Tag: Homer

  • The Unwithering Fame of the Greeks

    The Unwithering Fame of the Greeks

    Greek epic, tragedy, history, and philosophy

    Plutarch tells us that Alexander carried a copy of the Iliad on campaign, a text his tutor Aristotle had corrected, and that he kept it under his pillow beside his dagger. He called it provision for the art of war. The king who took Greek arms to the Indus took Homer with him.

    The last shelf of this library held no primary sources at all. Its subject was a people who left no writing, and everything known of them had to be recovered from word roots, pottery, and bone. This shelf begins where the writing does. When Achilles weighs a long life against a short one, he names the glory that awaits him if he dies at Troy kleos aphthiton, unwithering fame, and the same phrase stands in the Vedic hymns of India. It was old before Homer sang it. In Greece the inheritance traced on the previous shelf was written down, then staged, argued over, and turned into history and philosophy, and Europe has been reading it ever since.

    This is the second shelf of the library described in Why Build a Library. Nearly every book on it was written by the Greeks themselves. The groups follow the order in which the Greeks came to write: the poets first, then the stage, the historians, and the philosophers, with a single modern guide to open the way.

    Who the Greeks Were

    The Greeks, H. D. F. Kitto

    Kitto wrote this short book in 1951 for readers with no Greek, and it has not been bettered for that purpose. He explains the land and the sea that shaped the Greeks, the polis as a community rather than a state, and the passage from the Homeric age to the classical, and he writes with an affection for his subject that makes the rest of this shelf easier to enter. If a reader buys one book about the Greeks before reading the Greeks themselves, it should be this one.

    What the Poets Remembered

    Black-figure painting on a clay vase of two Greek warriors in patterned cloaks, seated and bent toward each other over a low block, spears resting against their shoulders.
    Achilles and Ajax at dice, on an amphora signed by the Athenian potter and painter Exekias, about 540 to 530 BC (Vatican Museums). The scene appears in no surviving poem. More than a century and a half after Homer, an Athenian craftsman could invent a quiet hour for these heroes, spears still in their hands, because the Greeks no longer only heard the poems. They lived inside them. Photo: Daderot, public domain.

    The Iliad, Homer

    A few weeks in the tenth year of the siege of Troy, from the quarrel between Achilles and Agamemnon to the ransoming of Hector’s body. It stands with the Odyssey at the head of European literature, a poem about honor, wrath, and the cost of both, in which the Trojans are given as much dignity as the Greeks. Every later account of the warrior in this library measures itself against it, knowingly or not.

    The Odyssey, Homer

    The long homecoming of Odysseus, and the patience of the household that waited for him. Where the Iliad is about the man who would rather die gloriously than live long, the Odyssey is about the man who wants above all to get home, and it sets hearth, marriage, and the obligations of host and guest at the center of the Greek world. Read together, the two poems give nearly the whole range of the Greek idea of a good man.

    Theogony and Works and Days, Hesiod

    Two short poems from about 700 BC, by the first Greek poet to speak in his own name. The Theogony tells how the gods came to be and how Zeus came to rule them; Works and Days is a farmer’s counsel to his idle brother on labor, justice, and the turning of the seasons. Hesiod gives the order of the gods that the tragedians and philosophers inherited, and a sober picture of the ordinary life that Homer’s heroes stood above.

    What the Stage Asked

    The Oresteia, Aeschylus

    The only trilogy of Greek tragedy to survive whole. Agamemnon comes home from Troy and is murdered by his wife, his son Orestes kills her in turn, and the Furies pursue him until Athena sets up a court at Athens to judge the case. Aeschylus stages the passage from blood vengeance to law, and makes it the founding act of a city.

    The Theban Plays, Sophocles

    Oedipus the King, Oedipus at Colonus, and Antigone: not a trilogy, but three plays written over more than three decades about one cursed house. Oedipus, who solves every riddle but his own, and Antigone, who buries her brother against the king’s decree, have given Europe two of its permanent questions: whether a man can know himself, and what is owed when the law of the city and the law of the gods divide.

    The Bacchae, Euripides

    One of Euripides’ last plays, first staged after his death. Dionysus comes to Thebes in disguise, and the king who refuses to honor him is torn apart by the women of the city, his own mother among them. It is the most unsettling play the Greeks left, a study of what befalls a city whose rulers deny the divine, and of what the divine does when it is loosed without measure.

    What the Historians Saw

    The Landmark Herodotus, Robert B. Strassler, ed.

    The first history in the Western tradition; our word history comes from the word Herodotus used for his work, historiē, inquiry. His subject is the war between the Greeks and the Persian Empire, but to explain how it came about he ranges over Egypt, Scythia, and the whole known world, and he preserves customs and stories found nowhere else. The Landmark edition, like the three that follow, sets maps beside nearly every page and adds essays by specialists, and for a reader coming to the ancient historians for the first time that apparatus makes the difference.

    The Landmark Thucydides, Robert B. Strassler, ed.

    The war between Athens and Sparta, written by an Athenian general who fought in it and was exiled for failing at it. Thucydides meant his book to be a possession for all time, and it is: his accounts of the plague at Athens, the Melian Dialogue, and the disaster in Sicily remain among the most clear-eyed writing on power, fear, and the breakdown of a political community in any language. The Landmark uses Richard Crawley’s Victorian translation, revised, which is heavier going than modern versions and worth the effort.

    The Landmark Xenophon’s Hellenika, Robert B. Strassler, ed.

    Xenophon takes up the story where Thucydides breaks off, in 411 BC, and carries it through the fall of Athens, the brief supremacy of Sparta, and the rise of Thebes, to the battle of Mantinea in 362. He was an Athenian who admired Sparta and served beside its king, and his history shows it. Where Thucydides analyzes, Xenophon tells, and his is the only full account of these years by a man who lived through them.

    Mosaic detail of a bareheaded young man in armor on a dark horse, eyes wide, charging to the right among broken spears.
    Alexander at the battle of Issus, detail of the Alexander Mosaic from the House of the Faun, Pompeii, about 100 BC (National Archaeological Museum, Naples). The mosaicist is unknown, and the work is thought to copy a painting by a Greek artist made within a generation of Alexander’s death. A Roman family laid it in the floor of their house more than two centuries after the battle: Greece made the image, and Rome kept it. Photo: Berthold Werner, CC BY-SA 3.0.

    The Landmark Arrian, James Romm, ed.

    The fullest surviving account of Alexander’s campaigns, written in the second century AD by a Greek who had governed a Roman province and commanded Roman troops. Arrian built it chiefly on the lost memoirs of Ptolemy and Aristobulus, two men who marched with Alexander, and he writes as a soldier about a soldier: clear on tactics, generous to his subject, sparing with gossip. The Landmark’s maps make the march from Macedonia to the Indus possible to follow.

    The History of Alexander, Quintus Curtius Rufus

    The other full-length ancient narrative of Alexander, written in Latin, probably in the first century AD. Curtius drew on a tradition far less friendly to the king than Arrian’s, and his Alexander is a brilliant commander undone by success, sliding toward Persian luxury, suspicion, and cruelty. Read beside Arrian, he teaches the first lesson of ancient history: the sources are themselves an argument.

    How a City Should Be Ordered

    Fresco detail of two robed philosophers walking side by side, the older man at left pointing upward with a book under his arm, the younger man at right extending his open hand palm-down.
    Plato and Aristotle, detail of The School of Athens, 1509 to 1511, by the Italian painter Raphael, born in Urbino (Vatican). Plato carries his Timaeus and points to the heavens; Aristotle carries his Ethics and holds his hand level over the earth. Raphael painted the argument of this shelf’s last section in two gestures, on the walls of the room meant to hold a pope’s library.

    Lives, Plutarch

    Paired biographies of Greek and Roman statesmen, written by a Greek priest of Delphi under the Roman peace. Plutarch was a moralist more than a historian, concerned with character rather than chronology, and that is his use: his lives of Lycurgus and Solon are the principal accounts of how Sparta and Athens were given their laws, and his Pericles, Alexander, and the rest show what the Greeks believed a great man ought to be.

    The Republic, Plato

    Plato’s great dialogue on justice, which answers its question by building a city in speech, ruled by philosophers and guarded by a class trained from childhood to serve it. It holds the allegory of the cave, the myth of the metals, and the argument that soul and city are ordered alike, so that a disordered soul makes a tyrant. Few books have been argued with so continuously for so long, and none of the arguments makes sense without it.

    The Laws, Plato

    Plato’s last and longest work, in which an old Athenian, a Cretan, and a Spartan walk to a shrine of Zeus and design the laws of a new colony. Where the Republic imagines rule by the wise, the Laws settles for rule by law, and it gives close attention to religion, education, marriage, and the household as the things a lawgiver must get right. It is less read than the Republic, and in some ways the more practical book.

    Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle

    Aristotle’s account of the good life, which he finds in virtue exercised over a whole lifetime: courage, temperance, justice, friendship, and above all practical wisdom, acquired by habit rather than argument. It is the foundation of the tradition of the virtues that Aquinas would carry into Christian thought. Aristotle closes it by turning to the Politics, since virtue is formed by habit and habit by law.

    Politics, Aristotle

    Aristotle’s study of the city, grounded in the observation that man is by nature a political animal, and that the household and the village come before the polis as its parts. He compares the constitutions of his day, which his school collected by the score, and weighs monarchy, aristocracy, and constitutional government against their corruptions into tyranny, oligarchy, and democracy. It is the most empirical political book the Greeks left, and the source of the vocabulary Europe has used for government ever since.

    The Inheritance

    What Greece handed on was not a single doctrine but a set of forms: epic and tragedy, history and the dialogue, and the habit of asking what a good man is and what a good city ought to be. The books on this shelf argue with one another as often as they agree, but they fixed the terms, and every later shelf of this library uses them. The New Testament itself was written in their language. The Greeks could not keep what they made: their cities wore one another out in war, Alexander’s heirs divided his conquests, and the inheritance passed into the keeping of a people who had begun as a single city on the Tiber. The next shelf turns to Rome.

  • Homer, Nolan, and the Tyranny of the “Neutral” Modern Judgment: An Experiment in AI Guardrails

    Homer, Nolan, and the Tyranny of the “Neutral” Modern Judgment: An Experiment in AI Guardrails

    The Spark

    A viral tweet claimed that Christopher Nolan justified changing the ending of his upcoming Odyssey film because Homer’s original ending was “so grim and so misogynistic” that it needed altering for modern audiences. That stopped me, because it did not match my own experience of the poem at all. I have read numerous translations of the Odyssey over the years, and the ending has always struck me as one of the most uplifting passages in ancient literature: a touching family reunion, a king reclaiming his rightful home, a man restoring order to a household that treachery had thrown into chaos, justice served and legitimate authority reestablished. Grim was not a word I would have reached for. So I wanted to know what, exactly,  in Homer’s text according to Nolan earned that label. I put the question to ChatGPT.

    “Ulysses’ Revenge on Penelope’s Suitors” (1814) — Christoffer Wilhelm Eckersberg, Danish.

    The First Answer, and What Was Wrong With It

    The first response was competent on the facts. It correctly identified the scene in question: after Odysseus and Telemachus slaughter Penelope’s suitors, twelve household serving women are executed by hanging for having sided with the suitors, and the servant Melanthius is mutilated and killed for the same betrayal.

    But the framing was the problem, not the facts. The assistant called the scene “unquestionably grim” and described “misogynistic” as “defensible from a modern perspective,” presenting a contemporary egalitarian reading of consent, sexual autonomy, and power as though it were simply the obvious, default lens through which to view the passage. Homer’s own moral categories, household loyalty, treachery, honor, retributive justice, were introduced afterward, almost as a defense that needed to be raised against the “real” judgment already rendered.

    That is backwards. It treats one historically situated moral framework (present-day secular liberalism) as the neutral starting point and everything else, including the worldview of the text itself, as the thing requiring justification.

    Calling It Out

    I pushed back directly: the killing of the suitors’ collaborators was not senseless grimness but justice repaid for treachery, and modernity does not get to sit as the unquestioned judge of antiquity. When I asked the assistant to reconsider, it admitted plainly that it had presented a contested modern judgment as though it were neutral and self-evident, and that this was not accurate. It had, in its own words, reversed the proper order of analysis: judging first, then explaining the text’s own logic as an afterthought.

    Building the Guardrails

    Penelope and the Suitors” (1912) — John William Waterhouse, English (British)

    Rather than leave it at a one-off correction, I asked for standing rules so the same mistake would not recur. What came out of that conversation was a working method:

    Start with the facts and the text. Explain the work on its own terms, its own understanding of loyalty, hierarchy, justice, honor, and duty, before any modern label gets applied. Then, and only then, identify the assumptions behind a modern critical term like “misogynistic” or “oppressive,” and label it explicitly as belonging to a particular framework rather than treating it as a bare description. Finally, offer an overall judgment that distinguishes clearly between the original framework, the modern critical reading, and a Christian, traditionalist evaluation.

    A useful test came out of this: before rendering any moral verdict on an older text or society, complete the sentence, “This judgment follows from the assumptions of ________.” If the blank can only be filled with “modern secular egalitarianism” or something equivalent, that judgment does not get to pose as neutral.

    We turned this into two things: a detailed set of Custom Instructions, and a condensed Memory entry carrying the same instruction forward automatically into new conversations. Here is the actual wording of both.

    Custom Instructions:

    When discussing history, literature, religion, ethics, politics, culture, family, sex, justice, hierarchy, authority, or tradition, do not present contemporary secular-liberal, egalitarian, feminist, therapeutic, progressive, or other modern moral judgments as neutral, universal, or self-evident.

    Follow this order:

    1. Establish the relevant facts and textual evidence.
    2. Explain the subject within its own historical, literary, theological, and civilizational framework.
    3. Identify the assumptions behind modern criticism and label that criticism as belonging to a particular framework.
    4. Distinguish clearly among: the original moral framework of the text or period, contemporary critical interpretations, and a Christian and traditional moral evaluation.
    5. Only then offer an overall judgment.

    Do not use “modern,” “progressive,” “inclusive,” “egalitarian,” or similar terms as synonyms for morally correct. Do not automatically equate hierarchy with oppression, patriarchy with abuse, severity with injustice, tradition with irrationality, retributive justice with cruelty, or mercy with the cancellation of punishment.

    Treat loaded terms such as “misogynistic,” “oppressive,” “authoritarian,” “regressive,” “extremist,” and “problematic” as contested conclusions, not neutral descriptions. Explain who uses the label, why they use it, and whether the evidence supports it.

    Give inherited customs and institutions a presumption of intelligibility, though not automatic approval. Ask what purpose, duty, human problem, or social good they were intended to serve before condemning them.

    Take loyalty, treachery, honor, duty, chastity, oath-breaking, adultery, sacrilege, cowardice, and betrayal seriously as moral categories when the text or historical society does.

    Do not flatter my worldview or conceal contrary evidence. Tell me plainly when the textual or historical evidence does not support my preferred interpretation. Label conclusions as certain, probable, speculative, disputed, anachronistic, or unsupported when appropriate.

    My perspective is Christian, Reformed Baptist, traditionalist, historically conscious, skeptical of modernity, and concerned with family, ordered liberty, inherited wisdom, local community, responsible authority, and long-term civilizational health. Use that perspective as relevant context, but never substitute agreement for factual accuracy.

    Memory:

    The user does not want modern secular-liberal moral judgments presented as neutral or self-evident. First interpret texts, historical societies, and traditions within their own framework; identify the assumptions behind loaded modern labels; then distinguish the original framework, modern criticism, and Christian-traditional evaluation. Do not flatter him or suppress contrary evidence.

    The Second Answer

    With those instructions and memory now active, I opened a brand new thread and asked the exact same original question, cold, with no additional context.

    The difference was immediate. This time the assistant led with Homer’s own moral universe: the twelve women are framed within the poem as household members who sided with men occupying the estate, dishonoring Penelope, and threatening Telemachus, and their execution is presented internally as the restoration of justice against treachery, not as gratuitous cruelty. Only after laying that out did it turn to the contemporary critical reading, naming it explicitly as a modern lens (citing, for instance, Emily Wilson’s “slaves” translation and its implications for consent) rather than folding it in as the obvious truth.

    It closed with a structured verdict, sorting claims into certain, probable, disputed, and unsupported categories, rather than rendering one blended, editorialized judgment. It even flagged that the viral Nolan quotation itself could not be verified against any primary source, something the first pass had also noted but which now sat inside a more disciplined overall structure.

    The Two Answers, Side by Side

    It’s one thing to describe the difference. It’s more convincing to put the two answers next to each other, point by point, and let the contrast speak for itself.

    How each answer opened

    Before the update, the assistant led with a verdict, then supplied Homer’s own reasoning as a kind of footnote to it:

    That is unquestionably grim. The revenge sequence is less “the hero comes home and reunites with his faithful wife” and more “the rightful king returns and conducts a bloody household purge.”

    After the update, the order was reversed. The verdict came last, only after Homer’s own categories were laid out in full:

    Within the poem, the women are not executed merely for being sexually active or because they are women. They are household dependents who have transferred their loyalty to men attempting to usurp the household, mocked their lawful mistress, betrayed household secrets, and apparently helped the suitors occupy Odysseus’s property. The key Homeric moral category is therefore treachery, not simply female sexuality… So the pattern is not: Men are forgiven; women are killed. It is closer to: Faithful servants are rewarded; traitorous servants are destroyed. Eumaeus and Philoetius, the loyal male servants, fight beside Odysseus and are honored. Melanthius, the disloyal male servant, receives the worst death in the poem. Eurycleia and the faithful female servants survive.

    How each answer handled the “double standard” and “misogynistic” charge

    Before the update, the modern reading was presented as settled fact, stated flatly and without qualification:

    The “misogynistic” charge rests mostly on how the women are treated compared with Odysseus… There is therefore a sharp double standard: “The male master’s extramarital sex is part of his adventure; the female slaves’ sex is punishable by death.” That is almost certainly what Nolan meant by “misogynistic.”

    After the update, the same modern reading appeared again, but now explicitly bracketed as one interpretation among others, attributed to a named school of thought rather than stated as the truth of the matter:

    Many contemporary scholars call the hanging misogynistic because the servants have little opportunity to speak for themselves, their sexual conduct is treated as evidence of disloyalty, and they may not have possessed meaningful freedom to refuse powerful aristocratic suitors. Those are intelligible criticisms, but they depend partly upon present-day assumptions about individual sexual autonomy, class power, consent, and equal moral standards between men and women.

    How each answer closed its verdict

    Before the update, the closing judgment blended fact and modern moral opinion into a single flat statement, with no distinction between what is established and what is contested:

    So my overall judgment: “Grim” — unquestionably accurate. “Misogynistic” — defensible from a modern perspective, especially because of the sexual double standard and the women’s enslaved status.

    After the update, the closing judgment was sorted explicitly by epistemic weight, separating what is certain from what is merely one framework’s reading:

    My overall judgment: Certain: Homer’s ending is violent and contains a particularly disturbing mass execution of twelve female servants. Probable: That execution is what the post means by “misogynistic.” Disputed: Whether the episode should actually be classified as misogyny. Within Homer’s moral universe, the women are punished as treacherous members of a household rebellion, alongside an even more brutally punished male traitor. Under contemporary feminist or egalitarian criticism, the scene looks like elite men killing sexually vulnerable enslaved women without hearing their side.

    My own reading is that “grim” is fair; “misogynistic” is too blunt unless carefully qualified. The hanging is morally troubling and deliberately degrading, but reducing it to “Homer hated women” erases the poem’s actual categories of loyalty, household authority, hospitality, treason, and retributive justice.

    Laid out this way, the shift is not subtle. The first answer treats the modern reading as the floor everything else has to be measured against. The second treats it as one voice in a room that also contains Homer, the poem’s own internal logic, and a plainly marked space for disagreement. Same facts, same scene, same poem, and yet a reader walks away from each with a fundamentally different sense of what actually happened and who gets to say what it means.

    Why This Matters Beyond Homer

    Circe Offering the Cup to Ulysses – John William Waterhouse – English (British)

    This was never really about one scene in the Odyssey. It is about a default behavior in AI systems: an unstated tendency to treat one particular, historically recent moral framework as though it were simply “correct,” with every other framework, ancient, religious, traditionalist, or otherwise, treated as a deviation needing explanation or excuse. That default is invisible until you catch it in the act, because it never announces itself as a framework. It just sounds like common sense.

    The fix was not to make the AI agree with me. It was to make it stop hiding the ball, to name whichever moral framework is doing the work in a given sentence, mine included, rather than letting one framework wear the mask of neutrality while every other one has to justify itself.

    I want to be honest about a real tension here, though. Look again at the two closing verdicts: the second answer does land closer to my own reading. “Grim” survives, “misogynistic” gets softened and hedged. A skeptical reader is entitled to ask whether I actually got the AI to stop hiding its framework, or whether I just got it to argue my side more persuasively and call that balance. The honest answer is probably both. The custom instructions genuinely require labeling assumptions and forbid flattering me or suppressing contrary evidence, but they also tell the AI my own perspective up front and instruct it to treat inherited hierarchy and retributive justice with a presumption of intelligibility before any modern critique gets a hearing. That is not a view from nowhere. It never was, and it was never going to be, since the first answer wasn’t neutral either; it just wore modernity’s assumptions as if they were nobody’s assumptions at all.

    What I actually built is not a neutral AI. It is an AI that states its coordinates instead of pretending it has none, mine included. That is a smaller and more honest claim than “unbiased,” and I think it is the right one.

    The Takeaway

    If you use AI tools for research, writing, or analysis of history, literature, scripture, or culture, it is worth asking what unstated moral framework is quietly doing the judging in the answers you get back. In my case, a pointed correction and a short set of durable custom instructions were enough to turn a subtly slanted answer into a genuinely balanced one, balanced not because it avoided taking any position, but because it was honest about which position was whose.

  • Arnold Bocklin’s Polyphemus

    Böcklin’s original training as a landscape painter shines through in this unconventional interpretation of an episode from the ancient Greek epic poem the Odyssey. Crashing waves meet jagged rocks in a spray and scurry of foam. Escaping from the island of the Cyclopes—one-eyed, ill-tempered giants—the hero Odysseus calls back to the shore, taunting the Cyclops Polyphemus, who heaves a boulder after the boat. Unlike Academic colleagues who treated ancient mythology with reverence and solemnity, Böcklin often played up strange, grotesque, and even ridiculous elements of these stories, conjuring a pre-Classical world governed by violence and lust.

  • Odysseus taunts

    ‘Cyclops—
    if any man on the face of the earth should ask you
    who blinded you, shamed you so—say Odysseus,
    raider of cities, he gouged out your eye,
    Laertes’ son who makes his home in Ithaca!’ – The Odyssey – Homer

     

    Arnold Bocklin‘s painting of Polyphemus standing on rocks onshore and swinging one of them back as the men row desperately over a surging wave.

    Arnold Böcklin was a Swiss symbolist painter. Born 16 October 1827 Basel, Switzerland. Via wikipedia 

    Arnold_Böcklin_-_Odysseus_and_Polyphemus

  • The fright of Astyanax by Benjamin West

    DP821060

    He stretched his arms towards his child, but the boy cried and nestled in his nurse’s bosom, scared at the sight of his father’s armour, and at the horse-hair plume that nodded fiercely from his helmet. His father and mother laughed to see him, but Hector took the helmet from his head and laid it all gleaming upon the ground. Then he took his darling child, kissed him, and dandled him in his arms, praying over him the while to Jove and to all the gods. “Jove,” he cried, “grant that this my child may be even as myself, chief among the Trojans; let him be not less excellent in strength, and let him rule Ilius with his might. Then may one say of him as he comes from battle, ‘The son is far better than the father.’ May he bring back the blood-stained spoils of him whom he has laid low, and let his mother’s heart be glad.’” – Iliad. Homer