3.17............................. 202 3.21–37....................... 203–5 3.23............................. 63n127 3.23–24....................... 122 3.23–28....................... 122 3.33–36....................... 251n100 3.34–35....................... 204 3.39............................. 205 3.44–45....................... 205 3.50............................. 205 3.54............................. 205 3.55............................. 205 3.57............................. 13n7, 205 3.59............................. 54n89, 207 3.60–63....................... 207–9

300 Iliad (cont.) 3.64–65................ 206 3.65–66................ 206–7, 207n141 3.67–70................ 207 3.67–77................ 209 3.143.................... 116 3.150–53.............. 108–10 3.151.................... 134 3.151–53.............. 71 3.152.................... 114n21 3.155.................... 110n7 3.156–60.............. 110–13 3.158.................... 111n9, 111n10, 111–13, 119, 119n37 3.161–70.............. 117 3.163.................... 113n16 3.164.................... 113 3.166.................... 113n16 3.169.................... 113n16 3.170.................... 21, 74 3.171.................... 117 3.173.................... 119n37 3.184–90.............. 113n17 3.196–98.............. 113–14 3.197–98.............. 71 3.199–202............ 114 3.205.................... 114 3.213–15.............. 114 3.219.................... 114–15 3.221.................... 114n21 3.221–22.............. 114–16 3.223.................... 116 3.224.................... 237 3.229.................... 136n78 3.230.................... 118–19 3.234–35.............. 117 3.236–42.............. 119 3.245.................... 63n126 3.269.................... 63n126 3.382.................... 126 3.386–88.............. 21n20 3.386–98.............. 81n177 3.392–94.............. 126, 165

Index Locorum 3.439–40.............. 159n21 3.451–54.............. 121 4.23...................... 42 4.34–36................ 51, 51n82 4.51–56................ 51n80 4.59–60................ 198n122 4.86–87................ 21, 71 4.104.................... 77 4.105–8................ 122 4.105–11.............. 84n187 4.130–31.............. 182n81 4.140.................... 40n40 4.167.................... 40 4.176–82.............. 238n76 4.218.................... 131 4.241.................... 54 4.275–81.............. 240, 245n95 4.277–79.............. 41 4.297–300............ 135 4.303–10.............. 131 4.349–55.............. 54 4.394.................... 70n155, 112 4.394–400............ 33–34 4.403–10.............. 54 4.418.................... 65 4.433–36.............. 121n42, 245n95 4.435.................... 65 4.473–79.............. 232 4.482–89.............. 188n96, 247, 256–57 4.488–89.............. 257 4.527.................... 176 5.1–8.................... 228 5.4–7.................... 71 5.5–6.................... 183 5.37–38................ 228 5.49–56................ 231 5.51–52................ 134, 136 5.60...................... 132 5.65...................... 231n51 5.72...................... 231n51 5.78...................... 119n35

Index Locorum 5.79........................... 231n51 5.87–94..................... 91, 183 5.125–26................... 65 5.127–28................... 80n177 5.136–42................... 62n124 5.136–43................... 91, 123, 184 5.142......................... 63n127 5.143......................... 186 5.144–65................... 233 5.148–51................... 231 5.154......................... 146n98 5.155......................... 232n55 5.158......................... 147n104 5.159......................... 186 5.161–62................... 220n19 5.161–64................... 17, 70, 184, 199 5.164......................... 143 5.181–83................... 20, 82 5.185......................... 215n12 5.193–94................... 256 5.290......................... 80n177 5.299......................... 184–85 5.310......................... 40 5.311......................... 196 5.312–15................... 80n177 5.382–402................. 180n78 5.411......................... 135 5.428......................... 135 5.428–30................... 130 5.438......................... 185 5.459......................... 185 5.476......................... 185–87 5.487–88................... 187n94 5.493......................... 54n89, 185n91 5.522–27................... 91 5.537......................... 231n53 5.554–58................... 62n124 5.554–60................... 91 5.559......................... 232n56 5.561–62................... 177 5.597–600................. 91 5.604......................... 80n177 5.608......................... 131n63

301 5.610–11................... 177 5.615......................... 229, 231n53 5.624......................... 136 5.642......................... 50 5.659......................... 40 5.677–78................... 234n62 5.717......................... 215n12 5.761......................... 77 5.770–72................... 70 5.798......................... 40n40 5.831......................... 215n12 5.864–67................... 91 5.889......................... 199n124 6.5–6......................... 136n78 6.12–19..................... 232 6.21–26..................... 197n116 6.27–28..................... 231n51 6.59–60..................... 239 6.93–95..................... 178 6.132......................... 215n12 6.140......................... 112 6.146–49................... 11 6.205......................... 50 6.294......................... 214 6.326......................... 42 6.333......................... 54n89 6.339......................... 207n141 6.355–58................... 236n70 6.388–89................... 20n16, 71 6.389......................... 216n12 6.390–93................... 50 6.401......................... 70n153 6.405......................... 170 6.408......................... 128n57 6.417–20................... 238n76 6.432......................... 128n57 6.442–46................... 136 6.446......................... 235 6.455......................... 167n48, 171n59 6.480–81................... 136 6.484–93................... 179 6.489......................... 133

302

Index Locorum

Iliad (cont.) 6.492–93.............. 130 6.515–16.............. 176 6.516.................... 60 6.518.................... 176 6.520–23.............. 126 7.63–66................ 70 7.70...................... 65 7.89–90................ 238n76 7.89–91................ 235 7.96...................... 128 7.105.................... 137 7.136–50.............. 84 7.151.................... 219n17 7.197–98.............. 115n22, 131 7.210.................... 53 7.211.................... 136n78 7.235–36.............. 48n69, 127 7.236–43.............. 131 7.240.................... 132n69 7.241.................... 165 7.301.................... 53 7.328–30.............. 40 7.366.................... 70n150 7.426–28.............. 170n53 7.451–53.............. 239n79 8.66...................... 45 8.77...................... 205n137 8.131.................... 240 8.182–83.............. 45n57, 47 8.194–95.............. 84n188 8.273–77.............. 234n62 8.305.................... 111, 112 8.306–8................ 94 8.331.................... 175 8.338–40.............. 62n124 8.339.................... 177 8.350–56.............. 179n73 8.360.................... 215n12 8.412.................... 176

9.14–16................ 172 9.48–49................ 236 9.116–17.............. 55n92 9.140.................... 214 9.155.................... 119n35 9.189.................... 67 9.238.................... 216n12 9.243.................... 47 9.261.................... 43 9.282.................... 214 9.297.................... 119n35 9.302.................... 119n35, 178n71 9.312.................... 54 9.318–19.............. 133 9.316–20.............. 145 9.321–45.............. 35 9.323–27.............. 141–45, 182 9.323–36.............. 141 9.325–37.............. 142 9.327.................... 143 9.344–45.............. 145 9.431.................... 140n86 9.437.................... 146 9.440.................... 146 9.440–43.............. 132 9.444.................... 146 9.451–52.............. 58 9.481–82.............. 146–49, 147n105 9.485.................... 32n16, 70n155 9.486–91.............. 146 9.494.................... 32n16, 70n155 9.494–95.............. 146 9.524–26.............. 68 9.525.................... 43 9.551.................... 144 9.554.................... 43 9.565.................... 43 9.566–72.............. 159 9.590–91.............. 58 9.603.................... 119n35 9.630.................... 34 9.642.................... 34

Index Locorum 9.646.................... 52n82 9.646–47.............. 43 9.647–48.............. 34–39 9.648.................... 196n113 9.649.................... 35 9.650–53.............. 68 10.5–9.................. 116n24, 190n99 10.10.................... 219 10.25.................... 204 10.30.................... 202 10.33.................... 119n35 10.54.................... 175 10.95.................... 204, 219 10.121–23............ 138 10.137–45............ 183n83 10.175–76............ 178 10.261.................. 84n189 10.267–70............ 84n189 10.324.................. 55n92 10.350.................. 138 10.360.................. 122n45 10.376.................. 205 10.436.................. 214 10.485–86............ 123 10.486.................. 63 11.19–28.............. 84 11.56–73.............. 87n1 11.58.................... 119n35 11.60.................... 32, 70n155, 112 11.61–73.............. 221 11.62–65.............. 213 11.72.................... 267 11.84.................... 45 11.86–89.............. 204 11.101–9.............. 232 11.113–21............ 245n96, 257n109 11.126.................. 231n54 11.138–42............ 116 11.142.................. 52n82 11.155–58............ 216 11.167.................. 176

303 11.172–78............ 199 11.173.................. 214 11.231.................. 231n53 11.292.................. 123n45 11.292–93............ 62n124, 186 11.292–95............ 70, 120, 243n90, 245, 246 11.295.................. 122, 187n95 11.297–98............ 71 11.299–305.......... 234 11.324–25............ 120 11.328–34............ 230 11.352–53............ 84 11.356.................. 40 11.362–67............ 159n21 11.378–83............ 120–21 11.380.................. 126 11.383.................. 121–24, 186n93 11.385–90............ 124–25 11.389.................. 125–26, 127 11.393–94............ 126 11.399–400.......... 124 11.404–10............ 252 11.408.................. 133 11.413.................. 252 11.414–20............ 243n90, 252–53 11.466–68............ 20n16 11.473–86............ 254–55 11.475.................. 255 11.481.................. 255 11.482.................. 255 11.483–84............ 255 11.486.................. 255 11.489–91............ 234n62 11.548–49............ 186 11.548–55............ 62n124, 123 11.555.................. 63n127 11.558–65............ 245n94 11.596.................. 70n149 11.604.................. 187n95 11.609–10............ 181 11.617.................. 175 11.638.................. 111, 112

304

Index Locorum

Iliad (cont.) 11.665–66..............178 11.678....................122 11.710....................132n67 11.719....................131 11.720–21..............136n77 11.737–62..............236 11.747....................39–42 11.761....................39 11.784....................39 11.794–803............39 11.798....................83 11.798–800............82–85 11.814....................178 11.814–18..............178n71 11.829–30..............40 11.830–31..............138n80 11.838–41..............178 11.845....................40n40 12.37–39................243 12.40......................240 12.41–48................62n124 12.41–50................243 12.67......................65 12.70......................195n111 12.100....................131 12.130....................187 12.131–37..............156n17, 187–88 12.133....................191 12.146–53..............189 12.147....................191 12.150....................189, 191 12.155....................191 12.155–56..............189 12.156–60..............115, 189–90 12.162....................190n101 12.164–66..............190 12.167–72..............156n17, 182, 191–92 12.169–70..............191 12.173....................191n101 12.176....................119n35

12.200–29..............151 12.278–89..............115, 190 12.279....................204 12.284....................205 12.293....................220n19 12.299–308............123 12.300....................63n127 12.302....................63n127 12.312....................119n35 12.375....................40, 41 12.385–86..............161 12.389....................59n110 12.421–52..............220n20 12.428....................59n110 12.435....................144, 182 12.463....................70n150 13.45......................80 13.62–65................18, 144n93, 244 13.68–72................81n177 13.88......................170n52 13.140–42..............177 13.177....................231n53 13.178–80..............15, 188n96 13.198–99..............122 13.198–202............199 13.218....................119n35 13.223....................132 13.227....................195n111 13.292....................48n69 13.292–93..............201 13.299–300............208 13.313–14..............135 13.347–50..............223n24 13.361–70..............232 13.389–93..............246 13.427–44..............231 13.471–77..............93n13, 243, 246 13.491–95..............249 13.492....................114 13.493–95..............93n13 13.512–14..............132 13.513....................132n69

Index Locorum 13.571–73..............5, 247, 258 13.580....................40 13.588–92..............246 13.589–90..............209 13.646....................229n46 13.654....................240 13.658....................170n52 13.671....................232n55 13.673....................70n149 13.727–34..............131n62 13.754....................240 13.795–801............70, 248 13.802....................187n95 14.11......................85n190 14.70......................195n111 14.109–32..............236n71 14.136....................12n2 14.216–17..............60n114 14.231....................18n15 14.260....................57 14.366–67..............223n24 14.376–77..............137n80 14.382....................137n80 14.394–401............201n128 14.397....................204n136 14.414–18..............256n106 14.437....................40n40 14.439....................40 14.446....................231n51 14.472–74..............20n17, 71 14.493....................232n55 14.499....................70n149 14.508–22..............228 15.12......................225n33 15.44......................178, 178n71 15.68......................46, 52n82 15.72–77................223n24 15.90......................5, 19 15.90–91................71 15.122....................47n65 15.128....................215n12

305 15.170–72..............116, 190n99 15.174–83..............116 15.203–4................116 15.204....................198n122 15.237–38..............241 15.238....................192n104 15.243–47..............81n177 15.263–69..............241 15.271–76..............122 15.271–80..............100 15.282....................132 15.282–83..............135 15.283–84..............135n76 15.323–26..............100, 123 15.324....................214 15.328–42..............228 15.372–75..............191n102 15.411–12..............131 15.433....................232n55 15.440–41..............84 15.508....................165 15.525....................131n63 15.528....................229n46 15.575–83..............250 15.579–93..............220n20 15.586....................12n2 15.586–88..............123n47 15.605–6................215 15.618–22..............216–18, 245n96 15.624–29..............219 15.630–38..............123, 219 15.638–56..............220 15.644....................231n53 15.679....................131 15.690–93..............144n93, 192, 244n93 16.2........................180 16.2–11..................165–82 16.3–4....................93n13, 173 16.5........................177–79 16.6........................166n46

306 Iliad (cont.) 16.7............................174 16.7–11......................173–76, 180–82 16.8............................181 16.11..........................174 16.17–18....................181 16.20..........................173 16.22..........................183 16.30..........................34 16.30–31....................183 16.40..........................83 16.56–59....................34–39 16.59..........................37n29 16.60..........................35 16.60–63....................34 16.71–72....................196 16.71–73....................181 16.87–90....................82 16.95–96....................136n78 16.97–100..................236 16.140–44..................83 16.142–44..................84 16.156–66..................93n13, 262 16.157........................65 16.161........................65 16.162–63..................65 16.242–45..................82 16.243........................132 16.245........................216n12 16.259–67..................182, 191, 208 16.278–83..................83 16.306–50..................228 16.312........................59n110 16.352........................65, 66 16.352–56..................93 16.354........................65, 138 16.355........................65 16.359–61..................131 16.373........................63, 65 16.384........................40n39 16.384–93..................93 16.393........................175

Index Locorum 16.400........................59n110 16.407........................162 16.415–18..................234n62 16.423–25..................83 16.476........................53 16.482–85..................188n96, 247 16.485–88..................123 16.543........................83 16.577........................229n46 16.582–85..................244n93 16.597........................231n51 16.605........................119n35 16.606........................232n55 16.617........................165 16.618........................165n44 16.626–31..................49n70, 201 16.633–34..................204 16.656........................65 16.667........................40n40 16.672........................18n15 16.692–97..................234n62 16.724........................83 16.734–43..................160 16.734–50..................114 16.742–43..................156, 156n17 16.742–70..................87n1 16.744........................161n28 16.745–50..................156, 156n17, 160–65 16.753........................189 16.756–58..................211 16.766........................204n136 16.809–11..................132 16.823–28..................93n13, 200, 211 16.825........................63n127 16.866........................200 17.4–5........................198–200 17.4–6........................92, 185 17.7............................198 17.13..........................200 17.17..........................200

Index Locorum 17.19–23................. 200–1 17.26–32................. 201 17.51–52................. 112 17.53–60................. 41 17.61–69................. 184, 186 17.61–137............... 220n20 17.75....................... 175 17.88–89................. 240n82 17.112..................... 124 17.132–37............... 92, 199, 200 17.139..................... 44 17.141..................... 62n121 17.143..................... 133n72 17.156–57............... 65 17.166–68............... 133 17.169–82............... 54 17.179–82............... 133 17.194–97............... 84 17.203..................... 219n17 17.275..................... 220 17.281–85............... 18n12, 71, 243n90, 253 17.303..................... 232n56 17.309..................... 232n55 17.333–34............... 81n177 17.338..................... 81n177 17.346–47............... 177 17.352–53............... 177 17.366..................... 70n149 17.389–95............... 245n95 17.437–39............... 168 17.460..................... 144n93, 244n93 17.475–78............... 24 17.487..................... 134 17.518–23............... 257–58 17.555..................... 80 17.574–78............... 231 17.582–83............... 21n20, 71 17.586–88............... 220 17.630..................... 242 17.631–32............... 133 17.657..................... 124 17.657–64............... 123

307 17.657–66............... 17, 245 17.673–81............... 144, 192, 244–45 17.691..................... 175 17.695–96............... 167, 170 17.725–34............... 243n90, 245n96, 253 17.725–57............... 87n1 17.727..................... 175 17.733–34............... 205 17.737–39............... 216 17.742–43............... 161 17.747–51............... 216–18, 245 17.755–59............... 18, 72, 244n93 18.1......................... 70n149 18.17....................... 167, 170n53 18.32....................... 167, 170n52 18.56–57................. 262 18.66....................... 167n48, 171n59 18.73....................... 179n75 18.84....................... 84 18.109–11............... 42–48 18.112..................... 46n60, 48n67 18.161–64............... 123 18.167..................... 175 18.204–14............... 47n63 18.207..................... 45 18.234–35............... 168 18.318–22............... 63 18.395–97............... 159 18.419..................... 55n92 18.437–38............... 262 18.444–60............... 151 18.548..................... 23 18.577–86............... 123 18.590–92............... 23 18.590–606............. 164 18.593–94............... 59n112 18.603–4................. 164 18.616..................... 240n82

308

Index Locorum

Iliad (cont.) 19.16....................... 43, 52n82 19.16–17................. 46 19.58....................... 53 19.208..................... 52n82 19.229..................... 171n58 19.250..................... 112 19.282..................... 111 19.286..................... 111, 112 19.301..................... 172 19.323–24............... 169 19.338..................... 172 19.340–48............... 179n73 19.350–51............... 241 19.350–86............... 87n1 19.357–61............... 115, 190n99 19.375–78............... 163 19.386..................... 70n151 19.398..................... 213 20.46....................... 187n95 20.51....................... 40 20.51–52................. 41 20.81....................... 80 20.89–92................. 196 20.106..................... 55n92 20.158–404............. 233n61 20.164–73............... 62n124, 63 20.164–75............... 243 20.178–98............... 48 20.200–1................. 48 20.211–12............... 48 20.233..................... 214 20.244..................... 48 20.251–55............... 49–54 20.264–66............... 181 20.368..................... 137 20.381–87............... 230 20.384–85............... 197n116 20.403–6................. 241, 247n98 20.413..................... 230n48 20.431..................... 48n69 20.434–37............... 137

20.450–52............... 159n21 20.455–89............... 233 20.465..................... 178 20.490–93............... 216 21.12–15................. 245n95 21.37–38................. 256 21.49....................... 225n33, 230n48 21.50....................... 59n110 21.74....................... 57, 178 21.117–18............... 59n110 21.123–27............... 238 21.133–34............... 52n82 21.144..................... 231n53 21.167..................... 40n40 21.249..................... 41 21.251–54............... 192 21.256–64............... 193–94 21.262–63............... 193n105 21.272..................... 194n107 21.275–81............... 194 21.281..................... 195 21.282–83............... 194–97 21.312..................... 196 21.318–23............... 194n108 21.388–90............... 180n78 21.460..................... 144 21.462–66............... 262 21.493..................... 167n48, 171n59 21.493–96............... 244n93 21.496..................... 171n59 21.506..................... 171n59, 180n78 21.507–8................. 180n78 21.522–25............... 47, 259 21.573–80............... 246, 250–51 22.22–24................. 241 22.25–32................. 93, 213, 259 22.28....................... 214 22.79....................... 170 22.83....................... 57 22.86–89................. 238 22.92–96................. 251

Index Locorum 22.93–96................17, 93 22.110....................194 22.111–12..............57 22.123–24..............57, 178 22.123–28..............55–61 22.126....................55n92 22.127–28..............92 22.127–64..............87n1 22.129....................60 22.132....................187n95 22.136....................204 22.139–43..............144, 244n93 22.146....................176 22.151–52..............190n99 22.158....................137, 175 22.161....................175 22.192....................175 22.201....................137 22.227....................80 22.241....................219n17 22.262–66..............62–69, 92 22.279....................32n16, 70n155 22.282....................132n67 22.288....................252n101 22.304–5................235 22.308–10..............192, 213, 244n93, 271 22.309....................213n5 22.317–18..............213–15 22.320–37..............137 22.335–36..............239 22.344....................52n83 22.346–47..............52n83 22.394....................119n35 22.408....................169n51 22.410–11..............18 22.417....................57 22.418....................57n98 22.419....................57n101, 178 22.429....................172 22.434....................119n35 22.450....................117 22.460....................15, 19, 216n12

309 22.466....................40 22.476–514............117 22.484....................128n57 22.491....................171n56 22.492–98..............143 22.494....................178 22.498–99..............128 22.499....................144, 167n48, 171n56, 171n59 22.500–1................143 22.515....................172 23.31......................121 23.80......................70n155 23.85–90................56n98 23.100....................45 23.105–7................20n17 23.110....................169n51 23.224–25..............172 23.289....................134 23.307–9................131 23.320....................139 23.372....................13n7 23.429–30..............20n16 23.479....................134n75 23.534–38..............179 23.546....................134 23.629–43..............237 23.759–64..............158 23.761....................158 23.763....................175 23.763–64..............158 23.766....................175 23.770–77..............157 23.782–83..............159–60 23.816–21..............132n69 24.19......................178 24.23–24................179n73 24.29......................124 24.33–34................53n86 24.34......................122 24.56–63................137

310

Index Locorum

Iliad (cont.) 24.56–70..................... 53 24.80–82..................... 71 24.152......................... 130 24.157......................... 77 24.170......................... 204 24.182–83................... 81n177 24.186......................... 77 24.207......................... 57n101, 178 24.212–14................... 51 24.218......................... 176 24.261......................... 165 24.283......................... 17 24.301......................... 178 24.309......................... 179n72 24.332–38................... 179n73 24.347–48................... 81n177 24.375–77................... 81n177 24.387–88................... 81n177 24.480–83................... 260, 265n12 24.486......................... 70n155 24.503......................... 57 24.504......................... 179n72 24.516–51................... 179 24.572......................... 240 24.584......................... 42 24.594......................... 35n26 24.614–17................... 219n16 24.699......................... 111 24.700......................... 50n78 24.725......................... 128n57 24.770......................... 148 24.794......................... 168 Scholia: (Erbse) bT ad 3.24a ............. 204n134 bT ad 3.60............... 209 T ad 3.158b............. 112 b ad 3.222a1 ........... 115 bT ad 3.230b........... 119n38 bT ad 4.482............. 223 bT ad 5.136–40....... 184n86

A ad 7.198a1 ........... 115n22 bT ad 9.481–2......... 147 bT ad 11.383b......... 121 T ad 12.129. 130.130a ............. 187n95 A ad 14.216–7a ....... 60n114 T ad 15.605–6......... 215 T ad 15.624–5......... 219n15 bT ad 16.59b........... 37n29 bT ad 16.748c ......... 161n31 bT ad 17.4b............. 198 T ad 17.5b1............. 198 A ad 18.110a ........... 45 A ad 20.251–5a1 ..... 49n72 bT ad 21.282f ......... 196 A ad 22.123b .......... 56 T ad 22.262............. 64 T ad 22.263a ........... 63 T ad 22.309............. 214n5 bT ad 22.318c ......... 214 T ad 23.783b........... 159n22 Odyssey 1.4............................... 111n8 1.14–15....................... 115 1.18............................. 266 1.58............................. 45 1.236–41..................... 195 1.239–40..................... 238n76 1.315........................... 176 1.331........................... 116 1.336–44..................... 117 1.358–59..................... 130 1.360–61..................... 54n89 1.371........................... 112 2.46–47....................... 74n162 2.47............................. 148 2.56............................. 122 2.61............................. 132n67 2.90............................. 237n74 2.94–110..................... 158 2.109........................... 237n74

Index Locorum 2.119–22.............. 24 2.121–22.............. 71 2.180.................... 134n75 2.203.................... 144n91 2.281–82.............. 138n83 2.297.................... 80n177 2.300.................... 122 2.315.................... 44 2.334.................... 148 2.401.................... 80n177 3.72–74................ 163 3.92...................... 57n101 3.96–98................ 57n101 3.111–12.............. 208 3.124–25.............. 20n17 3.218–22.............. 159 3.256–61.............. 239n77 3.309–10.............. 238n76 3.337.................... 80n177 3.345.................... 176 4.14...................... 112n11 4.17–19................ 164 4.113–14.............. 168n50 4.123–34.............. 117 4.138–46.............. 118n31 4.141–44.............. 20n17 4.148.................... 20n17 4.160.................... 119, 119n35 4.224–49.............. 71 4.227–30.............. 138n80 4.231–232............ 132 4.242–64.............. 237n73 4.244–49.............. 22 4.250.................... 80 4.270–71.............. 79 4.278.................... 118n31 4.278–79.............. 79–81 4.282–89.............. 79 4.322.................... 57n101 4.326–28.............. 57n101 4.332–586............ 237n73

311 4.364.................... 179 4.370–76.............. 81n177 4.456–57.............. 201n128 4.522–23.............. 168, 170 4.584.................... 195, 238n76 4.614.................... 214n8 4.670–71.............. 195n112 4.687–95.............. 74n162 4.708–9................ 13n7 4.710.................... 195n112 4.719.................... 179n74, 199n124 4.727–28.............. 195n112 4.791–92.............. 62n124 4.791–93.............. 243 4.820.................... 219 5.12...................... 148 5.36...................... 119n35 5.62...................... 158 5.151–58.............. 170 5.203–20.............. 115 5.245.................... 132 5.249–50.............. 132 5.311.................... 195, 238n76 5.312.................... 195 5.328–30.............. 246 5.333.................... 179 5.394–98.............. 246 6.16...................... 111, 112, 112n12 6.18...................... 112n11 6.84...................... 117 6.102–9................ 265 6.119–21.............. 23n23 6.130–34.............. 184 6.135–36.............. 58n109 6.148.................... 76 6.151–52.............. 265 6.157–63.............. 58 6.176.................... 57 6.181.................... 65 6.187–88.............. 76–77 6.188–89.............. 76

312

Index Locorum

Odyssey (cont.) 6.190....................... 76, 206 6.198....................... 76 6.207–8................... 76 6.218–23................. 77 6.231....................... 71 6.233....................... 131n65 6.240–41................. 21n18 6.243....................... 21n18, 112 6.244–45................. 21n18, 115 7.5........................... 112 7.11......................... 119n35 7.22–26................... 81n177 7.71......................... 119n35 7.108....................... 131n65 7.291....................... 111, 112 7.292–94................. 138n83 7.311–15................. 115 7.331–33................. 115 8.14......................... 112 8.17–18................... 154 8.81......................... 252 8.92–95................... 172 8.133–34................. 134 8.146....................... 134 8.158....................... 77 8.159–60................. 134 8.159–64................. 78, 163 8.165–66................. 78 8.165–85................. 54 8.173....................... 119n35 8.174–75................. 70n153 8.174–77................. 78n173 8.208–11................. 77 8.214....................... 134 8.214–15................. 134 8.216–18................. 134 8.219....................... 84n188 8.224–25................. 32n17 8.370–84................. 164 8.453....................... 119n35

8.457....................... 112n11 8.467....................... 119n35, 119n36 8.494–95................. 235n68 8.502....................... 235n68 8.517–18................. 235n68 8.518....................... 156 8.522–34................. 172 8.523–31.................... 156, 158, 265n11 8.530....................... 169n51 8.531....................... 169n51 9.39–46................... 153 9.49–50................... 132 9.51......................... 264 9.56......................... 45 9.68......................... 41n43 9.116–39................. 122 9.118–19................. 122 9.124....................... 122 9.167....................... 121 9.174–76................. 23n23 9.239....................... 122n44 9.244....................... 121 9.341....................... 121 9.361....................... 138 9.383–88................. 245n95, 264 9.506....................... 190n101 9.534–35................. 144 10.93....................... 44n51 10.99....................... 45 10.113..................... 23 10.119–20............... 23 10.124..................... 162 10.201..................... 170n54 10.216–19............... 264 10.226..................... 158 10.231..................... 115 10.247–48............... 170n55 10.257..................... 115 10.258–60............... 155 10.282..................... 115 10.317..................... 65

Index Locorum 10.333–35................ 58 10.378...................... 20n16, 71 10.409...................... 168, 179n74 10.410–15................ 158, 198n121, 246, 264 10.415...................... 167n48 10.425–27................ 179n74 10.432–33................ 155 10.435...................... 124 10.454...................... 172 10.458–59................ 163 10.475...................... 54n89 11.43........................ 205n137 11.55........................ 171n56 11.59........................ 191n101 11.74–78.................. 238n76 11.87........................ 171n56 11.114–15................ 144 11.195...................... 44 11.202–4.................. 159 11.222...................... 264 11.272...................... 115 11.322...................... 33n19 11.344...................... 55n92 11.352...................... 130n61 11.363–69................ 54 11.368...................... 267 11.391...................... 167, 168, 170, 174 11.395...................... 171n56 11.411...................... 264 11.484...................... 119n35 11.484–85................ 119 11.489–91................ 196n113 11.529...................... 204 11.537...................... 215n12 11.606...................... 40 11.608...................... 20 11.611–12................ 196n116 11.631...................... 33n19 12.41........................ 115

313 12.86........................ 70 12.95........................ 162 12.116–26................ 131n62 12.141...................... 144 12.165–200.............. 79 12.189–90................ 109 12.192...................... 109 12.251–55................ 162, 264 12.313...................... 41n43 12.374–90................ 154 12.400...................... 41 12.407...................... 41 12.425...................... 41n43 12.433...................... 264 13.80........................ 18, 18n15 13.88........................ 175 13.156...................... 219n16 13.157...................... 219n16 13.163...................... 219n16 13.200–2.................. 23n23 13.231 ........................ 119n35, 119n36 13.238–41................ 195n111 13.289...................... 131 13.301...................... 266 13.312–13................ 21n20 13.322–23................ 81n177 14.66........................ 45 14.101–6.................. 122 14.104...................... 134 14.156–57................ 54 14.180–82................ 195n112 14.205...................... 118, 119n35 14.220...................... 132n69 14.229–34................ 164 14.229–359.............. 75n163 14.276–80................ 57 14.279...................... 57n103, 178 14.289...................... 163n37 14.323–26................ 163n37 14.365–71................ 195 14.369–70................ 238n76

314

Index Locorum

Odyssey (cont.) 14.378–89..............54 14.388–89..............57n101 14.511....................57n101 15.72–73................176 15.114....................214n8 15.152....................148 15.181....................119n35, 119n36 15.413–14..............34n23 15.414....................70n155 15.416....................163n37 15.517....................158 15.520....................119n35 15.557....................134 16.17–21................148 16.19......................148 16.155–66..............81n177 16.183....................21n18 16.200....................21, 112 16.214....................170n52 16.216–19..............90, 169n51 16.219–20..............168 16.272–73..............22n21 16.288–90..............47n63 16.413....................117 16.418–33..............117 16.441....................40n40 16.446....................219n17 17.33......................167n48, 171 17.37......................111 17.38......................167n48, 171 17.40......................171 17.111–12..............148 17.180....................122 17.213....................122 17.246....................134 17.294....................122 17.340–41..............132 17.363–66..............268 17.367....................178

17.383–85..............208n145 17.394....................143 17.414....................74n161 17.415–16..............74–75 17.419–44..............75n163 17.425....................164 17.489....................44 17.500....................18 17.511....................20n16 17.518–21..............267 17.596....................65 18.27......................270 18.29......................270, 270n33 18.79–81................219 18.105–7................270n33 18.142....................206 18.207....................116 18.215–25..............117 18.226....................54n89 18.227....................51 18.232....................65 18.406–7................216n12 19.54......................111 19.103....................270n32 19.108–14..............27, 265, 266n13, 270n32 19.109–14..............74n162 19.113....................161, 162 19.272–95..............163n37 19.280....................119n35 19.283–86..............163n37 19.362....................170 19.380–81..............20n17 19.383–85..............20n17 19.428–58..............196n116 19.457....................40n40, 132 19.508....................270n32 19.518–24..............27, 270n32 19.543....................179n74 19.548–49..............192n103 19.601....................117

Index Locorum 20.5.............................. 65 20.13–16...................... 185n89, 199, 245n96 20.70–71...................... 112n11 20.87–90...................... 20, 71 20.169.......................... 52n82 20.174.......................... 122 20.191.......................... 21n19 20.194–96.................... 21n19 20.204–5...................... 171 20.215.......................... 219n17 20.227.......................... 15, 76 20.232–34.................... 76 20.235–37.................... 76 20.353.......................... 171 21.11–41...................... 84 21.14............................ 32n17, 70n155 21.37............................ 32n17, 70n155 21.64............................ 117 21.68–79...................... 117 21.82–83...................... 171n57 21.124–35.................... 268n27 21.184–245.................. 270n30 21.279–80.................... 269 21.322–23.................... 269 21.336–42.................... 270 21.352.......................... 130n61 21.404–9...................... 267 22.205–10.................... 80 22.224.......................... 50 22.233–38.................... 246 22.299–308.................. 271 22.302–8...................... 244n93, 245n95 22.312.......................... 57, 178 22.344.......................... 57n101, 178 22.349.......................... 119n35, 119n36

315 22.384–89.................... 161, 162 22.426.......................... 45 22.465–73.................... 95 23.160.......................... 131n65 23.174–80.................... 269n27 23.184–204.................. 237n73 23.215–17.................... 54 23.233–39.................... 246, 265, 266n13 23.272.......................... 13n7 23.339.......................... 119n35 23.356–58.................... 143 24.30–34...................... 195 24.32–33...................... 238n76 24.36............................ 32n16, 70n155 24.45–46...................... 168 24.59............................ 179n74 24.60............................ 109n1 24.106.......................... 40 24.125–90.................... 237n74 24.196–202.................. 67 24.230–33.................... 44 24.240.......................... 75 24.250.......................... 144 24.251–55.................... 75 24.257.......................... 75 24.371.......................... 112 24.426–38.................... 178n72 24.427–28.................... 136 24.454–62.................... 178n72 24.465–66.................... 178n72 24.502–4...................... 80 24.515.......................... 268n27 24.537–38.................... 192 24.538.......................... 271 Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite 74..................................... 196n116 91–99............................... 81n177 124................................... 196n116

316 Homeric Hymn to Apollo 161–64.................................. 79 166–76.................................. 153 189........................................ 109n1 307........................................ 52 Homeric Hymn to Demeter 83.......................................... 53 147–48.................................. 206 149........................................ 117n31 216–17.................................. 206 251........................................ 53n85 310–13.................................. 51 350........................................ 47n65 351–54.................................. 51 Homeric Hymn to Hermes 55–56.................................... 246 58.......................................... 60 66–67.................................... 246 286–88.................................. 204 Homeric Hymns 14.4–5................................... 196n116 23.3....................................... 60 26.7....................................... 196n116 27.18..................................... 109 Hyginus Fabulae 110.................................... 61n120 Lucian Juppiter Tragoedus 1........................................ 205n137 Pseudologos 1........................................ 109n5 Lycophron Alexandra 307–13.............................. 61n120 Margites (West) frag. 5.................................... 69 Ovid Metamorphoses 11.762–63......................... 197n116

Index Locorum P.Oxy. (Oxyrhynchus Papyri) 487........................................ 38 889........................................ 38n33 3393...................................... 38 P.Tebt. (Tebtunis Papyri) 439........................................ 38n33 Panyassis (Bernabé) Heraklea frag. 33.............................. 70n156 Pausanias 7.1.6...................................... 36 Pindar Isthmian 1 47–51................................ 162 Paean 8a ................................ 124n48 Plato Euthydemos 294e2–4 ............................ 164n41 Symposium 215a6–b4 .......................... 30 Theaetetus 151c4–5 ............................ 198n122 Poetae Melici Graeci 857........................................ 164 892........................................ 64 893........................................ 103–4 895........................................ 103–4 896........................................ 104 904........................................ 103n39 905........................................ 103n39 Porphyry ad Il. (Schrader) 1.1..................................... 223 Quaestionum Homericarum Liber 1 (Sodano) p. 71.18–20....................... 45n54 Proclus (Bernabé) Aithiopis arg. 6–8 ............................. 61n120 Cypria arg. 7 ................................. 124 arg. 39–40 ......................... 61n120 arg. 59–60 ......................... 61n120

Index Locorum Little Iliad arg. 10–11 .......................... 84n188 Sappho (Campbell) frag. 104(b) ........................... 214 Servius Aeneid 1.474.................................. 61n120 Sophocles Philoktetes 800–2................................. 84n188 Strabo 7.1.3....................................... 37 17.3.15................................... 37 Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum 15.517 A (E1) II 35–38........... 109

317 Thucydides 1.76.2..................................... 55n92 Vergil Aeneid 4.441–46............................ 188n97 9.679–82............................ 188n97 9.702–16............................ 188n97 Eclogues 3.80–83.............................. 104n43 7.37–44.............................. 104–5 Xenophon Symposium 5.5...................................... 30n8 6.10.................................... 30

Index of Names, Subjects, and Greek Words

Achaians, as tenor of a simile, 127–39, 216–18, 219–20 Achilleus absence from Iliad’s story, 222 simile spoken by, 34–39, 42–48, 61–69, 140–45, 173–82, 194–97 as tenor of a simile, 34–39, 48, 49–54, 62–69, 140–45, 192, 193–97, 213–15, 250–51 Adamas, as tenor of a simile, 247 Agamemnon simile spoken by, 33–34 as tenor of a simile, 172–73 Agenor, as tenor of a simile, 250–51 aguia (street), 50 Aias, as tenor of a simile, 247, 254–55, 256–57 aidris (ignorant), 115 aiges (goats), 122 Aineias simile spoken by, 48–54 as tenor of a simile, 48, 49–54, 184–85, 249 aiskhron (shameful), 129 Alden, Maureen, 56 Anhalt, Emily, 27 Antenor comparison spoken by, 115 simile spoken by, 115–16 Antilochos, as tenor of a simile, 249–50

318

Antinoos, as tenor of a likeness, 74–75 aphradiê polemoio (senselessness in war), 138–39 aphrôn (senseless), 77 Ares, connected to wind, 216 Aretos, as tenor of a simile, 257–58 Asios simile spoken by, 190–92 as tenor of a simile, 246 atarbêtos (unswerving), 207 Athena, as tenor of a simile, 159–60 atimêtos (dishonored), 38 attendance motif, 117 Austin, Norman, 39, 262 Automedon, as tenor of a simile, 257–58 Bakker, Egbert, 152–53, 181, 223–24, 229–31, 264 Bauman, Richard, 31 Beck, Deborah, 211, 225, 270 Bergren, Ann, 92, 100 Bernardete, Seth, 239 Beye, Charles, 266, 271 Bourdieu, Pierre, 30 Bowra, Cecil, 12 Buxton, Richard, 12, 161 Cairns, Douglas, 129 Carsten, Janet, 143

Index of Names, Subjects, and Greek Words character-text and narrator-text, cross-references between, 150–55 competitive dynamics of, 151–53, 155 Clarke, Michael, 63, 90 Clay, Jenny Strauss, 52 Collins, Derek, 29, 104 comparison(s) concerning another’s mental or physical condition, 19–20 concerning another’s name and/or identity, 20–21 concerning disguise, 21–22 definition of, 15 and literal similarity claims, 22–25 range of, 19–25 Cook, Erwin, 265 crying, 167–71 determining the extent of, 167–69 formulaic system for, 167 and groaning, 172 and a scale of emotional expression, 169–71 dancing, and war, 164–65 de Jong, Irene, 95, 150–51, 152, 153, 154–55, 156, 225–26, 259 Di Benedetto, Vincenzo, 160 didômi (to give), 83–85 Diomedes simile spoken by, 125–26 as tenor of a simile, 124, 183–84, 185, 186 Doherty, Lillian, 268 Dougherty, Carol, 163 drowning, death by, 194–95 Dué, Casey, 141–42 Edmunds, Lowell, 181 Edwards, Mark, 199, 261 Edwards, Walter, 103 enaulos (torrent/riverbed), 196–97 epic, paradigmatic value of, 67–69 epistamai (to know), 132 Erbse, Hartmut, 12

319

Erdener, Yildiray, 101–2 essumenos (eager), 175–77 eu mala (expertly), 158 Euryalos likeness spoken by, 77–78 as tenor of a likeness, 78 fable, 63–69 blaming function of, 66 distance from epic, 68–69 men and lions in, 64 wolves and sheep in, 66 Fenik, Bernard, 89 figure, definition of, 14 fishing boats, 162–63 Folb, Edith, 102–3 Foley, Helene, 27, 265 Fränkel, Hermann, 241 Gaca, Kathy, 174–77 Giordano, Manuela, 56–57 gnomai; see Nausikaa and Paris Gottesman, Alex, 31 Gould, John, 56 Griffin, Jasper, 166, 194, 238 Hainsworth, Bryan, 141, 187, 191 Heiden, Bruce, 260 Hektor linked with culture, 208 his mental apparatus as tenor of a simile, 207–9 simile spoken by, 55–61 as tenor of a simile, 58–59, 62–69, 185–87, 213, 215, 218–20, 242–43, 251 Helen as authoritative speaker, 117–18 simile spoken by, 118–19 as tenor of a likeness, 79–81 as tenor of a simile, 110–13 herdsmen, low status of, 196 Hesk, Jon, 99–100

320

Index of Names, Subjects, and Greek Words

household, perpetuation of, 142–43, 147, 148–49 Hubbard, Thomas, 92 hupotreô (to flee), 220

used to reveal the ambiguity of one’s speech, 74–75 used to test, 75–77 Lonsdale, Steven, 16, 17, 94, 212

Idomeneus, as tenor of a simile, 118–19, 246 Ingalls, Wayne, 181 introductory words, to both similes and comparisons, 70–71

mainomai (to rage), 215 Maion, as tenor of a simile, 34 Marks, James, 154 Martin, Richard, 28, 36, 50, 91, 94 McCall, Marsh, 12 mêkades aiges (bleating goats), 121 Melanippos, as tenor of a simile, 249–50 melô (to be a concern to), 130 Menelaos likeness spoken by, 79–81 simile spoken by, 200–1 as tenor of a simile, 198–200, 202–5, 242 metalepsis, 153 metanastês (migrant), 36–38 Mills, Sophie, 141, 241 mimicry, 80 Minchin, Elizabeth, 50, 236–37 missiles, as tenor of a simile, 189–90 Monro, David, 174 Morrison, James, 156 mothers, support offered by, 159 Moulton, Carroll, 91–92, 96, 99, 100, 173, 204, 205, 215, 241 Muellner, Leonard, 41, 47, 95, 97–99, 198, 206 multiple-correspondence simile(s), 247–58 definition of, 221 expansion of spotlight in, 252–58 resumptive clause in, 248 scholarly debate over, 241 one tenor/vehicle pairing dominates spotlight in, 250–51 two vehicles linked to one tenor in, 248–50 Murnaghan, Sheila, 266, 271 mutilation of corpse, 238–39

Janko, Richard, 215 Jörgensen’s law, 154 kakôs (badly), 143–44 kallistos (most beautiful), 214 Kearns, Emily, 268 Kebriones, as tenor of a simile, 160–64 kelainos (black), 40–41 Kelly, Adrian, 267 khêrê (widow), 128 kholos (anger), 42–48 exhibited by women, 50–54 as tenor of a simile, 42–48 Kim, Jinyo, 177 kinurê (threatening), 199 Konstan, David, 46 Krischer, Tilman, 89 Kurke, Leslie, 68 Laertes, as tenor of a likeness, 75 lailaps (whirlwind), 41 Lapithai, as tenor of a simile, 187–89, 190–92 Lardinois, André, 31 Ledbetter, Grace, 183 Leontes, as tenor of a simile, 187 likeness, 69–85 definition of, 15, 73 and multiple responses to gap between the tenor and vehicle, 79–85 used by performing characters, 73 used to insult, 77–78

Index of Names, Subjects, and Greek Words Nagler, Michael, 116 Nagy, Gregory, 110, 216, 266 Naiden, Fred, 202 Nannini, Simonetta, 47, 166, 239 narrative through imagery, 193 nature and culture, collusion between, 208–9 Nausikaa gnomai spoken by, 76 likeness spoken by, 76–77 Neer, Richard, 104 neikos (quarrel, strife), 49–54 nêpiakhos (young), 132 nêpios (ignorant), 181 Nestor likeness spoken by, 82–85 simile spoken by, 32–33, 39–42, 129–39 as tenor of a simile, 39–42 Nimis, Stephen, 92, 96, 262–63 nuktos amolgôi (in the dark of night), 214 obituaries, 228–33 Odysseus cast as weaver, 158 as competitor with the narrator, 264–65 likeness spoken by, 74–75, 76, 78 simile spoken by, 127–29 as tenor of a comparison, 115 as tenor of a likeness, 76–78 as tenor of a simile, 113–14, 158, 252–53, 254–55 as unrivalled in deeds and in words, 266–70 his words as the tenor of a simile, 115–16 oida (to know), 131 Oilean (Lesser) Aias, simile spoken by, 158–60 ôkhros (paleness), 204–5 Ortony, Andrew, 23 oureos en bêssêis (in the folds of a mountain), 204 Padel, Ruth, 43 paralepsis, 154

321

pardaleê (leopard skin), 202 Paris gnome spoken by, 206–7 his bowshot as tenor of a simile, 125–26 as implied tenor of a simile, 121–24 simile spoken by, 120–24, 207–9 as tenor of a simile, 126, 202–5 Patroklos simile spoken by, 160–65 as tenor of a likeness, 82–85 as tenor of a simile, 173–82 Peleus, as tenor of a simile, 145–49 Pelliccia, Hayden, 11 pêma (pain), 252 Petropoulos, J. C. B., 109 Philoitios, as tenor of a likeness, 76 Phoinix as father figure to Achilleus, 146–47 simile spoken by, 145–49 as tenor of a simile, 145–49 pity, 177–79 polemêia erga (deeds of war), 130–31 pontos ikhthuoeis (sea populated by fish), 162 Priam, simile spoken by, 113–14 Rabel, Robert, 151–52, 156, 166 Redfield, James, 203 resumptive clause, definition of, 17 see also multiple-correspondence simile(s) reverse similes, 265–66 Richards, I. A., 4 Richardson, Nicholas, 194 Rieke, Richard, 85 Rimmon-Kenan, Shlomith, 95 Romango, Domenica, 171, 174 Rood, Naomi, 90, 208 Rosen, Ralph, 267 Sarpedon simile spoken by, 185–87 as tenor of a simile, 246 Schnapp-Gourbeillon, Annie, 212

322

Index of Names, Subjects, and Greek Words

Scott, William, 89, 91, 100, 191, 213, 228 Segal, Charles, 238, 267 Sherzer, Joel, 28–29 Shipp, George, 93 short-term transactions and lêistêres (pirates), 163–64 and merchants, 163 versus long-term transactions, 161–62 Silk, Michael, 16 Sillars, Malcolm, 85 simile(s) animal protecting its young in, 199 animal with human emotions in, 16–17 battlefield as a state of nature in, 203 birds in; see also eagles in, 144, 244 black water in, 173 boars in, 189, 253 and challenges in presentation, 262–63 about characters; see under character’s name and characters as competitors for the spotlight, 239–58 children and women in, 127 cows in, 199 definition of, 14–15 and difficulties in articulation or comprehension, 263–64 eagles in, 192 and embedded focalization, 259 extension of, 239–40 fathers in, 147–48 and flyting, 197 and foreshadowing, 259 forest fire in, 216 guard dogs in, 185, 186 hunter and hunted in, 243 hunters in, 243, 246 hunting dogs in, 186 lions in, 63–64, 122–23, 184, 185 match between number of tenor and vehicle in, 245–46 mortal compared to god(s) in, 111–13, 119

multiple actors in the vehicle portion of, 240–47 narrative context determines number of tenor/vehicle pairings in, 242–45 pairs of, second one spoken by character, 157–83 pairs and series of, number of in the Iliad, 87n1 pairs and series of, number of in the Odyssey, 87n1 paradigmatic axis of, 89–90 parents and children in, 182 predators and prey in, 199 qualifier used to introduce, 18 range of, 16–19 repetition between parts of, 17–18 sequences of, in the narrator-text, 211–20 series of, last one spoken by character, 183–97 shared, definition of, 221 sheep in, 65 shepherd in, 123 snow in, 115–16, 190 and social practice, 262 spoken by immortals, 262 spoken by mortals; see under character’s name as a subgenre, 93–96 in successive speeches, 120–49 syntagmatic axis of, 90–93 reuse and recharacterization on, 99–101 sequence of presentation on, 96–98 in the teikhoskopia, 108–20 trees in, 188 used by Homeric characters when performing, 31 used to describe a tenor’s kradiê (heart), 208 in verbal dueling, 101–7 African-American, 102–3 Guyanese, 103

Index of Names, Subjects, and Greek Words in Latin poetry, 104–6 with skolia, 103–4 in symposia, 104 Turkish, 101–2 wasps in, 191 water strikes rock in, 216–18 whirlwind in, 41 wind in, 216–18 wolves in, 64–65 see also multiple-correspondence simile(s); tenor; vehicle; vehicle portion Simoeisios, as tenor of a simile, 247, 256–57 Skamandros, as tenor of a simile, 193–94 social order, perpetuation of, 142–43 and alimentary metaphors, 143 Sons of Panthoos (Euphorbos and Hyperenor), as tenor of a simile, 200–1 spotlight, 222–39 characters as competitors for, 233, 234, 239 characters’ desire to dominate in subsequent stories, 235–37 characters’ desire to keep others from in subsequent stories, 237–39 definition of, 223 and embedded focalization, 225–26 expansion of in obituaries, 232–33 and introduction of speakers, 225 movement of from agent to agent, 228 movement of from agent to patient(s) in obituaries, 228–32 and narrative status, 226 and (re)introduction of characters, 223–24 stability of, 233–34 see also multiple-correspondence simile(s)

323

status and figurative language, 28–31 and linguistic competence, 28 Strathern, Andrew, 28–29 supplication erotics of, 58 as tenor of a simile, 59–61 Taplin, Oliver, 155 tenor, definition of, 4 Thalmann, William, 267 theô (to run), 175 Theseus, as tenor of a simile, 32 tomb, need for, 194–95, 238–39 transference, 154–55 Trojan elders simile spoken by, 110–13 as speakers of praise and blame, 109–10 as tenor of a simile, 108–10 Trojans and chariot making, 256 as tenor of a simile, 121, 248, 249, 252–53, 254–55 tromeô (to quake), 219 Tsagalis, Christos, 93 van Dijk, Gert-Jan, 68 vehicle, definition of, 4 vehicle portion, definition of, 4 Walsh, Thomas, 42–43, 45–46 warfare, skill required in, 131–32 and esthlos and kakos, 133–38 Webster, T. B. L., 90 Whitman, Cedric, 91 widows, portrayal of, 144 Wilson, Donna, 146, 147, 181 Wofford, Susan, 94–95 Worman, Nancy, 80, 126